Lady Reluctant

by Maggie Osborne

  “This is true, “Monsieur conceded, nodding. “She could have been destined for the East Side stews for all your crew knew.”

  Thomas drew on his cigar, studied the ceiling. “I believe we can dismiss my crew. They had no knowledge of her destination; it is unlikely any of them encountered her later.”

  “But someone recognized her and knew or guessed her identity,” Monsieur said. In his agitation, his wig had shifted. His stock fluttered in disarray. He blinked at Mouton. “Someone from the Mound?”

  Mouton rubbed his palms over his oiled head. “Nay. No one from the Mound. We would know.” He gestured with his large hands. “We must find her!”

  “We won’t find her tonight, Mouton.” Thomas waved the enormous man back to his seat. “Whoever has her has to know we’ll be searching for her. They will have chosen her prison with care.” Speculating who might be holding her or how the abduction had occurred was taking them nowhere. “If we determine what is intended next, we may have a starting point.”

  “If we have speculated correctly,” Monsieur observed, “then Beau Billy is in their hands and sailing toward London at this very moment.”

  Mouton nodded, his hands moving swiftly. “The shadow guaranteed they knew Blu’s whereabouts at all times so they could take her when they were ready.” He shrugged. “There was no need to snatch her until immediately before Beau Billy arrives.”

  Monsieur agreed. “She has to be missing the day he arrives, so he can verify they have her.” He polished his goggles on his sleeve, shook his wig further askew. “Beau Billy knew this might happen. Mon Dieu, we spoke of it.”

  Thomas recalled a similar discussion with Billy Morgan before he sailed from Morgan’s Mound. “Mouton, when did the shadow first appear?” After learning the answer, he paced the room, calculating the dates. “Aye, I see it now. The shadow appeared when a ship left London bound for Morgan’s Mound. As Monsieur suggests, whoever is behind this had no genuine need to abduct Blu at that point. To take her then would have meant concealing her for weeks, perhaps months.”

  Monsieur pushed his goggles up his nose. “Once Beau Billy arrives in London, he will demand proof they have her before he surrenders himself to the authorities.”

  Mouton’s hands clamped into fists. “Beau Billy arrives soon then,” he signed.

  “Dammit to hell!” Thomas swore softly. He had warned Beau Billy this could happen. It impressed him as a tragedy that Beau Billy should hang now, after a dozen years of retirement. And that Blu should be the instrument of his downfall. For Thomas did not doubt the theory was correct.

  “There isn’t much time,” he said to Monsieur and Mouton. “If we can find Blu before Beau Billy docks, we may spare Beau Billy the gallows.”

  They looked at him as if he were mad.

  Finally, Monsieur spoke. “Beau Billy is lost, Your Grace. We shall count the day won if we can find Blusette before her usefulness ends and they put her to the knife.”

  The stem of the wine glass broke in Thomas’s hand and bright liquid spilled over the library table.

  If anyone injured a single hair on her head, his life would be over. He could not imagine a world without Blu Morgan. He would kill anyone who touched her. Unable to sit, he stalked the library and inwardly raged at the impotence of flesh and hope.

  ~ ~ ~

  There were no windows in Blu’s prison, but it felt like morning when she finally awoke. After struggling through the fuzzed layers confusing her mind, she pushed up on a narrow cot and rubbed her eyes. When her vision steadied, she swung her feet to the floor and inspected her surroundings.

  Again, she was in a cellar room. But this time it appeared she was expected. Preparations had been made for her arrival. And someone had been here very recently, as evidenced by the fresh candle burning atop an upturned box beside the cot. A basin of wash water had been provided and a woman’s comb and brush. Lifting the candle, she mounted the staircase against the north wall and tried the door at the top of the stairs. As expected, it was bolted.

  So. She was not to be harmed. Not yet, anyway. It appeared she would be kept here for a while. This determined, she again searched the small cellar chamber, seeking something, anything, which could be employed as a weapon. There was nothing. It appeared whoever had arranged this outrage knew her well. The meal left near the brush and comb was accompanied only by a spoon. There was no knife or fork. If she wished to cut her meat, she would have to tear it with her teeth. And the trencher and wine goblet were made of wood. She could hope for no broken glass to use as a weapon.

