The Accidental Abduction

by Darcie Wilde

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it’s not something I’m proud of.” Father paused. “Harry, I’ve never asked you what happened that night in Calais . . .”

  Harry stifled an oath. Why was it that every time he thought he’d found his footing in this endless wrangling, someone was determined to throw him back off balance? He had not come here to discuss Calais. This visit had nothing to do with that incident, that accident.

  But even as he opened his mouth to say as much, Harry could clearly see the dead man’s eyes staring up at him from the filthy cobbles. Man. Harry hung his head. The fellow had been little more than a boy, and a very drunk boy at that. He was clearly lovesick over a girl who’d preferred the party of wealthy Englishmen to the youth, despite his smart new grenadier’s uniform. Harry hadn’t even heard the girl’s name clearly, or the boy’s either. He just knew the boy had taken offence at their laughing with the girl. He’d decided to pick a fight, and Harry had decided to oblige, more because he’d wanted to show off for the girl, and his friends, than for any real offence.

  And then that young, drunk grenadier had slipped and hit his head on one of those damned cat’s-head stones that paved the streets by the quay. But Harry was so far gone in his own anger he couldn’t see how bad it was. He’d kicked him, hard, in the guts.

  The boy was already dead, and he’d kicked him. It was only after his friends had hauled him back that he really saw the blood, and those startled, still eyes. It was like the body couldn’t believe its soul had fled.

  But as terrible as that moment had been, it was not the worst of it.

  The worst had come when he’d gone to the boy’s house. His friends told him to stay away. They told him to get on the next ship across the Channel and forget any of it had ever happened. But, no, Harry Rayburn was going to take responsibility. He was going to apologize, and to offer to make what amends he could.

  So he’d stood before the dead man’s two sisters and his widowed mother. He’d told them what had happened. He’d asked forgiveness.

  The mother had climbed to her feet. Trembling, she’d walked toward Harry and looked up at him with rheumy eyes.

  “You,” she said, her voice breaking from the strain of her emotion. “You tell me. Where’s his money?”

  The words had sent him reeling. The sisters had joined in shrilly. They wanted to know where the money was. They’d sent their brother into that casino to try to win the money they needed for their dresses, for the house, and to keep up their appearances. He’d been supposed to bring them back the results. Now they would have to make excuses to their creditors, and to the world at large for his stupid neglect of his duty. How could he, they wanted to know, become distracted by a girl when they needed him? While the sisters tried to work out what story they would tell to cover up the incident, the mother screamed at Harry, demanding to know why he hadn’t thought to rifle her dead son’s pockets.

  He’d torn his own wallet from his coat, dropped it on the table, and walked away. He hadn’t looked back, but he always pictured them falling on it like vultures.

  Harry grit his teeth and, slow inch by slow inch, he shoved the vision of those squabbling women away from him. He could not fall into this trap. He would not let that moment and its shock and horror consume him. It was only one man, only a fight, and an accident. The family had been in shock, that was all. They surely mourned their loved one later. Harry must put that whole incident firmly in the past, where it belonged. He must keep his attention here, now, in the present.

  “Calais has nothing to do with my marrying.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Father looked down at him. Somehow it never felt fair that even though he was a grown man, his father remained the taller of them. “You’ve all but chained yourself to your desk since we got back. Every time I’ve suggested another trip out, you’ve put me off. It’s as if you didn’t want to leave England again, as if you were afraid of something.”

  Harry gripped the cold stone railing in both hands and stared out across the damp lawn. The snowdrops and crocuses were the only color decorating the dark beds, although a few daffodils were showing their green spikes. Over the far wall, Harry could see the brick turrets of St. James’s Palace and the royal pennant snapping briskly in the April breeze.

  “Your mother spoke for both of us back in there, Harry,” said Father from behind his back. “You are my son, and I love you. Nothing will change that. When you’re ready to tell me what really happened, I will hear you, no matter what.”

