How had she got here? Carlisle, obviously, had arranged it. He had been her enemy from the start, then. Kiley was right. He had followed her, perhaps all the way from Hastings, had discovered at the inn at Tilbury that she was going to Raffertys, and gone after her. He either actually knew Edward Rafferty or discovered that a son existed, and something of his interests and whereabouts—enough to hazard an appearance at the door.
She reviewed all his seeming innocence and naiveté, his accepting her story that she carried diamonds, his kind offer first to accompany her, then his gradual insinuation into her confidence, his request to be given the letter to "protect." And all the time he was luring her along to this—to get her alone and take the letter by force. The reinforcements Kiley had spoken of at Colchester must have been Mrs. Euston and the men on the carriage with her. Mrs. Euston, so conveniently going to London with an empty carriage, when she saw herself reading the London schedule. Had she said she was going to Ipswich, the empty carriage would have been headed in that direction. Bobbie's part in it was unclear, but she took him for a real grandson, used to add an air of naturalness to the woman's appearance. Who would suspect a grandmother and child of such treachery?
And what about Kiley? He was not who he said either. Had he come from her father, he would have had some proof. He would have known her destination without learning it from Carlisle. Most damning of all, he would not have opened the letter to Sir Giles. He would have delivered it. He was some separate spy; no doubt Napoleon had dozens of them working independently. She could not account for the animosity of the two men, unless they were professional competitors, both spies, both after her letter, but not working together. This being the case, she was surprised it was Carlisle who had won out. She would have put her faith in Kiley for being the more clever and ruthless of the two.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of a horse and carriage rolling up in front of the house. She could not see it, but she heard the sounds. Soon she heard faint stirrings belowstairs, knocks and bumps and an occasional grunt loud enough to rise up through the floor. The commotion, fight, from the sounds of it, was going on in the room immediately below her. Another falling out among the thieves, probably about the letter or herself. She had the ominous sensation that the victor would bolt up the stairs, unlock the door and confront her, quite possibly rape her—and what could she do to stop him? She could jump out the window naked or she could wait. She looked to the window, knowing there was a carriage out front. A person could hide her nakedness in a carriage.
The decision was taken from her. Within a split second of the thought, there was a hard pounding on the stairs, steps hurrying down the hall. The door rattled. He was here!
"Miss Bradford! Vanessa—are you all right?" She recognized Kiley's voice, though it was strained, tense and unnatural-sounding.
She swallowed, looked fruitlessly around the room, knowing there was no place to hide. She got up off the bed, pulling the blanket about her, silent with dread. The door was suddenly heaving, as it was subjected to kicks, or possibly a straining shoulder. There was the sound of shattering wood, and suddenly he was there, panting, gasping, staring at her. She stared back; neither of them said a word.
When he had recovered his breath, Kiley said, "Are you all right?" He sounded remarkably angry.
She went on looking at him, her throat too dry and sore to answer, but her eyes conveying her fear and loathing. "Are you all right?" he asked, more loudly, more angrily. "For God's sake
say
something! What did they do to you?"
"They got the letter," she said.
He took three long strides to her. "How did they get it? What did they do?"
"I don't know. I was drugged."
"They left you like this, naked?" His eyes ran around the room, saw the rope on the bed. "Were you beaten, abused in any way? Raped?"
"No, I don't have any scars or pain. Carlisle is not so vicious as you, Kiley." She was past caring what she said. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I should have killed the bastard while I had the chance. Get dressed. We're leaving."
"I don't have any clothes. They took them."
"Look around the other rooms. There must be something you can put on. I have to see the man I knocked out downstairs isn't planning any mischief. There was a serving wench ran out to the stable. She may have gone for help. I'll tie the man up and come back to you. We must hurry."
