Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
DUNROSE WAS IN his cups and rattling about in the kitchen when Nothshire got downstairs. Nothshire hadn’t locked her in. He’d realized, after closing the door, that the latch was on the inside, and he had no means to secure her. He could have stayed and attempted to do something about that problem, but he was too shaken to know what to do about that.
Dunrose looked up when Nothshire appeared, but slowly, squinting at him as if he could not make him out. Then, chuckling to himself, he went back to whatever he was doing, which involved a loaf of bread. He was struggling to unwrap it from the cloth that contained it. “Evening, Nothshire,” he said.
Nothshire shoved him out of the way and unwrapped the bread quickly.
“Oh, thank you,” said Dunrose, still chuckling. He rested a hand on the wooden countertop and sniffed. “You know what the problem with bread is?”
“No,” said Nothshire, “but I do have a problem, Dunrose, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”
“Why make it like this?” Dunrose gestured. “It’s unwieldy in its size, you see? How am I meant to get that into my mouth?” He mimed picking up the entire loaf and stretching his mouth very, very wide.
“Most people slice it,” said Nothshire.
“Ah,” said Dunrose. “Right.” He nodded as if Nothshire had said something very sage.
“Anyway,” said Nothshire, “I went to the crossroads tonight.”
“I remember you saying you were going to do that,” said Dunrose. “Someone said—it was you.” He pointed at Nothshire. “ You said that it was foolish to try to seek our quarry there, for no one goes that route out of London anymore. You said we should let it lie for some time and let people start going back through and then go back. I remember this conversation rather clearly, and I really should have brought it up earlier.” He turned away, resting against the countertop, squinting as he looked around the kitchen. “Why doesn’t Bess have any servants doing servant things? Have we asked her this?”
“Well, I’ve done something,” said Nothshire.
“Mmm,” said Dunrose.
“Oh, why am I telling you this?” muttered Nothshire. “Is anyone else here tonight? Rutchester? Is he here?”
“I have no idea,” said Dunrose. “Do you see a knife anywhere?”
“What do you want a knife for?”
“To slice the bread. Keep up. We are even now having a serious conversation about the deep intricacies involved in the process of trying to consume bread. What are you talking about?”
Nothshire rolled his eyes. He turned round and picked up the knife that was sitting right next to the bread and began to slice it.
Dunrose turned. “Ah! Clever you. Look at that. I don’t know why everyone says you’re worthless, Nothshire. You’re brilliant sometimes. You know, I wonder why they don’t simply slice all the bread and leave it sliced, hmm?”
“It gets hard and stale quicker that way,” said Nothshire.
“Maybe they could make it with, erm, a preservative or—”
“Here. Take your damnable bread,” Nothshire shoved a slice at him.
“ Butter, ” said Dunrose. “What I wouldn’t give for some butter.”
Nothshire set the bread back down, reached round for the earthenware container full of butter and shook it in Dunrose’s face. Then, setting it down, he left the kitchen.
“Where are you off to?” said Dunrose.
“Looking for Rutchester,” said Nothshire, as he left the kitchen.
“He’s not here,” came Dunrose’s voice.
“You could have told me this before, when I asked,” said Nothshire, who was moving down the corridor towards the front parts of the building. Bess’s place had a front room, for regulars, where the girls would often be lounging around. Sometimes, they all spent hours there, though—with the notable exception of Dunrose—none of them were particularly enamored of the strumpets here.
For his part, Nothshire never touched them. He had his reasons, his own ideas of honor. It was odd, wasn’t it? The noblewomen, they were too soft for him, and it was too horrifying a thing to think of sullying them. But the other women, these women, they were hard in a way that made him feel as if they were already sullied, and it turned his stomach in some other way.
He didn’t know what sort of woman he could touch, truly. He’d perhaps yet to find one, and his few forays in that activity had turned him off the idea of it almost entirely. The others made jests as his expense, called him a monk, that sort of thing. But he didn’t care. They could think whatever they wanted. He had to live with himself, and he wasn’t going to cross certain lines.
