Chapter Twenty-Six
“W hat is your plan?” Jackie asked, once Beddington House was in sight.
Drew clearly favored the bold approach, for he proposed to knock on the door and ask to see Oscar Riese himself. “He will deny all knowledge of the abduction, of course, but his reaction will be interesting. Jamir, go round the back to the mews and see if you can see the carriage. Miss de Haricot, I suggest you stay out of sight. You are safe with us but let us not complicate matters.”
There was a lane down one side of the house, which was the end house in a row. Jamir headed down it to check the carriage house in the mews, and Jackie went with him as far as the lane. She stopped in a place where a tall tree obscured any view from the house, and Jamir went on without her.
Drew’s plan was for the best. He was right that the sight of her would put Oscar on guard. But she hated being shoved to one side. She edged past the tree to gaze up at the house. Only a fool would have a man kidnapped and brought to his own house, but Oscar was a fool. Perhaps Pol was inside even now.
A movement in one of the upper windows caught her eye, and she stepped back under the tree, but as she did, the afternoon sun on the window highlighted markings that she had missed on first glance.
Surely no one in the house could possibly recognize her, with her bonnet casting her face deeper into shadow? She leaned forward just enough to see that the words on the window. “I am here. A.” And then a circle surrounded by radiating lines. A sun? Apollo!
“Careful, Miss,” said the foreign retainer who had been left to guard her. “Best stay under the tree.”
The man Jackie had seen was no longer at the window, but surely the message meant Pol was in that room? “Pol is up there,” she told the man. “See? He has written on the window.”
Jamir joined them as they gazed upward. “Pol is there,” she said.
“The carriage isn’t,” Jamir replied, “but the grooms described the same vehicle and team that the street sweeper saw. They say the master’s friends had it out, and then, when it arrived back half an hour ago, the master and his mother took it out again.”
“So, it must be Pol up there,” Jackie declared.
“The grooms deny seeing anyone except the master’s friends,” Jamir told her.
A few minutes later, Drew and the rest of the men came round the house and joined them under the tree.
“Riese isn’t at home,” Drew reported. “Or so the butler claims, and nor is his mother. The butler clammed up when I asked about visitors, voluntary or involuntary.”
Jamir repeated what the grooms had told him, and Jackie pointed out the message on the window. “We have to go and get him,” she said.
“We cannot storm the house, Miss de Haricot,” Drew told her. “Quite apart from the fact that it would be illegal, we don’t know how many men Oscar Riese has. Better to get a magistrate’s warrant to search legally. I’ll leave a couple of men on watch, and we’ll consult with my father. If he lays an information with a magistrate, I’m sure we’ll be able to get Pol out—if not today, then tomorrow. If he’s there.”
“He is there,” Jackie insisted. “You can see the sun symbol.”
“The grooms didn’t see anyone taken into the house from the carriage,” Jamir pointed out.
“That message might have been there for years,” Drew commented.
Jackie didn’t agree, but she could not convince them, and in the end, the horses arrived, with one of Drew’s younger brothers in a high-perch phaeton. Jackie had to give up. She clearly would not get far trying to get into the house on her own. However, if Drew’s plan of involving a magistrate didn’t work, she was going to do something on her own. And she had an idea.
Meanwhile, she accepted a ride in the phaeton, and returned to Winshire House, surrounded by handsome horsemen. If she had not been so worried about Pol it would have been fun.
*
No one opened the locked door to the room as the day dragged on. Since he had nothing to do, Pol stood by the window until he judged himself tired enough to sleep, then lay down on the mattress.
Sleep would not come. His mind wanted to indulge in an endless tumble of if-onlys and what-ifs. If only I had not followed the dog out of the gate. What if I had asked a footman to take Scruffy out. If only I had something with which to pick the lock. What if they have forgotten I am here.
All pointless. He corralled it into thinking about Jackie instead. She would be looking for him, and so would the duke’s men. He could be certain of that. If he could do nothing to rescue himself, he could trust her to bring the reserves and get him out of here.
