The Lady’s Lover Page 18

  They crawled into the bed minutes later, once they had come back to themselves, and lolled there, recovering.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” Stoneacre warned. “There’s still a long night ahead of us, and I intend to make full use of it.”

  And so they did, loving each other until the hour grew late and falling into an exhausted sleep, entangled together.

  In contrast, the hour was early, although the room was still dark, when Hestia came suddenly awake. What was it? A sound? Inside the room?

  Not Stoneacre. He slumbered deeply at her side, one hand flung possessively across her hip.

  She caught a scent. Sickly sweet. Her eyes flew open, but a cloth quickly covered her mouth and nose. She struggled, frantically trying to pull away, to hold her breath. It was no use. She breathed it in . . . and the dark beckoned.

  Still protesting, she fell into it.

  Chapter 17

  Lord M— makes these young men of good birth his ‘lieutenants’. They are tasked with doing the deeds he doesn’t wish to sully his hands with. Everything from extortion to bullying, smuggling and yes, killing.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  The incessant rocking was making her head ache abdominally. Hestia frowned, her eyes still closed. What devil was thumping his pitchfork on the inside of her forehead? And why was he rocking the bed?

  With a gasp, she sat up—and moaned out loud. She clutched her head with one hand and steadied herself with the other. The bed wasn’t rocking. She was in a carriage. Naked. She glanced down at the blankets she’d been covered in, now pooled about her lap.

  Her ear caught the sound of the driver’s panel sliding open, but she couldn’t move her head quick enough to see anyone peering through. The carriage began to slow.

  She struggled to think. Peering outside, she winced at the light. Saints above, the sun hung nearly directly above. Where was she? Who had taken her? Where was Stoneacre?

  The door opened. She braced, desperate enough to fling herself out—until she saw who stood there.

  “Isaac?”

  He tossed in her traveling clothes. “Get dressed. Quickly.”

  Her mind raced, but her movements were slow and careful as she struggled into her shift and gown. It hung on her without her corset, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  She’d just finished and was trying to swallow back her nausea when the door opened again. Isaac climbed in and sat across from her. The carriage started up again.

  She stared, aghast. But she was too smart to make the same mistake twice. “He has Rachel?” she asked, finally.

  Tears sprang to his eyes.

  She shivered. In all of the years they’d worked together, with all the ugly and terrible things they’d seen, she’d never seen him cry.

  “Both girls, too.” He hung his head.

  She stared. “He got past the guards posted around your home?”

  He nodded. “We were so careful. We’ve always been so careful. How did he find them?”

  She sighed and sat back, resting her head against the seat. “We are nearly at the end. He’s throwing everything at us at once. I’m so sorry.”

  After a moment, she opened slatted eyes. “Where’s Stoneacre?”

  “I left him where he was. I dosed him heavier. He’s likely not awake yet.”

  She sat up and cradled her aching head. “Did you have to dose either of us? Couldn’t you have just asked?”

  He shot her a candid look. “I’m to bring you. Just you. Do you really think Stoneacre would have allowed you to go without him?”

  She didn’t answer. She knew he was right.

  “I’m sorry, Hestia.”

  “Don’t be. We all agreed to the pact. All of us. If he has one of ours, we give him what he wants—and we fight from there.” She looked up suddenly and groaned again at the backlash from within her skull. “Did you send that note?”

  He nodded. “It seemed the easiest way to separate you.”

  “It almost did.” She looked away, watched the scenery pass without noting it. There was no need to let Isaac see what she was feeling.

  “You have feelings for him.”

  She swallowed. She should have known he’d see it anyway.

  “I knew it when you turned around and rode hell for leather, back to him. I was following along, giving you a bit of time.” He glanced away. “I would have given you more time, if I could have.”

  Together, he meant. Together with Stoneacre.

  A long breath slid out of her. She would not cry. She had to look ahead. Prepare herself. “Marstoke told you he’d let them go, if you turned me over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take them and get them away safely, as soon as he gives them over. Don’t look back.”

  “You’ll need help,” he began.

  “No. That’s why we made the pact. So our innocent loved ones wouldn’t pay the price for our war. You take your women and you get them far away.”

  “Hestia, there’s no one else. I sent Aldmere a note, but neither he nor Tru will be able to get here in time. You’ll be on your own.”

  “I don’t care,” she said fiercely. “I’ve faced him before on my own. I got away. I’ll do it again.” She reached across and took his big hands in her own. “And if I do not, I need to know that you are going to carry on. Keep the girls safe. Keep the house open.” Squeezing, she glared at him. “Promise me, Isaac.”

