by Gayle Wilson
Instead, pulled by the resulting tilt of the damaged vehicle, the outside pair first and then the entire team were dragged over the edge with the heavy coach, onto the rocks below. At the initial impact with the boulder, Raven had braced his body in the protected space between the facing seats. The fall seemed to take an eternity, the vehicle rolling end over end to the bottom of the decline. Eventually the shattered carriage came to rest, one wheel still spinning drunkenly, the traces attached to the carnage of broken and dying horses.
Raven was not aware when the crushed door was forced open by his pursuers, who had willingly made the treacherous climb down the rock face. After all, they had been very well paid to make sure the American never reached London. Very well paid indeed.
The long hours of Saturday trudged by without any sign of Raven’s arrival. Despite her determination to react with calmness, Catherine had started, her heart in her throat, at every sound of carriage wheels in the street. She stayed up very late waiting, not even bothering to offer an excuse for her behavior to Edwards, who unobtrusively kept watch over her vigil. When she had finally surrendered to her disappointment to begin the long climb upstairs, the butler himself had lighted her way and had bid her good-night with an almost paternal kindness.
Sunday was an endless succession of hours that she spent going through the motions of living. Foolishly, that night the tears came again. She remembered her anxiety the last time Raven had been away, but then there had been some excuse for her behavior. This was sheer lovesickness. She wanted Raven here, teasing her, his blue eyes glinting with hidden laughter and the stern line of his beautiful mouth controlled. Until it touched her and left her uncontrolled. Lost without his guidance.
The boot that prodded Raven’s ribs was not gentle, but compared to the other sensations his body had endured in the last hours, not particularly brutal. The journey up the incline, and then the endless ride draped across the back of the rough-gaited cob they’d thrown him over, hands and feet tied, dangling like an ill-arranged pack of tinker’s wares, had been far worse.
He had drifted in and out of consciousness, pain almost defeating his ability to plan, to think, to care anymore what happened. All he wanted was to stop the agony. His will to endure, trained and instilled from childhood, had been lost with the cataclysm in his skull. Only by focusing on the one image that remained, untouched by what was happening to his unprotesting body, could he retain a desire to survive. Catherine. Again he allowed her picture to superimpose the agony in his mind, to block it. He had made a vow, and had been so close to fulfilling it. So near that he could feel her slenderness beneath his driving body, arching upward into—
“Time to wake up,” a voice said, interrupting that fantasy.
He was lying on the ground, with rocks embedded in the muscles of his back. He forced open the one eyelid that still functioned, and watched the wavering outline of a man appear between him and the graying sky of twilight. Hours must have passed since the coach had crashed.
“Why?” he whispered, the one syllable all he could manage.
“Because someone don’t like you very well,” the disembodied voice affirmed. “And he’s willing to pay to have you disappear.”
“I’ll give you ten times—” Raven began, the offer cut off by his captor’s laugh.
“He said you’d try that, but honor among thieves, you know. I have a contract. And, I understand, you ain’t got that much money anymore. All your ready gone in some worthless scheme to build a railway.” Again the laugh jarred in Raven’s skull. “Some folks’ll believe anything,” the man said mockingly.
“What are you going to do?” Raven asked. It was almost idle curiosity. Trussed like a dressed fowl, there wasn’t much he could do to prevent whatever they intended.
“I’m going to make you disappear, Mr. Raven. And I thought of the perfect way—a way that gives a little justice to men like me. You want to put miners out of their jobs, I hear. To use machines in your mines, and let the folks that have always worked them starve to death, along with their babes.”
“That’s not true,” Raven said, anger imbuing his voice with strength. They didn’t understand. No one understood the potential of the machines to ease human suffering.
“You ever been in a coal mine, Mr. Nabob? Ever had coal dust ground into your skin so it don’t wash off no matter how hard you try? I thought you might like a taste of what a mine’s like.”
Raven swallowed the sudden fear, fought its control. He was beginning to win the battle to think, to fight the lethargy left by his injuries, but if they threw him down a shaft…
“You can cooperate or we can throw you in. I don’t have no stomach for killing a man all tied up. Not quite sporting, it seems to me. But eventually, time will accomplish the same end. It ain’t a real mine, just a test hole. And if it rains, you’ll have some time. A few days to think about the miners you’ve put out of work, their starving families. There may even be some water down there from the last rain. Uncomfortable being cold and wet, but I don’t imagine you’ll mind after a while. Get him up,” the man ordered, and rough hands callously accommodated him. Someone fitted a loop of rope around the toes of Raven’s boots and then put the trailing hemp into his hands.
“Hold on now, Mr. Raven,” the one who had done all the talking commanded. “Let’s see how you like the dark.”
Three of them picked him up, swinging his body over the edge of the pit. Raven was afraid suddenly that they wouldn’t be able to hold the rope with the pull of his weight, but when they began to slowly lower him into the increasing blackness, he wondered why he had worried about living through the descent. Wouldn’t it be better to die quickly, to fall to death rather than to starve, prolonging the torment of dying, alone and in the darkness?