  After sniffing the wine, she drew a breath and wet her parched throat. If her captor wished to poison her, it seemed unlikely he would have troubled himself to provide grooming articles and a change of clothing. The wine slid down her throat, easing her thirst and sharpening her faculties.

  After a moment of concentrated reflection, she guessed a large portion of the truth. She was being held as bait to snare her father. As it now seemed obvious, she cursed herself for failing to recognize the signs earlier. She had been so wrapped up in her new life, in her new way of thinking, that she had assumed the shadow’s purpose dealt solely with herself. She had not sought a larger design.

  Having taken stock of her situation, having admitted she was powerless, she flung herself on the cot beside the candle, folded shaking hands in her lap, fixed her gaze on the cellar door, and did the only thing she could do. She waited.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was evening before the cellar door opened and a man descended the stairs.

  “You!” Blu whispered, spitting the word.

  Lord Milton Humphershire bowed before her, the gesture a mockery. “I trust you have everything you require?” His gaze swept the small cellar and his mouth curled in distaste. “So dreary. But unavoidable.”

  “I demand you release me at once!”

  “You are in no position to demand anything.” After flicking a handkerchief over the top of a stool, he seated himself and leaned his hands on a fashionable gold-tipped cane, He regarded her with heavy-lidded satisfaction.

  She did not hesitate. The moment Humphershire was seated, she leaped from the cot and mounted the stairs two at once. But the door at the top was bolted.

  He watched, smiling in amusement as she slowly descended.

  “Surely you did not believe I would be so careless? I have cause to know how savage and quick you can be. Ah no, Miss Morgan, I’ll not be incautious with Beau Billy Morgan’s fierce daughter.”

  “How did you know?”

  “A fortuitous accident, really. A gentleman of my acquaintance recognized your blackamoor. He believed he recalled the mute as the companion of a pirate who once held him for ransom. Beau Billy Morgan. He convinced himself it was not possible that the same brute could fetch up in London in Lady Paget’s household. But I wondered.

  “That intriguing bit of information came to my attention during the time I was conducting a private investigation into the activities of His Grace, the Duke of Dewbury.” Humphershire inspected his fingernails. “Oddly enough, one of His Grace’s crew mentioned a passenger on His Grace’s final voyage who sounded much like the blackamoor described by my acquaintance.” He raised his eyes and smiled. “He also described a young woman, Beau Billy Morgan’s daughter, who accompanied His Grace on that final voyage, and who, incidentally, traveled under the protection of the blackamoor. The blackamoor popped up at Grosvenor Square. And so did a Miss Morgan.” Puffing his chest, he looked at Blu as if she might praise his cleverness. When she said nothing, his shoulders moved in a shrug. “I don’t wish to bore you, Miss Morgan. Let it suffice to state it proved a matter of relative ease to identify you through the blackamoor and a few ill-chosen words revealed by a drunken swab.”

  There was no point pretending that he erred. He had the whole story, or most of it. Blu lowered her head and closed her eyes. “I am the bait, aren’t I? You’re bringing my father to London.”

  “Curious, isn’t it?” Hurnphers
hire inquired in a pleasant tone. “That a man of so little moral character and possessing no scruples whatsoever can have his weaknesses? There is no doubt your father will offer himself in exchange for you.” He laughed. “Life will insist on its small ironies. He who built a fortune through ransom, now finds himself in similar straits.”

  “He’ll demand evidence before he gives in to your henchmen.”

  “He was provided evidence. A lock of your hair.”

  Blu’s hand flew to her dark curls as her mind raced backward. Her eyes widened. “My maid, Moll. You paid her...”

  “The matter was as easily accomplished as that.” He snapped his fingers.

  And so it had been, Blu recalled with a sinking heart. She remembered a day when Moll had apologized profusely for charring off a lock of her hair with an overheated curling iron. She remembered making light of the incident. She had not even reproached Moll.

  “Beau Billy has been retired for a dozen years,” she said at length. “Your trouble has been for naught. No one will recall him.”

  “This morning an article appeared in three newspapers detailing your father’s exploits. By the time he docks in London, the public will regard him as the cruelest pirate ever to hold sway in the Caribbean. They will be screaming for his head.”

