by Lynsay Sands
He smiled at the thought of the Wentworth servants. He had spent more time with them than he had with Maggie, herself, of late. Most of her staff were helping out at the town house, and James had come to know them well. Enough to realize that her affection for them was returned tenfold. Every one of the servants was aware of the lengths she had gone to in her determination to keep them all on . . . and every one of them was as loyal as could be because of it. Which, when added to the fact that he knew Maggie would be miserable without them, had moved James to decide that—no matter what—he was going to see to it that they went wherever she did. It didn’t matter if he already had a full staff. He was about to have a fuller one.
“My lord!”
He turned his attention from his thoughts to Meeks as the front door of his aunt’s house was opened. The expression on the man’s face echoed the relief that had been evident in his voice, causing an uneasiness in James.
“Good afternoon, Meeks,” he greeted, stepping into the house.
“Good afternoon, my lord. Lady Barlow is waiting in the salon.” The man took his hat, cape, and cane, waving him toward the room in question, and James felt his uneasiness increase. Refraining from questioning the man, he walked into the salon.
“James!” Lady Barlow turned from her anxious pacing, rushing to her nephew’s side as he entered the room.
James’s eyes widened in surprise at such a welcome, but he smiled and asked, “What is it?”
“Maggie is missing.” The blunt announcement dropped into the silent room like a stone into a pond.
James’s smile froze, his face blanching. “What?”
“She is missing. She claimed to want to rest before dinner, but I had a question about her preferences for the wedding meal, and went to see if she might be awake, and—” She shook her head unhappily. “She was not there.”
“Where was Jack?” James asked sharply. “He was supposed to be protecting her.”
“He was right there, standing guard at her door. He said that he stood outside it since she went in. She had to have left out of her window. It is the only way. I have had the servants search the entire house, but she simply isn’t here.”
“Isn’t here?” James echoed with disbelief.
“No. I told Meeks to send servants to both you and Mr. Johnstone to make you aware of the matter.”
“I wasn’t home. I just came from . . . I didn’t get the message,” James said dazedly.
“I did.”
Lady Barlow and James both turned to the door as Johnstone strode forward, his expression grim.
“I have already put several men out to search for her,” the runner announced. His gaze went to Lady Barlow and he added, “But it might help if we had some idea where to look. Did you question the servants, ask if she said anything to anyone about going somewhere?”
“Yes. No one seems to have any idea where she might be.”
They were all speechless for a time, then James said in a bewildered voice, “She promised me that she would not go out alone again after the incident at the club.”
Johnstone offered a sympathetic grimace. “Perhaps she didn’t. Is anyone else missing?”
Lady Barlow’s eyes widened at the question. “Banks!”
“Banks?” James repeated. His aunt nodded. “Meeks mentioned that he could not find Banks, either. And it seems to me that when we were riding back to town from Ramsey, Maggie mentioned that Banks often accompanied her when she investigated her stories.”
James stiffened at the suggestion. “She does not do those anymore. She retired.”
Before Lady Barlow could answer, Meeks appeared at the door to the salon, a concerned expression on his face.
“What is it, man?” she asked.
“A boy, my lady. At the door. He insists that he has a message for his lordship.”
James hesitated briefly; thinking—hoping—that it might be from Maggie, he hurried out into the hall. A boy of perhaps five or six years waited nervously by the front door.
“Who is the message from, boy?” he barked, looming over the child.
The child’s eyes widened fearfully, then darted nervously around as if in search of an escape route.
“Well? Have you been struck dumb? Who is the message from?” he snapped.
“I . . . I . . .” Dismay spread across his young face; then the boy wailed, “I can’t remember.”
“What? Look, lad, I do not have time to—”
“Perhaps if ye were not screaming at the lad, he could remember.” Johnstone came up behind James. “Ye’re scaring him.”
Urging his employer to the side, the runner dropped to his haunches before the street urchin and offered him a warm smile. “Don’t worry about him, lad. He’s just a bit worried about his lady. Now, if ye can recall the message ye were to bring, ye can have this.” Johnstone produced a shiny coin from a pocket and waved it. The boy watched it move from side to side before his eyes as if mesmerized, then blurted, “The lady. The bloke said to tell ye that ’e followed the lady.”
“Who did?”
“Er.” The boy frowned, his face screwing up as he tried to recall the name he had been given. “I can’t remember, but ’e was a tall feller. Old. Stern-like.”
“Banks?” James asked sharply.
“Aye, ’at’s his name, guv’nor,” the boy said, brightening. “’E said as ’e ’ad followed the lady and sent me to get ye, and . . .” His face flushed slightly, and he admitted unhappily, “I can’t remember the rest. . . . Somethin’ about a man with a scar.”
James paled, but asked, “Can you lead us back to him?”
“Sure, m’lord.”
“Good lad.” He sighed, patting the boy’s shoulder, then turned him toward the door. Shouting for his driver, knowing the man would be in the kitchens, where he always waited while James visited his aunt and Maggie, James prepared to go and rescue Maggie.
Chapter Eighteen
Only you, Maggie . . .