The rope was released suddenly and he dropped a short distance, his boots striking the ground first and then his knees banging painfully onto the damp, unyielding hardness. His hands, tied palm to palm, automatically broke the rest of his fall. He felt the remaining rope drop over his back and shoulders.
“Goodbye, Mr. Raven,” the voice said from a very long way above his head. Despairing, he closed his eyes, and before him, again, was the image of Catherine as he had left her that morning, her lips parted slightly and her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his as he touched her.
You made a vow, his grandmother’s voice echoed inside his head.And you must keep your promise, my dark and beautiful Raven. All your promises.
He rolled slowly onto his back, and despairing, watched the light fade from the sky far above his head and the stars gradually replace the dusky dimness of twilight with true night.
“But the situation is extremely critical, Mrs. Raven. I must impress upon you—” Oliver Reynolds argued, wondering why he had believed it might be beneficial to visit his client’s wife.
Since the disastrous meeting with the investors this morning, a meeting at which John Raven had failed to appear, the banker had tried to decide upon the best course of action. He had, he supposed, been a fool to allow the bank to become involved in a scheme this speculative. Visions of the profits that would accrue if the American nabob succeeded had blinded him to the risk. That and the character of the man himself.
It had been in remembering John Raven’s character that he had made his call, uninvited and unannounced, on Catherine Montfort Raven. A last hope. A desperate gamble for information. Information which he now knew she didn’t possess.
“What’scritical, Mr. Reynolds, is the fact that my husband seems to have disappeared. And you’re far more concerned with protecting your investment than with determining what might have happened to him,” Catherine retorted angrily.
“His investment as well. I assure you, Mrs. Raven—”
“Have you sent out inquiries? Do you have people looking for my husband?” she interrupted again to ask.
“I hadn’t…” Reynolds began, and then paused, wondering if he dared tell her what had been suggested today as a
reason for her husband’s disappearance. Montfort’s daughter, he thought again. That devious old bastard. And judging by the steel in the girl’s voice, she had inherited some of the old man’s temper. “No,” he finished simply, meeting the steady brown eyes.
“And why not? If you’re so concerned about Raven’s—”
“It was suggested Mr. Raven might notwish to be found.”
The movement of the slender fingers tearing at the lace edging of her handkerchief was arrested. She waited a moment, the mind behind those remarkable eyes obviously also owing something to her father.
“Suggested?” Catherine finally asked, her voice controlled.
“By one of the investors.”
“But why? Why would Raven want to disappear?” she asked, thinking of the morning he’d left. Of the promise that had been in the flame of those blue eyes. She shook her head. Her lips lifted slightly, knowing how ridiculous that was.
“Mr. Raven carried with him to the north a rather large sum of money. Other such sums have, in the past weeks, supposedly been used to secure the land and to make the necessary—”
“Supposedly?” Montfort’s daughter repeated coldly.
Oliver Reynolds could feel the perspiration beginning to dew his forehead. He removed his own handkerchief and dabbed at the moisture before he answered, “Your busband’s accounts are dangerously low, depleted, he said, to finance the venture. The investors, however, whose moneys are also involved, are not so certain of that situation. It was suggested,” he said again, thinking how to word what could only be an insult, “that Mr. Raven’s disappearance at this juncture is too… coincidental.”
“Implying Raven has absconded with the investors’ money?”
“I am simply repeating what was said. This morning. At a very important meeting your husband failed to attend.”
“And what did these partners suggest you do about it?” she asked bitterly. She could hear the anger building in her own voice, but was pleased to believe that the old man was unaware of it. How dare they accuse Raven of stealing their damned money?
“They want an accounting of your husband’s remaining holdings. They’re demanding to be repaid.”
“But you said Raven’s funds were tied up in the land he’s bought, in the contracts he’s made for the railway. If they pull out now…” She was beginning to realize the extent of that potential disaster. No wonder the banker was so upset. “Then it’s over. It collapses. And Raven loses everything,” she breathed aloud. This was what he had warned her about. Everything he owned would be taken to pay off his partners.
“Exactly,” Reynolds agreed, relieved that she’d arrived at that point on her own. He wiped his face again and then stuffed the cloth back into his pocket. “I thought he might have told you…something of his intentions.”
“His intentions to steal from men I lured to my dinner table so they could be fleeced?” the girl asked, her lips again curved in a small, knowing smile. “No, Mr. Reynolds, I assure you my husband didn’t impart anything of that plan to me. What he did tell me, and what you may be very sure is the truth, is that he intended to return to London on Sunday. And since he has not yet arrived, I can also assure you that something has happened to him. And I intend to discover what it is.”
“But how will you—”
“I’m going to do what you should have already done. First I’m going to send out search parties. And then I’m going to consult my father. I imagine he’ll want a list of the investors. If you would be so good as to provide one?”
