Chapter Seventeen
Simon Lutonville, the Earl of Collington, ran in most undignified fashion to the open front door of his London mansion as the three lathered teams came at the gallop around the corner from the Strand and lurched to a halt at the kennel.
His face set and grim, Rossiter sprang from the leading coach without waiting for the steps to be let down, and was first to reach the earl.
“You’ve heard what happened, sir?”
“Aye, and unable to move a muscle ’til you saw fit to come here, blast you!”
The earl looked wild and distraught as he took in the small crowd assembling on his doorstep. “Who the devil are all these people? Oh, it’s you, Glendenning. Well, come in. I collect you’re all aware of this damnable business!”
They followed him inside, the doctor still clutching his bag.
Leading the way to his study, Collington said in a voice harsh with strain, “I demand to know why my daughter should be held to ransom because of some havey-cavey affair involving you, Rossiter! I told her to keep clear of you! God knows, I warned her that your entire family is an unmitigated disaster! Had she but—”
Rossiter broke into the hysterical tirade with a sharp, “My lord, we have time only to find a way to free Naomi. I beg that you will tell us what you know of it.”
Collington stared at him in shocked fashion for an instant, then drew a hand across his mouth.
His eyes closed, and he swayed a little.
Morris jumped to steady him, and Dr. Lockhart ran forward and helped guide him to a chair.
Rossiter went to a credenza where was a tray with decanter and glasses.
He poured a generous amount of brandy and hurried to thrust the glass at the doctor.
“Oh, very good,” said the little man. “Take some of this, my lord.”
Collington sipped, sighed, and appeared to recover somewhat. He blinked up at them, and muttered in bewilderment, “The deuce! You’re all mud, Falcon!”
“Sir,” said Rossiter, seething with impatience. “Naomi…”
The earl’s hand jolted. “Lord! What am I thinking of? There—on my desk!”
Falcon was closest, and snatched up a grubby sheet of paper. He read aloud:
Collington:
Lady Lutonville will be released when Gideon Rossiter returns the two icons he stole.
Alone, and at the earliest possible moment, he must bring the icons to the Duck and Mermaid Inn, which lies one mile south of Gravesend, on the Maidstone Road.
When he arrives, he will go to the room which has been reserved in his name, and there await instructions.
If you fail to persuade him to this, or if anyone follows, or accompanies him to the inn, you must accept full responsibility for the result.
It has been necessary to confine your daughter in an old house which is in exceeding poor condition. ’Tis remarkable that it has not yet burned down. It could catch fire at any minute.
How sad if such a rare beauty should meet so tragic an end.
I trust it is unnecessary to warn you that any attempt to contact the authorities will be fatal. For the lady.
There will be no further communication.
You have until midnight, Sunday.
Through a moment of total silence Rossiter stood perfectly still, his face a white enigmatic mask.
Collington rasped, “Well, sir? Well? I hope you know what ’tis all about, for by the Lord Harry—I do not! Where are these icons you stole? And what d’you mean to do about it?”
As one in a dream, Rossiter reached out. Falcon handed him the sheet of paper and Rossiter scanned it, noting the crude printing, the lack of any direction or signature. He folded it neatly and deliberately, but they all saw his hand tremble.
“I mean to find her, sir,” he said.
Collington snatched the letter and brandished it wildly. “Damme, sir! I demand to be told—”
Already striding from the room, Rossiter flung over his shoulder, “The moment I learn anything, you will be informed, sir.”
Following him, Morris asked quietly, “Derrydene’s, Ross?”
“No,” said Rossiter. “Snow Hill.”
Twenty minutes later Wilson opened the front door in his stately fashion, then sprang aside as seven gentlemen rushed past him.
Running to the stairs, Gideon shouted, “Is Sir Mark at home, Wilson?”
“He is gone, sir. To the—er, Horse Guards, I believe.”
“Has Tummet returned?”
“No, sir.”
Gideon raced on, Morris close behind him.
Falcon threw a disgusted glance around the hall and demanded, “Where is the dining room?”
Wilson gestured. “There, sir. Would you wish to—”
“Bring a luncheon. For all of us.”
“But—sir,” Wilson’s chin sagged. “I doubt the chef can cook—”
“I don’t mean a hot luncheon, you fool! Anything you can get here within five minutes. And wine.”
“B-But, sir! I must—”
“At—once!” said Falcon in a tone that brooked no argument.
Wilson fled.
Flinging open the door to his bedchamber, Gideon strode to the desk.
Morris said, “Then you mean to hand them over? You ain’t going to search for her first?”
