by Cindy Anstey
Rebecca appreciated the show of solidarity.
Lord Hanton pulled a chair away from the table and the small group. Sergeant Waters waited by the door and Inspector Davis paced before the sideboard.
“As Beth’s—Misses Hanton’s—physician,” Dr. Brant began, “I feel that it should be noted that Misses Hanton is suffering from amnesia.” He hesitated as if expecting a disagreement. “Well, that, I suppose, was patently obvious.” He cleared his throat again. “She was in a coach accident that rendered her unconscious for a time and when she awoke her memories were gone.”
“How is it that she came to be in this accident, and your care?” Lord Hanton demanded.
“That is part of the mystery that we have been trying to solve. Beth—I beg your pardon.” Dr. Brant glanced at Rebecca. “Misses Hanton was in a coach that met with an accident not far from the gates of Hardwick Manor, Lord Ellerby’s estate.” Dr. Brant nodded toward James and then waved for his friend to continue.
“At the time we thought—” James began.
“We?” interrupted the viscount.
“My brother, Walter, and I. We found Misses Hanton unconscious. She had been flung from the coach. She needed help immediately, but the coachman argued. Naturally I prevailed, and had Misses Hanton brought to the manor and placed her under Dr. Brant’s care.”
Reeves interrupted briefly, laying out the tea and brandy.
“When was this?” Lord Hanton asked after the butler had gone.
“About six weeks ago.” Caroline reached over for Rebecca’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze.
“Six weeks! In all that time why, in God’s name, man, did you not go to the authorities?”
James straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Lord Hanton. “Sir, we did inform the authorities, those in Welford Mills—a two-day journey from London. We had no idea where she had come from or where she was going. There was nothing in the Times to direct us, no gossip hinted of her loss, no mention of a disappearance. We had nothing to go on.”
“I arrived at Hardwick with my clothes in tatters, covered in blood and filth. I was not the picture of a well-brought-up young lady.” Rebecca felt James’ hand on her shoulder. She lay hers on top of it. “Still, I was taken in as part of the family,” she continued, skirting the week in the servants’ wing. “I was fed and clothed and, most of all, protected from unknown foes and would-be assassins.”
Lord Hanton had been listening with a grave face, his eyes vacillating between Rebecca and James; this last sentence brought them to a standstill.
Rebecca smiled weakly. “We have had our share of misadventures. We…” She sighed and cleared her throat. “We came to London to escape those that mean to harm me.” She looked around the room. “Now, I would like to know about my sister and why I have been threatened and attacked. The last time I barely escaped.”
“Good Lord, Becca, my dove, what have you been through?” Lord Hanton dropped his hat to his side, raked his hand through his hair, and rose to cross the room.
James turned at his approach, positioning Rebecca safely behind him again. He was surprised to see Lord Hanton stretch out his hand.
“I apologize, most profusely, for what I did.” Hanton’s eyes traveled to James’ red and tender nose. “And what I thought.”
James took the viscount’s hand and returned its firm shake. “I understand,” he said quietly. He stepped out of the way to allow the man access to his daughter.
Lord Hanton looked over at the inspector. The man’s head was down, scribbling a note. Waters was doing the same.
Rebecca saw the viscount eye the empty chair next to her. He pulled it out and sat down. Then he reached for her hand. Rebecca stiffened and leaned back. She shifted her hands from her lap and clasped them behind the chair. She swallowed, breathed deeply, and stared. She waited for recognition, any spark of familiarity. There was none.
Shaking her head, Rebecca was grateful that Lord Hanton understood; she saw him draw back. Still, his smile remained.
“Lord Ellerby did you a great service,” he said. “You could only have been in the kidnappers’ clutches a few days.”
“When was I taken?”
“While out shopping on the fifteenth of April … with Elizabeth.”
Rebecca started and frowned. She had no recollection of a sister; no face came to her mind’s eye, no emotional reaction. It both scared her and upset her. “Is she younger or older than I am?”