However, before he made it into that room, he ducked his head into another room, a smaller room that was set up with a few mismatched chairs that flanked a fireplace. There was a table in there, too, knee-height, and it was often cluttered with flagons and bottles and the like. This was their room.
Arthford was in there. He was reading a book, puffing on a pipe. He looked up at Nothshire. “How’d it go? You’re back early, and it’s not like you to give up so quickly. Did you manage to come away with a trunk of jewels and coin? Lucky bastard. I never understand how it is that you decide to do the absolute least intelligent thing and it always works out for you.”
“That’s not what I do,” said Nothshire, coming into the room. “I kidnapped someone.”
“Kidnapping!” Arthford set down his book, all ears. “Well, then, this is quite the step up in our relative villainies. What’s next? Shall we commandeer one of those slave boats in the Indies? Turn to piracy, perhaps? I think Dunrose would like it if we all went into the opium trade.”
“The more money it appears we have, the more Champeraigne demands, as we all know,” said Nothshire. “So, no, no investments. Are we really having this conversation again?”
“Oh, don’t talk to me like I’m Dunrose,” said Arthford. “Where is he, anyway? Did he pass out going to the privy outside? I told him there’s a chamberpot in the corner, and he wandered off anyway.”
“He’s eating bread,” said Nothshire. “Must not have been into the laudanum, I suppose. That tends to mute his appetite.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who did you kidnap?”
Nothshire sat down in a chair across from Arthford and looked into the fireplace. It was empty and black and cold, far too warm in July for a fire. “Well, a carriage stopped. A nice- looking one, at that. I’d seen a few go through, more than usual—”
“Well, yes, you did say, with the road blocked in the other route we might be lucky tonight,” said Arthford. “You’re deliberately drawing this out, are you not?”
“ You have even now interrupted me .”
Arthford puffed on his pipe, snickering. “Oh, a thousand pardons. Carry on, Your Grace.”
“I stopped it, issued the standard warning, and the driver told me that he was happy enough to cooperate but that it was only his mistress and her maid aboard, and he’d appreciate it if I were not to overly upset them, for they were nervous about traveling through the crossroads. I inquired who his mistress was, and he told me it was the Viscountess of Balley.”
“Oho! That chit of a thing that Balley seemed bound and determined to have, by any means necessary. He practically raised her brother singlehandedly out of debt, didn’t he? Well done, Nothshire. Well done indeed.”
“You think so?” Nothshire swallowed.
“Is it not a good thing? I think we send someone directly to Balley, even now, with some kind of cryptic note. Why, he’ll meet us at sunrise with nearly anything we ask, I should think. Should we give him more time to gather a fabulous sum?” Arthford grinned, waggling his eyebrows.
“Well, she recognized me,” said Nothshire.
“Oh.” Arthford made a face. “Well, we’ve known that might happen. Honestly, it’s rather surprising it hasn’t happened yet. Hmm. What to do about that?”
“It’s not really a problem. She’ll tell her husband who I am, and he’ll come after me, and I’ll deny it, and he’ll challenge me to a duel, and I shan’t appear, and then, well, what recourse does he have then? Hunt me down and shoot me in my bed? No, we’ll say it’s all bollocks and we’ll regroup and do something different. We should be French, don’t you think? How’s that as a different sort of plan? We can have another name, something… I don’t know… Napoleonic? And we’ll pretend we’re some arm of the French army, reaching into England—”
“That’s fantastic,” said Arthford. “It’s a wonder we didn’t think of such a thing before.” He dumped out his pipe. “All right, then, so it’s all settled? Who shall we get to deliver the ransom note?”
“She’s got a bruise on her face.”
“Does she.” Arthford shrugged.
“I don’t want to send her back to him.”
Arthford sighed heavily. “Oh, God in heaven, Nothshire.”
Nothshire leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “Come now, Simon, come now. We can’t do that to her.”
Arthford was silent for some time. Eventually, he said, softly, “It’s the way of the world, Benedict.”
“We do not believe that, or we would not, even now, be in the situation we find ourselves in,” said Nothshire, fierce.
“That is not true.”
