Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Didn’t stop or nothing. Tore down the road like he was outrunning the devil.”

  Though uncertain that he’d caught the scent, Jasper decided to follow. The description matched and Saltash’s seat was in the north. Dispatching a message for his father, he begged him and Peter to check the posting inns on the other roads in case he was wrong, then galloped north.

  He had a grand start. The moon was full, both he and his horse were in good condition, and he had the additional confidence lent by pistol and sword. The first tolls all reported seeing the carriage and at Alconbury, the tollkeeper told Jasper his quarry was little more than a quarter of an hour ahead of him. Spurring forward, Jasper careened down the road to the next halt and found calamity: the keeper, surly at being woken hours before dawn denied seeing any carriages at all. “Haven’t had any since ten in the evening,” he said, his glare telling Jasper what he thought of persons who chose to conduct business abroad in the infant hours of morning.

  “You’re certain?” Jasper asked.

  “Quite. Went to bed after the ale wagons passed at eleven. Haven’t woke till now.”

  Laura’s captors had turned off the main road then. What did one do with a kidnapped actress between Alconbury and Peterborough in the middle of the night? Stop at some quiet hostelry? Impossible unless they’d found a way to subdue Laura, and that possibility was terrifying.

  “Can you tell me where a carriage like that might go, if they were leaving the main road and wanted to change horses?” Jasper asked.

  “No, I can’t,” growled the toll-keeper before he slammed the window shut.

  Jasper remounted, grim but resigned. He’d have to go back and try the side roads and check with the local inns. Hopefully he could find where they’d changed horses. If he didn’t learn what the new pair looked like he’d never find them. Assuming he was tracking the right coach in the first place.

  Ignoring the suffocating urge to despair, Jasper booted his horse to a canter. Time was precious and slipped fast through his spendthrift hands. He visited one village, then another, pounding on smithy doors and closed taprooms, but came up with nothing. His horse nearly spent, his mouth dry as dust, his face and fingers numb with cold, Jasper rode back to the main road and turned south again filled with doubts. Suppose they had ridden through that last village? The innkeep was a heavy sleeper—Jasper had yelled for a good five minutes before the fellow dragged himself to the door. A carriage could have passed without rousing anyone. But they would have had to change horses. By now the beasts would be dead in the traces if they hadn’t been exchanged for others. He must find out where and what the new horses looked like.

  Jasper’s spirits rose at the next stop where a lighted window summoned him through the dark. Again, he found only disappointment. The grey-whiskered man who cautiously poked his head round the door explained he’d seen no one come by. The light was only so he could read.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Haven’t seen a soul.”

  Jasper declined the offer of a bed and the door shut. Too weary to curse, Jasper bowed his head against the frame, afraid to guess how far Laura and her captors might have traveled by now. They were hours ahead in God knows what direction. He pressed his fist against the rough wood and flaking paint until the bones in his hand creaked, then spun away to chase faint hopes down the empty road before him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A cure for trouble

  Laura huddled in the corner of the coach, damp with icy perspiration, her thoughts a discordant jumble of twanging nerves. And still they rumbled on. After an age they changed horses, but her captors didn’t let her out of the carriage to relieve herself or offer her anything except O’Trigger’s flask. Her mouth was dry and sour, her legs cramped, and she was growing worried about the increasing pressure in her bladder.

  “I need to get out,” she said, looking at O’Trigger.

  “In a bit. We’ll find you a hedge.”

  They did, but they only untied her feet, not her hands, snickering when she gasped in disbelief.

  “I’ll manage,” she said and strove for haughtiness, no easy thing while stumbling into the branches where she’d be better concealed.

  “How much is my uncle paying you?” she demanded, climbing back into the carriage.

  “More than you can.” The coachman smirked as he pared his nails.

  Leaning against the carriage wall, the ache in her legs spread to her shoulders and back. Laura watched the window and checked the color of the sky each time the shade bounced away from the glass. Soon they’d have to change horses again. When at last the pace slackened she got ready to scream and spring. If she could just get herself past the carriage door, the ostlers would see her and her bound hands. They’d have questions. But as they rolled into the yard O’Trigger jumped on her, squashing her face into his armpit and clapping his hand over her mouth.