He left, turned and walked out, leaving the door unlocked. She went into the hallway, entered the next room, a man's, to judge from the shirts and trousers on the bed. Across the hall was a female's chamber, in a great state of disarray. A part of the mess was her own gown and underclothing. She looked for her shoes but did not see them. The gown, already ripped to the waist, had been completely destroyed, pulled in three pieces. Was it spite, or did they think she had in some manner concealed the letter in its folds or seams? The flounce, a double flounce, had been pulled completely off the gown, to lay in a puddle on the floor. She quickly put on her underclothing, happy to get out of the scratchy blanket, then went to the clothes press to see what gowns hung there.
They were all large, dark and unfashionable—gowns that suited and probably belonged to Mrs. Euston. She took one from the hanger, her nose wrinkling in disgust at its moldering condition. Before she had time to slip it over her head, Kiley was back. That he should unceremoniously walk in while she wore only her petticoats was not remarkable, after the greater indignities she had suffered. She directed one brief glance at him, then put the gown over her head.
"I tied him up. The wench is gone," Kiley said. "Do you need a hand?"
As she was about to decline his offer, she noticed the gown hooked up the back. She turned around, still not speaking, but letting him discover for himself what was to be done. His fingers flew along, skipping every second hook.
"They've gone toward London," he said.
"Who?"
"Carlisle and the woman, and those men that were on the carriage."
"How do you know?"
"A little boy out front told me. A child, too young to have learned to lie yet, I think. I would have met them if they'd gone the other way. They weren't met on the road from Colchester. I kept a sharp eye out."
"You're going after them?" she asked.
"We're going after them."
"You don't need me. Let me go back to my aunt."
"By what means? You don't have a carriage. I promised your father I would look after you. I have done a damned poor job of it thus far, haven't I? I can't leave you here alone, and I can't spare the time to take you." His hands jerked roughly on the hooks.
She turned to look at him, frowning, trying to figure out his part in her escapade.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "It's not
all
my fault. If you'd done as I asked in the first place, none of this would have happened. Not to
you,
at least."
His harsh features, which she was accustomed to see set in lines of determination and anger, were softened to regret. His eyes too bore traces of sympathy, perhaps pity. "Was it very bad?" he asked, his tone gentle.
"No, not so very bad. I was drugged as soon as I arrived. The trip was not unpleasant."
"Was Carlisle in the carriage?"
"No, I caught a glimpse of him at the parlor door, just as I passed out from the tea. They put something in it, in my cup."
"It was the big gray-haired woman calling herself Mrs. Euston who brought you? I saw her talking to Carlisle at the inn."
"Yes, her and the boy. He was her grandson, she said. She even knew my aunt, which made me feel secure ..."
"Claimed to know her, after she wormed a name and probably an address out of you."
"It might have been that way. Yes, I think I told her."
"How did she lure you to this isolated spot?"
"By stopping at her relative's place to change teams. It all seemed so natural, the way she scolded and—everything."
"She's a pro, probably been doing this sort of thing for years."
"But who is she?"
"An accomplice of Carlisle's. Possibly some relative—I really have no idea."
"They're not French. Why should they be helping Napoleon?"
"For money. That's all—the job pays well.
French
spies working for France are patriots, as English ones working for England are. It is the turncoats that are despicable. Even their employers despise them. Still, they'll be paid handsomely for their information, and that's all they're interested in. They cannot have much of a head start on us. Let's go."
She turned around, trying to decide on Kiley's innocence. "Mr. Kiley," she began.
"My name is Landon, remember? Colonel Landon. You cannot know how I have come to detest the name of Kiley."
"Did my father really send you?"
"How else should I have got here?"
"How did Carlisle? Spies have ways ..."
"Well, you know, Miss Bradford, it is very much your own fault that Carlisle is here. Yours and your father's. I do not feel he acted at all wisely either in sending his message with a pair of ladies."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"You and your aunt stopped to examine the preparations for the ball at Hastings before leaving. Your father told you to go
directly
to Sir Giles Harkman. If you had followed his orders, no one would have followed you in time to be of any danger. A great deal of curiosity was generated at learning of the sudden trip, and at such an unlikely time. That, coupled with your father's known great interest in Napoleon's preparations, was bound to lead any wide-awake fellow, which I think we must grant Carlisle to be, to suspect there was more to the voyage than a visit to a friend."