  Harry found himself unable to answer. Anger roiled in his guts. He couldn’t go on like this. If he did, he’d start shouting. He hadn’t come here to start more arguments. This was about mending any breaches that had been opened by his marriage before they could grow into a genuine divide. He must ensure that Leannah was received by his family with the courtesy and kindness she deserved. He couldn’t do that if he, and everybody else, was still dwelling on Calais.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Harry said to the muddy garden. “It was an accident, and I was at fault.”

  “Even accidents have consequences, Harry, and they leave their own scars.”

  He must put a stop to this, for good and all. If his family was going to persist in seeing everything the wrong way around, then they’d have to learn to do it in silence, at least within his hearing. “I did not marry Leannah because Agnes turned me down,” he said flatly. “I did not marry her because of an accident in Calais. I married her because I fell in love—suddenly, perhaps foolishly, but that is the beginning and the end of it.”

  Love. It surprised him how easily the word slipped out. Was Leannah telling her parent the same? He wanted to believe that. He needed to believe it. It was all he had to hang on to as he struggled to stay calm under his father’s searching gaze.

  “Since you say so, Harry, I’ve no choice but to believe you,” Father said. “But you’ll have to give us time.”

  “I know. I do know.”

  “I’m sure Mother’s put a flea in Fiona’s ear about all this.” A smile flickered across Father’s face as he looked toward the house, and Harry felt the tension in his shoulders ease. “You will need to make sure the new Mrs. Rayburn comes to visit soon. If she’s all you say . . .”

  “She is.” Hope rose again, and it was almost as painful as the anger had been.

  “Then I’m sure that visit will go a long way toward smoothing things over.” But Father’s attention did not return to Harry. It remained fixed on the house. The relief and hope that had been building in him faltered.

  “You’re going to say ‘but.’” Harry tried to make of joke of it, but he knew as soon as the words were out that he’d failed.

  “Is she with child, Harry?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Harry stopped, frozen in place by his own choice of words. “Sir, you are not suggesting . . .”

  Father did not even attempt to look abashed. His face had hardened into its most determined lines. “I am, and I am saying it now because others will say it later.”

  “No,” snapped Harry. “I won’t allow it. Not even from you.”

  “It hadn’t even crossed your mind?” asked Father, and for the first time in this entire nightmarish conversation, he sounded truly aghast.

  “Of course not! You still think she’s trying to put something over on me!”

  Father made no answer. In the face of yet another bout of silence, Harry felt all the anger he’d struggled so hard to hold in check boil over.

  “Fiona was right about one thing. Nothing has changed. Any member of our family can commit any style of outrage, but not Harry. It’s Harry’s job to help clean it all up, but heaven forbid he get his own hands dirty!”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Oh, yes, of course I do. How could I possibly be angry when you are all simply so concerned for my well-being? That wouldn’t be reaction of a sound, steady man. It certainly wouldn’t be good and upright to say it out loud! Well,
perhaps I’m not the man you all believe me to be.”

  “Harry, you’re upset and I understand that.”

  “Yes, I am upset and I have a right to be. You’re doing that exact thing you’ve always warned me against. You’re rushing to judgment!”

  “You just need to give us time . . .”

  “And how much time have you given me? How much have you given her?” He jabbed his finger toward the empty garden, as if Leannah was even now hurrying across the damp lawn. “You haven’t even met her and you’ve all gone from accusing her of dangling after a soft mark to trying to cover up a bastard!”

  A dark flush crept up his father’s neck, coloring his sallow cheeks. Harry stood straight and still. He would not back down. He would not apologize. He would not be accused of being a fool, or have his word doubted, not even by his own family.

  When his father spoke again, it was plain he chose his words with great care. “This has been . . . an extraordinary few days and I understand why you might be unsettled. But you are better than this. You understand that it’s hard for all of us, and that I have to ask exactly these questions. The family reputation . . .”

