Chapter Nineteen
Evelyn clambered into the carriage, the coachman reaching out to steady her.
She murmured her thanks and settled onto the seat, staring out the window.
She had ordered the barouche made ready; the smaller, lighter vehicle might complete the journey more swiftly.
Speed was essential. She had to reach London before anything happened.
The coachman climbed briskly to his perch, and the carriage jolted into motion. Evelyn leaned back, shutting her eyes as exhaustion swept through her. For the next three hours, with the coach safely underway, there was nothing she could do.
“Help me,” she whispered into the stillness, the plea slipping out unbidden.
The barouche rattled along, the leather hood drawn up against the brooding rainclouds. Rain threatened; the air smelled heavy, expectant. Her pelisse was thick enough to keep out a mild rainfall, but she hoped the hood would prevent the worst of the damp from seeping inside.
An hour into the journey, the rain began in earnest—a cold, needling drizzle that chilled the air, seeped into the carriage’s front opening, and blurred the world into a grey haze.
Evelyn watched helplessly as the visibility dwindled.
She hated the idea of slowing their pace, yet she knew it was prudent.
The road was slick, and the coachman would have to go carefully.
As the wheels clattered on, her thoughts wandered—uneasily—from James to Sebastian.
James was terrified—and with reason. Stannard’s reputation was dark enough to make even seasoned gentlemen hesitate.
She recalled her brother’s white, stricken face, and her heart ached.
Sebastian had already helped James once.
Would he help again? A few days earlier, she would have said yes without hesitation—that he would protect James until some arrangement could be struck.
But now… she no longer knew. He had been so distant, so uncaring. She feared he might hand James over to the authorities without a second thought. Her chest tightened painfully. She admired Sebastian so deeply—but what if she had been wrong? What if he were shallow, indifferent—cruel?
A sudden jolt tore her from her thoughts. The coachman had already slowed due to the rain, but now he tugged the reins sharply, bringing the horses to a walk. Evelyn frowned.
“What is the matter?” she called.
Her question died on her lips.
Three men stood at the roadside. One held a pistol.
Evelyn froze, terror washing through her. She had not imagined robbery—not for a moment.
“Tell them we have nothing,” she cried to the coachman. It was true. She carried no purse, wore no jewellery save the slender ring Sebastian had given her.
“Your Grace, I—” the coachman began, but he broke off with a shout as one of the men stepped directly into the horses’ path. Instinct forced him to halt.
“Halt!” the man barked.
Evelyn shrank beneath the hood of the barouche, trembling. One of the robbers approached, his hat pulled low, his face half concealed by a kerchief. Only his eyes—dark and void of sympathy—were visible.
“Out. Round the back of the coach,” he ordered harshly.
Evelyn cried out, thinking he spoke to her, but he addressed his two companions. He seized the reins while the others circled the coach, checking the interior and boot for concealed weapons. Evelyn sobbed in fear, though the men seemed uninterested in her—for the moment.
“We have nothing!” the coachman protested, voice taut.
Two more men emerged from the dripping hedgerow. The leader raised a pistol.
“If he moves, shoot him,” he told one of them. The man nodded and levelled a weapon at the coachman’s head. Then the leader turned his gun on Evelyn.
“Get out,” he demanded.
Her tears came in a flood she could not stop. She knew remaining in the coach was safer, yet the cold emptiness in the man’s eyes told her he would not hesitate to fire. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her, and she stumbled, nearly spilling from the carriage.
“Get her out,” the leader snapped.
Two men seized her, and she screamed, scrambling to her feet only to half-fall down the steps of the barouche.
“I—I can walk,” she stammered, shivering under the leader’s pitiless stare. She had no doubt he would shoot her or the coachman without hesitation. She bit her lip, trying desperately to stop crying, but her mind was blank—empty of anything but terror.
“She’s coming with us,” the leader told the men. Evelyn gaped in horror.
“No,” she stammered. “No… no, no.”
It was all she could manage—the single word she clung to as her thoughts retreated beyond reason.
“Get over here,” one of the men ordered. When she could not make her body move, he raised a rifle and pointed it at her.
“Get. Over. Here,” he repeated.
Evelyn’s tears streamed. She forced herself to take one step, then another. She wanted to live. And she knew these men could kill her with no more trouble than drawing breath.
When she reached them, a man seized her wrists. She let out a sharp cry and screamed, her stomach twisting violently, nausea overwhelming every instinct but fear.
