Betsey sucked in her breath and began to walk. There was nothing for it. She needed to find Ernest Jackson.
* * *
“I was very happy to receive your message, Lord Dalton,” Lady Katherine chirruped, fixing Ernest with a syrupy smile. Curls danced around her rouged cheeks.
They were sitting in the Earl of Landon’s parlor, teacups and plates of sponge cake on the table in front of them.
Ernest forced himself to smile. It was time to stop being childish and self-absorbed. His mother had suffered greatly as a result of all he’d done. And whatever the Duchess may have done to Unity, she was still his mother. Whatever she may have done did not stop him from caring deeply for her.
Ernest knew too how lucky he was word had not spread further about his dalliance with Rachel at the theater. He had found himself wondering distantly who it had been who had seen them. Who had sent word back to his father?
It didn’t matter. All that was over and done. There was to be no more theater, no more Rachel, no more hunting for Unity.
Just tea trays and sponge cakes.
“Do tell me about yourself, My Lord,” Lady Katherine said sweetly. “The two of us have had such precious little time together. I should love to know more about you.”
Ernest forced a smile. Found himself rattling out a monotonous, abridged version of his life.
Educated at Cambridge, three years in the army. Enjoys fencing and riding, hates hunting…
“Oh yes?” said Katherine. “How interesting.”
Her eyes were large and vacant. Ernest felt quite sure he could have told her he had lived among the lions in deepest Africa, and she would still have given the same response.
Perhaps she’s a little nervous, he reasoned. After all, this marriage is being pushed upon her as much as it is me.
He felt quite sure the surly, unsatisfied man he had become was not the most attractive prospect for anyone. Even if it would save Lady Katherine from climbing into bed with Duke of Harrington.
So he gave her a warm smile. “And you, My Lady? Tell me about yourself. I hear you’ve a great skill on the piano.”
“The piano? Oh no, My Lord. Not me. I had lessons once upon a time, but I was simply dreadful. My two hands seem quite unable to work independently.” She gave an airy laugh.
Ernest mentally kicked himself. It was Lady Caroline with the great skill on the piano, he remembered, too late. He’d attended a soiree at her father’s house two years ago when the Duke had her in his sights as a potential wife. Ernest had broken into thunderous applause after the first movement of Caroline’s piano sonata, and she’d turned to glare at him as though he’d dared set off a round of fireworks. He’d not been invited to a soiree since.
Lady Katherine prattled on and on about her ill-fated piano lessons, stopping every few moments to sip her tea. “My teacher said I ought not tell people I played the piano. He said I did something else to it entirely.” She laughed.
At least she had something of a sense of humor.
Ernest took a mouthful of cake that he realized, too late, was far too big.
Lady Katherine hid a smile, which turned into a faint giggle.
He could do far worse, Ernest reasoned, struggling to swallow the explosion of jam and cream. Lady Katherine was sweet, polite, beautiful. She was everything a marchioness ought to be.
She is everything Rachel Bell is not.
He wrestled Rachel from his mind. How did she manage to do this? Worm her way into his thoughts, despite his best intentions? She had a way of making herself unforgettable, unable to be turned down. Ernest thought of the way she had sweet talked the men at the garden party, of the way she had pulled information from the Baron.
Good lord, I’m bloody well thinking of her again…
“But, of course,” Lady Katherine said, “they say black cats are dreadfully bad luck.”
Ernest blinked. “Pardon?” Hadn’t they been talking about her non-existent musical prowess?
“Black cats, My Lord. They’re a little dangerous, don’t you think? One doesn’t want to invite bad luck into one’s house.”
“Oh,” Ernest said hurriedly. “Yes…I...er…of course.”
Lady Katherine’s face lit up. “I knew you’d agree,” she said, lifting a minuscule forkful of cake to her lips.
Two teacups and another slice of sponge cake later, Ernest was back in the coach to Graceton Manor. His eyes, he felt sure, were as blank and vacant as Lady Katherine’s.
At least I managed not to offend her this time…
As the coach rolled toward the house, Ernest caught sight of a woman standing outside the gates. She was dressed in a blue twill dress and wore no cloak or bonnet. He squinted. She had a vague familiarity with her.
“Stop the coach,” he called to the driver. “I’ll get out here.” He threw open the door and climbed out, his boots sinking into the damp earth.
The woman made her way toward him. Ernest could tell he was the person she had come here to see. Her eyes were hard and determined.
Yes, I had seen her before. But where?
And as she drew closer, he realized. “You’re the baker. From Bethnal Green.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry to intrude like this, My Lord, but I need your help. Rachel Bell is missing.”
