CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
S
toker proved a true connoisseur of sweets, selecting not only humbugs but bull’s-eyes and acid drops and a bar of mint cake.
He tucked them into various pockets, looking far happier than I had yet seen him.
Without discussion, we turned our steps south, towards the river, and after a long walk reached the Embankment.
The day continued fine, and we could see pleasure boaters plying their craft along the waters of the Thames, the bellies of the sails swelling with a soft late spring breeze.
“One feels quite removed here from the bustle of the city,” I observed.
“Hm,” Stoker agreed, his teeth no doubt stuck together by one of the atrocities he had just purchased.
I turned to remonstrate with him, but just as I did, I heard the footsteps, running hard.
Sensing the danger, Stoker reached for my hand, but it was too late.
They were upon us, a gang of ruffians bent upon seizing the pair of us.
I kicked and clawed and cursed them roundly as they shoved my head into a sack.
I don’t know what Stoker did, but I could hear the sounds of a struggle and words that chilled me to my marrow.
“We only have need of her.
If he keeps fighting, do what you must,” instructed a low voice.
I went still, straining my ears to hear more.
I was held, quite tightly, but one of my arms had been caught up near my head, the hand trapped in the sack.
I wriggled my fingers until I reached my hatpin, slipping it free.
I had one chance, and I grasped it, driving the hatpin straight into the arm that pinioned me.
There was a great howl of pain and surprise, and I was hoisted unceremoniously into the air and flung over a solid shoulder.
I heard a blow and a low groan that was unmistakably Stoker.
I only hoped he had the wit to stop resisting and acquiesce to our abductors.
I could not tell how many men it took to subdue him, but I could distinguish a number of footsteps, first on pavement, then on wood, the dull thud of the planks and the plashing of little wavelets making it apparent they had taken us onto the river.
There was a moment of struggle, as if my abductor found it challenging to keep his balance, and the world began to rock.
We were on a boat, and the fact that they had snatched us in broad daylight spoke volumes about their desperation.
I was set down hard upon my bottom—upon a sort of bench, I thought, and my assailant put a hand firmly to my shoulder.
“Do not move,” he ordered.
He made no attempt to bind me, but I did as he commanded, biding my time.
I heard the rough sound of an engine being started and from the abrupt shifting of the boat deduced it was a small one, every motion of our captors setting it to rocking.
There was a flurry of orders and our little craft was under way.
I strained my ears to detect any sign of Stoker’s presence, but I heard nothing apart from the hurried whispers of the villainous wretches who had seized us.
No one approached me for a long while—no doubt they were too bent upon getting right away, but if they expected me to beg for information or release, they would be mightily disappointed, I vowed.
I sat with perfect composure, hands tucked into my pockets, and waited for something to happen.
It took an exceedingly long time before something did.
I amused myself by reciting poetry under my breath—not Keats; I found Byron to be much more appropriate for an abduction.
At length, something over an hour later given how long it took me to remember “The Giaour,” the sacking was plucked from my head and I emerged, dazed and blinking, into the afternoon light to face my captor.
“Hello, Mr. de Clare,” I said courteously.
“I presumed you were my abductor, but I hated to rob you of your dramatic flourish.”
Mr. de Clare gave a rueful shake of the head.
“Miss Speedwell, I regret the necessity for this more than you know.
But I am afraid you have forced my hand.”
I seized the opportunity to look about and take stock of my situation.
The weather had turned for the worse, and in place of the bright sunlight, a cover of grey cloud had descended.
The boat, as I had guessed, was a small thing—a pleasure yacht of minute proportions and little power, although it was bowling along handsomely under sail.
The engine was still ticking on, and the tide was running out, so it was apparent that Mr. de Clare was putting as much distance as possible between us and London proper.
I was not altogether familiar with the Thames or its environs, but just then a sight hove into view that would have gladdened the heart of any Englishwoman.
It needed only a moment’s glance at the long, elegant facade to recognize that we were almost upon the Royal Naval College at Greenwich.
Having established our whereabouts, I made a quick inventory of the boat.
On the deck, stretched out on his back, Stoker lay perfectly still.
His head was still hidden by a sack, but his chest rose in deep, even breaths, and I saw no visible injury.
“Well, at least you haven’t murdered anyone yet,” I said pleasantly.
I looked again to Stoker, whose breath began to alter strangely.
