by Cheryl Holt
Lucas’s temper ignited for once. Evidently, it required an idiot like Clayton Carter to set a spark to it. He stepped around the table and hit Clayton as hard as he could. He tottered, then collapsed in a stunned heap. Blood spurted from his nose, and he curled into a ball and wailed with dismay.
The other customers glared at him and tsked with disgust.
“What was that for?” he asked after he caught his breath.
“That was for my sister—for you seducing her.”
“It was worth it,” he unwisely taunted.
Lucas kicked him in the ribs, viciously enough that he likely broke several. “That was for your sister because I ruined her and you don’t even care.”
Lucas gestured to the guard, and the man stomped over, grabbed Clayton, and dragged him to the rear door. The other patrons jeered as Clayton passed by, and Clayton didn’t put up a fight. He was disoriented from being battered, so it was easy to haul him out. Lucas didn’t even have to pitch in.
After they were outside, the guard dropped him in the muck, then vanished. No spectator would have witnessed a thing, but then, Lucas didn’t need to worry. Who would ever wonder what had become of Clayton Carter?
Raven was loafing next to a carriage, waiting for Lucas to arrive.
“I told you he’d show up,” Lucas said.
“I’m impressed by your shrewd assessment.”
“It wasn’t that shrewd. He’s been slinking in every night, whining at the members to help him.”
“I was certain he’d stagger to Oakley, and I’d get to kill him in the country.”
“You still can if you want. It would be fine by me.”
Clayton was finally able to focus on their conversation. “You’re a pair of fiends. I will not accompany you anywhere.”
Lucas hit him again, knocking him unconsciousness.
“Little brother,” Raven said, “I typically assume you’re never angry, but occasionally, you surprise me.”
“I trifled with his sister, and he wasn’t concerned in the least. It almost seems like it was a waste to have bothered with her.”
“I warned you to leave her alone.”
“I never listen to you, so why continue to harangue at me?”
“Has there been any news about her?”
“No, and Clayton hadn’t seen her either. I’m betting she went home.”
“I hope so. If she met with a bad end, it will be your fault.”
“I’m never at fault,” Lucas said. “I make sure of it.”
Raven leaned down and tied Clayton hand and foot, stuffing a kerchief in his mouth so he was trussed and gagged. Then he and Lucas lifted the oaf and threw him into the carriage where he landed with a painful thump.
“Would you like to ride to the docks with me?” Raven asked.
“Do you need me to?”
“I’d like you to, but it’s not necessary.”
“I won’t come, but I will visit you at Oakley very soon. I enjoyed it there much more than I expected I would.”
“I’d be delighted if you’d visit.”
“Have you found our nephew?”
“No. He and Rebecca stayed at an inn in Frinton for two days, then they took the mail coach to London. They didn’t mention their destination to anyone.”
“If they’re in London, we’ll likely never locate them.”
“I refuse to think we won’t,” Raven said.
“I will attempt to muster some of your optimism.”
“I’ll see you at Oakley.”
“I’m actually looking forward to it.”
“If we don’t watch out, we’ll begin to seem like a real family.”
“Heaven forbid. We could never be that ordinary.”
Raven jumped into the vehicle, and Lucas waved him off, observing until he rounded the corner, then he walked inside to finish his whiskey. It had been a night worth living for a change, and all in all, he felt quite grand.
* * * *
Clayton roused sufficiently to recall being assaulted by Lucas Shawcross, then being dragged to the alley and tossed at Raven Shawcross’s feet. The brothers were deranged, and he was positive he was simply one man in a lengthy line of unfortunates who’d been destroyed by them.
It was dark and difficult to get his bearings, but it appeared he was lying on the floor in a moving carriage. He tried to sit up and was alarmed to discover that his hands and legs were fettered. He would have cried out, but he was gagged too, so he couldn’t summon assistance. If he’d been prone to emotional displays, he might have burst into tears and bawled like a baby.
He shifted about, seeking a more comfortable position, and for his efforts, a man’s boot was firmly wedged on his stomach to hold him in place. Raven Shawcross bent down and muttered, “You’ve been out so long that I was afraid Lucas had killed you. I guess not.”
“Mm! Mm!” Clayton complained.
“What was that?” Shawcross asked. “I couldn’t understand you.”
He yanked the gag away, and Clayton swallowed and spat to clear his throat.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.
“You’ll find out in a few minutes.”
“If you don’t tell me, I start shouting, and I won’t stop until someone comes to my aid.”
“If you annoy me, I’ll put the kerchief back in your mouth. Or I can knock you unconscious again. From the earlier blow Lucas administered, it’s obvious you have a very soft head. It would be easy to silence you. You can shut up on your own or I can shut you up. Your choice.”
“Dog! Cur!”
“Your mother hurled those same epithets when she was being arrested. You two ought to devise more cutting insults.”
“What has happened to my mother?”
“I conducted an audit at Carter Imports, and she’d been embezzling.”
“The old bat was stealing from me?”
“Not from you, but from the clients. I learned from experience that they get really irked by that sort of behavior.”
“I can’t believe she’d be smart enough to engage in a scheme like that.”