  “A change, quickly now,” said the driver. Laura struggled, but the ostlers were swift and moments later they were rolling away.

  “Pardon me.” O’Trigger smiled as he removed himself and settled back in his seat. “Can’t have delays or interruptions.”

  Laura scowled and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She’d give anything to have Dan or one of the other actors swing onto the scene flourishing a sword. Were they looking for her? Surely Jasper must be in pursuit by now. Even though she’d refused him, he must know she would never run away without a single word… Hadn’t he seen the truth in her kisses, in the talk and the lingering glances? There was a difference—she couldn’t be the only one who felt it—in the way she spoke to him and the way she played to Dan. If Jasper didn’t know he was a blind fool.

  But not as fool as she.

  Idiot, Laura thought. You should have told him. She might die… No, she would not. Thoughts like that were not allowed and it made little sense to drive her miles out to the country just to kill her. Why make a night’s work out of a task that could be done in half an hour? Easier by far to slit her throat and slide her body into the Thames. Though it was meant to be a soothing thought Laura shivered. She wished she was sure Jasper knew she loved him.

  Jasper would come. Even if he didn’t know he’d won her heart ages ago, he was the sort you could trust—she must have known that instinctively when she’d chosen him, though she hadn’t guessed how much. He must be close now…mustn’t he? Her head sagged and her eyes drooped, but though she snapped herself alert again and again, he didn’t come.

  “We’re arrived.” O’Trigger startled her awake as he unfastened the bonds at her ankles. “Not worth the trouble,” he said, putting an end to her fumbling efforts to straighten her hair with her bound hands. Leading her by the wrists, he brought her out of the carriage.

  Screwing up her eyes against the sunshine, Laura saw pasture, scythed fields, empty road…and a carriage, perhaps twenty yards ahead, waiting. It wasn’t a vehicle like the one she’d journeyed in—it gleamed with scrollwork and new paint, and had a crest on the door. A footman stepped off the back of the coach and snapped the door open. O’Trigger pushed her in front of it.

  “Here she is, Your Grace.”

  “You’re late.” She could scarcely see him in the shadowed interior, except for his hand, the heavy signet gleaming between his bony knuckles, the fingers clasping a gold-headed cane.

  “Pardon, Your Grace.”

  Maybe he’d punish O’Trigger. Laura hoped so.

  “Get in, get in,” Saltash said, the hand beckoning.

  O’Trigger pushed her into the carriage. “Uncle,” Laura said, stumbling into the seat, her eyes mutinous.

  “My dear, unfortunate niece. How lucky I am to have found you.” The door shut behind her and the carriage dipped as someone, O’Trigger presumably, climbed up beside the driver.

  “You can’t do this,” Laura said.

  “It pains me to disappoint you, but I’m afraid you’ll find yourself mistaken.”

  “Jack will find me.” Someone would. Please God, let
someone find her.

  “It is possible,” Saltash conceded with a tilt of his head. “But unlikely.” Leaning forward, he rapped the side of the carriage with the cane and they rolled forward, accelerating so gently there wasn’t even a lurch.

  “Where are we going?” Laura asked.

  “Down this road about a mile to meet an interesting gentleman. I hope you’ll like him. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  He glanced at her bound hands but did nothing. Laura pressed her lips together, unable to speak. She mustn’t cry or beg or snivel. Saltash didn’t deserve that pleasure. She must keep her head and think a way out of this. Run? She had no money, never mind her bound hands. Kick him? Satisfying but unproductive and she didn’t want to face the retaliatory strike of that ringed hand. Just looking at him made her thoughts scatter like minnows whose sand has been stirred.

  They swept past bare trees, haystacks, and fields of frost-rimmed stubble. Neat farms and shoddy ones too, but nothing that could help her. She was trapped here with the smell of Saltash’s musk and only a hint of the smoke from a distant pile of burning leaves. Fear threatened to close up her throat and she didn’t know whether to stare or close her eyes. Both were unbearable. She held on to her hands like her heart was in them, beating so fast it might burst.