His chest began to twitch in an odd pattern, and he looked for all the world as if he were going to have a fit of some sort.
I stared hard at him, and after a moment, I turned my attention to the other occupants of the boat.
Besides Mr. de Clare, there were four other men—of the working classes from the look of their clothes.
And one of them was remarkably tall.
The other three were indistinguishable, dressed in serviceable plain clothes with unremarkable features.
I doubted if their wives even bothered to tell them apart.
As for me, I was far more interested in the large fellow who turned just then so that I saw his face.
“You!”
I exclaimed.
Mr. de Clare smiled thinly.
“Yes, you have already made the acquaintance of Silent John.
I regret the muddle he made of things at your cottage.
He is deplorably incapable at times,” he added with a scornful glance at his colleague.
Silent John merely stood, his booted feet a yard apart on the deck, his expression blank.
“You see?”
Mr. de Clare turned to me.
“Incapable.
He must be told what to do in very specific terms, and when you came upon him at your cottage, he was thrown into a quandary.”
“He tried to abduct me,” I returned icily.
“As you just have.”
“Abduction is a strong word,” he remonstrated.
“You have not been bound or injured.
I have merely taken steps to ensure that we can speak without interference.
You have left me no choice.
I have much to tell you, Miss Speedwell.”
I wondered whether to acknowledge that I knew my mother’s identity—or that I surmised he was my uncle.
But before I could make up my mind upon the point, he glanced to Stoker’s recumbent form.
Stoker had begun to have a fit, his legs kicking as his hands tightened into fists that drummed rhythmically against the deck.
Mr. de Clare signaled to Silent John, who pulled the sack from Stoker’s head.
His eyes were rolled back into his head and his lips were drawn back in a snarl as he foamed a little at the mouth.
“We have no need of him and he has proven an encumbrance,” Mr. de Clare said with an expression of distaste.
He flicked his gaze to Silent John.
“We must complete Miss Speedwell’s liberation from this fellow.
Drop him overboard.”
If I had any doubts as to his villainy, that decided me.
Without hesitation, Silent John lifted Stoker as if he weighed no more than thistledown and dropped him over the side of the boat.
He made a hefty splash as he went in, and I jumped to my feet.
“Calm yourself, Miss Speedwell,” Mr. de Clare instructed.
“I do not know precisely how far he has exercised control over you, but you need fear nothing.
He is gone, and we are here to protect you.”
He took a step closer to me, but I had chosen my moment well.
I took my hand from my pocket, brandishing the tiny revolver Lady Cordelia had given me.
“Stand back,” I commanded.
Mr. de Clare stopped, raising his hands in astonishment.
“There is no need for this, my dear.
Now, put the revolver down and let us talk.”
“I am quite finished talking to you,” I told him.
He jerked his head to Silent John, who began to advance upon me.
I sighed.
I had no wish to shoot the fellow in spite of what he had done to Stoker.
I lifted my hand and pulled my hatpin free.
The wind snatched at my violet-trimmed hat and carried it off just as Silent John reached for my revolver.
I let him take it, luring him near, and as his fingers closed over the weapon, I drove the hatpin into his arm, pushing hard until I felt it strike bone.
He gave a deep cry of animal anguish and stumbled backward, but I already had one foot upon the rail.
I gave my uncle a quick salute and dove overboard, letting the noisome green water of the Thames close over my head.
The river was far colder than I expected, the shock of it driving the air straight out of my lungs.
I kicked to the surface, or at least I meant to, but my skirts, heavy with water, dragged me back again.
I realized then that I had miscalculated my strength as a swimmer when fully clothed.
I had just begun to consider the very real possibility of death by drowning when I felt something hard clasp me about the waist.
The water was far too murky to see, but I knew that arm.
It settled firmly around me, urging me backward on a hard male torso, and I relaxed against him.
He pulled us calmly and easily to the surface.
I glanced up to see we were just behind the stern of the boat.
Stoker, perfectly restored to health and sense, put a finger to his lips and held me up as I gulped in several deep breaths.
Above us but looking in entirely the wrong direction, Edmund de Clare and his henchmen searched the river frantically.
Stoker pointed to the steps of the Naval College a little distance away, and held up three fingers.
I breathed in, and he held up two.
I took one last precious lungful of air and he pulled me below the water again.