The words echoed through her head as Margaret touched a hand to her sore head and slowly sat up. It occurred to her that she found herself awakening with headaches a lot lately; it was becoming rather de rigueur. Frowning, she tried to see through the inky blackness surrounding her and determine where she was, but the darkness was absolute. She could not see a thing.
Lifting a hand, she felt her face, briefly hoping that her cape was covering it and blinding her as it had in James’s carriage, but she was disappointed. Her hands and feet were unbound, her face uncovered. She was simply in a room devoid of light.
Or she had been hit so hard she was blinded, she considered. The thought scared her so much that when the door opened and light suddenly spilled into the room, she was almost grateful for it. Almost. The pain it elicited in her head was rather unbearable, however, so she was a little less thankful than she might have been. She scrambled to her feet and confronted the misshapen hulk that entered her prison, cast in shadow as he was by the light at his back.
At first, Maggie thought her poor eyes were playing tricks, for surely no one could be shaped that way. Then the hulk paused several feet away and bent at the waist. He hefted something off of what turned out to be his shoulders, and Maggie understood. Her gaze dropped to the burden the man had just deposited, and a gasp slipped from her lips at the sight. It was a bruised and unconscious Banks.
The hulk turned away, and Maggie stepped forward, her fists balling at her sides. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
When he merely ignored her and turned to leave, she took another step forward, her eyes desperately searching her cell for a weapon. “What is all this about? What have I done?”
Pausing in the lit hallway, the man turned and arched an eyebrow at her. “You know why.”
“No. I don’t. I haven’t a clue,” Maggie said honestly. The man stared at her silently for a moment, studying her face as if determining whether she was telling the truth, she supposed. After a moment he appeared convinced, but it
didn’t move him to explain. Giving a small shrug, he spun back to the door.
“She’ll maybe explain when she comes,” was all he said. Then he closed the door.
“She? She who?” Maggie called, stumbling forward to fall against the door as the lock clicked into place.
“Who?” she shrieked furiously, pounding her balled-up fists against the wood.
It was a passing fury, gone as quickly as it had erupted, leaving her to press her face to the cool surface as tears pooled in her eyes. They spilled over to trail down her face. “Who?”
She stayed there, wallowing in self-pity and frustration, until a muffled moan from Banks drew her attention. Sniffing, Maggie wiped her face with the back of one hand, then turned to move cautiously back through the darkness. When her foot brushed up against some part of him, she knelt and felt around to determine his position on the ground. She eased down next to the man and drew his head into her lap.
Murmuring reassuring words and phrases, she brushed the hair away from his face and waited for him to regain consciousness. This man had been a part of her life from the time she was born. He had been her butler, her friend, and sometimes just a grouchy old curmudgeon. He used to sit with her and talk at night after Gerald died, keeping her company in those sad, lonely hours when her mind would have turned to morbid mourning over her brother. She loved him.
She had neglected their friendship somewhat since James had come into her life, and had no idea how he had come to be here unless he had followed her here without her knowledge. She wouldn’t put it past him. He’d sworn to keep her safe after Gerald’s death, and he had now been hurt in the attempt.
“My lady?” His voice quavered with age and weakness.
Maggie stilled at those rusty words, her hands stiffening on his face. “Banks? Are you awake?”
“Aye.” The word was almost a groan. Obviously the man was awake, and regretting it. Which answered the question she had been about to ask. He apparently had a headache, too.
“Where . . .” he asked, sounding a bit cranky.
Maggie smiled, affection rising up in her for the old domestic. “I do not know. An old abandoned building, I think.” She peered around fretfully, trying to make out something—anything—in the blackness that pressed down on them from all around.
“An old abandoned house near the docks,” Banks decided in a pained voice, and Maggie glanced down, forgetting she wouldn’t be able to see him.
“Are we? How do you know that?”
“I . . .” He shifted, and his weight was removed from her lap. The groan that followed sounded near her ear, and she supposed he had sat up beside her. He gasped, “I followed you.”
“You did?”
“Aye. I saw you sneak out of Lady Barlow’s. I trailed you to Madame Dubarry’s, waited, and started to follow you home when you were snatched off the street into that carriage.”
“You were the one who shouted when I was grabbed,” she realized.
“Yes. I tried to get to you, but I wasn’t fast enough. I am getting old.” The word was said bitterly, and Maggie reached out in the darkness until she found the butler’s hand. She squeezed his cold, wrinkled fingers gently. That drew another sigh from the man, and he continued, “I couldn’t get there quickly enough. I hailed a hack and followed, but we were a ways back. Once I saw which building they took you into, I wanted to go get help, but was afraid that by the time we got back it might be too late. I paid a boy to fetch Lord Ramsey, then tried poking around, thinking that if I could just figure out where they were holding you, I might be able to break you out and . . .” His voice broke, and he was silent for a moment. “I guess in my excitement I forgot how old I am. Instead of finding and rescuing you, I ran into that scarred fellow. Next thing I knew, I was seeing lights. I am sorry.”
