by Alyson Chase
“I can’t say that I approve of your choice of servants.” He looked around the entry that led to a wide drawing room. But the improvements May had made to the space were a different story. The place looked a wonder. The walls were painted a cheerful jonquil and adorned with paintings in eye-catching hues of reds and oranges. Faux roman statues of naked men guarded the entrances of every doorway, and John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow about the proportions on some of the statues. The style was fun, eclectic, but retained a sense of luxury.
May gathered up her long skirts and marched down the hall. “Yes, but my members find him delightfully shocking. A pleasant change from the overly polite lives they are forced to lead. Why are you here?”
“To find my wayward stray.” He sidled past two women swilling champagne as they sat in a wide wicker swing hung from the ceiling. One of them pushed off against the wall, setting the swing in a dizzying circle.
He cleared his throat. “Any idea where Netta might be in this madhouse?”
“She’s playing pall-mall. But John—” May stopped suddenly, and John stumbled to avoid her. “I don’t think you should go to her right now. I can tell her you wish to talk.”
His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. “She doesn’t want to see me? She told you this?”
May flapped her hand. “Much to your consternation, I’m sure, but women do not spend all day talking of men. And it’s not Netta you shouldn’t see; it’s the woman she’s playing with.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And who would that be?”
“Your grandmother.”
He clenched his hands. Bloody hell, what was that woman doing here? And talking to Netta? The shrew would flay little Netta LeBlanc alive with her viperous tongue. “Where are they?”
May sighed, but turned and led the way. The room they entered was long, with high-ceilings. The bottom half of the walls were lined with padded leather. The reason for which became readily apparent.
Netta stood in the center of the room, a mallet cocked over her shoulder, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she took aim. She swung the mallet down and smacked the red ball with more force than it was designed to see. It bounded over the carpet, knocked against the leg of a side table, bounced off the wall, and rolled to a spot not far from a small arch made of stacked books.
“Well-played, dear,” said an older woman who absolutely could not be his grandmother. Her praise had sounded sincere and her smile looked warm. “If you knock it through, I believe that will be the fifth game you’ve won in a row.”
Netta stalked to her ball and tapped it through the make-shift arch. “Sixth.” Her smile dimmed when she caught sight of John and May in the doorway. She darted a look between John and his grandmother, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
The Dowager Marchioness of Mallen clasped her mallet between fingers bent with age. “Summerset.” She dipped her head. “You look well.”
He looked rich was what she meant. Her acknowledgement of his wealth should have pleased him. After all, he’d made a success of himself in large part to show her up. But it only made his gut churn. “What are you doing here?” Without waiting for a response, he turned on May. “What is she doing here? She can’t be a member.”
May pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Might I remind you that I also control all aspects of membership for this club. Truly, Johnnie, if you are going to be this controlling I might have to give you your money back.”
“I didn’t mean that you couldn’t allow her to be a member.” He gripped his hands by his sides. “I meant someone like her couldn’t possibly want to be a member of such a club.”
May spread her hands in the air. “And yet here she is. Perhaps you have something to learn of your grandmother.”
“I think not.” His stomach rolled, like a bucket of eels. He’d learned everything he’d ever need to know about the woman the day she’d turned him and his brothers away. He stretched out his arm towards Netta. “Come. Let’s away.”
Netta rested her mallet on her shoulder and came to his side. “John, I think we should all go have a drink together. Your grandmother might surprise you.”
Now she decided to talk? After a day of silence? “Is this a conspiracy? Why are you even talking to her? Playing with her?”
Netta pressed her lips together and turned towards his grandmother. The head of the mallet swung under his nose, barely missing it. “She’s not what you think. Not anymore. Catherine,” she called. “How about a nice cup of tea and a chat?” She shot a look at John. “With a healthy shot of whisky in it.”
John snagged the mallet from her hand. “You are so intimate as to be on a first name basis with her?” The betrayal of that act dug under his skin. He’d told her what sort of woman his grandmother was, what a cold-hearted bitch he descended from, and she became close friends with the woman?
“Everyone is on a first name basis in this club,” May said.
His grandmother toddled forward, using her mallet as a cane. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.” She gave him a quavering smile, making John seethe.
He didn’t know what her game was, but he wasn’t fool enough to play along. “I thought you didn’t break bread, or tea as the case may be, with, how did you put it? ‘Filthy mongrels?’” He watched her face drain of color with some pleasure. “I can assure you, grandmother, nothing about me has changed except my clothes.”
His heart turned over in his chest, thudding dully. He used to dream of giving this woman the cut direct. Making her feel the shame she had burdened him with. But now he merely wanted away from her presence.
Breathing heavily, he turned to face Netta, letting her purity wipe away the filth he felt being near his grandmother. “Can we go? Are you ready?” He detested the plea he heard in his own voice.
Her face creased in sympathy. “Yes. We can go.” She nodded farewell to the other two women and tucked her hand around his elbow. Her breast pressed against his arm as they walked from the building. Full dark had descended, and he wrapped his arm about her waist to protect against any chill.
