The Unwanted Heiress (The Archer Family Regency Series)

by Corwin, Amy

  “So you heard her just last night?” Gaunt asked. “In the attic?”

  The scullery maid nodded before shooting a grin at the cook and turning back to her dishes.

  “Saucy bit of baggage,” the cook mumbled, draining her cup.

  Gaunt caught her eye. “Do you believe her?”

  “Oh, yes. I ‘ave ‘eard the other girls—the upstairs maids—say the same.”

  “Do you recall, off hand, where you first heard that interesting tale?”

  “Why I am not sure…”

  “Well, I ‘eard it from Miss Uppity, herself. Not that she ever deigns to speak to the likes of me,” the scullery grumbled.

  “Rose?” The cook scratched her bulbous nose. “I cannot rightly say, but it might ‘ave been that Rose Woodley, the girl as is an upstairs maid.”

  Gaunt found their information profoundly interesting. “I certainly thank you ladies for entertaining me so well. I cannot remember enjoying a cup of tea and a spectre story so much.”

  “Are you leaving?” the cook asked, struggling to get to her feet. “I ‘ave many more stories of unquiet spirits if that is the sort of thing you fancy…”

  “I m afraid I have stayed too long, as it is.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You were so fascinating that I lost track of all time.”

  The cook grinned. “Will you be staying nearby, Mr. Gaunt?”

  “Yes.” He adjusted the hat on his head and nodded at the women. “This seems like an interesting neighborhood. I am sure we will meet again.” As he paused in the doorway, he casually asked one last question. “You ladies have not seen a white, three-legged dog and a red-haired giant, have you?”

  The ladies laughed heartily. “Why, Mr. Gaunt, you must be meaning Red Smythe! He is a groom as lives over the stables here. Why he is almost as tall as you are, though he is as broad as a barn and has a face as would scare the fiercest pirate away on a dark night. And the master’s got a dog as fits that description to a letter. Why ever’d you ask?”

  “Oh, I heard someone mention it, and I thought it might be the lad and the phantom dog belonging to the young lady of your tale.”

  “Good Lord, no. Red Smythe ain’t no lady’s lover, and there is no spirit dog here.” The cook shook her head. “We ‘ave enough troubles with the living mongrels his lordship thrusts upon the household.”

  “I see, well, thank you for the story. I bid you good day, ladies.”

  “And good day to you, too, Mr. Gaunt,” the cook said, standing in the doorway and watching him leave.

  The information he had collected was coming together beautifully. The previous day, he had questioned the stable lads at this particular house about the hoof knife used to dispose of Miss Moorland. Gaunt remembered that Mr. Smythe had been absent from the stables at that time, however, one of the lads had referred to Mr. Smyth as “Red.”

  Interesting coincidences, and Gaunt did not believe in coincidences.

  * * * * *

  Nathaniel and Michael made their way slowly through Whitechapel. No one had seen or heard anything relevant about a lady kept under duress, and no one knew of a three-legged dog, although many helpful souls offered to lop the legs off various curs if so desired. There were plenty of red-haired men about, however, and several were quite tall. Unfortunately, no one could recall seeing a red-haired giant accompanied by a three-legged dog, per se.

  Their luck wasn’t much better in Bethnal Green, although they did come upon a red-haired midget dragging along a black poodle missing its tail.

  When the light started fading, they realized the necessity to return home and regroup. It was too easy to get lost in the warrens of sagging tenements. As the shadows lengthened, people grew much less interested in answering questions and a great deal more interested in what the two strangers had in their pockets. Nathaniel and Michael were gradually forced to wend their way wearily homeward, sporadically discussing various strategies to employ on their next attempt.

  “I’ve got some favors owed,” Michael said. “I will just ask for them to be repaid by searching.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Nathaniel replied, distracted by his thoughts.

  Where is Charlotte? Is she still safe? Frightened?

  His hands clenched the leather reins. He couldn’t wait until the morrow to find her. They had to do something tonight.