“Oh, your own mother—”
“Yes, but that does not mean that the rest of us see everything the way you do. You have some foolish and naive view of the world, wherein we did that black act out of some higher sense of justice, and even with all the evidence to the contrary—”
“It had to be done.”
“It most certainly did not, and we all regret it now.”
Nothshire sat back in his chair, unwilling to have this conversation again either. “I would do it again.”
“No, you would not,” said Arthford. “Knowing everything it led to, you would not .”
Nothshire looked back into the fireplace again.
“She doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” said Arthford. “And you can’t know anything about the situation. I think you’re inferring some level of misery that you can’t infer. You can’t be sure it’s the same level of unbearable agony that you went through, or even that my mother went through. You don’t know.”
Nothshire had to concede this was true. “I suppose not. It could have been an accident, or it could have been an isolated incident. The number of times Rutchester has struck out in some drunken rage, for instance, one wouldn’t…” He trailed off. “I wouldn’t send a woman back to Rutchester either, though.”
Arthford laughed. “No, I suppose not. Rutchester is…”
Nothshire shrugged. “Leaving Rutchester aside, you’re correct. She is married to that man, and I have to send her back to him. She has no other recourse. It’s not as if I could free her from that situation in some way.”
“No,” said Arthford. “You cannot.”
Nothshire rubbed his chin. “What if I said I’d bedded her?”
“Why would you do that? He’d most certainly come and shoot you in your bed then.”
“Well, perhaps he’d leave her be. Perhaps he’d think she was so ruined by my touch that he’d bundle her off to some estate in the north and leave her there, and she could live out her life—”
“He’d take it out on her.”
“Right,” muttered Nothshire. “Most likely beat her to death.”
“Is she pretty? Is this the one girl in all the world who tempts our dear Benedict to sin?” Arthford laughed at him.
“I don’t know,” said Nothshire. “I didn’t really look at her in that way.”
“How do you look at a woman in any other way?”
Nothshire sighed.
“The ransom note,” said Arthford. “What should it say?”
Nothshire rubbed his forehead. “Will you write it, then?”
“I think it should be me, since I’m the best at disguising my handwriting.”
“Right,” said Nothshire. “Well, I think we must decide what to demand, hadn’t we? It should be quite a lot.”
“Oh, quite a lot,” said Arthford.
WHEN PATIENCE TRIED the door and found it open, she scolded herself for having waited so long to have even attempted it. She had sat on that bed, holding onto Dash, frightened and timid, doing nothing at all, and all along, the door wasn’t even locked.
Well, no matter, she was free.
She gathered up Dash, who whined his disapproval, and she shushed him, telling him to be a good dog, as she moved into the hallway.
She looked back at the way they’d come up, and then down to the end of the hallway. There was another staircase at the end, a wider staircase. They’d come up a set of servants’ stairs, she thought, and she debated which would be the better way to go. If she went down that narrow set of steps again, would she be more or less likely to run into anyone?
Some part of her said to take the wider steps, but she thought that was only because she wished not to traverse the path she’d already traversed. No, it made more sense to go down the narrow steps. Besides, she knew the way out this way.
Decided, she started down the steps, her footfalls careful, because the steps were very difficult to navigate.
Dash barked and the sound was loud and she tensed, gritting her teeth.
The dog took that moment to leap out of her arms and go scurrying down the rest of the stairs.
Dash it all!
She rushed after him, whispering his name, thinking that she was going to have go chasing through the house for her dog, and thinking that also, she should leave him, because she was in a terrible situation and trying to save her dog of all things was the stupidest thing that a woman could do. It was exactly the kind of tender-hearted idiocy that was going to lead to her being ravished or recaptured or hurt.
And yet, she could not bear it, leaving Dash behind. She would not.
Luckily, when she got back into the kitchen, Dash was eating bread crumbs off the floor.
There was a man in the kitchen, a man she thought looked vaguely familiar. He was toying with a long, serrated bread knife and eyeing Dash.
She put her body between the man and her dog. “Don’t you think about it!” she gasped.
The man looked up at her face. “Who are you?”
