by Amy Jarecki
“In the meantime,” said Her Ladyship. “Can you issue a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Walter Gibbs? He’s the man who has abducted Miss LeClair. I do not want to leave anything to chance.”
“Gibbs? The runner?” the governor asked in disbelief.
“He’s the one,” replied His Lordship.
“Very well. I shall attend to it straightaway.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN the carriage rolled to a stop. “Where are we?” Bria asked, her hands tied to a metal handle beneath the window.
Gibbs pulled down on the latch. “An inn. We’ll stop here for the night. But right now, I expect you to wait here without making a sound.” He hopped out and slammed the door.
“Mr. Gibbs,” a man called while footsteps approached. “I haven’t seen you around these parts for ages.”
“I’ve moved on from Bow Street. Opened my own establishment. But presently I’m escorting a lady convict—a special case, if you will.”
“Oh, my. Is she dangerous?”
“A thief—headed for fourteen years transport.”
“I am not a thief!” Bria shouted. “My name is Britannia LeClair. I am the principal ballerina in La Sylphide at the Chadwick Theater in London!” Curses to remaining quiet. She’d profess her innocence to everyone who’d listen.
“And she’s a tad delusional,” the scoundrel’s reedy voice seeped through the carriage walls.
“You’re the one who has lost his mind, Mr. Gibbs. Help me! Please!”
“I should have gagged her.”
“Are you certain?” asked the new voice. “She sounds convincing.”
“You would go against the ruling of the Circuit Court?” Gibbs countered, the lout.
“Of course not.”
“There is no ruling! There has been no arrest! I have been kidnapped!” Bria screamed so loudly, her throat burned.
“Do you still have the holding cell out the back?” the bastard continued.
“Aye, sir.”
“And the key?”
“Where it always is.”
“Please!” Britannia tried again. “You must believe me. I am innocent. This man kidnapped me from the theater and is holding me against my will.” Under her breath, she cursed Gibbs to hell in both Latin and French.
“She sounds awfully young,” said the man. “Do you think she’ll survive fourteen years?”
“She should have thought about that before she stole the necklace from the Duke of Beaufort. I’ve been assigned with seeing her to the ship. After that, only her wits will keep her alive.”
In the blink of an eye, Bria’s skin chilled with the coursing of ice through her blood.
Beaufort? Lady Calthorpe’s father?
“What are you saying?” she shouted. “The miniature is mine! I found it in Bayeux in a box with my name inscribed atop.”
Gibbs opened the coach door. Her heart raced as she fought against her bindings.
She spat in his face. “You deceitful blackguard! First you took my payment, then you lied about Lady Hertford, and now—”
He worked loose the knot tying her hands to the handle. “I didn’t lie about the dowager marchioness. She was embroiled in an affair with George just as I reported.”
“I think you knew who my mother was from the outset. I think you—”
He slapped her. “Shut up.”
“How dare you?” Bria’s cheek stung like the attack of angry bees. Her eyes watered. “I will never forgive you as long as I live.”
Uttering not another word, Gibbs yanked her down the steps and dragged her toward a stable. “Pull the carriage off the drive and put up the horses. We’re leaving at nine o’clock on the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” said the coachman.
“Do you want to be a party to kidnapping?” Britannia barked at the driver, her words met with a backhand. The strike only served to ratchet up her anger. Gibbs could manhandle her all he dared. She would die before he pushed her aboard a convict ship bound for ungodly Australia.
“Do you know who pays my wages?” she looked directly toward the driver, the whites of his eyes prominent in the moonlight. “The Duke of Ravenscar. And if you are a party to this madness, you will swing from the gallows with Mr. Gibbs, so help me God!”
Turning away, the man took up the reins as if he were deaf.
Gibbs shoved her into a shadowy, dank cell with nothing but iron bars in place of windows and doors.
“You will not get away with this!” she shouted.
He slammed the door and affixed a padlock. “Oh, but I will.”