Unless they moved him somewhere else. By now, Lady Riese—Louella Riese—must be aware of the idiotic stunt her son’s henchmen had pulled. She would realize, even if Oscar didn’t, that the duke’s men would leave no stone unturned.
Someone must have seen the carriage leaving the lane by Winshire House, even at that early hour. And if that was Scruffy he had heard, then someone must have seen a dog chasing the carriage.
But what if they arrived too late? His mind shied away from one interpretation of that remark. After all, he could do nothing to stop them from killing him except point out the futility of it. Killing him wasn’t going to save the Rieses now he had evidence of their theft of the title.
On the other hand, since they had not balked at one murder, another would hardly bother them. However, what if they ran and took him with them? He should leave a message for Jackie—he had no doubt she would be with the rescuers.
On the windows, again? No. On the wall inside the room where he’d written on the window. Sunlight streamed in from two sides via the windows, so there wasn’t a dark corner in the room. He’d be able to see to create his message. A love letter on a wall.
He had finished and was regarding his handiwork when he heard the key in the lock. As swiftly and silently as he could, he hurried back into the main room and lowered himself to the mattress.
Just in time, for the door opened and half a dozen men—all Whitelys to judge from their resemblance to the two among them he’d already met—strutted inside, two of them pointing guns at him.
“Stay there, Allegro,” one of them growled.
Pol didn’t bother answering. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything to say to them.
Then Louella Riese entered, Oscar at her heels.
She glared at Pol, her eyes narrowed, but her remark when it came was addressed to Oscar. “You should have left him where he was, my son. This will be the first place they search.”
“He has got to pay, Mama,” Oscar whined. “He is spoiling everything.”
“Oscar, I do not ask you to think, do I, dear? Thinking hurts your head, you know it does. Let me do the thinking. Do I not always say that? Haven’t we done very well with me doing the thinking?”
“But I am the viscount, Mama,” Oscar grumbled. “He’s a bastard. You told me!”
“Actually,” said Pol, “I am the viscount. You are an imposter whose father and mother stole my title.”
“Rubbish,” said Louella. “Do not listen to him, Oscar.”
That was interesting. It sounded as if Oscar had been kept in the dark about the lies and the switch.
“Your father told everyone my father had no legitimate heirs and took my title,” Pol told his cousin. “Then my uncle wrote to say my mother had died, and I was coming to England.” Pol was guessing, but from Louella’s aghast expression, every word was spot on. “Your mother killed your father before I arrived because he was prepared to steal my title while I was far away in Italy and had no idea I was a viscount but was too honorable to kill me or to lie to me about my parents’ marriage. She may have killed our grandfather, too. She is certainly the one who had arsenic fed to our grandmother.”
“She should have killed you, too,” Oscar said, and took a pace forward. “I’ll do it.” Clearly no help from Oscar, then. Not that Pol had expected any.
Louella came out of the trance his recital had thrown her into and put a hand on her son’s arm. “Not yet, Oscar. We may need to barter him against our escape. Once we are safe, then we can kill him.”
“Our escape, Mama? What do you mean?”
Louella rolled her eyes and sighed. “We will be arrested if we do not leave England. Do you want to hang, Oscar? For I do not. You heard your despicable cousin. I killed to make you the viscount. If he knows, then others will know. We must waste no time. Go and pack everything valuable that you have.”
“I didn’t kill my father,” Oscar argued. “I don’t see why I have to go. I like London. I have an appointment tomorrow to meet some friends at Tattersalls.”
His mother raised both eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking divine inspiration, though Pol figured her spiritual allies were below, not above. Way below. “Oscar, you are not the viscount. You have no money. You cannot afford new horses. You cannot afford to live in London. Everything you have belongs to Allegro.”
“To Polly?” Oscar looked as if he might cry, until his face transformed into the ugly mask of rage that presaged a killing fury. “Not if he’s dead,” he growled, and took another step toward Pol.
Pol braced himself for a fight, but, at a nod from Louella, two of the Whitelys stepped forward, one on each side of him, and wrapped themselves around his arms.
“Come along, Oscar. We need to pack and leave. You can kill your cousin later.”