“No…” she whispered, but the man did not have any immediate harm in mind. He dragged her to a coach and shoved her into it.
“Don’t move,” he warned. He pointed the gun at her. “If you move, then...” he placed his finger on the trigger, keeping the wicked-looking gun pointing at her forehead.
Evelyn moved slowly along the seat of the coach, pushing herself into the corner. The man slammed the door shut and, before she could cry out, a few loud thumps sounded, and the coach set off. The windows, she noticed, were all covered, the merest chink of light showing at the one across from her.
“No!” Evelyn screamed. She pushed at the door, pulled, beat at it, frantic to escape, but it would not budge. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed, shaking violently. As the carriage rattled down unseen country paths, she wept until she had no strength left.
“Where are we?” she whispered into the dark, empty interior. The men had not attempted to harm her in any way. Oddly, they had shown some respect for her status—but that offered little comfort.
“Where are we?” she cried again, louder.
No answer came.
Tears spilled anew down her cheeks.
The coach jolted and rattled, and Evelyn pressed close to the window.
Through a small gap in the paintwork—or whatever substance obscured the glass—she could see only the faintest impression of the world outside.
They were still in the countryside, passing through woodland.
Rain streaked down the coach walls, yet the driver urged the horses on at a reckless pace.
It occurred to Evelyn, with a surge of dread, to wonder whether they had similarly abducted her own coachman. Was he left at the roadside with the barouche? Had they harmed him?
Please, she begged inwardly, let someone look for me. Let someone find me.
Only Gemma knew where she was going. She had not dared confide in anyone else at Brentfield. Nicholas was away in London; William, she barely knew. And not a soul—not even Gemma—knew James was hiding in the house. Only her maid knew, and Evelyn trusted her not to tell anyone.
Her thoughts raced. Gemma would not expect her back until well after nightfall—perhaps not even then. She might assume Evelyn intended to spend the night in London at the townhouse. She would not think to send help until the following morning… and by then, it might be far too late.
A sob tore from Evelyn’s throat.
The coach hurtled onward, heedless of the rain.
Her fear of what awaited her at their destination was overtaken by a more immediate terror—that the carriage might overturn entirely.
Whoever drove it had no care for safety.
Through the narrow gap she could see only blurred impressions of dripping branches; somehow, they seemed to be closer to London than she had realised.
A violent jolt sent her sliding from the seat to the floor. She cried out as she fell. The coach was moving too quickly for her to climb back up, so she remained where she had landed, huddled against the door, staring into the dim interior.
On and on the coach rattled, until her mind grew numb—or she thought it had. Then the carriage slowed, lurched, and turned sharply. She screamed.
“Help!” she cried out.
But even if someone outside heard her, she doubted they would intervene. She considered pounding on the door, but the memory of the armed man’s warning froze her hand.
She crawled toward the window and peered through the gap. Buildings crowded close; streets grew narrower. They were in London.
The coach slowed again, turned, slowed more still. Evelyn peered through the sliver of light, heart hammering.
They had driven into one of the worst districts of the city.
Smoke thickened the air; grime darkened the walls. The buildings leaned toward each other, shutting out the sky. Voices echoed everywhere—children shouting, adults arguing, the ceaseless clamour of crowded streets. The coach crept forward, nearly at a stop.
Evelyn shrank against the door, trembling. She could not imagine what awaited her.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door flew open. Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the coach. A coarse bag was yanked over her head, plunging her into darkness.
Evelyn screamed. Terror sharpened into a desperate will to fight. She kicked, twisted, struck out blindly, trying to break the grip on her arms. But she could not escape. A door creaked open; she was thrust inside; the door slammed and locked behind her.
She ripped the covering from her head and looked around.
The room was small but not too horrific: a chair, a fireplace, bare wooden boards.
Neglected, dusty, but not oppressive—merely shabby.
The ordinariness of it eased her terror by the smallest margin.
She sank to the floor beside the fireplace, drew her knees to her chest, and tried to think—truly think—of a way to escape.
But her mind would not obey. All she could see—clearly, painfully—was Sebastian’s face.
How desperately she longed to see it again.
A sob rose in her throat.
She loved him.
She truly did.
It was the worst possible moment for the truth to settle inside her heart—but there it was. Irrefutable. Overwhelming.
She shut her eyes, swallowing her terror.
She had to find a way out.