“I was hoping,” Netta began, “to bring about a reconciliation between you and your grandmother, but I see now that it isn’t my place. You and she must make amends in your own time.”
He handed her into the carriage and followed her up. “There is no reconciliation to be had.”
She sighed. “You Chaucer men sure do hold grudges.” He glared at her, and she quickly added, “Not that this one wasn’t earned, of course. But people do change.”
“Are you friends now? With that woman?” Outrage dripped from his voice. Netta had thrown him many a turn, but truly, this was too much.
She shifted to sit beside him on the opposite bench. Laying her palm on his knee, she squeezed. “My relationship to her was purely mercenary, to facilitate an accord between you two. I think it would do you good.” She leaned into him. “You were my only concern.”
Slightly mollified, he brushed a smudge of dirt off his sleeve. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “As you wish.”
Since she was being so accommodating, he asked, “About last night—”
The carriage hit a bump, shifted, and a loud curse emanated from the driver’s seat, followed closely by a bellow.
“Nigel?” Or was it Michael driving them tonight? He’d been in such a rush to see Netta he’d barely spared his driver a glance. “Anything the matter?”
The crack of a whip was his only reply, and the carriage lurched forwards, tossing John back into his seat. “What the hell?” He yanked the window down. A faint yell drew his attention back the way they’d come. Nigel ran after them, yelling and waving his arms, his limping steps falling farther and farther behind from the racing carriage.
“What’s happening?” Netta yanked on his sleeve, demanding his attention.
“I believe we’re being kidnapped.” The absolute brass of t
he villain. John wasn’t involved in any mission for the Crown. He’d sent Sudworth a note saying he had the document from the Dutch embassy, so that man should be happy. Who could possibly be on his carriage?
“What?!” Netta’s eyes went wide.
John peeled out of his jacket. “Stay here. I’ll sort it out.” Pulling his knife from his boot, he slid it into his waistband and opened the door.
Netta grabbed his hand, her grip as hard as steel. “You can’t climb out of a moving carriage.”
“Better than allowing the man to take us to his destination.” He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ve had practice at this.” And peeling her fingers from his own, he stood from the door and grabbed the rail on the top of the carriage.
The dark form holding the reins presented him with no identification. With a shiver of excitement, John wedged the toe of his boot at the window and slid his body to the roof. It had been too long since he’d seen this kind of action. He almost wanted to thank the poor bounder. Of course, he was attempting to kidnap Netta, too, and for that he must be put in some pain.
It wasn’t hard to remain unheard as he crawled forward. The pounding of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone, the creak of the wheels as they were pushed to their limits, all worked to drown out his approach.
He balanced on the board above the driver’s seat and pressed his blade to the man’s throat. “Stop.”
The kidnapper did as he said, a little too well. He yanked back on the reins, the horses’ hooves skittering as they slammed to a stop, and John toppled over the man’s shoulder landing at his feet.
The man’s face was clear in the street lights as he pulled a pistol from his pocket and leveled it at John. With an insolent grin, he slapped the horses back into motion and their wild careen down the streets of London began again.
John cursed. What a pathetic performance. Perhaps Liverpool was right to put him out to pasture. The carriage turned, rising up onto two wheels. The streets became narrower, less populated, and John recognized the direction they were headed.
The docks.
Where he or Netta could be spirited away with no one the wiser.
Enough of this nonsense. He rolled to his side. into the driver, presenting a smaller target. He whipped his blade around and slashed the back of the man’s ankle, pressing hard to cut through the thin leather of his boot.
An unholy shriek told him that he’d managed to strike his target. The blackguard dropped both pistol and reins to clutch at his wound.
John lunged for the reins, but they slipped between the horses, dragging on the road.
Unfettered, the horses picked up speed. The sound of a wheel cracking sliced through the air, and the rough bounce of the ride became even harder. The horses turned, narrowly missing a sailor who shouted obscenities after them.
John ignored him, focusing on the slight glimmer ahead. “Fuck!” Bracing his palm on the seat, he kicked the driver off the carriage, eliminating one distraction. He needed to stop the carriage. Now. That instant. He leapt forward, landing hard on one of the horse’s backs. Sliding sideways, he grabbed for a harness and hauled himself upright. “Whoa!” He pulled on the mane in front of him with one hand while scrabbling for the reins with the other. “Whoa!”
It was too late. The glimmer grew brighter, the moon a clear reflection off the water in the canal. As the horses leapt over the low wall, John swung his leg over the back of his mount and jumped into space.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He hit the water hard, his breath forced from his lungs, but he dove deeper, away from the carriage that would be following.
With Netta inside.
The force of the carriage hitting the water pushed him aside, twisting his limbs. He scissored to the surface, gasping as he broke free. The sounds of splintering wood and groaning metal surrounded him, echoing off the canal walls.
“Netta!”
