A Wicked Gentleman (33 page)

Stevie halted his pursuit of the ball for a second, glancing back as if considering whether to obey the summons or not. He turned around again, and seeing his ball heading rapidly towards a curve in the path, chased after it.

Franny's frantic howls were now joined by Susannah's in sympathy, and the nursemaid, on her knees on the path as she mopped the blood from Franny's scraped knee and tried to reassure Susannah, didn't look back again.

Stevie rounded the bend in the path and didn't hear the man stepping out behind him. Then he was suddenly enveloped in a suffocating blackness, something wrapped tightly around his head. Something pressed hard against the back of his head forcing his face into his abductor's shoulder. He kicked and struggled, but his efforts were no match for the strong arms that held him as they set off at a fast lope heading for the far side of the garden and the gate on the other side of the square.

His captor ran from the garden to where a horse was tethered to the railing. He swung up, still holding his blind and stifled burden tightly against him, and kicked the animal into a fast trot out of the square.

 

Daisy finally managed to quieten Franny's frantic yells, but by then Susannah was crying in good earnest. She stood up, holding the three-year-old on her hip, jiggling her rhythmically while she looked around for Stevie. She called and listened. But there were only the quiet sounds of the garden, a rustle of a squirrel, the trill of a thrush in the privet hedge.

She called again, her voice rising with panic, then she began to run along the path to where she'd seen him last, Susannah bouncing on her hip, Franny clutching at her skirts.

“Where's Stevie? Where's Stevie?” Franny chanted repetitively.

“Oh, hush yourself, Franny,” Daisy demanded, her desperation giving way to angry frustration. If it hadn't been for this child, she would not have lost sight of the other one. She bent and shook the little girl, not hard, but for a child who was totally unaccustomed to anything but patient responses, it shocked Franny into unaccustomed silence.

Daisy ran around the outside path that circled within the railings, calling Stevie. When the circuit produced nothing, she plunged down the various paths that all emerged into the grassy lawn in the center of the square. Stevie was not a particularly mischievous child, and he would never torment her in this fashion. He might hide for a few minutes, but then he'd bounce out laughing at his cleverness.

She stood still in the center of the square, tears pouring down her cheeks at the utter futility of the quiet and the absolute conviction of the truth.

Little Viscount Dagenham was not in the garden.

She grabbed Franny's hand in a viselike grip and ran almost blindly out of the garden and across the road to the house. She hammered on the brass knocker, and the door was opened by a startled Cornelia.

“Whatever…?” Cornelia took in the nursemaid's tear-streaked countenance, the shock on Franny's face, Susannah's hiccuping little sobs, and the color drained from her face.

“What's happened to Stevie?” The question came through bloodless lips, then, without waiting for an answer, she pushed past Daisy and ran across the street to the garden.

H
ARRY WALKED INTO THE STORM
an hour later. The front door was ajar, and he didn't trouble to knock, instead pushing it wide and stepping into the hall. It was immediately apparent that something was badly wrong. He could almost smell the panic in the air.

Daisy, the nursemaid, was a sodden tear-stricken heap on the stairs, the two little girls wailing beside her. An ashen Linton was berating the sobbing Daisy in a voice edged with hysteria. The twins, for once showing emotion, were trying to comfort the children with gingerbread, while Morecombe stood, clearly at a loss, to one side of the little group muttering to himself.

“What's going on?” Harry demanded, tossing his hat and whip onto the bench and drawing off his gloves.

“Lord Stevie,” Morecombe stated in sepulchral tones. “Such goings-on…I knew things would come to a bad end after my lady passed away. I told our Ada and our Mavis so, didn't I just?” He appealed to the twins, who murmured assent.

Harry didn't respond. Instead he strode towards the parlor where he assumed he would find the women. Cornelia's voice rose above the rest as he entered the room without ceremony, but he couldn't make out what she had said. She was standing in the middle of the room, a sheet of paper in her hand, her face set in stone, pale as alabaster, her eyes oddly blank. To Harry it looked as if she was holding herself together by an act of supreme will, as if at any moment she would fly apart in a thousand pieces.

“What's happened?” He went swiftly towards her. “What is it, Nell?”

She looked at him for a moment as if she didn't know who he was, then she shook her head impatiently and returned to her intent scrutiny of the paper she held. “I have to go at once,” she said in a strange detached voice. “They won't hurt him if I go at once.”

“Stevie's been kidnapped,” Aurelia told him swiftly. “He was in the square garden with Daisy and the girls, and he disappeared.” She opened her hands helplessly. “Gone…not a sign of him.”

