Chapter Twelve
Marcus was about to enter the front door of Alverleigh House when his carriage pulled up, the door flew open, and before the groom had time to let down the steps, Bragge, his aunt’s dresser, jumped unsteadily out and staggered toward him. She looked dusty, disheveled and very distressed.
“Bragge?” Marcus exclaimed. “Whatever has happened?”
“M’lady,” she gasped. “Kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?”
She nodded. “Taken off in a carriage.”
“Who was it? Could you describe them?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, m’lord. It happened so fast I didn’t see their faces. I couldn’t stop them. They knocked me to the ground and—”
“Never mind that. It wasn’t your fault. Where did this happen?”
“Outside the House of Chance. Lady Hewitt was getting her final fitt—”
Cutting her off, Marcus turned to the butler who’d been hovering and uttering small distressed sounds. “Peverill, take Miss Bragge inside and see to her needs. And send your two strongest footmen to come with me. Oh, and inform my aunt as to what has happened.”
In minutes he was inside his coach, returning to the scene of the crime, with a groom riding on the back and two footmen inside. And with two loaded dueling pistols in the capacious pockets of his coat.
His brain was racing. His stomach knotted in fear. Who would kidnap Tessa? If Edgar had remained in England he would be the obvious choice, but he was gone.
Or was he? Had he escaped from the ship? Returned to England?
He scribbled a note, then handed it to one of the footmen.
Take this to Mr Gil Radcliffe at the Horse Guards.
Hand it to him and only him—don’t allow anyone to fob you off.
Tell them it’s urgent. A matter of life and death!
” A cold sliver of ice ran down his spine as he said it. Pray he was wrong about that.
Pray Radcliffe could help. He might know something. Radcliffe was uncanny like that.
The carriage slowed. The footman jumped down and ran off, the note clutched in his hand, and they continued on to the House of Chance.
Standing outside was a small, elegantly dressed woman clutching the arm of a burly-looking fellow in a luridly colored waistcoat. She was clearly distressed.
“That’s the dressmaker,” the remaining footman said. “I dunno who the big bloke is.”
Marcus jumped down and the little woman rushed up. “Oh, Lord Alverleigh, I’m that sorry about—”
He brushed her apologies aside. “What happened?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see it. The first I knew was when I heard a scream, and by the time I came outside, there was a carriage driving away and poor Miss Bragge in the gutter, struggling to get up.”
“Which direction did the carriage go in?”
She pointed. “But then it turned the corner and I couldn’t see it no—anymore.”
The burly man said, “I’ve questioned a few people who saw what happened. There were two men and a driver. The carriage was old and shabby, but the horses pulling it were good.” He was Irish by his accent.
Marcus frowned. Who the devil was this fellow? Was he part of this?
The Irishman seemed to read his doubts. “Me name’s Flynn.
This is me wife’s shop. She’s mighty upset about such a thing happening to one of her clients—we both are.
And she’s especially fond of Lady Hewitt.
So, I’m here to help.” He proffered his hand and as Marcus shook it, Flynn added, “I’m accounted a fair hand in a fight. ”
Marcus could believe it. The man looked fit and brawny, and despite the obvious expense of his clothing, and the colorful silk waistcoat, his hands were big and bore scars from a hard life.
And he was obviously a quick thinker, having questioned any onlookers. Marcus glanced around hoping for inspiration. “Nobody saw anything?”
Flynn grimaced. “Nothing useful. It was over so quickly, all most people knew was a scream and a poor lady fallen into the gutter—never mind a kidnapped one. I did get one description: Two men in plain coats, both with hats pulled low and one with a scarf around his mouth.” He grimaced again. “Could be anyone.”
At that point a hackney cab pulled up, and Marcus’s footman jumped down accompanied by Radcliffe’s men, Sims and Jackson. The footman handed Marcus a note. It was from Radcliffe.
My men are 100% reliable. If they said they’d put Blaxland on a ship to America, they did it. I’m sending them to help in the search. In the meantime I’ll do my best to dig out any useful information. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.
Best of luck, Radcliffe.
Marcus nodded at the men. It was all very well having help, but where the hell had they taken her?
He had no idea where to look. There was no point just randomly rushing off and searching.
This was London, the largest city in the world, with a thousand hidden alleyways down which criminals could dive, and dozens of rookeries that were home to the poor, the desperate and the criminal.
Doubtless the rational thing to do would be to go home and wait for the ransom—surely there would be a ransom demand.
But he wasn’t feeling rational: he was beside himself with worry.