Lord Hanton blinked in surprise. “Younger. She is sixteen.”
Closing her eyes, Rebecca pinched the bridge of her nose. So, she was the daughter of a viscount and she had been kidnapped with her sister. Where were those memories? Why could she not remember anything before awaking at Hardwick? Focusing on what she had learned and what it meant, Rebecca opened her eyes and stared at the man who claimed to be her beloved papa.
“I could identify the kidnappers. Yes, that’s why they risked so much to regain me. But … two weeks ago, they tried to kill me, not capture me. What happened? Why did they not turn tail and run the moment I was free? Cut their losses, change their plans?”
“Perhaps because they still hoped to succeed.” Lord Hanton tipped his head slightly to the side.
“They still wanted their money?” James’ question was a disembodied voice from above. “The ransom was worth the risk?”
Lord Hanton shifted his gaze to James. “The demand was not for money. The villains ordered me to use my influence on a bill going through the Lords, one that I support. They wanted it defeated. I could not do it. The bill is needed to stop privateering. I withdrew from the House instead. I prayed that it would be enough to satisfy their demand.” He looked back to Rebecca. “But there was no further correspondence, no other demand. Nothing. Nothing at all, day after day. I thought we had lost you.”
Rebecca’s pulse quickened and she swallowed before asking. “We? Who is we?”
A brief frown flashed across Lord Hanton’s face. “Your brothers and I.”
“I have brothers?” She looked up at James. “I have brothers.”
“Two brothers,” her father explained. “Matthew is the eldest, at one and twenty, and Jeffrey is twelve.”
“And how old am I?”
“Nineteen by Michaelmas.”
Rebecca tilted her head. “We were right.” She waved her hand in the direction of Caroline and Dr. Brant. “I’m eighteen.” And then realizing how frivolous such a comment was in the face of all their uncertainty about Elizabeth, Rebecca snapped her mouth shut. She might not remember her sister, not how she looked, or what they mean to each other, but deep in the pit of her being something cried out in sorrow and loss. Where was Elizabeth? Was she safe?
Was she alive?
* * *
LORD HANTON AND James sat in the study before a low fire. It was now the middle of the night and the late spring air, as well as the day’s proceedings, had brought enough of a chill to warrant the fire. The peelers had departed some hours ago.
“The inspector will be here in the morning to continue our discussion,” Brant explained as he returned to the drawing room after seeing the ladies to the top of the stairs. “We need to recover from our surprises first. I have offered Lord Hanton a room for the night, James. I extend to you the same invitation.”
James let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Brant. I accept. I do not think I will get a lick of sleep otherwise.”
Brant chuckled and nodded. “Good! I shall retire, then, and leave you two to talk. But try not to solve all our problems this evening. We have to have something to do in the morning.”
James continued to stare at the glowing embers of the fire. Silence echoed around the room for some minutes.
“What is the relationship between you and my daughter?” Lord Hanton asked finally.
James sniffed in self-mockery and then altered it to a stifled yawn. His eyes never left the fire grate. “I thought you might have noticed.”
“I’m n
ot blind.” Making a sound that was half sigh, half harrumph, Lord Hanton shifted in his chair. “Your relationship?” he asked again at length.
James turned his gaze to Lord Hanton. “There is none, sir. Beth … Misses Hanton is my sister’s companion. Or at least she was until this evening. I will admit a partiality toward her, but as I did not know her marital state, I could not pursue any relationship other than friendship.”
Lord Hanton drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair for a long minute or two. “Becca is not married, neither is she engaged,” he said eventually.
James dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He drew in great gulps of relief as quietly as possible, but he was sure the man next to him could hear his ragged breathing.
“Not for want of suitors, I must tell you. But none had excited more than her mild interest. She has such firm opinions and lively conversation that she found no interest in the mild milk-sop puppies at her knee. ‘No character,’ she used to lament.”