  He merely looked at her.

  “Promise me.”

  At last, he relented. He gave a slow nod.

  “Send me a signal when you’ve got them safely away.” She frowned and laid her head back again. “And then I will begin to play his game in earnest.”

  The house hunkered squarely in a field of sea grass, set back a ways from a cliff. The road curved close to the edge on the way toward it and she looked down to the rocky beach below. The whole place looked sprawling and utilitarian rather than elegant or homelike.

  “How the mighty have fallen,” she said as the coach pulled away.

  She recognized the two men leaning against the low stone wall before the house. They had once been bully boys for the pimp, Hatch. They didn’t move as Isaac escorted her past. They merely looked at her and exchanged a long, telling glance.

  The door opened as she approached. She did not know the man there, though he was clearly not a servant. He appeared to be expecting her, though. Silent, he held the door wide to admit them.

  A large entry hall lay just inside, all done up in dark carved paneling and old wooden floors. Crates were stacked against two walls. Men hovered about, some of them digging in open crates, packed with straw. They all grew silent and still with her entrance.

  One man set aside a clipboard and beckoned them. He opened a door. “This way.”

  They followed him down a long passage. The sweet scent of licorice hung in the air. In one room she caught a glimpse of a scantily clad man tending a bubbling cauldron. In another, men bent over clerk’s desks, busy with paper work. Their escort led them to a set of ornate doors and pushed them open with a flourish.

  Hestia strode into what might have once been a small ballroom. It was a great, open space that now looked like a . . . den. The makeshift home of a disturbed mind.

  A wall of windows took up one side of the room. They were open and a slight sea breeze drifted in, but the wooden frames looked warped and they and the floor all showed signs of damp. The musty smell of decay hung in the air.

  A tall stack of rugs stood piled along one wall. Thick and richly colored, they were being counted by a man with a pencil and paper. Nearby stood an easel and an artist painting upon it, his palette in hand. She craned her neck to look—it was a portrait of Marstoke dressed in flowing Eastern robes.

  She bit back a dark laugh. In a corner a group of dirty children played a dice game. One of them heard her and glanced up, then elbowed the others. They all stared. Beyond them, a weather-rough
ened man sat at a stool. He had a large, forged iron hook in one hand and was attaching it to fishing net. A number of finished specimens bunched around his feet.

  She halted next to a dining table set up in the middle of the room. It was still covered with dishes and the remnants of a meal. Ahead, she faced a raised dais. Created for musicians, it sat a couple of steps above the main floor and held a single, elaborately carved chair.

  Trust Marstoke to set himself up with a throne.

  It sat empty. Hestia turned completely around, searching, but her nemesis was nowhere to be seen.

  “Wait here.” Their escort snapped his fingers at one of the boys in the corner and bent to give quiet orders when the boy answered the summons.

  Perhaps he was sending for Marstoke, but there was no need. Her spine tingled in dread and anticipation as a door opened and her old enemy walked through. Another young man followed on his heels, listening to him talk and apparently taking dictation.

  “ . . . at least twelve feet by twenty-four,” Marstoke was saying. “And to be outfitted in the opulent style of the East.” He waved a hand. “Rather like the Royal Pavilion, but with actual taste.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Hestia and Isaac.

  “Well done, my boy,” he whispered to Isaac. “Very well done.”

  He frowned at Hestia. “You burned down my house.” he said, suddenly loud and distinctly unhappy.

  Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing.

  Hestia drew herself up. “You sent an assassin to kill me!”

  He pursed his lips, whatever else he’d been going to say dying away. “Yes, well . . .”

  She looked him over. It had been some time since they’d faced each other directly. “You are not aging well, Marstoke. You look like hell warmed over. Not as bad as Captain Wilson has aged, but . . .” She shook her head and roved a disparaging eye over him.

  “I lay the blame directly at your door,” he snapped back. “Yours and your fat prince’s, as well.” He smoothed a hand over his receding hairline. “As for Wilson, I should hope I look better. He’s dead. Your last encounter was too much for him.”

  She fought not to touch the scar on her ring finger. “Good.”

  He waved away the man hovering near him. Slowly, he climbed the dais and took his seat.

  Without a word, the children gathered up their game and filed out. The painter collected his tubes and brushes and scurried out while the rug counter held the door. After another moment, the door opened again and other men and women streamed in.