  “We will get something to eat and start again,” he said. “We must get a map and divide it up between you and the other men so you can cover more territory.” He remembered the hostility in Whitechapel. “And make sure the men are armed and go in pairs.”

  Michael nodded, although Nathaniel wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just exhaustion. He felt bleary-eyed himself, and his clothes itched.

  On their return, Nathaniel questioned Carter but no one had come by with news. Thankfully, Mr. Clark of Bow Street had not returned, either. Nathaniel remained a free man, at least for the time being. Sooner or later, the fathers of the murdered girls would demand justice, and unless matters changed, he would be their natural target.

  His neck and jaw ached from tension and frustration. He rubbed his nape, torn between searching for Charlotte and investigating the two deaths.

  The dead couldn’t be injured any further by delay, he thought. Charlotte was more important.

  When they reached his house, he dismounted, stiff and sore from the worn out saddle. He raced up the stairs and changed hurriedly. Collecting a map of London, he made his way to the dining room, hoping to plot a more effective strategy while he ate.

  He drew up a list of servants between mouthfuls, barely aware of the food placed before him. On the map’s margin, he drew up a roster of paired men and began dividing up the east end into small, easily searched sections. He was almost done when Carter interrupted him.

  “Visitors, Your Grace,” he said from the doorway, bowing.

  Archer pushed his way past Carter without waiting. Dressed in his usual unrelieved black, Cheery Gaunt followed at a more sedate pace.

  “Archer! Cheery!” Nathaniel leapt from his chair. “Have you found her?”

  “Perhaps,” Cheery replied, eyeing the platters on the table.

  “Where is she?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I am not certain, but I have a theory.” Cheery replied. “Her note reminded me of someone—a pugilist I used to know. Perhaps you recall ‘The Red Death’?”

  “Who the hell is ‘The Red Death’?”

  Cheery and Archer chuckled. “A very bad prize fighter. Apparently, he gave retired when he found it more lucrative to work odd jobs with questionable legality. I believe he may be the red-haired man Miss Haywood mentioned.”

  “And you know where he is?”

  “Oh, yes,” Archer replied, cutting off Cheery. “Gaunt tracked him down.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “Safe,” Cheery said with damnable nonchalance.

  Nathaniel groaned and transferred his gaze to his uncle. Archer shrugged and wandered over to the table. He picked up a fork and transferred a slice of rare roast beef to Nathaniel’s bread plate. Sitting down, he pulled the plate in front of him.

  “What are you doing? We must go!” Nathaniel protested. He shoved his chair back and stood.

  “She will keep,” Archer said as he calmly cut a small piece of beef and raised it to his mouth. “She is perfectly safe in her attic.”

  “You don’t know that! They could be…that is, she could be…. Damn it, we don’t know what they are doing to her!”

  “Nothing, I presume,” Archer assured him, pouring more wine into Nathaniel’s glass and drinking it down. “Red would never harm a lady. Come, sit down. Let us have dinner like reasonable men. Then we can determine if Gaunt’s theory survives the turn of the card.”

  Nathaniel strode to the door and back. Cheery sat across from Archer and waited while Carter brought several more plates and cutlery to the table.

  “I assure you, she is quite safe,” Cheery said. “If she is
where I believe her to be, that is.”

  “How can you two just sit there like…like insensate animals while she—” Nathaniel lashed out, wanting to throttle the pair.

  Neither one paid the least attention to him. They polished off his bottle of cabernet and demanded another while they feasted on his roast beef, pudding, casserole of potato, and the seafood aspic his cook had provided for the main meal. Then they insisted on partaking of the cream tartlets a footman brought in for dessert.

  “Have you had enough to eat?” Nathaniel finally asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  Archer wiped his lips and sat back, draining his final glass of port. “Very good, Your Grace. Excellent.”

  “And can we leave, now? If it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, of course. And if you are sure you have had enough to eat?” Nathaniel replied. He stood behind his chair, his hands almost crushing the delicate carved back.

  “Of course,” Cheery agreed. “Lovely beef, though. Have you a carriage?”