“Excellent,” James said quickly, without thought. He blinked, surprised, not by his reaction but by the verbalization of his feelings. Heat rose up his cheeks and he smiled feebly. Perhaps it was best to end the night before he embarrassed himself further. “I believe, sir, if I stay up any longer, I will not leave this chair till morning. I am off to bed.”
Lord Hanton rose to do the same, and as they quit the room together a thought occurred to James. It was a subject that could not wait until morning. “I must warn you, sir, Beth—Rebecca—Misses Hanton has terrible nightmares.”
Lord Hanton frowned. “She has never suffered from them before.”
“We gathered as much. But she does suffer them now, rather cruelly. While it is not every night, it is almost so. She not only must endure the dreams themselves but the embarrassment of them. She prefers them not to be acknowledged—so if you were to be awoken…”
“Awoken?”
“By her screams.”
Lord Hanton’s eyes widened in distress.
“It would be best not to go to her.” James stared sightless at the wall. “It is very difficult not to, believe me.”
James and Lord Hanton continued up the stairs in silence. James prayed that exhaustion would allow Rebecca a tranquil and restorative rest.
It was inevitable that he was to be disappointed.
* * *
SHE RAN. She called a name. It echoed, bounced from wall to wall. She called again and again, until one echo fell on top of the other, a cacophony of words. She tried to run faster but the floor tipped. Slippery flakes of sawdust snowed from the ceiling and the floor now tipped so sharply that she fell fast and forever … until she hit the bottom.
Winded, she lay gasping for breath. A scream filled the room, but not from her lips. Hands grabbed at her, yanking at her fingers. Rings slipped to the floor, covered in blood. Hair fell onto her face, screening her view. She called again and felt a sharp pain burst in her cheek.
A great weight pulled at her head, bending it down. A red drip grew into a river. A creature rose from its depths and advanced toward her. She felt the gentle touch of a feather across her cheek and the hum of rapid wings, and bile rose to her throat. Darkness hovered and deepened, but just before it consumed, it dissolved.
Silence. As if she were suddenly deaf. But not blind. A hand reached forward, toward her. It held a shiny and honed form.
Her eyes locked on the dark wood hilt gently curved into the shape of a hummingbird. It smiled a gentle, sad smile, blood oozing from the corners of its upturned beak.
She whispered a name and the bird began to laugh.
* * *
JAMES COULD TAKE it no longer. Hastily donning his trousers and slipping on his boots, he opened his door to the hall. The creak and squeak of it sounded much louder in the stillness of the night and he glanced in both directions to ensure that it had not disturbed the other sleepers. He need not have worried, as the sound of Rebecca’s nightmare filled the corridor, eclipsing any sound that he might make.
A door closed up ahead and moments later the screaming stopped. He breathed a sigh of relief and tiptoed down the hall until, at last, he heard muffled sounds from behind one of the doors. James paused and listened. With no intention of making his presence known, he lightly touched the wooden divider between them. When he heard Rebecca start to sob, it took all his control not to throw the door open.
Breathing deeply, he leaned his head onto the oak frame and closed his eyes.
“I am very glad you warned me.” Lord Hanton stepped out from the shadows as James wheeled around. “I would, indeed, have rushed in like a bull in a china shop.” Hanton sighed deeply. He slowly shook his head. “Doing nothing is agony.”
“This is a particularly bad one.” James clenched his jaw.
They lapsed into silence, each leaning against the wall on either side of the door. They stayed there until, some time later, Caroline crept out.
She was not in the least surprised to find them there. “She is asleep now,” she whispered, gently closing the door behind her. She led the way back down the hall and quietly wished them good night.
Sleep eluded James for some time, and even then it was not restful.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Much to Know
Walter flexed his shoulders, first one way and then the other. His only diversion was a piece of fluff that he had pulled from Henry’s coat. He set it afloat in the sunbeam and yawned again.