Gideon wrenched at the drawer and took out the box in which he’d placed the two jewelled men. “If ’twas Katrina Falcon, what would you do?”
Morris shuddered. “Lord! It don’t bear think—”
A choking exclamation cut off his words.
His face ashen, Rossiter was staring down at the large pebble he had unwrapped. “Dear God!” he whispered, and tore open the second small wrapping. Another pebble fell into his hand.
Bewildered, Morris gasped, “But—I saw you wrap ’em up! You must have the wrong box, dear boy.”
Not answering, Gideon continued to gaze blindly at the pebbles in his hand. Then, “That mercenary little hound!” he whispered between his teeth, and sprinted for the door, his expression so savage that Morris stared after him, aghast.
Comprehension came then, and with it, dismay. “Lord help us,” muttered the lieutenant, and ran into the hall.
Newby’s room was a shambles, with clothes strewn about, drawers left open, the presses half empty. Gideon tugged at the bell pull, then rummaged through the piled articles atop the chest of drawers while Morris watched in silence.
A maid ran in. Her eyes reflecting astonishment at the condition of the room, she dropped a curtsy and asked shyly, “Your wish, sir?”
Gideon turned, breathing hard, his eyes narrowed slits of rage. “Mr. Newby. Did he leave with my father?”
“No, sir.” Retreating a step, she stammered, “Mr. er, Newby woke up feeling unwell, and—and Sir Mark drove out alone.”
“I see. But my brother’s health improved later, correct?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Delatouche said Mr. Newby thought the waters at Bath might help him. And so Mr. Newby went there. And he took Mr. Delatouche along of him.”
Morris saw Gideon’s knuckles gleam white as he clung to the top of the chest of drawers, but his voice was calm when he asked, “And you have not heard from Sir Mark since early this morning?”
“Oh, yes, sir. We have. Come to think of it, it was just afore Mr. Newby left. Sir Mark sent round for a change of clothes. The lackey what come says as Sir Mark and General Underhill found out they’s related in a distant way, and Sir Mark is invited to overnight with the general.”
Gideon stared at her blankly.
“Dash it all,” said Morris, “but you’re a good little gal. Tell me now, did Mr. Newby not leave any word for his father that he was going away?”
The maid blushed. “I can’t say, sir. But I did see a letter on Sir Mark’s bed, like it might’ve—” She broke off with a startled squeal and ran aside as Gideon plunged for the door.
“’Pon my word,” she exclaimed. “The captain seems a mite upset, sir, I do hope as nothing’s wrong?”
Morris sighed. “’Fraid Captain Rossiter’s been storing milk in a sieve,” he said ruefully, and hastened after his friend.
The maid stared after him, wishing she might see the day that Captain Rossiter spent one second messing about with milk—in anything!
Morris entered Sir Mark’s bedchamber, and halted, his apprehension justified. Gideon knelt beside the bed, head bowed onto his arms and a crumpled sheet of paper in one clenched hand.
“My poor fellow,” said Morris gently, bending over him.
Gideon did not move. “He’s … taken them…” His voice was muffled and shaking. “He says … he’s off to the New World. My God!” His voice broke on what sounded suspiciously like a sob.
Horrified by such an unnerving display of emotion, Morris sat on the bed and patted Rossiter’s bowed shoulder awkwardly. “Do you think he’s gone to that collector fellow? Kendall-thingummy, wasn’t it?”
A silence. Then Rossiter said dully, “I have loved her—all my life … But I went off, like a perfect fool, and—and left her. I threw away six … precious years. I keep remembering her at Emerald Farm … just the day before yesterday. The way she looked at me, with her pretty mouth trying so hard not to—not to weep … and how her voice trembled when she—she said she would not love me again. ‘I will not let you hurt me,’ she said. And—” His voice rose to a cry of agony.
“God help me, but I’ve hurt her! I’d better have died than—than hurt her again!
” His clenched fists beat at the bed. Racked, he bowed lower.
“What a disgusting display,” drawled a contemptuous voice from the door.
Scowling, Morris jerked around. “Leave him be, Falcon. He’s suffered a great shock, is all.”
“Shock, my Aunt Maria! He suffers from lack of spine, more like!”
Rossiter raised his head and put shaking hands over his face. “Yes,” he whispered. “I never knew, you see … what ’twas like to be … so afraid. If—if they harm her…”
“Well, much you are doing to prevent it! I came up to wash and find a clean shirt. An you can command some trace of gumption, I’d also like to see these famous icons.”
Rossiter dragged himself to his feet, and turned around.