  “Reputation!” cried Harry. “When have any of us given a hang about reputation? What is it you’ve always said? ‘We are what we are, and the world may take us or leave us alone as it chooses.’”

  “Of course, and I mean it. But with your sister’s marriage . . .”

  Harry threw up his hands. “We’re back to Fiona. I swear, if I’d known what joining the aristocracy was going to make of us, I never would have helped James find her.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were deliberately misunderstanding.”

  “And if I didn’t know you better, I might believe you were becoming a social climber. Reputation! I’ll bet that’s what the conversation’s about in there.” Harry’s eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the sitting room window. Someone had drawn the curtains, so the Rayburn women could argue unobserved. “The two of them are busy concocting some sort of story, working out how to excuse my marriage, or, better yet, to cover it up entirely . . .”

  “That, Harold, is taking it too far!”

  “Is it? You can say that and still wonder why I don’t want to talk about Calais.”

  “Enough!”

  “Yes, I quite agree.” Harry met his father’s gaze without flinching. “I’ve heard everything from you I’m going to and I’ve said all I came here to say. What you choose to do with it is your business. I’m going back home to my wife.”

  Harry turned on his heel and walked away, and he did not once let himself look back. If his father wanted him to hesitate, let alone turn around, he’d have to call him back, and he’d have to apologize.

  But he did not, and that silence followed Harry all the way through the gardens, and out the back gate.

  Oh, Leannah, he thought as he let the latch fall closed. I hope it’s gone better for you. It must have gone better.

  Because in that moment, he could not imagine how anything could have gone worse.

  Twenty-Three

  The groomsman from the Colonnade pulled Rumor and Gossip up gently in front of the rented house in Byswater Street. It was not, however, any member of Leannah’s family who loitered near the area railing to greet them.

  Leannah recognized the thin man by his crooked neck and squinting gaze. His name was Dawes, and he worked for the livery stable where they kept Gossip and Rumor, as well as Bonaparte.

  “Well, well, she decided to return after all,” Dawes remarked as he sauntered toward the carriage. “I hope you’re not planning to put those two up at Mr. Hughes’s?”

  “Have a care, fellow.” The driver held up the whip. “You’ll use respect when addressing the lady.”

  “So I will, so I will, squire.” Dawes tugged his forelock a little too showily. “That is if the lady uses some respect with me and Mr. Hughes, and agrees to pay the bill for the housing and feeding of this very fine team, not to mention one saddle horse that eats enough for ten, if I may be frank.”

  “It’s all right,” said Leannah to the driver. “This man is Mr. Dawes, and he’s right. We owe his employer money.” She took a deep breath and attempted to assume a brisk air. “If you will send your bill to the attention of Mrs. Rayburn at the Colonnade, it will be settled immediately.”

  Very deliberately, Dawes leaned over the gutter and spat. “Mrs. Rayburn? Can we wish you happy, then?”

  “If you like. You will be paid in any case,” she said this with what she hoped was a careless tone. The house door had opened, and Genny stood watching from the threshold. Even at this distance, Leannah could see the worry written across her face. She made herself continue speaking to the driver. “Dawes will show you to the stables. You may give Mr. Hughes this on account.” She handed over one of Harry’s guineas. “And for your trouble,” she added a shilling. She felt Dawes watching her. His eyes trailed over her old dress. At least she had a bonnet now, and gloves, although they were strained at the seams because of her bandages. Despite these improvements, she knew exactly what he was thinking about where the money she held out must have come from, and she cringed inwardly.

  “Very good, ma’am.” The driver touched his hat brim to her as he accepted the coins and then moved to position the step so she could get down from the carriage. “When I’ve seen to the horses, I’ll be back to find out if there’s anything more you require.”

  “Thank you.” She’d seen for herself the man was more than capable of handling her team as he drove the barouche through the streets. So, it was with only a small tremor of concern she turned away to mount the steps to the door Genny held open.