"I didn't believe the message had any importance. I thought Papa was just being mean. He doesn't like me to have much to do with the officers at home. If you really came from him, why did you not bring any proof?"
"He was not at all eager for me to go after you, at first, anyway. He thought it would draw attention to you, till I mentioned I had my civilian clothing with me. When I learned the sort of talk running around the garrison, I knew I must leave. I changed into mufti, and only stopped a moment to tell him I was going. In our consternation, we neither of us thought of a letter of introduction. And when I was told at Tilbury that you had already been attacked, I knew I was right to have gone after you. I
don't
understand how you trusted Carlisle so implicitly, and myself not at all. What did he do, what charm did he work, to convince you?"
"I did not trust him completely. It is only that he chanced along at Raffertys in such an innocent-seeming manner ..."
"We'll talk in the curricle. Come on."
"I don't have any shoes," she said, lifting up the long, loose-hanging gown to display her bare toes.
"They even took your shoes?" he asked.
"Yes," she said with a worried look, wondering whether to tell him all. He regarded her fixedly.
For a moment, there was some consciousness of constraint between them. "I see," he said, in a meaningful voice. "When you have come to trust me completely, you will of course tell me why
that
disturbs you, when the gown's being destroyed does not. If you had the letter in your shoe, I don't see why they would not just pull it out and leave the shoes behind. Maybe they did. Let's have a look."
They both began looking around the room, but Vanessa went to the clothes press for a pair of Mrs. Euston's shoes. She knew her own were gone, their secret discovered.
"Ha, just as I said. Here they are," Landon exclaimed, pulling one out from under the bed. Its toe just protruded from the covers. "The other must be here somewhere," he said, handing the one up to her. She looked, to determine it was the innocent one she held.
"The other won't be there," she said flatly.
"Wrong. Here it is," he announced triumphantly, reaching a long arm far under the bed to retrieve it.
She gave a gasp of surprise and reached for it, staring to see if the sole had been torn loose. It had not. Somehow, in their haste and probably because they thought her too stupid to invent a good hiding place, they had tossed it aside. Landon too stared at the shoe, not passing it to her, but looking at it with a curious smile on his lips.
"I believe I underestimated you, Vanessa," he said, ripping the sole back, while her carefully hammered tacks sprang out, revealing the well-worn, folded letter. A glowing smile alit on his face. He put his head back and laughed loud.
"By God, and here I thought you had it in the top of your stocking! I knew it wasn't in your bodice at any rate. I
do
apologize for having to confirm it." He unfolded the letter as he spoke.
She reached for it, while he pulled back. "Oh, no, this time
I
keep it."
She was possessed by a strong desire to get it back, but as that was unlikely, she had to determine that Landon was absolutely to be trusted. There had to be some way she could discover it.
"What's the matter?" he asked, still smiling. "Have I not absolved myself yet?"
"Of course," she prevaricated, sensing that a genial approach would be her best chance of success. "I am just worried—about my father, along with all the rest. He was not well when I left, you know, which is why he sent me. How did he seem when you spoke to him?"
"Not in very high gig, as a matter of fact, but not dangerously ill. Parkins, his batman, was tending him, and sending for the sawbones."
"Was he in bed?"
"No, but in his bedchamber, sitting at that great campaign desk he took as booty in the Netherlands. A handsome piece. He was taking Irish tea, and studying local maps."
These details, given so easily, tended to confirm in her mind that Landon had at least been in her father's bedchamber. How else could he know the furniture, and her father's preferred drink?
"We don't have to go after Carlisle now, do we? We can take the letter straight to Sir Giles. Or to London—I had decided it was easier to get it to London, and let them handle it." A worrisome thought came to her—Landon had not known in the beginning that she was headed to Ipswich.