“Your father was a thief too, and he taught her all his tricks—except how to conceal her crimes.”
“She was always too stupid for words.”
“She didn’t feel you were particularly bright either.”
Clayton was quiet for a bit, wincing and moaning as they bounced over ruts and bumps. His mind whirred furiously, anxious to formulate a plan that would thwart Shawcross, but he seemed omnipotent. How could a normal fellow like Clayton fight him and win?
An idea floated to the surface. He’d used it with Lucas Shawcross, to no avail. Perhaps he’d have better luck with his evil brother.
“I’d like to make a trade.”
“What type of trade?”
“I’ll give you an item you want very much, and you’ll let me go. We’ll forget this little…incident, and we’ll call it even.”
“What is the item you’d like to trade?”
“I have your bastard nephew.”
Raven snorted. “You don’t have my nephew.”
“I do have him! I’ve hidden him from you, and if you won’t release me, you’ll never see him again.”
“He’s with your cousin, Rebecca.”
“He’s not with her!”
Shawcross kicked him. “The more you talk, the more I wonder if I shouldn’t just murder you. The world would breathe a sigh of relief if you weren’t in it.”
“Why not proceed then?” Clayton rashly taunted.
“I murdered a man a few weeks ago, so for the moment, I’ve had my fill of violence. But if you keep pushing me, I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
Clayton pondered whether Shawcross was being truthful. Might he have slain someone? Or was he trying to frighten Clayton? If so, his boast had definitely succeeded!
In Clayton’s view, Shawcross was capable of any nefariou
s deed. Hadn’t he traveled in Africa for over a decade? Rumors swirled that Sir Sidney’s team of explorers had shed their British ways, becoming like savages in their attitudes and habits. He might do anything to Clayton—and he’d likely get away with it too.
“You won’t harm me,” Clayton insisted. “This is England! There are laws against homicide.”
“Laws have never prevented me before,” Shawcross brashly stated, “but a hasty demise would be too easy for you. I have a more suitable ending arranged.”
Clayton shivered. “What ending?”
“You seduced my sister, Lydia, when I was in Africa. She was alone, without me here to protect her. I fret over how she must have suffered.”
“I was kind to her!” Clayton lied. “She was pretty and sweet. I would have married her, but…ah…my mother wouldn’t agree to the match. Can’t we admit that Lydia’s difficulties were Beatrice’s fault?”
“No, we can’t admit that.” Shawcross seized Clayton by the throat, cutting off his air. “I often think of Lydia. I think of her being tossed out of her boarding school and sent to that unwed mother’s home in disgrace. I think of her slowly bleeding to death and, while it was transpiring, being informed her child had died. Those visions haunt me, Clayton.”
“I can imagine!” he heartily concurred as Shawcross pitched him onto the floor with a hard thud.
“So…while I would have loved to kill you, I don’t want you to have a quick conclusion. I want your misery to persist until you feel as if you’ll go mad if it doesn’t stop.”
Clayton scoffed with disgust. “It wasn’t enough that you ruined my life?”
“No, it wasn’t the beginning of enough.”
The carriage rattled to a halt, the cessation of movement incredibly ominous.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“At the docks.”
Before Clayton could blink, Shawcross stuck the kerchief back in his mouth. He tugged a flour sack over Clayton’s head too, concealing Clayton’s features in case there were any bystanders to observe them. Then he climbed out. Clayton writhed and jerked and attempted to free his wrists, but they were tied too tightly.
Shawcross was outside, talking to another man in low tones.
“Don’t bring him back to England for at least five years.”
“That should be simple,” the man replied. “We’re bound for China, with visits to India and Africa. We’ll be at sea for a very long time.”
There was a clinking sound that could only be money changing hands. Then Clayton was dragged out and onto his feet. He was dizzy, swaying to and fro, and with the flour sack over his head, he was so disoriented he couldn’t tell up from down. He started moaning, but it merely bought him a whack on the belly and a fierce order to be silent.
Shawcross stepped in and whispered, “I’ve sold you to a merchant ship.”
Clayton blanched. A ship required dozens of sailors, and unsavory captains had trouble finding able-bodied men for their crews. Occasionally, convicts were released from prison to join up, but gullible men were conscripted too—very much against their will.
They were drugged or beaten unconscious, then hauled aboard without their realizing what was occurring. They woke up in the middle of the ocean, with gut-wrenching nausea and no means of escape.
There were always stories about such terrible events, but Clayton hadn’t believed them. They were true? What?
No! No! No!
“This is a prison sentence for what you did to my sister,” Shawcross said.
I didn’t hurt her! She liked it! She wanted it!
Shawcross continued, “You never paid a price for your sins toward her, so you’ll pay it now. It will be a tough voyage, and I expect you’ll be in agony each and every day of it.”
You fiend! You deranged animal!
“Try not to get yourself killed.” Shawcross chuckled. “I take that back. I don’t care if you survive or not.”
Suddenly, a cloth was pressed to Clayton’s face. He was so surprised by the abrupt feeling of being smothered that he inhaled deeply, and it caused him to ingest a potent chemical that burned through his nose and into his lungs.