“Well, I must say, this is not quite the high adventure I thought it would be,” Walter muttered to his equally sleepy companion.
“Not high adventure? This is not even remotely entertaining!” Henry pursed his lips, sputtering in what could have been termed a raspberry. “A mysterious man, indeed! Dangerous sleuthing, you promised. Capital excitement, you said. Well, it’s not! This is bloody boring.”
It was all Mr. Strickland’s fault. He had cast aside Walter’s noble intentions to help with the investigation with a casual flick of his wrist. He recommended that the boys refrain from interfering.
The nerve.
Considering all that had transpired, the casual rejection was an insult. Walter easily persuaded Henry that they should set out on their own, where greater adventures and better appreciation was to be had.
Besides, Walter had only spoken to Mr. Strickland as a courtesy, a professional courtesy from one exceptional investigator to another. Still, while the deputy hadn’t accepted their talented assistance, he had updated Walter on his progress.
They now knew that Joe Smythe had stated that he was in Welford Mills for a rest. The man complained that his journey to Plymouth was of such a taxing nature to his fragile form, that he was required to rest in towns along the way. Welford Mills was a stay of short duration, a town he had only just stumbled upon.
Poppycock!
The man was in his early twenties and didn’t look in the least fragile! In fact, he was rather robust. He had also said he was not interested in Miss Dobbins. His questions regarding new arrivals in Welford had been misconstrued.
Poppycock again!
The man looked very little like a tourist. These were lies. The slippery devil had pulled the wool over the deputy’s eyes. But not Walter’s, no. And not Henry’s. No indeed; they were made of wiser stuff.
The first order of business was to watch the bounder, but herein lay the problem.
Mr. Joe Smythe was ensconced in his room at the Horn and Thistle. He had been there all morning. Through Walter’s earlier inquiries, they had learned that the man had risen at eight, eaten a hearty meal, and then returned to his room.
This was splendid, Walter had thought. The man was fortifying himself for some nefarious deed.
They found themselves a vantage point at the milliner’s window to watch the Horn and Thistle and had settled down to wait.
So it was that Walter and Henry sat comfortable and lazy upon the cushioned seats of Dodd and Tobin’s best chairs for the better part of two hours. Ini
tially, they had only perched—ready to spring into action, ready for an immediate response to Joe Smythe’s departure, ready to sleuth.
They anticipated running out to the street and following either on foot or using Walter’s curricle, sitting just outside. However, as they approached the third hour, Walter was much less comfortable. For while the door to the Horn was seldom still for long, Mr. Smythe had yet to put in an appearance. Tradesmen, travelers, shopkeepers, and even the squire had come and gone, but of Mr. Smythe, there was no sign.
Walter was getting increasingly tired of Henry’s complaints. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the blackguard had taken all morning to put his wicked plan into action.
Walter sighed from the bottom of his boots.
Again the bell tinkled as yet another customer entered the milliner’s shop, but Walter was not interested. His gaze did not waiver, his intent unchanged. Distraction was not an option.
“What do you think you boys is doing?” asked Mr. Strickland, standing next to Walter’s chair. The man’s face was stony and his address rather clipped.
Walter looked up quickly and then returned his eye to the inn. “Watching for Mr. Smythe,” he whispered. “In secret.” He saw another tradesman enter the Horn; the man’s new boots gleamed in the sunlight. “When he comes out, Henry and I are going to follow him. We will let you know what we find out.”
“Mr. Smythe is not in his room; he has been gone for some time.” The deputy’s voice remained frosty.
Walter dragged his eyes away from the bland scene before him. He stared at the deputy’s face for some moments, trying to verify the truth of his rather bald statement.
“But we have been watching—”
“That I know, but the man has been gone for two hours.”
“What!” Henry shouted with indignation, directed—unreasonably—toward Walter. “You mean—” A gesture from Walter forced Henry to lower his voice. “You mean that we have been staring incessantly at that blasted plank door for nothing?”