  “Then the tabloid accounts are forgeries,” she insisted. “But why do you do this?” She threw out her hands. “What has Beau Billy ever done to you? Why should you wish to murder my father?”

  “Because I can, Miss Morgan. Because of you, Morgan is available to me and other pirates are not.” All amusement bled from Humphershire’s gaze and his eyes glittered. “It is essential that a notorious pirate be tried and hanged. Black Rafe was only the beginning. You see, Miss Morgan, the public fails to discern the great similarity between piracy and privateering, which is merely legalized piracy. Men like your future brother, His Grace the Duke of Dewbury, and Sir Loren Battersea and others of such ilk profit handsomely from plunder while other men struggle to earn an honest living! They must be stopped. Your father’s death will assist the effort.”

  Blu stared. “You would kill a man to appease your own jealousy and greed. That is the root of this business, is it not? You envy Thomas his profits. You scurvy little goat dropping. You aren’t worth grinding beneath my heel.”

  “Have a care, Miss Morgan,” he warned sharply.

  “It isn’t even my father you want, is it? It’s Thomas. You want to see Thomas dangling at the end of a rope. Because he is everything you are not and never can be!”

  Lord Humphershire stood abruptly, toppling the stool behind him.

  Blu’s lips curved. “The Duke of Dewbury is esteemed and respected while you are nothing more than the object of indifference and ridicule.”

  “I wonder if you will still be smiling when your father drops beneath the rope, Miss Morgan. Or when Lady Cecile finds herself newly widowed. For as sure as I stand before you, His Grace will follow your father to the gallows.” He stared at her. “We shall speak again.”

  He mounted the stairs, rapped three times, then stepped through the door. Blu heard the bolt shoot into place. She threw herself across the cot and covered her hot eyes, but she did not allow herself to think about all that had been said. Not yet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Isabelle sat in the drawing room at Paget House. For the occasion she had dressed modestly and had left her patches in the box atop her vanity in Covent Garden. Aunt Tremble, who stared at her with horrified fascination, wore more rouge than she, Isabelle decided.

  “Tell us what you have discovered,” Katherine implored.

  “It is true, my lady, Blu came to the Garden in search of me.” Learning of it had nearly undone her. “Two friends witnessed the abduction.” She spread her hands and tried to excuse Doll and Crazy Sal by explaining they had not believed a lady of quality could know Isabelle Sanchez.

  “We understand; your friends are not to blame,” Cecile said gently. “What exactly did they see?”

  Everyone in the room leaned forward to hear her reply. She told them about the two men, how they drugged Blu and carried her away. “It was Jacko Pigg and Bucky Gladde.” After flicking a glance toward the Duke, who stood at the window staring flint-eyed at the winter sunshine, she turned back to the others. “The Duke...” She hesitated at Lady Katherine’s wince and corrected herself after another hasty glance toward the window. “His Grace and Mouton went in search of Jacko and Bucky, as I am sure they tell you. But these bastards, they is no place to be found. Gladys March—the wife of Bucky Gladde—she say she has not seen Bucky since that day.”

  Unable to remain still, Mouton paced behind her, pausing only to rub a hand over his bald head and mutter silently. He had had no rest since Blu’s disappearance. It was his fault. He had failed Blu and he had failed Beau Billy, Monsieur, and himself. He should have been with her, nothing should have prevented him from being at her side.

  “Spare yourself,” Thomas said, watching him pace. “The blame is mine. I knew from the first that this was a possibility.” He had assumed no one would connect her to Morgan’s Mound. He had believed she was safe at Paget House, believed there was no need for vigilance. Guilt and anxiety robbed his sleep, his appetite. He could think of nothing but Blu.

  “No,” Monsieur cried, pulling at his wig with both hands. “The fault is entirely mine. I should have foreseen the danger. I should have instructed Mr. Jamison never to take her driving alone.” He clawed his temples and groaned.

  “No, no, it is I who am to blame,” Aunt Tremble insisted, fanning herself vigorously, collapsing backward in her chair in half a swoon.

  “Oh Aunt, how is that possible?”

  “Because I am, I feel it, I just know it. I insist upon it.”