Wrapping her fingers around the bars, Bria shook with all her strength. “Why? Why has my grandfather done this? I did nothing. I hurt no one!” A new bout of chills spread across her skin when she referred to Beaufort as her grandfather. If he was the patriarch of her family, she’d choose being a foundling!
NEAR HALF-PAST THREE, Drake jerked up from being hunched over his horse’s withers. Shaking himself awake, he reined the stallion to a stop in Guildford to pound on the innkeeper’s door. A man opened with a string of expletives that would have put a jack tar to shame.
Drake apologized, announced himself, and asked about Britannia, giving a description of Gibbs.
“The only guests we have at the moment are a merchant and a couple from Southampton.” The man gestured inside. “You look as if you could use a rest. The king’s chamber is let, but I have a soft bed in a respectable room.”
“Thank you, but no. I must continue on.”
“Wait a moment, Your Grace. I’ve a bit of cheese and some bread for your journey.”
“Such a kindness, I did not expect. Please allow me to pay for the meal.”
“Not necessary. People will come for miles to hear a good yarn.” The innkeeper beckoned him inside. “I couldn’t have dreamed this up, having the Duke of Ravenscar pull me out of bed in the middle of the night in search of a woman.”
The man led him to the kitchens. “Is she highborn like yourself?”
Drake wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Higher.”
After slicing a chunk of cheese, the innkeeper wrapped it in some parchment with a half-loaf of bread. “Higher than a duke?”
“I’d say so.”
“Lord blind me. And some cad has off and kidnapped her?”
“The man’s name is Gibbs. The woman is no taller than the center of my chest. Petite. Cinnamon hair. Eyes like aged whisky. If you see anyone fitting my description, send word to Portsmouth straightaway. There will be a reward.”
The innkeeper held out the food wrapped in leather and tied with a thong. “How much of a reward?”
“Sizeable.” Drake took the parcel. “Thank you for this.”
HE ATE THE FOOD AS he rode which helped subdue his fatigue. A few miles on, the hint of cobalt illuminated the eastern sky. In another few hours, he’d arrive in Portsmouth. Had Gibbs ridden all night? Had Drake passed them? Was the scoundrel taking a circuitous route? Surely, he wouldn’t veer far from the turnpike?
No sooner had doubt filled Drake’s mind, when he passed a signpost pointing to the left, indicating the Stag Inn was a mile down the road. He slowed his horse when he spotted fresh carriage tracks, at least by the darker shadows, they looked to be fresh. One wheel had swerved off the road and made a rut in the grass.
Prickles fanned out across his nape as he dismounted and studied the tracks—they were newly carved, all right. The mud around the edges hadn’t yet begun to curve inward.
Even on the turnpike, there were stretches of road in poor repair. Drake had seen ruts and hoofprints galore, but due to the traffic, there was no possible way to guess which ruts had been made by Gibbs’ carriage.
Was he utilizing a carriage?
Most likely.
Was this rut caused by Gibbs’ carriage?
The only way to find out was to take a detour.
Dawn came, illuminating the narrow road cutting through a canopy of trees with
misty shadows of foreboding. Drake checked his pocket watch—a quarter to six. Riding down a mile to have a look around would cost him fifteen or twenty minutes. His gut squeezed while a shiver coursed up his spine.
Damnation, it was dawn on August 18th and the Lloyds wasn’t scheduled to sail until the 19th. He could spare twenty bloody minutes for a hunch.
A pistol at each hip and his dagger at his back, Drake cued his horse forward, but he didn’t ride on the road—he opted for the grass. Though the road was dirt and rock, his horse’s hooves could be heard yards away each time the stallion’s shod hooves kicked a stone.
The mist had grown thicker by the time he reached the Stag Inn. On first glance, nothing seemed amiss until he rode around the side of the stables. There was a carriage all right, an expensive one. A conveyance not unlike the town coach Drake owned.