He tipped one way, then the other, and as he collapsed, strong arms caught him and carried him away.
His last cognizant thought was hearing Shawcross say, “Good luck, Clayton. You’re definitely going to need it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Raven sat in the front parlor at Oakley, his back to the fire, so he could look out the open door. It was Sunday, so his carpenters were off with their families. He’d hired a few servants too, and they were off as well. His cook had left him a plate of food in the kitchen, but he hadn’t had the energy to eat it.
The residence was quickly becoming habitable, so he should have been ecstatic, but with every improvement, he wondered what he’d been thinking when he’d decided to buy it and move in. He wasn’t a farmer or country gentleman, and while he owned many businesses, he didn’t run them himself. He hired clerks to administer them.
A man was supposed to belong somewhere though, but he’d never been tied down by property. From the time he was ten and his father had been arrested, his life had been one of change and flux. Once he’d joined the expedition team, he’d sailed and trekked with Sir Sidney, having rarely lingered in one spot.
With his Africa days behind him, he’d convinced himself that he should have a genuine home, and it would be wise to purchase Oakley. He possessed a poignant attachment to it due to a handful of summer holidays spent in it as a young boy. And, of course, its proximity to Carter Crossing had provided easy access from which to torment the Carters.
His scheme had worked out precisely as he’d dreamed. He’d ruined Beatrice and Clayton. He’d retrieved what remained of their assets. He’d punished Clayton for seducing Lydia.
He often pondered his sister. How and when had she met Clayton? Had she loved him? Had she believed—to the bitter end—that he’d relent and wed her?
The facility where she’d died had been closed for years, so Raven had never been able to ask the attendants about her final hours. Who had been with her? Had there been anyone? Or had she staggered through it alone?
There were probably some people in the world who would declare he’d been too hard on Beatrice and Clayton, but he disagreed. Not when Lydia’s fate was recalled.
He should have been celebrating. He should have been congratulating himself. But he was so miserable!
He’d shuttered Carter Imports, but it had brought him no satisfaction. He’d already had several visits from civic officials in Frinton who’d demanded he reconsider and let the employees return to their jobs.
To his great disgust, he was contemplating it. If he yielded, why had he expended so much effort to wreck the stupid company? If he simply planned to revive it, why had he bothered?
He was vexed over Carter Crossing too. He’d intended to evict the occupants and level the bloody house, but he hadn’t. As he’d faced down the dozens of servants, he’d found he couldn’t. He’d put the butler in charge and had slithered away, being extremely conflicted over what he’d like to have happen.
Why demolish a perfectly good house? Why tear down barns and stables? Why uproot fields and crops? Beatrice and Clayton were vanquished, their ownership revoked. Wasn’t that enough?
He recognized that his wanderlust was fueling his discontentment. He’d meander like a ghost down the quiet Oakley halls, until he couldn’t stand it. Then he’d climb the promontory to stare at passing ships. Why wasn’t he on one of them?
Winter was about to arrive, and a smart man would have been headed south to warmer climes. For once, he wasn’t headed south, and he was wretched because of it.
The worst part was how desperately he was missing Rebecca. He couldn’t stop reviewing their last conversation where she’d raced over the hill to seek his help, but he’d been too annoyed to give it. Every time there was a noise
in the old mansion—a board would creak or a window would rattle—he’d whip around, certain it would be her, but it never was.
He simply couldn’t accept that she’d vanished. According to the servants at Carter Crossing, she hadn’t had any money, friends, or kin other than Beatrice. Where would she have gone? And how could she have afforded to get there?
She had his nephew, Alex, with her too, and he would be an added burden. How would she manage?
After he’d discovered in Frinton that she was bound for London on the mail coach, he’d nearly suffered an apoplexy. Women from all over the kingdom traveled to town to start over in the teaming, chaotic city, but he’d never heard of a single one of them having a decent ending.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to apologize and atone. He wanted to officially meet his nephew, to support him, to assist him so he’d have the path he deserved to have.
If he ever saw Rebecca again, he’d kiss and hug her, then he’d shake her until her teeth rattled for being so irresponsible, for causing him to worry so much.
It was chilly and drizzly outside, and he had a warm fire burning in the hearth, but he felt as if he was suffocating, so he’d left the front door wide open. He was gazing out, watching a light rain fall and enjoying the smell of the fresh air. It tantalized his senses, increasing his perception that he was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, after having made all the wrong choices.
Suddenly, a rider trotted up the lane. Because the weather was inclement, he was bundled in a canvas slicker, a hat pulled low, so Raven couldn’t discern his identity. Nor could he imagine who it would be.
Not his brother. Lucas was too lazy to come on a horse, and he liked to lounge in a plush carriage where he could drink, smoke, and relax while on a trip. He wouldn’t traipse about in dicey conditions either.
With Lucas off the list, he couldn’t settle on who else it might be. He loafed in his chair, curious as the man dismounted and tied off his reins. When he marched in and removed his hat, Raven blinked with surprise.
“Mr. Melville? You’re the last person I was expecting.”
“I’m sure I am, Mr. Shawcross. Why is the door open? It’s cold as the devil. May I close it?”