The rage died from Oscar’s eyes at the promise, and he allowed himself to be led to the door. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To Burnwood House,” said Louella. Burnwood House was an estate entailed to the Viscounts Riese. Just an hour’s drive from Mayfair, it had been used by successive viscounts and their families for weekends out of London during the Parliamentary season and house parties in the summer. Pol had corresponded with its butler and its steward but had never been there.
He could still hear Louella talking as she walked down the passage. “I cleaned out the safe before I left Riese Hall, but there is jewelry and cash at Burnwood.” The remaining Whitelys filed out of the house behind her, the two with guns going last and backward. Before they closed and locked the door, Pol heard a snippet more from Lady Riese. “Then, who knows. Perhaps to Amer…”
Right. Pol needed to amend his letter to Jackie before they came back to get him. He wanted them caught even if he didn’t survive this.
It was as well he made another mix of the paste and wrote his message immediately, for it could not have been more than an hour later that the Whitelys came for him and took him away.
They bound his arms to his sides and once more gagged him, then threw a cloak over him, head and torso, so the bindings and gag were hidden. They took him down successive flights of stairs, with a Whitely on either side to guide and hurry him. Then came a short passage and a doorstep. The feel of the space changed, and the temperature.
Sound, too, somewhat muffled by the cloak. Distant hoofbeats, the rumble of carriage wheels, a singing bird, the rustle of leaves. He was outside, walking down an uneven path, tripping a little on the edges of cobbles or flagstones.
“Wot we stoppin’ ’ere for, Pete?” asked one of the Whitelys. Another voice told him, “Shut yer gob,” even as a door creaked open.
Pol tripped on another flagstone, and only the grips on his arms kept him from falling. The surface underfoot had changed. The door creaked again, and the outdoor noises faded.
Someone pulled the cloak off him. He was, as he’d thought, inside again, in a round windowless room walled with planks. The pigeon tower, he guessed. The only light came from the open door. A ladder led up into the gloom above. Four of the Whitelys were with him.
Pol tried to speak past the gag, to ask them to take it off. Two of the men giggled at the noise he made, but one of them dragged the kerchief that bound the gag off over Pol’s head—Pol thought it might be Bill, but the brothers all resembled one another, with only the two youngest distinguished by their youth, being shorter and scrawnier.
Pol spat out the rag in his mouth. “Thank you,” he said.
“If’n ye yell, it’ll go on again,” his benefactor grumbled.
“May I have the bindings off, please?” Pol asked.
Bill, if it was Bill, stared at him and said, “Not yet,” while another brother jeeringly repeated Pol’s words, making a poor attempt to round his vowels and sharpen his consonants like an aristocrat. The others found that hilarious, and fell about laughing, so the would-be mimic said it again, which fetched him a cuff over the side of the head from the man who’d removed the gag.
“Knock it orf, Bill.”
“Awww, Pete!” Bill protested. “Wotcher do that for? Wot’re we doin’ here, anyways?”
So, it was Pete who had removed the gag, and clearly Pete who was in charge. He was the eldest of the brothers, from what Pol remembered, and had only recently arrived back in Tissingham after serving with the army. Perhaps he was the smartest, for he was regarding Pol with narrowed eyes. “You lot keep yer mouths shut,” he ordered his brothers. “I’m gunna talk to ’is lordship ’ere, and you ain’t gunna say nothin’ about it to anyone. Get it?”
“Aw, Pete,” whined Bill. “Wha’ about Lord Riese?”
Pete’s response was a growl. “’Specially not Oscar Riese. You ’eard ’is Ma. Them lot is scarperin’ and oo’ll be left be’ind? Oo’ll be goin’ to prison and maybe ’anged? I’ll tell ye who. You, Bill. You and Dan, and maybe the lot of us’n.”
“Lord Riese’ll protect us.” Bill smirked. “Magistrate is in ’is Ma’s pocket. Or in her muff, more like.” He snickered at his own crude joke.
Pete rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Listen up, idiots. This Lord Riese—” he waved a hand toward Pol—“‘as a duke on ’is side, and who knows how many magistrates a bloody duke ’as in ’ is pocket?”