He dismounted, tied his horse and crept to the carriage. Inside, he found a length of rope on the floor. Rope?
It wasn’t all that unusual, though the piece was too short for tethering a horse.
A thud sounded.
Drake froze.
Another thud.
Someone’s chopping wood.
At a crouch, he tiptoed toward the sound.
A boy no more than ten years of age swung an ax, splitting a log in two. Drake waited while the lad collected another stick and set it on the block. As soon as he raised the ax for another chop, Drake lunged in, seized the ax and clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth.
Screaming and thrashing, the lad fought.
“Silence!” Drake growled. “I am not here to hurt you. I am searching for a woman who was kidnapped in London last eve.”
The boy froze, his eyes wide and afraid.
“When did that carriage arrive?” He slid his hand down to the boy’s jaw to allow him to talk. Though God save him if he tried to holler for help.
“Last night. L-late. Well past dark.”
“Did you see a woman?”
The lad’s eyes shifted.
Drake tightened his grip as he followed the young fellow’s line of sight. “Jesu. Is she in there?”
Looking as if he was about to release his bowels, the lad gave a single nod.
“As I said before, you’ll not be harmed. In fact, you will be rewarded. I am a duke. I can ensure your life takes a turn for the better.”
“A d-duke?”
“Ravenscar. Seventh in line to the throne.” Drake took a chance and released the boy. “Will you keep mum?”
He nodded.
Drake reached inside his coat and pulled out a crisp one pound note. “Have you seen one of these before?”
“Seen, but never held one.”
“This is yours if you saddle a horse for the lady.”
“I-is she a duchess?”
“She’s better than a duchess.”
“Cor.”
Drake put the money in the boy’s hand. “Tell the innkeeper to send me an accounting for the horse and saddle.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Your Grace.”
“Now haste.”
Drake strode to the barred box that looked to be a one-man jail cell sitting at the rear of the stables.
“Britannia?” he said in a strained whisper, peering into complete darkness.
“Drake?” Gasping, she stood, grasping the iron bars. “I-I, they, he, you—”
“I know.” He brandished the ax. “Stand back.”
“It’s Gibbs. He’s taking me to a convict ship. G-g-going to Australia!”
“The only place you’ll be going is to the north of England. I swear it.” With one swing, he smashed the lock from its fastenings.
Drake tossed the ax aside and swept Britannia into his arms. “My God, I was terrified I’d lost you.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Hell would freeze before I’d let you board a convict ship.”
“How did you know?”
He cupped her beautiful cheeks between his palms. Warm, delicate cheeks he never wanted to release. But he must. Closing his eyes, he imparted a ferocious but passionate kiss. “Lord and Lady Calthorpe helped me persuade Beaufort to tell us what had happened.”
“Beaufort.”
“Gibbs is his man.”
“But—”
“We’ll talk more later.” He clutched his arm around her shoulders and started for the stables. “Are you well enough to ride?”
“A horse?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t for years, but I’ll do anything to—”
“Halt!” bellowed a deep voice from the direction of the inn.
Turning, Drake pulled Britannia behind him. “Gibbs. I might have known you were a light sleeper.”
Secure in the scoundrel’s hand was a Wogdon and Barton pistol. It had only one shot but was deadly accurate when fired by the right man. And Drake had no illusions about Gibbs. His reputation as a Bow Street Runner alone heralded the man’s skill.
“And I might have known you were a fool,” said the cur with a smirk.
“I think not.” Buying time, Drake guided Britannia backward, edging closer to the barn. “You see, I had a word with Beaufort. He gave you away. Sang like a sparrow and accused you of being a kidnapper.” It wasn’t the complete truth but was intended to plant doubt in the blackguard’s heart.
The former runner smirked. “I’m following orders. That is all.”
“You’re a liar,” Britannia seethed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Drake spotted the stable door. “Oh? If anyone knows the law, it is you, sir. And abducting a woman without cause is absolutely a hangable offense.”