  Nathaniel’s voice dropped even lower and grew silky. “I believe that can be arranged. Anything else? Trumpets and drums, perhaps? An armed escort?”

  “I am merely thinking of Miss Haywood’s comfort,” Cheery commented as he stood up. “Dashed uncomfortable to be rescued, and then forced to ride pillion all the way home.”

  “I would never allow that to happen.” Nathaniel strode out. In the hallway, he gave short, sharp orders to Carter.

  His butler quickly supplied his walking stick and hat after seeing Nathaniel’s expression.

  “There’s a map of London in the dining room, Carter,” Nathaniel said. “In case this theory of Mr. Gaunt’s turns out to be a fairy tale, I want you to brief the servants. When I return, if we haven’t located Miss Haywood, they will have to search the designated areas.”

  “Not a fairy tale,” Cheery murmured softly. “Perhaps a story of ghosts in the attic and strange occurrences, but not a fairy tale.”

  “Be quiet,” Nathaniel replied as the carriage was brought around. “Don’t you realize you are in the company of a suspected murderer?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Warning.—If a constable finds his exertions insufficient to effect the arrest, he ought to warn one or more of the bystanders to assist him, and it is an indictable misdemeanor in any one so warned to refuse. — Constable’s Pocket Guide

  Irritated, Nathaniel watched as Cheery gave his coachman orders. When the men moved toward the carriage door, Nathaniel noticed Michael hanging onto the back of the coach. He scowled at him and opened his mouth to order the servant to stay behind to organize the others. However before he could speak, Cheery placed a firm hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him into the carriage.

  “Where did you tell Lansbury to go?” Nathaniel asked, tugging at his waistcoat and sleeves as he settled into the seat. The full material of his linen shirt was uncomfortably scrunched under the fitted sleeve of his coat, making his arm look like an overfilled sausage. It felt like one, too. He shoved his fingers into his cuff and snatched at the fabric until he could more easily bend his elbow.

  Every minor discomfort and little annoyance made his temper flare. He eyed the two men sitting across from him and had to restrain himself from strangling the both of them.

  “I hate to be proven wrong, Your Grace,” Cheery replied, catching his glance. “So forgive me if I don’t say anything until we reach our destination.”

  “What difference will it make whether I know now or fifteen minutes from now?”

  “I will not have to suffer through interminable arguments about it,” Cheery replied before adding, “Your Grace.”

  “I am not going to dispute your conclusions. I just want her found.” Nathaniel gazed out the window. “Mayfair? The west end?” He sat back again, feeling relief. If she was in the west end, chances were good she was being held captive in decent surroundings, even if it was an attic room.

  On the other hand, that meant the rotter who had kidnapped her was likely to be a titled bastard. He would have no compunction about taking advantage of her if it meant he could refill his empty coffers with Charlotte’s inheritance, and chances were good he had already compromised Charlotte very thoroughly by now.

  He clenched his fists. “How do you propose we enter this person’s household? We have no warrant. Have you informed Bow Street?”

  Cheery shook his head, giving one of his sardonic grins. “You will not have any difficulties. Once we have recovered your lady, we can determine how to proceed. I trust she will be able to identify her kidnapper at which juncture we can enlist the services of Bow Street.”

  “She is not my lady. She is my uncle’s ward, and I will thank you to remember it.” He missed Charlotte’s company so much he ached with it, but he was damned if he would admit it.

  “Ah, yes.” Cheery glanced out the window. “We are almost there.”

  Nathaniel stared outside. “But, that is my sister’s house! Why are we halting here?” He grabbed Cheery’s shoulder. “It is the bastard across the street from her, is it not? What is his name—General somebody or other—”

  “Captain Greene, I believe, but no. We are not going to the Captain’s quarters.”

  “You cannot mean to tell me my sister and brother-in-law are involved? I don’t believe it. Not Oriana. No.”

  Cheery ignored him and climbed out, forcing Nathaniel to continue the conversation by himself or quit the carriage and join Cheery on the sidewalk. Nathaniel stepped down and glanced around.