Interesting. It sounded as if Pete planned to change sides. Pol did his best to keep his face blank and his body still while the brothers argued. He did not doubt that Pete would prevail.
Pete had no doubt either. He poked Bill with a finger. “ Your Lord Riese wants to kill ’is own cousin. And ’is Ma killed ’er ’usband and had a go at killing ’is Gran. He don’t care about that. Think ’e’s gonna care what ’appens to ye? Don’t make me larf! So shut yer mouf. And keep it shut.”
He turned his attention to Pol. “If I ’elp ye escape, Lord Riese, will ye forgive me and me bruvvers for our part?”
Pol considered the offer. It was probably the best chance he had, but it went against the grain to let Bill go. Pol had nothing much against Pete, who had been away in the army for years and seemed to be sorting his family out now that he was home. But Bill was a bully and a layabout, and Dan was following down the same path.
Perhaps Pete followed his thoughts, for he said, “What yer folks did, cheatin’ ye and lyin’ about ye. It sits wrong wiv me. This lot—they can be dumb as bricks, and Bill’s picked up some bad ways workin’ fer yer cousin. But the thing is, they’re mine. Family stands fer family, and I stand fer me bruvvers. So, if ye’re gunna come after any o’ them, I gotta take ye where Riese said and let ’im do ye in. And I don’t want to, ’cause it’s wrong.”
“Did you help abduct me, Pete Whitely?” Pol asked.
The man shook his head. “No, sir. I didn’t.”
Pol held Pete’s gaze and waited to see if he would add anything. The man remained silent but Bill and another of the brothers squirmed. Pol turned his head to stare straight at each of them and then looked back at Pete.
The choice was easy. Take what Pete offered or be handed over to Oscar. “Yes. I agree. I’ll not seek to have Bill or any of the rest of you arrested for crimes against me. I can only promise for myself, though. Not for anyone else in Tissingham or elsewhere that they’ve bullied, terrorized, or assaulted, whether on their own account or on Oscar’s.”
Pete grimaced. “Fair enough. Ye’ll take note that we’re tenants of your’n? Keepin’ yon Oscar happy—well, it kept ’im off Ma and the girls.” He was behind Pol now, moving the rope at Pol’s back—presumably undoing the knots.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Pol promised.
Pete came back into view, even though the coil of rope still restricted Pol’s arms.
“What is the plan for my escape?” Pol asked.
“Well, me lord, we’re goin’ to go now, we Whitelys. We’ll take the carriage like Riese told us. ’E’ll think ye’re with us.”
“But what about when Riese finds out?” Bill objected. “’E’ll kill us.”
Pete grinned. “Oi’ve a plan, young Bill. Don’t ye worry. Way I reckon, the Riese carriages be your’n, me lord, right?”
“I suppose they are,” Pol said.
“Then if we was to take a carriage back to Riese ’All, we won’t be breaking no laws, right?” Pete grinned. “It’ll be one of me bruvvers driving,” he explained.
Pol grinned back. “Good man,” he commented.
“If’n ye climb the ladder, me lord, ye’ll be able to see when yer cousin and ‘is Ma leave, and the house is quiet. Ye can just come down then and go back to yer duke friend.”
Pol had been shifting his shoulders and arms to loosen the rope and it finally slipped down his body. He stepped out of it and held out his hand to Pete. “I’ll remember this, Whitely. I owe you my life.” Pete looked surprised to be offered a handshake, but he held out his own and gripped Pol’s firmly.
“If yer a fair lord to us, me lord, we’ll serve ye well,” Pete said. He felt in the pocket of the loose coat he wore. “’Ere. This’ll be useful.” He handed over a metal box, then picked up the cloak he had taken from Pol and tossed it over one of the brothers. “Here, Caleb, ye can wear this. Grasp him like ’e’s a prisoner, you two.”
The Whitelys left, hustling Caleb with them, muffled in the cloak. Pol opened the box, found a candle and a flint, and managed to set light to the wick of the candle before the closing door left him in darkness. By the light of the candle, he found the ladder, climbing one-handed and using his shoulder to open the trapdoor at the top.