  Katherine squared her shoulders. “Enough of this. Casting blame solves nothing. We must find her,” she said, speaking to His Grace.

  “My lady, only you know how desperately I seek to do so.” Thomas looked at her, then returned his scowl to the window. He, Monsieur, and Mouton had scoured Covent Garden. He doubted there was a cellar, a corner, a rag bin which they had not turned out. “We located the room where they took her first.” Raising his hand, he touched his waistcoat wherein he kept the hatpin they had found. It was hers. He had accompanied her the day she purchased the pin at the New Exchange. Impatiently, he pulled his fingers through his hair and his eyes narrowed in frustration. “There the trail grows cold.”

  “What can we do?” Cecile cried. Rolling her chair forward, she peered at the glum faces ringing the drawing room. “There must be something we can do!”

  “We can only wait,” Thomas said between his teeth. Every nerve in his body shouted for action. Every thought reflected his failure. But he had finally, at great cost, accepted Monsieur’s assessment. There was nothing to do but wait.

  “Waiting is so hard. When Beau Billy Morgan arrives in London, the scoundrels will release Blusette. That is true, is it not?”

  Eyes met above Cecile’s head, then slid away.

  “I am confident they will,” Katherine said quietly. She glanced at His Grace and then at Monsieur, then she lowered her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thomas started the pub brawl, thus he paid for the damage when it ended. Dropping to a broken chair, he signaled the sullen barkeep for a tankard of Geneva Print for himself and Mouton. Geneva Print was possibly the vilest gin ever distilled and exactly what he wanted.

  He raised his tankard to Mouton, then gazed at the wreckage they had made of the pub. Blood oozed from his knuckles and flowed from a cut on his forehead. When he awoke tomorrow, his body would be a mass of bruises.

  “She’s out there somewhere.” He drained his tankard and felt his stomach roll in protest as he ordered more. “Christ!”

  Mouton touched his arm then leaned back, propping his shoulders against the wall. “We have tried everything, looked everywhere. We can only wait.”

&nbs
p; Cursing, Thomas hurled his tankard at the shattered window then dropped his head into his hands.

  His helplessness was the worst thing he had ever had to bear. No, he thought, correcting himself. There was one thing harder to bear even than this. His love for her. Loving her better than life itself made his impotence a thousand times worse.

  ~ ~ ~

  The days slipped past in a torment of frustration and fury. In a fair fight Blu knew she could have bested Lord Humphershire in a Sunday moment. And the servant who attended her needs was a jest. She could have wrestled him to the ground in a flea’s blink had it not been for the armed guard who stood just inside the cellar door when the servant served her meals or took away her chamber pot.

  She gnashed her teeth and swore. Why, oh why, had she stopped carrying a dagger in her garter? How had she allowed herself to become so stupidly complacent? Bloody hell!

  Flinging herself to the cot, she leaned against the wall and chewed her thumbnail. There was nothing to occupy her, nothing to do but think.

  As one slow day eclipsed another, her mind skipped hither and yon. With time weighing heavily, she occupied herself by remembering Morgan’s Mound and her youth. She remembered her father and tales of her mother.

  And gradually, sharpened by solitude, Blu began to understand that somewhere in the last weeks she had truly forgiven Lady Katherine for that long-ago abandonment. In the dark silence of her cellar prison, she finally, albeit cautiously, admitted she loved Lady Katherine as much as she loved Cecile. The realization surprised and gladdened her. And she bowed her head in sorrow when she understood she might never see her mother again to speak the words aloud. To distract herself she turned her thoughts to others she loved.

  There was Beau Billy and Mouton and Monsieur and Isabelle and Aunt Tremble and dear Cecile, And Thomas.

  Her heart ached at the thought of him. With nothing to occupy her, with no place to hide from her thoughts, she faced the depth of her love. Her earlier instincts had been correct. It was impossible to be near him and hope to conceal that her spirit cried out for him. She longed for him, ached for him. Her heart beat in time with his. How could she bear to look into the future, knowing Thomas was lost to her? If she survived Lord Humphershire’s plot, her only hope for a life of honor was to place a vast distance between herself and Thomas. Otherwise, as surely as God made foolish hearts, she would dishonor herself and betray Cecile.