  He rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the fit of his jacket. His muscles felt tight and stiff with tension. “What now?”

  Cheery walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

  Nathaniel ran up the shallow stairs two at a time. “You cannot just—oh, hello, Worthington,” he said as the butler opened the door.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed. “Mr. Gaunt. Please enter. I shall see if Lord Dacy is available. Unless you would rather speak to Lady Dacy?” His voice trailed off, leaving the question hanging politely in the air.

  “Lord Dacy will do,” Cheery replied.

  Worthington led them upstairs to a small sitting room at the front of the house while he went to find Lord Dacy.

  “This is deucedly awkward,” Nathaniel complained, pulling of his hat and running his hand over his brow. Although the sun had gone down hours ago, the air was still warm. In the distance he could hear the rumble of thunder. “We cannot just accuse him of kidnapping Miss Haywood. This entire situation has me confounded! Why would Dacy abduct her?” Nathaniel paced in a circuit around the room, pushing aside the scattered chairs if they presumed to stand in his way.

  “I am not accusing him of the abduction,” Cheery said, sitting down and stretching out his long legs. “Which is why I have not involved Bow Street. In fact, I don’t believe your brother-in-law is even aware he may have a guest in his attic. Either that, or a very lively ghost.”

  “Ghost!”

  Cheery laughed, and then stood up as the door opened.

  “Your Grace!” Dacy exclaimed as he entered.

  Following closely upon his heels was his wife Oriana, who flung herself into Nathaniel’s arms and pulled herself up on tiptoe to kiss him soundly on the cheek.

  “Nat! What are you doing here?” she asked, hugging him again before letting go. “Is everything all right? You look terribly worried.”

  “Never better.” Nathaniel kept an arm around her and forced a grin. He squeezed and couldn’t help but notice a little plumpness around her waist. “When is the happy event?”

  She pursed her mouth, her upper lip made even fuller by her slight overbite. She sighed. “Not for ages yet. September at the earliest.”

  Dacy stepped forward and extricated his wife from her brother’s grasp by shaking his hand. Then Dacy placed a heavy, proprietary arm around her shoulders while she glanced up at him and smiled.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” he asked.

  “
It is the damnedest thing,” Nathaniel started, before apologizing swiftly to his sister. “Cheery—that is, Mr. Gaunt believes there may be, ah, someone in your attic.”

  “Someone in the attic?” Oriana stared at him with puzzlement darkening her brown eyes. “What precisely do you mean? Burglars?”

  “Oh, no, nothing of the kind,” Nathaniel hastened to assure her when her husband scowled.

  Dacy might not want his wife worried, but Nathaniel wasn’t sure he could accommodate his desires. It was rather distressing to have a kidnapped heiress living in one’s attic, and there was very little he could do to make the news more palatable. He pulled the lapels of his jacket uncomfortably.

  “Before we engage in a lot of speculation, why don’t we simply confirm it one way or the other?” Nathaniel suggested.

  Dacy nodded. “I agree.” He turned to his wife. “Wait here, my love, we will not be long.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I am not utterly incapacitated. I believe I am capable of climbing a few stairs.”

  “I will not disagree, but there is no point in traipsing around the dusty attics. I doubt we will find much more than a few mummified rats.”

  Nathaniel smiled and agreed, patting his sister’s plump shoulder. Only Cheery shrugged and maintained enough confidence to make Nathaniel suffer a spasm of confusion.

  Was Charlotte truly here? How could she be kept in the attic without Dacy or anyone else in the house knowing?

  He strode to the door, unable to control his desire to find Charlotte. “Are you coming?”

  “Wait here,” Dacy gave soft orders to his wife again, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before joining Nathaniel.

  Cheery brought up the rear, looking like a tall, black shadow drifting down the hallway behind them.

  The stairs to the attic were in the back of the house and formed a continuation of the servants’ stairway. When they got to the top, Nathaniel found a short hallway running along a wall the length of the townhouse.