“But then Nell got this letter,” Livia put in. “It arrived just a few minutes ago.” She went over to Cornelia. “Nell, let us see the letter. Or at least tell us what it says.”

Cornelia folded the letter and thrust it into her pocket before saying adamantly, “No. No one's to see it. This is my business and only mine. I'll deal with it in my own way. I have to go now.” She took a step towards the door.

Her voice did not sound like her own, and Harry could hear beneath the brittleness how close she was to breaking. He went over to her, taking her shoulders gently. “Whatever this is, love, you can't manage it alone. Give me the letter.”

She jerked herself away from him, saying vehemently, “This is
nothing
to do with you. It's a family matter.”

“I understand that,” he said with deliberate calm. “However, I can help you. I want you to give me the letter.”

She stared at him. “How could you possibly help? Someone has taken my child. Do you understand that? I know what I have to do to get him back, and that's what I'm going to do. Just me…no one else can be involved. Now get out of my way, Harry.” She attempted to push past him, but he remained where he was, once again taking her shoulders.

“Nell, give me the letter.
Now
.” He made his voice almost harsh in his need to break through the carapace that prevented her from understanding anything beyond her child's disappearance. “There's little time to waste. I need to see what they want you to do.”

And now she looked at him with sudden awareness, hostility and mistrust bright in her blue gaze. “What do you know?”

“More than you think,” he returned grimly. “Now give me the letter.” He snapped his fingers imperatively. He turned suddenly to where Aurelia and Livia stood staring at him. “Leave us.”

It was a command they couldn't imagine ignoring. This was not the man they knew. This incarnation of Viscount Bonham was almost frightening. Without a word, they left the parlor.

“Now,” Harry said, “the letter, Nell.”

She felt numb, powerless to resist him. But still she protested. “They'll hurt him if I show it to anyone.”

“That's not going to happen, love.” His voice now was gentle and cajoling. “I won't let it happen. Trust me now and give it to me.” He held out his hand.

She reached into her pocket for the letter and handed it to him, unsure why she trusted him but knowing that she did.

Harry took in the contents of the letter in one quick sweep of his eyes. His mouth hardened, his nostrils flared with a surge of anger, as much at himself as at the idiot Nigel Dagenham. It had to be Dagenham's handiwork, even though he was only a tool in a much broader game. It was pathetically amateur, but Cornelia wouldn't see that. How could she when she thought her child was in danger? How dared that stupid, self-indulgent, weak-minded
dunderhead
cause Cornelia this agony.

Harry handed her back the letter. “Leave this to me, Nell. Just stay here, don't leave the house. Do you understand?” He looked at her closely, seeing the flash in her eyes, the set of her mouth. “I mean it. Stay here and wait for me. I'll bring Stevie back, I promise.”

Unable to bear her stillness, the terror and confusion in her eyes, he pulled her against him and kissed her hard on the mouth, holding her tightly trying to impart his own strength to the suddenly fragile figure in his arms.

She let him kiss her, but it was as if she didn't feel his lips upon hers. She remained stiff in his arms, then finally pushed him away.

He stepped back, looking at her uncertainly. He didn't know whether she'd heard him. And even if she had whether she would follow his instructions. But there was no time to waste. He had to get to the child before Dagenham's masters did. He was confident Nigel wouldn't hurt the child, but Nigel was a puppet, a cat'spaw. And those who used him wouldn't give a fig for the health and welfare of a five-year-old boy. If Cornelia took matters into her own hands, she would only get in the way, endanger herself as well as the child.

He spun away from her and left the parlor. The tableau in the hall had changed, and only Morecombe and the twins stood at the foot of the stairs in some kind of confabulation.

“Where's Lester?” Harry demanded as he crossed to the front door.

They didn't seem particularly surprised by the question. “Went out, when the letter come,” Morecombe informed him.

Lester would have gone after the messenger, and he would have caught him soon enough. Harry picked up his hat and whip and left the house. As he'd expected, Lester appeared at a run from the far side of the square.

“I hoped you'd be along, m'lord,” he said, panting slightly. “I caught the lad, but he didn't know anything, said a cove had given him a message and a penny to deliver it to the house.”

“Where did he get the message?” Harry had hold of his horse's reins now preparing to mount.

“Just a few streets away,” Lester said. “Did you read it?”

“Aye.” Harry nodded, swinging onto Perseus. “He's got the boy at a tavern on Gray's Inn Road, at least that's what I'm assuming. I don't think he has the wit to hide the boy somewhere different from where he's expecting the ransom. It's the Greyhound Tavern. Follow me there. It may take two of us if he's got reinforcements.”

“I'm on your heels, sir.”

