by Nina Mason
Twenty-Three
Georgie was at her wit’s end. The guests were due to arrive any moment and she could not find Christian anywhere. She’d checked his bedchamber, the library, and even the billiards room, where the sets of their forgotten theatrical still hung behind the makeshift curtain. Now, she was on her way to the stables to inquire of the grooms if he’d gone riding.
His absence plagued her for three reasons. First and foremost, she was concerned he’d come to some harm. If he had gone out, he would have come back by now, surely … unless he’d lamed his horse, taken a spill, or met with some other terrible fate.
She shuddered at the thought that he might be out there somewhere, injured and freezing. But before she got herself—or anyone else—too worked up, she needed to find out if he’d in fact gone out riding.
Her second reason, motivated more by curiosity than concern, was that she was dying to know what Lord Wingfield communicated to him after she left them in the library. Initially, she’d hoped it might be something to enable them to marry sooner, but she had long since abandoned her optimism. Had it been good news, she reasoned, he would surely have sought her out before now.
It must, therefore, be bad news. Something so terrible, in fact, he was loath to tell her. She could not, however, imagine what could be worse than disinheritance, debtor’s prison, and postponing their marriage indefinitely.
Her third reason for wanting to find Christian stemmed from her underlying insecurity about their relationship. Perhaps, she feared, he had decided to break with her and could not summon the courage to tell her as much to her face.
When she inquired of Lord Wingfield if he knew where his son might be, the Earl only said, “Somewhere to have a good long think, I should imagine.”
“A good think about what?” she’d asked, hoping for a hint about what they’d discussed.
Disappointingly, he only said, “It is not my place to say, my dear.”
To ward off the cold on her walk to the stable, she’d thrown a hooded velvet cloak over her green chiné silk evening gown and elbow-length gloves. When she arrived, she found only horses within, blanketed and stalled for the night. The grooms, she realized with vexation, would be posted out front to attend the horses and carriages conveying the guests to the party.
She walked back toward the house, even more troubled than when she’d left it a quarter-hour before. As she drew nearer, music and sporadic bursts of laughter rushed out to greet her. As much as she longed to join in the revelry, she could not give up her search for Christian.
Working her way around to the front of the house, she found herself surrounded by dozens of carriages, their teams skittishly dancing and pawing the slush they’d made of the snow. Elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen scurried from their interiors toward the house like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Braziers and lanterns burned brightly here and there, casting a ghoulish glow over the melee. Everywhere she saw liveried footmen, grooms, postilions, and coachmen. Determining from among them which belonged to Greystone Hall seemed an impossible undertaking.
Just as she was ready to give up and join the party, despite her doldrums, a lone horseman came charging up the drive at full speed. At first, she thought it might be Christian, but she soon saw that the rider was a young man in the scarlet coat of a post-boy.
When he reached the carriages, he jumped down from his horse and cut through the blockade. Noticing Georgie staring at him, he ran up to her with a letter in his hand. “Are you Miss Georgianna Bennet?”
“I am.”
“Then this is for you, ma’am,” he said, handing her the letter.
Sure it must be from Christian, she hurriedly broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper. There was a brief message written upon it, in the hand of someone unschooled in penmanship.
I’ll wager you think you’ve won all the cards, you sneaky little slut, but I’ve still got an ace up my sleeve. Christian is my prisoner. If you want him back, come to the old squatter’s cottage in Tick Wood by midnight tonight. Come alone and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. If you fail to come or to heed my instructions, your beloved Lieutenant is a dead man.
While the letter was unsigned, she could be in no doubt of its author. It seemed just as obvious that Jinny Stubbs was trying to lure her into a trap of some sort. But to what end? And how best to defend herself against coming to any harm?
For a moment, Georgie lowered her head and a sob escaped her. But almost immediately, she resumed her composure. She could not dissolve into tears if she was going to be of any use to Christian.
“Miss?”
Georgie looked up to find the post-boy holding something out to her. “The lady who paid me to deliver the letter said to give you this, in case you thought she was bluffing.”
She took the tiny object from his hand and brought it up to her eyes for a closer look. Her knees nearly buckled when she recognized it as the diamond stickpin Christian typically wore in his neckcloth.
The post-boy’s obvious admiration of the pin gave her an idea. “Do you know Stanley Hall in Aston Abbotts?”
“You mean the house belonging to the High Sheriff? Of course I know it, Miss. I deliver letters there most every day.”
“In that case,” she said, “I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh, yes, Miss? And what would you have me do?”
“Take a letter there for me tonight … in exchange for this stickpin. Does that sound like a fair bargain to you?”
“Very fair, Miss, and no mistake.”
“Good,” she said in a steady voice, struggling to maintain the appearance of calm. “Now, if you will be good enough to allow me a few minutes to compose my letter, I shall take you around to the kitchen to wait … and perhaps even entreat the maids to fix you a plate of sweetmeats to enjoy whilst you are importuned. How would that suit you?”