“What for?” Maggie asked. “I am glad to have you here, and to know help is on the way.”
“Aye. But no doubt finding me has warned that animal that help is on the way. It will make a rescue harder.”
Maggie had opened her mouth to reassure him, when the door suddenly opened again. Light splashed into the room, bright and stabbing. Maggie shielded her eyes with one hand, blinking rapidly and hoping they would adjust. Footsteps and a shadow, then brighter light, told her someone was entering the room and bringing a lantern with him.
It seemed their time had run out.
Feeling extremely vulnerable on the floor, Maggie got shakily to her feet. She forced her eyes to open, determined to face her enemies.
“You are sure this is the right place?” James asked, peering about the deserted buildings with a frown.
Robbie—they had learned that was the boy’s name—nodded solemnly. “Aye, m’lord. I live right over there, and I was playing with me mates when that old fellow waved me over.”
James felt himself grimace as he took in the length of street. He found it hard to believe that anyone could live in these decrepit and deserted-looking structures. James decided he would visit this lad’s parents after he rescued Maggie and see if he could find jobs for them.
Perhaps at Ramsey. The boy was too thin and pale by half; some time in the country would be good for him. James had to rescue Maggie first, though. He must not focus on anything but succeeding at that task.
“I don’t see this Banks fellow anywhere,” Johnstone said.
James scowled. He had been waiting and watching for the butler, expecting him to step out into the street and hail them. “Neither do I,” he said. His gaze dropped to the boy. “Where was he when he waved you over?”
“Right there.” The child pointed at the building their carriage had stopped before, and James scanned every nook and shadow hopefully before admitting to himself that the man wasn’t to be found. He only hoped that didn’t mean that they had moved and the domestic had followed.
“Which of the buildings was he watching? Could you tell?” James asked.
Robbie hesitated, then scrambled off the bench seat and made his way through the legs of the men filling the coach. He peered out the window at the buildings opposite where he claimed Banks had been. His face scrunched up in concentration as he considered the matter.
“I think he was watching that one,” he decided at last, and James leaned across Johnstone to look out the window at the building in question.
“I don’t suppose ye saw a woman bein’ dragged into it before ye noticed the old man, did ye?” Johnstone asked hopefully.
They all sighed in disappointment when the lad shook his head. “I just come out to play when the man nipped me.”
“All right, Robbie,” James said grimly, reaching into his pocket. “Take this, and go on home now. And thank you for your help.”
Robbie’s young eyes brightened at the sight of the coin held out; then he snatched it up. Gasping a thanks, he scrambled out of the door James opened.
“What do you want to do, m’lord?” Johnstone asked quietly.
James pulled the door closed again. “I think we have to check all three buildings: the one the boy pointed out, and the ones on either side. She could be in any of them.”
Johnstone nodded, his glance moving over the three other runners with them. “Jack, you and Bob take the house on the left; Jimmy and meself will take the middle, and m’lord—”
“No. I take the middle house,” James said firmly.
Johnstone hesitated, then nodded. Glancing at the youngest of the group, he said, “Jimmy, ye’ll have to take the house on the right on your own. I’ll accompany his lordship.”
“No,” James said again, frowning at the nervous Jimmy. The boy was young and obviously the least experienced. If James was wrong and the middle building wasn’t where Maggie was, if she was in the building on the right, he didn’t want this fidgety pup going in on his own and possibly getting her killed. “You go with Jimmy. I can manage on my own.”
“Oh, m’lord, I don’t think . . .” Johnstone began, but James didn’t stay to listen. Opening the carr
iage door, he stepped out and moved toward the building in the center, his heart pounding with rage and fear: rage that someone had dared to touch what was his, and fear that he would be too late to save her.
Maggie had thought that seeing the “she” behind these attacks would clear matters up. Much to her consternation, however, the woman hanging the lamp from the hook by the door was a complete stranger.
Maggie forced herself to look closer, sure she was missing something. Her eyes slowly absorbed the generous figure in the red dress, the blond hair piled on the woman’s head, little curls free to frame her pretty face, but it didn’t help. Maggie had no clue who she was.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
The blonde turned to survey her captives. Her eyebrows rose with amusement. “Come now; you don’t really expect me to believe that you do not know who I am? Not the famed G. W. Clark.”
Maggie stiffened, her blood running cold. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. It also seems that you have more to blackmail me with than I have on you. I haven’t a clue who you are.” She thought that last bit a touch of subtle brilliance. Perhaps it would give the woman the idea of blackmailing her rather than killing her, as she feared was her captor’s ultimate objective.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as if suspecting a trick. “You do not recall me?”
When Maggie shook her head, the blonde’s mouth twisted with disbelief. “Think! Think hard.”
Maggie stared at her silently, still shaking her head until a memory exploded in her mind. Just a flash, like a bolt of lightning quickly there and just as quickly gone, but her head slowed its shaking. The woman smiled.
“You do remember.”
Maggie hesitated, then asked uncertainly, “Madame Dubarry’s? In the room I climbed into? I was putting on Maisey’s mask. You were on the bed.”