He couldn’t possibly go home and wait tamely for a ransom note.
In any case his aunt was there to receive any demand.
If one came.
He prayed one would. He’d pay anything to get Tessa back, safe and sound. Oh lord, what if they hurt her? Or worse? He couldn’t bear it.
He needed her to be safe, to be with him. But what could he do? Where had they taken her?
He paced back and forth in front of the elegant little shop, trying to work out what to do, fruitlessly scanning his surrounds for any hint of where they’d gone, the questions eating at him.
Who would kidnap her? Some unknown enemy?
He couldn’t think of any. What were they doing to her?
Was she terrified? Of course she was. Any woman would be.
He paced, trying to think of what to do, flooded with anxiety and fuming at his own impotence.
Just then a grubby, ragged urchin came running up, gasping for breath. It was Joey, the boy he’d been trying to tempt off the streets. He grabbed Marcus’s sleeve. His mouth opened and closed like a fish as he gasped to catch his breath. “Me lady,” he finally wheezed.
“What of her?” Marcus said, suddenly intent.
Joey continued his fight to catch his breath, his narrow chest heaving with exertion. A few precious moments later he rasped huskily, “I saw ‘em take her.”
“What?”
A few more gasping breaths and the boy said, “An’ I know where she is.”
Marcus grabbed him by the shoulders. “How? Where?”
In between gasps, the boy said, “I been watching ‘im—that bad’un I told you about. He’s bin follerin’ her around, so I bin follerin him. ‘E’s the one what took her. I saw ‘im do it.”
Marcus clamped down on his impatience. After a few more deep, ragged breaths Joey continued. “I saw ‘im grab ‘er, so I nipped across the road and jumped on the back of ‘is carriage an’ hung on like blue blazes—it din’t ‘alf go fast.”
He stopped to gulp in another few deep breaths.
“An’ when it stopped and they took me lady out—she’s got a dirty great bag over ‘er head and she couldn’t walk—they ‘ad her feet tied—but I fink she’s all right.
She wasn’t crying or nuffin’. So I hid and watched, and when they took ‘er inside, I legged it.” On a final great gasp, he finished, “An’ then I come back here coz I figgered you’d be here. Plus, it was closer than your place.”
“Good lad. Can you show us where they went?”
The boy nodded. “Course.”
Marcus sent one of the footmen back to tell his aunt what was going on. Radcliffe’s men, the brawniest footman and Flynn piled into the carriage—the extra pairs of fists would be useful. He and Joey sat up top with the coachman and groom, so that Joey could direct them.
#
THEY WOVE IN AND OUT of the traffic, down ever smaller, narrower and more noisome lanes and alleys, young Joey telling the coachman where to go.
Marcus was beside himself. The questions pounded through his brain, the same questions over and over. Was she all right? Had they hurt her? Who’d kidnapped her? And why?
If they’d hurt her, or worse. . . His chest seized. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to live without her. She was his life.
Finally, the streets became so narrow they had to get down and go by foot. “Not far now,” Joey said.
Marcus prayed he was right. So much was riding on this small scruffy boy’s sense of direction. His whole happiness in fact.
#
“SHE’S IN THERE,” JOEY whispered, pointing at a narrow, ramshackle building, seemingly unoccupied, with roughly boarded-over windows. “You can see in through that crack.”
Marcus was so tense he could hardly breathe.
He peered through the crack in the boarded-up window.
His breath came back in a rush. There she was, tied to a chair by the look of it.
As the boy had said, a bag had been tied over her head, but it was Tessa, he knew.
She sat up straight, seeming quite calm—or maybe it was because she was tied up so tight and couldn’t move.
Relief rippled through him. She was alive. Suddenly he was calm—furious but calm. He knew exactly what to do.
Through the crack he examined as much of the room as he could. Only two men with Tessa. But there could be more, out of his vision range.
“Good lad,” he told Joey again. “You wait behind when we go in.”
“Oh but—”the boy began.
Marcus said firmly, “On no account are you to enter. There will be a fight, and I don’t want you there when that happens.” The boy had done enough. He didn’t want him to get hurt. Or in the way. “Do you understand?”
The boy gave him a rebellious look.
“I need you to keep watch,” Marcus told him, “And if anything goes wrong, you must take the news to my aunt. It’s a very important job.” But nothing would go wrong, he vowed silently. His blood was ice in his veins.
The boy hesitated, then reluctantly nodded and secreted himself in a nearby alcove.
Marcus glanced at his men. “Ready? On the count of three.”