Harry raised a hand in acknowledgment and urged Perseus into a trot.

 

The child struggled against the suffocating folds of the blanket. A voice, a familiar voice, told him that it would be all right, that he should lie still and be a good boy. The blanket was lifted and he opened his mouth to scream. Before a sound could emerge a spoon went between his lips and his mouth was immediately filled with a vile-tasting liquid that made him choke and splutter. From a distance he heard the same voice, soothing, telling him it was all going to all right. He'd see his mama soon.

 

Cornelia waited only until she was certain Harry had left the house before she looked again at the letter. It was badly printed and misspelled, but the message was unambiguous.

How did these people know she had a thimble? What if she hadn't found it in the flour barrel? Cornelia shuddered, hot and cold alternately.
Why
the thimble?

But what did it matter? They wanted the thimble. And she had it. She opened her workbox and took it out, turning it around, trying to make sense of the engravings. They didn't strike her as writing, although the note described them as such.
What if it is the wrong thimble?

No, that wasn't to be thought of. She dropped the object into her pocket with the note and hurried upstairs for her pelisse.

Aurelia and Livia were waiting in the hall as she came out of the parlor. Aurelia had dispatched the wailing children and their frantic attendants to the nursery, and an eerie silence had settled over the hall.

“Cornelia, what can we do?” Aurelia reached a hand for her as she brushed past her on the way to the stairs.

“Nothing…nothing, Ellie.” Her voice was impatient, her desperation clear. “Please, just let me go.”

Aurelia fell back, exchanging a helpless glance with Livia, and Cornelia ran upstairs.

In her bedchamber she stopped, forcing herself to think clearly, to calm her fast and shallow breaths. What would Stevie need when she found him? He had a coat and hat…. Linton wouldn't have let him out of the house without those. Would he be hungry…thirsty?

Oh, God, what had they done to him?

She grabbed up her old cloak and rushed to the door. Then remembered she had no money for a hackney. She found her reticule and rushed back downstairs, hatless, her hair coming loose from its pins.

She raced past her friends who still stood at a loss at the foot of the stairs, and headed for the front door, which still stood ajar. Outside in the chilly sunshine she paused for a second, trying to decide where she had the best chance of finding a hackney.

She headed for Mortimer Street, trying to control a little whimpering sob of panic at the time she was wasting. Then she saw one, the horse between the traces a broken-down nag, the driver looking as if he'd be more at home in Newgate Gaol than plying his trade in Mayfair. But he pulled over for her.

“Greyhound Tavern, Gray's Inn Road,” she gasped as she wrenched open the door into the greasy, evil-smelling interior.

The jarvey stared at her in momentary stupefaction. Gray's Inn Road was hardly a common destination for the ladies of Mayfair. Then he spat a juicy wad of tobacco onto the road and cracked his whip.

The cab started off with a jerk, and Cornelia sat bolt upright on the torn, stained squabs. Despite her desperation, she was still too fastidious to allow herself to sink into their depths, which she was convinced were infested with a colony of fleas.

She felt for the thimble in her pocket, closing her fingers around it as if it were a talisman. And now while there was nothing else she could do, the questions she hadn't had time for flooded in. What did Harry know of this business?

More than you think?
She heard his voice as he had said that, saw again the cold light in his clear green gaze. He had told her he would bring Stevie back, but he hadn't asked for the thimble. If he was going to rescue her son, why would he not take the ransom with him? Not that she would have let it out of her sight, but why hadn't he mentioned it?

She took out the thimble and looked at it again in the dim, swaying interior of the frowsty carriage. Icy certainty gripped her. There was only one explanation. Harry had known, or guessed, that this, or something like it, was going to happen. He'd known about the thimble, knew what secrets it held. And for some reason, despite the ransom demand, he had considered it irrelevant. He had known, and he had made no attempt to protect them, prepare them even. He'd stood to one side and watched as the trap had closed around them. And she could think of only one reason for that. It had suited his purposes to use the little household on Cavendish Square to bait his trap.

Maybe she was being melodramatic, but Cornelia didn't think so. She knew enough about what she didn't know about Viscount Bonham to be certain he was somehow responsible for this horror. Maybe he hadn't orchestrated it, but something he had done, an omission if not a commission, had brought this upon her.

And only she could get her son back.

Impatiently, Cornelia grabbed the worn leather strap and leaned forward, thrusting aside the strip of leather that formed a curtain across the window aperture. How far had they gone? Were they getting close? It was a part of the city she knew nothing about. A grimy downtrodden street of tumbled houses, kennels overflowing with filth, the carriage bumping over uneven cobbles.