  This was real. She couldn’t talk it away by comparing it to some play or pretending that—suddenly remembering, Laura realized she had lived this before. Not in a costume. Not in front of the lights.

  In France. She’d seen her mother weep, but never once had she given into fear. Not when mobs fired their home, not when they dragged away her father. Not in hiding when they trekked along unfamiliar roads with soldiers in pursuit or when they had to slip past guards to get onto the ship that promised escape. Swallowing, Laura steeled herself. Whatever Saltash planned couldn’t be worse than what her mother had faced and overcome before. It might take time and she might be terrified, but she was the daughter of Marguerite Leonie Edouard Lecroy-Duplessis. She would not be any less than her mother.

  Heart steadier, Laura watched the hedges pass. The carriage turned into a side road, then into a smaller lane, then through a gate. A house came into view, square as the bricks that built it, the untidy autumn gardens bounded by a low wall. The footman hopped down onto the gravel and opened the carriage door.

  “Go on,” Saltash told her.

  Laura climbed out. The trees were bare, the borders dug out, but in the summer—in the summer, the place would be beautiful. The glossy black door of the house opened and a tubby man in a dark coat came out, attended by a female servant in a white apron and cap. The servant was taller than he was and her grey wisps of hair looked tired next to his bristling side whiskers.

  This wasn’t so bad, Laura thought. It was better than a brothel or a ship to Australia or a workhouse…or any of the dozens of places she’d feared.

  “Your Grace,” Tubby bowed, struggling over the r. It came out sounding more like a w.

  “Dr. Matthews.”

  The crackling leaves under her feet sent a shiver over Laura’s skin. She glanced again at Matthews, who didn’t seem surprised by her bound hands.

  “Is this the patient?” he asked.

  “Yes, this is my unfortunate niece,” Saltash said. Laura snorted, but Saltash didn’t heed her. “It began when she was small,” he said. “She never quite recovered after escaping the troubles in France.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Dr. Matthews said, tsking and shaking his head. “All too common, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve tried to keep her away from anything that might upset her, but since her mother died she’s become even more unbalanced. Thinks she’s an actress—the famous Gemma Holyrood. You understand, I’m sure, how embarrassing it would be if…”

  “That’s a lie,” Laura said. “I am Gemma Holyrood and there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Matthews frowned. “I see the trouble, Your Grace. Naturally, you’re beside yourself. And with your own dear daughter making her debut, you won’t want anyone thinking such troubles run in your family.”

  “Precisely,” Saltash said.

  “He’s lying.” Laura started forward, but the female servant was beside her in an instant clamping stout hands on her arms. “Don’t touch me,” Laura said, pulling away.

  Saltash and the doctor exchanged a look.

  “Mrs. Stoke,” Dr. Matthews said. “Will you help the young lady?”

  Nimble as a spider in spite of her bulk, the woman seized Laura, twisting her hands over her head until her bound wrists rested behind her neck and her feet scrabbled on the gravel. Laura yowled in pain, but Matthews and Saltash didn’t blink.

  “Quiet,” the woman whispered. “It’ll go better for you.” She looked past Laura to Matthews. “I’ve got her in hand, Doctor. No need to worry.”

  “Good.” He eyed Laura closely, rocking on his heels. “Take her inside. If you’d come with me, Your Grace? I’d like a few more details of your niece’s history.”

  Prodded along by Mrs. Stoke, Laura had no chance to break free. She floundered up the steps into the house and up again to the next floor. No pretty carpets here. The doors lining the corridor were all shut.

  “What is this place?” Laura demanded, twisting to look at Mrs. Stoke. “You can’t—”

  “Shh.” The woman leaned into her ear. “The talkers always get longer treatments. You don’t want that.” Her hands, Laura saw, were red and chapped.

  “Treatment?” Laura’s voice was as well-tuned as a virtuoso’s violin, but now it scraped.