  Genny drew her at once into the dim hallway. There, she threw her arms around Leannah’s shoulders and held her tightly. Leannah returned her sister’s embrace for a long moment, as if she needed to reassure herself that the welcome was genuine, and her sister still real.

  “You look very well,” said Genny when they were finally able to pull away from each other. She spoke the words a little more judiciously than Leannah would have liked, but at least she meant them. That would be enough for now.

  “You’re exaggerating,” Leannah chose to respond as if she heard nothing but the compliment. “I look like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

  Which, considering the passionate night she’d enjoyed in Harry’s arms was an entirely inappropriate metaphor to choose. Leannah felt her blush raise immediately, and she could do nothing at all about it.

  Genny quirked an inquiring brow, which deepened Leannah’s blush, but also eased her worries. If anything were truly wrong in the house, her sister’s less-than-ladylike sense of humor would not be in evidence now.

  Then, over Genny’s shoulder, Leannah saw Mrs. Falwell peering anxiously through the kitchen door. “We’ll speak later, Mrs. Falwell,” she said, and the woman all but fled. She sighed. What they’d speak about, she did not know. She should be very angry with her. She should even consider dismissing her outright, but there were so many other things that needed to be sorted out first.

  Footsteps thundered overhead.

  “Lea!” Jeremy cried as he barreled down the stairs and up the narrow hall. “Is it true? Is it really?”

  “Is what true?” asked Leannah as her younger brother skidded to a halt in front of her. Of them all, Jeremy had the reddest hair, and the most freckles. Although he had only just turned twelve, it would not be too much longer before Jeremy was able to look her, or at least Genny, right in the eye.

  “Tommy Hargrave says his sister said that you got kidnapped last night by a highwayman and taken to Gretna Green and married at pistol point! I told him he was a liar because it’s three hundred miles to Gretna and no highwayman would have more than one horse, and he said it must have been a whole gang plotting marrying you for your money and I said you hadn’t got any and he said it was jewels and I said . . .”

  “Oh, good heavens!” Leannah grabbed her
brother’s arm and hurried him back up to the third floor, with Genny at her heels. She pushed Jeremy into his room and slammed the door shut. “What made you think such a ridiculous story could possibly be true?”

  “Where did you hear any of this?” demanded Genny at almost the same moment.

  “I told you.” Jeremy dropped onto his narrow, wood-framed bed, and bounced. “It was Tommy Hargrave. But were you abducted? Did you get the pistol away from him and escape? You had Gossip and Rumor, so you should have been able to outrun any highwayman’s nag. I wish I could have seen the chase. I would have gone after you, but Bishop hid my saddle and . . .”

  “Jeremy, hush!” Her head had begun to spin. Leannah pressed her fingers to her temples to try to slow it.

  “And stop bouncing!” added Genny for good measure.

  Jeremy, for a wonder, both hushed and stilled, giving Leannah a moment to draw in several deep, shuddering breaths. “You know perfectly well you are spouting nonsense. There was no highwayman and no pistol.”

  “But Tommy . . .”

  “Jeremy, no one was abducted.” She paused. “No one in this family, at any rate.”

  “Then where’d you get that ring?” Jeremy jabbed a finger at the diamond flashing on Leannah’s hand. “Did he steal it? Did he force you to marry him?”

  “No!” cried Leannah and Genny together.

  “Then did he force Genny . . .”

  “No one was forced into anything! It was my choice to marry!”

  As Leannah’s words rang through the room, Jeremy leaned back on his pillow, folded his arms behind his head and put on an entirely self-satisfied smile.

  Genny’s jaw dropped. “You little brat. You made up that story about Tommy Hargrave!”

  Jeremy shrugged. “It was the only way I’d get you to tell me anything. You were so busy hushing me and saying nothing had happened.” He grinned up at them. “But I knew if I poured out enough outrages, you’d tell the truth.” He paused again. “By the way, Tommy Hargrave did say Genny eloped. I knocked him down.”