Gibbs raised his pistol. “Only if you’re still alive.”
As the flintlock fired, Drake dove through the gap, pulling Britannia beneath him, shielding her with his body.
She grunted as they hit the ground.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
“No.”
He looked up to see the boy standing wide-eyed, saddle in hand. Before he drew his pistol, he helped Britannia to her feet. “Take the boy. Hide in the loft.”
With no time to help them, Drake led with the barrel, suspecting Gibbs’ pistols were a matched pair just like his. “Do you honestly want to pay fealty to a man who would sell you out?”
“Shut your gob.” The blackguard’s voice was nearer now.
“What do you aim to do once you’ve killed me?”
“I’m finishing the job. Charlotte’s by-blow never should have been born. If it had been up to me, I would have drowned the bitch in Bayeux.”
Britannia’s gasp came from above.
Swallowing his rage, Drake stepped out. His pistol held secure in his right, he swung the weapon toward the sound of Gibbs’ voice.
Nothing.
A twig snapped.
Drake dropped into a crouch.
But not far enough.
As a blast boomed in his ears. Suddenly, his world turned black.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“DRAKE!” IN A HEARTBEAT, Bria flew down the ladder and dropped to her knees beside him. He wasn’t moving. Blood seeped everywhere. She grabbed his shoulders and shook. “Wake up! Please!”
A trickle of blood streamed from his temple while his eyes remained closed.
“No!”
Throwing herself over him, she wrapped him in her arms. “Please. You can’t be dead.”
“Release the bastard,” said Gibbs, moving beside her.
“No,” Bria’s voice strained as she clung tighter. “I’ll never leave his side.”
Gibbs grabbed her arm and tugged.
With all her strength, she twisted away. “Let me go!”
“We have a ship to catch.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and tore her away from the love of her life.
“Drake! No!” Bria kicked her legs. “Put me down!”
“Glad to,” he said, carrying her to the coach.
She thrashed, fighting with all h
er strength. “You won’t get away with this. Too many people know that Ravenscar was after you.”
His arms squeezed tighter. “Shut your mouth.”
“You’ll be hanged. My mother will see to it!”
“If you don’t stop talking, I’ll shut your mouth for good.” He opened the carriage door and tied her wrists to the bar. Then he pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gagged her. “You’d best forget about Ravenscar. Besides, dukes don’t marry by-blow trollops. They tup them and leave them in the gutter. God’s bones, woman. A stage dancer? You might as well have been a lady of the night.”
Tears burned the back of Bria’s eyes as she struggled to twist her arms free. But the hemp rope only cut deeper welts into her wrists.
As the carriage got underway, Bria strained for a glimpse at Drake. The boy from the stable was kneeling over the duke while a man rushed from the inn.
If only she could take care of him. If only Gibbs had listened.
Was the only man she had ever loved badly injured or was he dead?
No, no, no, no, no!
The worst thing? She would never know.
WELL BEFORE THE CARRIAGE came to a halt, odors from the wharf seeped through the walls. The foulest was that of rotting fish, followed by filth. Only the wafting overtone of the sea made the stench bearable.
But Britannia didn’t care. One moment she had been the darling of London with her name in the papers several times a week. In her haste to save Pauline, Bria had erred and now she was lost. Overpowered by a tyrant, she’d been bound and gagged and now she was headed to Australia for fourteen years transport, accused of a crime she didn’t commit.
When the carriage stopped, the smell grew worse. Gibbs opened the door, untied her hands from the rail and pulled her outside. Bria pulled down her gag and blinked at the bright sun hidden by a thin layer of clouds. Right beside them, a large ship bore the name: Lloyds.
“Come on, then,” Gibbs said, marching her up the gangway.
The plank’s timbers creaked and groaned, making a shiver snake up Bria’s spine.
Behind her, Gibbs sniggered. “You’ll have a three-month voyage to wallow in the bowels of this cesspool.”