“That would suit me very well, Miss. To be sure.”
Without further ado, Georgie took the youth round to the kitchen door, instructed the maids to give him whatever he desired to eat, and then hurried up the back stairs to her bedchamber. Seating herself at the writing desk therein, she scratched out a note to Sir Thomas John Tyrwhitt Jones, whom she knew a little.
The Earl of Wingfield’s son has been abducted this day from Greystone Hall. His kidnaper has threatened his life if I do not bring the ransom demanded to the old squatter’s cottage in Tick Wood by midnight tonight. I have received instructions to come alone and inform no one of what I know. I entreat you, therefore, to proceed apace with the utmost stealth and discretion.
There was, of course, no ransom demand, but it was easier to invent this falsehood than explain to Sir Thomas the kidnapper’s true motives. Would the post-boy find the baronet at home this evening? And, if he did, would he come to her aid? She had every reason to believe he would, as the gentleman was widely known to be generous, kind-hearted, and charitable. The poor and hungry, she’d heard it said more than once, never entreated at his door in vain.
A few years back, Georgie’s father had suggested Thomas John as a possible husband for her. “He is from a very distinguished family,” he’d said, “and will be the second baronet when his father passes on. You could do worse, my dear. Very much worse indeed.”
Georgie had no objection, despite the young man’s beady eyes, weak chin, overlarge forehead, short stature, and puny build. He, however, despite having studied at Eton and Oxford, was put off by her intellectual curiosity, so that was the end of that.
When the ink was dry, she folded and sealed the letter before taking it down the back stairs to the kitchen. She found the post-boy at once, bolting down a plate of food like he’d not eaten in days.
“Here is the letter,” she said, holding it out to him. “The stickpin I will give you on Boxing Day, after you’ve upheld your end of our bargain. Come to the kitchen door and I will feed you as well.”
She would have liked to trust the lad, but knew that doing so would b
e foolish in the extreme. Not only were post-boys notoriously unreliable, the also were favorite targets of thieves and highwaymen. If he was robbed with the diamond pin on his person, she would lose her inducement as well as her plea for help.
After the boy set off on his pony, Georgie went upstairs to put on warmer clothes. Taking the sleigh seemed the wisest choice, since it offered some warmth, as well as room for a passenger, in case Christian was in no state to ride. Before she left her room, she looked for something, anything, she might employ as a weapon of self-defense. She gathered whatever might serve her—pen-knife, letter-opener, and smelling salts (in case she swooned)—all of which she concealed in her corset before heading downstairs. Pushing her way through the party-goers, she grabbed a heavy, dark-green bottle of brandy off the drinks table and hastened to the stable.
As she readied the sleigh, she considered with a shudder the dangers she faced. Tick Wood occupied a hill halfway between Much Wenlock and Ironbridge, a distance of nearly three miles. Because the soil there supported a rich variety of native flora, she’d visited the woodland numerous times to collect specimens for botanical study.
Never, however, had she ventured into the deep wood in the dead of night. Yes, the thought of doing so, especially in the snow, terrified her, but she was determined to be brave. She took a slug from the brandy bottle, reminding herself that whatever lay in store could not be half as torturous as living with the knowledge that, if not for her cowardice, the man she loved might not have died.
* * * *
Christian returned to his senses with the realization he was bound hand and foot, as well as muzzled with his own neckcloth. He’d also been stripped to his shirtsleeves and, as a consequence, was shivering violently. The terrible throbbing in his skull, rather than his memory, told him he’d been bludgeoned into unconsciousness.
Who had hit him remained a mystery, as did his location. It was too bloody dark even to make out shapes, but he could feel the wall upon which he leaned. Yes, he was sheltered, but not protected from the bitter cold. Already, all sensation had fled his feet, which he only now realized were bare. Whoever bound him had divested him of his boots and his hose. His fingers, too, were numb, and his nose and cheeks burned from the below-freezing temperature.
Judas God. It was as if whoever left him here wanted him to die.
When bile rose in his throat, he swallowed it back down. He had to remain calm and keep his wits about him, if he hoped to stay alive. He wiggled his fingers and toes in an attempt to restore their blood. It seemed to work, God be thanked, because he felt the first faint pins and needles of sensation. The tingling grew stronger until it became a stinging ache. He celebrated his triumph, agonizing though it was.
He stiffened when he heard footsteps. They belonged to a man, wearing his Hessians, judging by their heavy thuds. Thieving bastard. Why did he not flee with his spoils? Did he derive some warped satisfaction from tormenting his victims?
Christian twisted around to get a look at his captor. The thief carried a lantern, but it only cast enough light to reveal the silk waistcoat he’d stolen. Christian screamed: “Untie me this instant and give me back my clothes.”
The gag, maddeningly, muted his demands.