The trapdoor opened into the conical roof space of the little tower. It was lined with tier upon tier of open-fronted boxes, except at floor level, where a foot of wall was broken by six pigeon-sized doors, all of them shut and barred. The pigeon loft was not in use, then, and had been left clean, though layers of dust and cobwebs hinted that the cleaning was years in the past.
Pol put the candle on the floor and set about unbarring the doors, both so he could see out and to let the daylight in. The crash of the trapdoor closing took him by surprise. It was followed by the sound of metal rasping against metal and a harsh voice, saying, “Take that, Allegro. Stay there an’ rot till me mate Oscar comes for ye.”
Bill Riese . Pol could hear him continuing to mutter as he moved away—descending the ladder, presumably. “Take that, bloody Pete. Ye ain’t the boss of me.”
*
It took longer to gain a magistrate’s warrant than Jackie liked. She waited, if impatiently, until the sun was setting, and she could wait no longer. Even with the dusk in her favor, she didn’t manage to leave the duke’s mansion without being seen. Two of the duke’s men materialized out of the shadows as she unlatched the garden gate into the lane. “Miss de Haricot du Charmont?” one said. “May we escort you somewhere?”
Jackie, who had dressed for her expedition in the boy’s clothes she had packed at the bottom of her trunk, was surprised he had recognized her. She recognized him, too. Akbar, the one who had taken Scruffy back to the house. “I am just going for a walk, Akbar,” she said.
He exchanged glances with his companion, then announced. “I shall come with you.” It was not a request, and she did not think he would obey an order to remain behind.
“There is no need,” she told him.
“You are the guest of our patysa ,” he said. “There is need. I shall come.”
At least he was not trying to stop her from leaving. She gave a single nod and strode off down the street, trying to remember to move like a man. Akbar followed a few paces behind, asking no questions. She did her best to ignore him.
The streets were full of carriages, as the people of the Ton moved from one entertainment to another, but not many people were walking. Jackie had to cross the street several times to go around a cluster of people making their way into a house where there must have been a dinner, for it was too early for balls to have started. Otherwise, the walk was an easy one, and they soon came to Beddington House.
Here, another retainer emerged from the gloom of the area steps and addressed her silent escort in the language they used among themselves. Jackie examined the building, which showed no lights except in the window at the base of the area stairs. All the better if everyone was out or asleep.
The clip clop of horseshoes had her turning to see Lord Thomas, the duke’s youngest son, arriving on one of the magnificent horses of which the Winderfields were so proud. He waved to her and joined the other two men.
She would not let him stop her. She headed toward the lane and the tree she had noticed during the afternoon. Akbar caught up and spoke for the first time since they left Winshire House. “Miss de Haricot, the ladies from the house left nearly an hour ago, in a traveling coach with another coach for all their baggage. Most of the servants are gone, too. Traveling with the lady and her daughter, or dismissed. One carriage took men who were guarding someone hidden under a cloak.”
Dear God, no. She was too late. Lord Thomas had also come after her, and he reassured her. “Some of our men followed them. A message has been sent to my brother Drew. They will not escape us, Miss de Haricot, and we shall get Lord Riese back.”
Jackie had not slowed down. “I am going to check the room in which he was imprisoned, to see if he left a message,” she explained, as she opened the gate to the garden.
Akbar and Lord Thomas didn’t try to prevent her as she walked to the tree, clasped a branch just above her head, and walked her feet up the trunk until she was able to clamber onto a stout limb. Thomas swung up behind her and followed her as she climbed higher.
“You do not have to come,” she pointed out to him.
The sound he made in response was both derisive and expressive. Clearly, he was neither going to argue nor desist.
The trickiest part of the climb was edging out along a branch to the barred window next to the one with the message. It bent slightly under her weight, but it must have grown up to the house and been trimmed back multiple times, for it was thick, stubby, and strong.
The bars on the window were solid, however, and the window would not shift.
She could feel and hear the branches shift as Thomas climbed higher. There was a groaning sound, as if wood was scraping on wood, and a moment later he came back to her level. “A window is open on the next floor,” he reported. Jackie waited for him to say more, but apparently, he was leaving any decisions to her.