  “Water,” Stoke said succinctly, like that explained everything.

  “You won’t give me any?” Laura asked, horrified.

  Mrs. Stoke chuckled. “Other way round, dearie. Poured over you until the fits stop and you promise to be docile.”

  Laura was too afraid to speak. “I don’t have fits,” she managed, finally.

  Mrs. Stoke grimaced. “I expect you will by the time he’s finished with you. They’re like putty in the end. Say whatever they think he wants. Come along.”

  Laura tried to break free, but a heavy hand cuffed her hard.

  “Don’t start wrong. I’ve warned you twice now. Won’t do it again.” The woman dragged her down the hall. Beneath the sound of her scrabbling feet on the bare floors, Laura heard whimpering. It wasn’t her own. Somehow that was even worse.

  *****

  Cursed by innkeepers from piddly villages who didn’t keep decent horses, Jasper pounded doors and prodded his borrowed horse until noon when he finally found the right turning. They’d changed horses in Egglington and driven west. Jasper followed on yet another horse, a skittish grey with execrable manners that at least was fresh. His pace was slow with frequent stops, lest he lose them again in this thin web of country roads. They hadn’t been seen at the next inn and there was nothing off these turnings but farms, grimy hamlets, and a few manor houses. Dismal and heartsick, Jasper went back to knocking on every door, questioning everyone he saw, convinced the longer he was at it that the world was populated entirely by blind half-wits. Someone must have seen her.

  At last he chanced on a laconic farmer in a darned smock with a clay pipe jammed into his craw. “Well?” Jasper demanded, tired of the man’s silent deliberations.

  “Didn’t see the carriage you want, but there was a fancy one waiting at the bottom of my rye field for a good two hours. My Sam ran down to see it but the coachman chased him off.”

  “Where’s Sam? May I speak to him?” Jasper asked, afraid to hope.

  “Sure, an’ you don’t mind fetching him. He’s in yon barn.”

  Jasper stumped across the field, leading his ill-tempered horse. The barn was more of a tired-looking shed with sheep, a pair of goats, and a serenading cow.

  “Sam?” Jasper called, stepping inside.

  “Here,” the boy said, from the back of a stall.

  “I’m looking for someone. She was taken from London last night.” He describe
d the carriage. “Your father says—”

  “Yep, that was the other one,” the boy said.

  “Other one?” Jasper asked.

  “Yessir. There was the shiny one rigged up for the nob inside skulking for a good spell at the bottom of yon field. Towards midmorning that one you’rn looking for rolled up. I din’ go close. That chaffer on top had chased me away once already.”

  Jasper reached out a steadying hand to the partition dividing the stall. “Did you see anyone? A lady? With chestnut hair?”

  The boy shrugged. “Could’ve been. Didn’t see close enough to tell.”

  “But there was a lady,” Jasper said, his heart quickening.

  “Unless it was a man in skirts,” the boy said. “Got out of the shabby one and into the other.”

  “Where did they go?” He gripped the partition hard, resisting the impulse to take the boy’s arm.

  “Don’t know where the shabby one took off to, but I expect the nob went down to Dr. Matthews’ place.”

  “A doctor?”

  The boy nodded. “Looks after them that aren’t right in the head. A mile or so down the road. Not much else this way.”

  She was close. Thanking the boy with words and coin, Jasper flung himself into the saddle.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bedlam

  The room Stoke brought her to was small with bare walls. Ironwork barred the window. The only furniture was a low bed and a chair with leather straps hanging from it.

  “You must believe me. I’m not mad. The duke lies.” Laura’s voice was hoarse.

  “Some do,” Stoke conceded. “That’s not so much the point. We take folk who are problems. Dr. Matthews fixes them, you see.”

  “But I’m not ill,” Laura said again, growing desperate as Stoke brought out a pile of sacking that was apparently to serve her as clothes. “You must let me out of here, I can—” She had nothing. No jewels, no money. No weapon and even if she did, her hands were tied. At least on the flight from France, Maman had carried jewels and a pair of pistols.