Chapter 34
“Missing?” the Marquess repeated.
“Yes,” said Betsey. “I believe she’s been kidnapped.”
She watched a look of horror fall over his face. She had been unable to convince herself of this man’s innocence entirely. But that look told her everything she needed to know. The Marquess had not harmed her friend. And he was as worried about Rachel as she was.
Betsey had walked through the streets of Pimlico feeling an intruder. She had kept her head down as she wove past ladies in silk skirts, had looked up in wonder when carriages the size of her bedroom had glided down the road. How was it possible that this tree-lined, white-washed place might exist in the very same city as her crooked and creaking bakery?
She had asked directions to Graceton Manor from a lady in a lace-trimmed bonnet. She had kept walking as though Betsey didn’t exist, not even turning her head to acknowledge she had been spoken to. Betsey had tried again, this time asking a woman dressed more similarly to her in a dark colored dress and apron. And so, directions to Graceton Manor.
She’d stood, staring up at the gates.
So this is the home of Rachel’s nobleman.
How had her friend managed to involve herself with such a man?
She had stood outside the locked gates for what had felt like hours. More ladies had walked past, staring through Betsey as though she were a ghost. Someone had shouted at her to move off. She’d hurried off down the street, before daring to return to the manor’s gates ten minutes later. With each feathered lady that had glided past the gates, Betsey had found herself glancing down at her patched and faded skirts. She’d not even thought to put her bonnet on, she realized. What a sight she must be to these people.
Betsey had never considered herself a weak or nervous person. Her mother had taught her that life could be tough, and Betsey had risen to meet the challenge of it. But here in this polished, shimmering part of London, she felt so thoroughly out of place that it sent a rattle of uncertainty through her. A lady could dish out cold eyes all she wanted when Betsey was in the safety of her bakery, and she would think nothing of it. But here, outside the gates of this mansion, she felt as though she could be toppled by the slightest breath of wind.
And then came the carriage. Betsey had recognized the man inside at once. The Marquess of Dalton. Rachel’s nobleman. The man who had bought five loaves of bread from her bakery.
Their eyes had met through the window of the carriage, and Betsey knew he had recognized her. Still, she’d been surprised when he’d leaped from the carriage without even bothering to make it through the gates.
For the first time since she’d set foot in this part of the city
, Betsey had stopped feeling invisible.
“Kidnapped?” the Marquess repeated, his voice rattling. “When? From where? Do you have any idea who might have done it?” His eyes were wide and anxious.
“I believe she was taken this morning,” Betsey told him. “She’s been staying with me for the past few days. When I got home from church, she was gone.” She clasped her hands together. “She came to me in the night earlier in the week. Said a client had tried to hurt her.”
The Marquess inhaled sharply. “Wait for me here,” he told Betsey. “I’ll have my driver bring the coach back around.”
* * *
Ernest’s heart was knocking hard against his ribs as the coach rattled out of the manor and into the road. The thought of Rachel in trouble was turning his stomach into wild knots. He clenched his fists tightly in his lap.
“She said the man tried to take her to his house,” the baker told him. “She didn’t like the look of the place. Said it were dark and crumbling. She refused to go inside. That’s when the man came after her.” The woman wrung her hands together. “Her things are all still at my house, but there’s no sign of her anywhere. No note, not a word.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m afraid the man’s come back for her.”
The sickness in Ernest’s stomach intensified.
He thumped on the wall of the carriage. “Can’t you go any faster?” he barked to the driver.
“She couldn’t tell me where the house was,” the baker continued. “Just knew it was in the east end somewhere. Said she passed Spitalfields Market on the way to my house.” Her dark eyes met Ernest’s, and he saw in them the same fear he felt. There was something strangely comforting about the woman, he realized. Something strangely comforting about their shared distress.
“We’ll find her,” he said. “I swear it.”
He was trying to convince himself as much as her, he realized.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I’ve not introduced myself. I’m Ernest Jackson.”
She gave a faint smile. “Yes. The Marquess.”
He lowered his eyes. “Indeed.”
“I’m Betsey,” she said. “Betsey Ward.”
He offered her his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ward. I’m only sorry it’s under such circumstances.”
“We’ve met before,” she reminded him. “You bought five loaves of bread from my bakery. I told you how to find Rachel’s building.”
“You remember me.”
“Of course. You’re something of a novelty in Bethnal Green.”
Ernest smiled wryly. He thought of his pathetic attempts to blend into the crowd on the east end streets. Thought of Rachel working lard through his hair. Thought of the delightful shiver it had sent racing down his spine.
He willed the coach to go faster.
Where are we even going?