Thinking about handing the Duke of Montfort a list of the gentlemen who had only this morning been screaming for John Raven’s head on a platter sent a tremor through the banker. He was too old for this, he thought with despair. “Your father?” he repeated, just to make certain he’d not misunderstood.
“The Duke of Montfort,” Catherine said, smiling at him. It was the provocative one she’d practiced so often at her mirror. “After all,” she assured the old man, “this is a family matter.”
When Oliver Reynolds finally stood on the stoop of John Raven’s town house, he again wiped his brow. At least it was no longer his problem alone, he thought. Montfort’s daughter had been extremely efficient, once informed of the situation. As businesslike as her husband when it came to making decisions. And that was surprising in itself, given her age and her class. Women of her circle were supposed to be highly decorative and nothing else.
What the banker had found even more surprising than her intellect was Catherine Raven’s unshakable faith in her husband’s intentions. Everyone in London might be convinced of the American’s duplicity, but his wife’s calm amusement that John Raven could have planned anything remotely dishonest was the most reassuring thing the banker had heard today.
Now, however, he must prepare the information she had requested for her father. The Devil Duke himself, the old man thought again, remembering all the stories. A bad man to cross, they said, and Reynolds couldn’t imagine Montfort being willing to bail out a son-in-law not of his choosing. The gossipmongers had been quite specific about that. The Viscount Amberton had been the horse the duke had been backing, and the banker could imagine what his grace had felt about his daughter’s runaway marriage.
There had been something else, Reynolds remembered, following that train of thought. Some rumor about Amberton. Something financial, he believed. He couldn’t remember exactly what those whispers had concerned, but it would come to him, he knew. He never forgot anything dealing with money.
“Excuse me, sir.” A voice interrupted his effort to remember.
Cap in hand, Jem had stood respectfully waiting for the old man to notice him. It seemed to him that someone should know what had happened, now that Mr. Raven had disappeared. The responsibility the groom had been given for Mrs. Raven’s safety loomed as a task beyond his ability, especially with the master missing.
“Youare Mr. Raven’s man of business, aren’t you?” Jem asked, hoping he was doing the right thing.
The old man nodded, wondering what kind of household the American had put together, where a schoolroom chit gave orders about business and the grooms addressed callers.
“Then there’s something, sir, I think you should know. Something that happened before Mr. Raven left London,” Jem said, “and some right disturbing things I’ve noticed since.”
The groom’s relief, now that he had made the decision to unburden himself, hurried the careful recitation he had planned. And eventually he found it very gratifying that he had such an avid listener.
Chapter Fourteen
Catherine watched her father scan the list Oliver Reynolds had prepared. She already knew the names it contained. Devon, Cumberland and Avondale. Russell and Elliot. Templeton and the Earl of Surrey. Even the Duke of Exeter. There were one or two she didn’t know very well, but all were friends of her father’s.
Because of that friendship, they had come to her home to meet her husband. And now that Raven had failed to keep his appointment with them, it appeared he had intended to cheat them all along. She understood the men of her class well enough to know that whatever plans her husband had had to involve these gentlemen in future projects would now be doomed.
“You must be joking,” her father said, his thin lips curled in a very self-satisfied smile. In spite of the fact that she loved him, Catherine felt the urge to wipe the smirk off his face with the flat of her hand. She had been forced to deal with this business while almost frantic with worry about Raven. And she knew that her father was enjoying very much the idea that he had been right about John Raven and she had, again, been quite wrong.
“Why should I guarantee an extremely risky scheme concocted by your husband to divest some of my more gullible acquaintances of their money? Surely you know me better than that, Catherine. Just because he’s managed to take you and these idiots—”
“Raven hasn’t taken any one in. He offered them an opportunity to become partners in an investment that promises
a very high rate of return. He himself has invested far more than any of the others. Probably more than all of them combined.”
“You may convey my thanks for that opportunity to Mr. Raven, my dear, at the same time you convey my regrets. My funds are all tied up in legitimate and quite practical ventures. And now if you’ll excuse me…” He raised one brow.
“No, I won’t excuse you. I need your help,” she said angrily. “Why else do you imagine I would give you the chance to gloat as you’re doing? And I must tell you, it’s most unbecoming.”
They had always struck sparks off one another. Too strong willed and too much alike to deal easily together, they had been bound by the fact that neither had anyone else. And she realized for the first time that in her case it was no longer true.
“Forgive me, but I still don’t intend to invest. You must have known that when you came. I’m surprised at you, Catherine.”
“I had no choice,” she admitted.
She knew she would have to tell him the truth and throw herself on his mercies. He was, after all, her father. And no matter how strongly he’d threatened her with his displeasure in the past, his anger had never withstood their mutual affection. He needed her, she knew, as much as she needed him. And loved him, she admitted. She hadn’t stopped to think what her marriage and their estrangement would mean to him before today, and she had been shocked by the changes these few months had wrought. He was an old man, and he looked his age. Stubborn and proud as always, but older than she’d ever realized before.