Dunrose. That man was the Duke of Dunrose. She had seen him at a ball, only two weeks ago, not that she’d been able to dance with anyone, for her husband had claimed every spot on her dance card, even though it was extremely impolite for married people to dance together at balls. Once might be permitted, but every dance was simply not done, and she’d been horrifyingly embarrassed. The Duke of Dunrose had been extremely drunk, knocking over tables in the tea room, singing some bawdy song at the top of his lungs. She had heard whispers, that the man was always thus, that he was a well-known drunkard. “Y-your Grace,” she said in surprise.
Dunrose smiled at her, still toying with the knife.
“You cannot hurt my dog,” she said to him.
“I wasn’t going to hurt your dog,” he said, disgusted by the thought of it. “I’m trying to cut bread.”
“Oh,” she said, noticing that there was bread sitting out, unwrapped. She drew in a breath and made a quick decision. “Your Grace, I’m in terrible danger, and I need you to put me under your protection and get me free of this place!”
He looked her over. “You’re not a strumpet, are you?”
“No!” She was horrified.
“No, that wouldn’t make sense,” said Dunrose with a shrug. “I know all the strumpets in this place after all, and you aren’t dressed like one and you don’t talk like one.” He held the knife out to her. “Well, here we are, then. I shall be quite happy to do whatever it is that you require if you will but first cut me another slice of bread and spread some butter on it, because I’m having a devil of a time with that bit. I actually ate the last slice plain, and bread without butter is a crime against heaven, I believe.”
She reeled, blinking at him. “You wish me to…” She looked at the bread. “You know, I’m in danger right now, and I don’t truly have time for this.”
“Well, how long will it really take you?” said Dunrose. “If I weren’t so very drunk, it wouldn’t take me long. I don’t seem to remember it being so very complicated, anyway, but I am having such trouble.” He he proffered the knife again, handle first.
She took it. “This is ridiculous, Your Grace. I have been abducted by one of the Lords of the Crossroads and taken here against my will, and I am in no position to slice bread!” But she was doing it. She cut two slices for good measure and began slathering them with butter, using the bread knife, which… she then realized would likely render it too buttery to be used on the bread for cutting.
It was honestly hard to cut bread than she had thought. Both of her slices were far thicker at the top than they were at the bottom. How did people manage this?
Dunrose took one of the slices of bread and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, muttering noises that might have been grateful, but she couldn’t understand him, because his mouth was full.
She backed away, hands on her hips, shaking her head. What was she even doing? There was the door. Perhaps she might just go on her own. “Did you come here on horseback or by carriage?”
Dunrose swallowed. “Horseback.” He hiccuped. “Ah, nothing like some bread after too much ale, I must say. I thank you… pardon, what did you say your name was?”
“I don’t suppose you have a side saddle,” she muttered.
“No, I don’t ride side saddle,” said Dunrose, laughing as if she’d said something positively ludicrous.
“We’re not that far from London,” she said. “I might be able to walk it.” She shook herself. Yes, that was exactly the right thing to do. She nodded. “Come on, Dash.”
The dog was still eating bread crumbs.
Dunrose chuckled at Dash. He bent down and offered his buttery fingers to the dog, who licked them happily.
“Oh, stop that,” said Patience. “Dash, come with me now.”
“Are you going somewhere?” said Dunrose.
“Yes,” she said, snapping at Dash, who reluctantly left behind the crumbs to trot over to her. She went to the door and opened it. The flush of the warm summer night hit her face. She stepped outside.
“Everyone keeps walking out on me!” came Dunrose’s voice from within. “Is it something I’ve said? Perhaps I have something stuck in my teeth.” He came to the door. “You’d tell me if I had something stuck in my teeth, would you not?”
“You don’t have anything stuck in your teeth,” she said. She started to walk away, and Dash came along with her.
“Where are you going?” said Dunrose.
“Back to London,” she said.
“Well, that’s that way,” said Dunrose.
She turned and looked to see which way he was pointing. Oh, dash it all, why was she so terrible at keeping direction in her head?
“You’re welcome,” said Dunrose, shutting the door.
She squared her shoulders. Should she even trust him? Well, she might as well try it. She started off into the night, Dash trailing along behind her.