Neither he or Mrs. Ward had any thought of where that crumbling old house was. But a fast-moving coach, Ernest was coming to realize, went some way toward settling the fear that was racing through him. Fear would accomplish nothing. He needed to stay level headed. Calm.
Such a thing felt near impossible.
“I was rude to you the day you came to my bakery,” Mrs. Ward admitted. “I doubted you. And I feared you might have been involved in what’s happened to Rachel. I’m sorry. I can tell you care very much about her. I know you’d never set out to hurt her.”
Ernest sighed inwardly.
No, I had never set out to hurt her. And yet somehow, he still did.
Chapter 35
Rachel opened her eyes, blinking slowly. The back of her head was drumming, and she could feel a dull pain behind her eyes. She was lying on her side, blanketed in darkness. The floor beneath her felt cold and damp.
She tried to move, then realized she had been bound at the wrists and ankles by lengths of rope. Her heart began to speed as memories of the morning began to flood back.
She had been going to see Mr. Jackson to tell him about Betsey’s skirts. Had been grabbed from behind as she’d left the bakery. Struck on the head.
She began to thrash her body, trying to free herself. Her skirts tangled around her legs and she could feel the rope at her wrists and ankles digging into her skin. Her breath began to quicken, tears of fear stinging her eyes.
No. Stay calm. Stay calm, Rachel. You’re going to get out of this.
She forced herself to breathe long and deep until her tears had disappeared and the rattling in her chest had begun to still.
She wriggled on the earthen floor. Managed to pull herself into sitting. Her eyes adjusting to the dark, she could make out inky shapes around her. Barrels, she realized. Broken furniture, a few upturned chairs. She was in a basement, she thought, the damp earth cloying in her throat.
Is this that horrible house Burns tried to take me to?
The stairs creaked noisily, and Rachel’s heart began to pound again. A door swung open and a man appeared in the basement, silhouetted by the lamp in the stairwell behind him.
“Ah,” he said, “you’re awake.”
The voice was familiar. It sent a bolt of fear through Rachel’s body.
Burns, yes. I’m in that awful, crooked house with the gargoyle above the door.
She forced herself to breathe. “Please,” she coughed, “just let me go.”
He stepped into the basement and made his way to her slowly. He dragged a rickety stool across the room and sat opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can’t let you go. I’ve got my orders.”
“Orders?” Rachel repeated, her voice cracked. “Orders from who?”
“Never you mind.” He stroked his bristly chin, eying her, as though trying to decide what to do with her.
Sickness rose in her throat. “I promise, I’ll not tell a soul about you. I’ll never speak of this again. No one will know a thing.” She swallowed heavily, her tears threatening to surface.
He leaned forward on the stool, so his bristly face was close to hers. Rachel could smell the stale smell of tobacco on his breath. “I told you, I can’t let you go. You can’t be trusted not to go prying into things that don’t concern you.”
“Prying into things that don’t concern me?” Rachel’s heart thumped. “What things?”
Burns snorted. “You know what things, Miss Turner.” He gave her that thin smile she was coming to know too well. “Or is it Miss Bell?”
Her stomach knotted. “You knew my name?”
Burns said nothing.
“You were following me,” Rachel coughed. “Why?”
“I told you. I’ve got my orders.”
Her mind flickered back to those terrible days and nights she had felt herself being followed. The day after Mr. Jackson had slept in her room. The night with the Baron. The garden party. The theater. Had Burns been following her each of those times? Her skin prickled, and her throat clamped.
“Please,” she coughed, “may I have a little water?”
Burns tilted his head in hesitation. Finally, he stood, the stool creaking noisily. He made his way back to the staircase, pulling the door closed behind him again and plunging the basement back into darkness. After a moment, he reappeared with a tin cup in his hand. He crouched beside Rachel and held it to her lips.
She gulped at the water; half of it drizzling down her chin.
“This has to do with Ernest Jackson,” she said finally. “And his sister.”
Burns said nothing.
“I’m right, ain’t I?” Rachel said after a moment.
If it weren’t for Ernest Jackson, none of this would ever have happened. If she had never offered to help him fit in at the White Lion, she would never have found herself in such a dreadful predicament.
And yet, strangely, Rachel felt no regret.
If I had never met Ernest Jackson, none of this would ever have happened. And yet I’m still so glad I did…
Burns lowered himself back to the stool. “What do you know about the Marquess’ sister?”
“And what do you know about the Duchess of Armson and the Viscount of Annerley?”
Her breath began to quicken. “Nothing.”
Burns was suddenly close to her, the bristles on his chin tickling her cheek. “Don’t lie to me.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 20