“I’ll go in that way,” she decided, and once again led the way up.
The branch at this level was less sturdy than the first, and slightly off to one side of the window, but Jackie clasped the sill and dragged herself inside, forcing the window up a little more with the same groan she had heard a short while ago. Thomas must have pushed it up before he came back for her.
The room was dark, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. In that moment, Thomas landed beside her. “It is a servant’s bedroom, I think,” she told him. “But not used.”
He moved past her to open the door and peered into the space beyond, then stepped back and waved at her to pass him. It was dark in the passage that appeared to run in both directions. Jackie made a decision and turned right, walking carefully into the darkness with one hand on the wall.
A door at the end of the passage opened to a narrow stairwell, barely lit by the occasional window. The stairs were steep, and she had to go slowly, feeling with her leading foot for each step, but she soon reached a small landing and opened the door to a wider passage, which had light coming from some source part way along, so that it was not as black as the one above.
The barred windows must be to her left at the other end. She headed in that direction. The light source proved to be a large multistory window beyond a staircase that led down through the house.
She paused on the gallery to look down at the entrance hall, four flights below her before she continued into the passage on the other side of the stairwell. A couple of the doors on the left should open to the rooms with the barred windows, but the first two she opened let onto empty rooms whose windows had no bars.
“Light,” said Thomas, looking back over his shoulder toward the stairs. Sure enough, some source of light in the stairwell was growing larger—or coming nearer. Thomas moved between her and the stairs and indicated the room she had just inspected. “Into this room, Miss de Haricot. Perhaps whoever it is will not see us.”
But a voice shouted, “Miss de Haricot!”
Thomas’s whole stance relaxed. “Drew,” he informed her, and shouted back, “We are here!”
The light bobbed into view beyond the doorway to the stairs—a lamp. Drew was carrying it, and Jamir and Akbar were with him. “Miss de Haricot, good evening.”
“I needed to see if Pol had left another message,” Jackie blurted defiantly, expecting him to scold her for climbing into the house.
“I have a warrant to search the house,” Drew said, peaceably. “Apparently our birds have flown the nest, but we might as well search anyway. The servants in the basement let me in. Apparently, the only ones left have no place else to go. I’ve told them to carry on until the true master returns to take up residence.”
“He will, will he not?” Jackie said. “We shall find him?”
The perceptive man answered the question she did not ask. “He was alive when he left here, Miss de Haricot. That is hopeful, is it not?”
“We are looking for the rooms with barred windows,” Thomas said.
Drew nodded. “A nursery, I expect. Try the end of the passage. Here. Take my lamp. Jamir and I will check the other rooms.”
They came to find her a few minutes later. Thomas was holding the lamp to illuminate the message writ large on the wall beside the door in one of the rooms, and Jackie was reading it. When Drew and Jamir joined her, she threw them a triumphant glance. “I knew he would leave a message if he could,” she said, and turned back to finish reading it.
It was clearly a second effort, for the first, on the other side of the door, had been scribbled over, though she could still decipher a few words. Kidnapped. Whitely. Unhurt.
The second read:
Jackie my darling
Oscar ordered me kidnapped. I told his mother I knew who I was and what she did to Oscar’s father and tried to do to Gran. She is going to take whatever money and steal whatever valuable property she can and then make for overseas. She mentioned America. I am to be insurance in case they need to bargain for their freedom. She won’t let me be killed, at least not until they feel safe.
We are going to Burnwood House to rob that of money and treasures. Then to the coast to find a ship.
Whatever happens, know I love you with all my heart.
Pol.
“Well done, Miss de Haricot,” Drew said. “We know where they are heading. We will be there almost as soon as they are.”
“But they are more than an hour ahead of us,” Jackie objected.
The men all grinned. “With a carriage and a team that is all show and little substance, Miss de Haricot,” said Drew. “We, on the other hand, will be riding our own horses.” Turkmen horses, as tame and loyal as dogs to their riders, and fierce independent beasts to everyone else. Jack the stable boy had wished he’d had the pleasure of caring for them. And, Drew claimed that they were the best long-distance horses in the world.
Jackie hoped he was right.