His captor only ridiculed his labors. “Not so high and mighty now, are we, Mr. Churchill?”
“Who are you?” Christian cried with rising alarm. “What do you want with me?”
The man laughed again. When his chortles died down, Christian heard another set of footfalls. By their lightness, he deduced they belonged to a woman. The memory of what had happened to him surged to the surface. Jinny Stubbs had kidnapped him, but for what purpose?
He hoped it was holding him for ransom, because he was reasonably certain his father would pay for his safe release—and eventually bring her and her accomplice to justice. Retribution, conversely, was a much more dangerous incentive. If it was vengeance she sought, she might do anything, even kill him, and nobody would suspect her involvement.
A chill crawled up Christian’s spine when Jinny stepped into the light and, as affectedly as if on the stage, she burst forth with this speech:
“Vile and ingrate! Too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn’d;
Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d.”
Seemingly returning to herself, she added in a spiteful tone, “You were wrong in selecting Lovers’ Vows as your private theatrical. The Mourning Bride would have been much more appropriate. A herald of events to come, you might say.” A wicked smile stole across her lips as she continued. “For just think what your Miss Bennet will suffer when she arrives to find you already dead. Or, better yet, I shall recreate a scene from Romeo and Juliet—the final scene, methinks, in which poor Juliet takes her own life after finding her beloved Romeo dead.”
Christian stared at her in horror as she assumed her dramatis personae once more. “And when I’ve had my revenge and both of you are dead, I shall stand over your lifeless bodies and speak these lines:
“A glooming peace this morning with it rings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”
With a malevolent leer, she turned to Christian and cackled like a witch. “My only regret will be that I did not have a larger audience, for it is sure to be my greatest performance to date.”
Christian knew then that Jinny Stubbs belonged not on the stage, but in Bedlam, as the lunatic asylum in London was known. There, at least, she would have her spectators. To raise money to support their charitable work, the administrators sold tickets to “persons of quality” who wished to gawk at the lunatics like they were sideshow freaks.
Personally, he found “asylum tourism” reprehensible on both sides of the coin. In Jinny’s case, however, he might make an exception. In fact, he would pay a handsome sum to see the wretch harnessed in iron and shackled to her cot. Throw in a Scold’s Bridle to prevent her from speaking and he’d pay even more.
Another wicked laugh jerked him out of his thoughts. “Now all that’s left to devise is how to poison your whore when she arrives. Given her interest in plants, something botanical would fit the bill nicely.” Cupping her chin, she tapped her fingers against her cheek. “But which to use: hemlock, henbane, nightshade, or leopard’s-bane? All are deadly, mark my word, as are cherry laurels, if one distills their leaves.” With another leer in his direction, she tacked on, “I’ll expect you’re surprised by my knowledge of poisons.”
He was surprised, and starting to sweat, despite how cold he was.
She began to gesticulate wildly, her head and body flailing about in frenetic motions. He thought she was having a fit until she began to chant:
“About, about, about
Till the mist arise and the lights fly out
the images neither be seen nor felt
the woolen burn and the waxen melt
Sprinkle your liquor upon the ground and into the air,
around and around …”
Judas God. She really had lost her mind.
“Around and around, around and around
Till a music sound and the pace be found
To which we may dance and our charms advance …”
It wasn’t gibberish she was spouting. It was a spell from a play Christian attended with his parents when he was a lad of twelve: The Masque of Queens, one of the earlier works in a series of masques composed by noted seventeenth-century poet and playwright Ben Jonson.
As she continued her gyrations and recitations, Christian thought he heard bells in the distance. Was he imaging the s
ound? He’d been hit over the head, so it seemed plausible. As the jingling grew louder, he knew the sound was real.
Also apprehending what they signaled, he began to thrash wildly against his restraints. “Let me go, damn you! Let me go!”
Not that he believed for a moment Jinny would set him free, even if she could hear his appeals. It was, therefore, unexpected when she came closer, knelt beside him, and removed his gag.
“You must be thirsty,” she said more kindly than he believed sincere. Then, to her accomplice, she barked, “Fetch me the cup I left on the hearth.”
When he brought the tin cup, Christian, suspicious of its contents, refused to open his mouth. With force enough to break his jaw, the man pried open his mouth whilst Jinny poured the liquid down his throat.
Christian coughed and sputtered, the bitter taste of almonds burning on his tongue. “What did you give me?”
“Cherry-Laurel Water.”
“Is that lethal?”
“Yes, and a very fast-acting one, too.” She leaned in and brushed warm lips against his frozen cheek. “So, goodnight sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!—for you, dear Romeo, shall depart this world before Juliet reaches your tomb.”
As the poison infiltrated his bloodstream, Christian’s eyelids grew heavy. He battled in vain to keep them open, so he might catch one final glimpse of Georgie’s face. As he surrendered to the darkness stealing over him, a fragment of one of Byron’s verses floated ghost-like through his mind:
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