The door was half-submerged, the carriage tilting to one side. “Netta!” Using his boot against the wall as leverage, he tugged the door open. Relief flooded his veins when Netta looked up at him.
“Are you all right?” they both asked at the same time.
John’s heart slowed from a gallop to a canter, and a shaky chuckle slipped from his lips. “Thank God.” He stretched out a hand. “Come on.”
She shook her head, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. The ends floated on the water that was much too close to her face. “My ankle is stuck.” She tugged at her right leg to show him.
The opposite side of the carriage had split, and large panels of wood pinned her foot in place.
“Perfect.” The door bumped into his side, and he pushed it back. “Are you in pain?”
She smiled. “Only a very little. Nothing to worry over.”
His heart clenched. Netta had just been in a terrifying accident, was trapped in cold, filthy water, and she was trying to make him feel better? She was unlike anyone he’d ever known.
A dreadful squeal raised the hair on the back of John’s neck. He and Netta locked gazes.
“The horses,” she whispered.
“Let’s get you out first then I’ll see to the horses.”
Another squeal. The carriage shifted as one of the beasts thrashed in the water.
“Go!” She shooed him away with her free hand. “I’m fine. Don’t let them drown.”
John ground his jaw. Shit and damnation, neither of his options were good. But he turned and swam to the closest animal. Its nose was barely above water. He’d lost his good knife in the accident, but he still had the dagger up his sleeve. He sliced at the harness, the wet leather fighting his efforts. Finally, the animal was free.
John slapped its rump. “Ha! Get out of here.” He felt his way to the next animal. The horse wasn’t moving except for a slight rise and fall of its shoulders. He cut away its bindings. “Go on, you mangy cur.” Tugging at the bridle, he ignored the wide-eyed panic in the horse’s gaze. “There’s a jetty right over there. Follow your friend.” After a minute of pushing and prodding, the horse moved.
And the nose of the carriage sank farther into the canal.
Netta’s shriek thundered in his ears. He kicked for the carriage door, nearly ripping it from its hinges when it swayed in the current, blocking his way.
His heart stopped as he saw only bubbles in the murky water. Then Netta’s head broke the surface, gasping for air before sinking back down.
John lunged forward, cradling the back of her head and lifting it. Her face was only inches above the water, her nose nearly grazing the carriage’s ceiling.
She gave a shaky laugh. “Now I think my being stuck is a larger problem than before.”
He kissed her temple. “I’ll get you out. Can you brace yourself, stay above the water?”
He pulled his hand back an inch, and she sank back down. He brought her back up, spluttering.
“My neck aches when you hold me above the water.” She scraped her fingers along the ceiling, looking, and not finding, a finger hold. “My legs are twisted under me. I don’t have the leverage to hold myself up.”
“All right, sweetheart.” He kissed her again. “I’ve got you.”
A shudder wracked her body.
He had her, but he was damned if he knew what to do with her. With his foot, he felt along her leg until he reached the wood that trapped her. “I’m going to try to kick a larger hole.”
She nodded.
John thanked the larger heel on his boots and struck down with all his might. The water pushed against him, lessened his power, yet Netta still cried out.
“What?”
She closed her eyes. “Just a splinter. No matter. Keep going.”
Bile rose up John’s throat. With how fierce his Netta was, that ‘splinter’ could be large enough to saw her leg in two. “New plan. How long can you hold your breath?”
Her eye swiveled in his direction. “That’s not s
omething I’ve ever tested.”
“You’re going to test it now.” He slowed his breathing, thinking through each of his next steps. “On three, I’m going to let you go and try to pull the wood away with my hands. I’ll come up after ten seconds. You can hold your breath for ten seconds. Everyone can.”
“All right.” Her teeth chattered. “One…”
“Two…” John said.
“Three.” They both sucked in air and John disappeared beneath the surface. He counted the seconds in his head as he grabbed the wood around her ankle. The edges sliced into his hands but he barely felt it. He pulled with all his might, trying to tug her ankle free. Out of time, he popped back to the surface, finding the back of her head and pulling her up.
She gasped. “Are you certain…that was only…ten seconds?”
“Yes.” Ten wasted seconds of fumbling around and accomplishing nothing. He needed more time.
“At least the horses are free,” she said.
“Bugger the horses.” His hand trembled, and he clenched it to his stomach. “We’re going to go again. On three.”
“John.” Her voice wavered. “I’m…I’m frightened.”
Her words flayed his heart. His brave, sweet Netta was never scared. When he found out who had done this to them, he would tear him apart, limb from limb. As soon as he got Netta free and safe.
“Don’t be. I’ll get you out.” He pressed his forehead against her temple. “On three.”
She gripped his wrist. “I don’t want you to die, too. Perhaps—"
“No.” He cleared the gravel from his voice. “No need to panic, darling.” It was a perfect time to panic. “Take a deep breath.”
He watched her chest fill, counted to three, and dove down. He ignored the cuts to his hands, the wicked burn of a torn fingernail and pulled harder. And still, at the end of ten seconds, her foot remained trapped.