  Silently, they gathered, a motley mix of the people she’d seen on the way in, and others, including several young men of quality and more than a few thin, hard faces—men and women she’d think to find in London’s back streets. Without a word they all took up watchful positions along the back wall. Two of them, the size of behemoths, moved forward to take up positions at either end of the dais.

  Marstoke just sat there, looking at her. “It would have been cleaner, had you died.” He scowled. “Ever the thorn in my side.”

  She gave a little curtsy.

  He merely sat and watched her for a long moment further. “No,” he declared suddenly. “This is better. I am glad you are here now. This will be a more fitting end to our game.”

  “Not yet. First, you must finish your business with Isaac.”

  The marquess’s eyebrows rose.

  “You have his family here, I assume. Bring them out. Set them free.” She stretched her hands out. “He did as you asked. Here I am. Now it’s your turn to keep your word.” She glanced at her friend and then at the group standing silently behind them. “It’s just good business, Marstoke. I imagine that you’ve made quite a few promises to these people, too.”

  He glared at her, then rolled his eyes. “Bring them!” he called.

  They waited. Marstoke called for one of the men in the back and held a whispered conference before sending him out.

  Still, they waited. Marstoke brooded. Twice more he called up a minion and sent them scurrying off. Hestia could not help but think that none of this activity boded well for her.

  Finally, two men returned, hauling Isaac’s wife Rachel and their two young daughters between them. Hestia felt Isaac stiffen beside her, but he gave no outward reaction.

  “You need to follow your own rules, Marstoke,” Hestia reminded him. “They leave now. Free, clear and unmolested.”

  “Yes, yes.” He sounded impatient.

  “Go,” she said under her breath to Isaac.

  He lurched forward suddenly, and picked up a girl in each arm. His wife looked at him with love and relief and implicit trust.

  Hestia turned away. She could not show even a hint of weakness before Marstoke. She watched the marquess as the family hurried out, but he showed not a whit of concern about their release.

  Silence descended again. A watchful, alert silence that somehow seemed to become a presence in the room.

  “I understand that you’ve been searching out old acquaintances of mine,” Marstoke launched the words into the quiet, shattering it with tense disapproval and anticipation.

  “Searching out your victims, I think you mean? Offering assistance? Cataloging your sins? If that is what you refer to, then the answer is yes.” She sneered up at him. “I’ve been kept disgracefully busy.”

  “Well, tit for tat, my dear. I believe it is time we listened to some complaints against you.” He lifted his chin. “Get her a chair.”

  One of the men brought one from the dining table and leered at her as she sat. Another man offered her a glass of wine, but for several good reasons, she refused.

  Marstoke raised a finger then, and the man set down the wine, and came back with a rope. The leering man held her in place while he began to tie her wrists to the chair arms.

  Her heart dropping, she struggled. Though she knew it was futile, she fought. His minions were merciless, however, and the truth settled heavily onto her soul. He was going to win. She was likely going to die here.

  She craned her head and looked over her shoulder at the gathered crowd. There were the dissatisfied younger men of good families he’d recruited with his whispers of rebellion. The few women he’d convinced to play his game. The criminals he’d recruited into his service.

  They all watched her with hungry anticipation. She was far outnumbered. There were no allies here.

  “Settle in, my dear, and listen,” Marstoke said with an air of satisfaction that made her nervous.

  But then, through the open window, echoed the sound of four distant gunshots.

  Marstoke sat up. “See what it is,” he ordered. “Make sure we are not disturbed.”

  But Hestia knew. It was Isaac’s signal. They were safely away. She grinned up at Marstoke.

  Fine. He would win, in the end. But she still had plenty of play left in her.

  Now the game would truly begin.

  Chapter 18

  Several of these young blue blooded ‘lieutenants’ were recently tried and transported for the sins committed at Lord M—’s direction. Only their family names saved them from the gallows.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Stoneacre rolled over—and nearly cast up his accounts. What in damnation was wrong with his head? “Hestia?”

  Lord, his mouth felt like he’d slept with a woolen scarf stuffed in it. “Hestia?”

  He groped across the empty bed. It was still dark. Had he heard the door close? Was she feeling ill, too? Gathering his strength, he lifted himself up enough to peer over onto the floor.

  Empty.

  Perhaps she’d gone to the privy? Or to the kitchens for something to help a pounding head? He lay back, gathering strength for another push, to make it out of bed.

  When he opened his eyes, he was unsure how much time had passed. “Hestia?”

  She still had not returned, but he felt marginally better. It was light out, though. Alarm p
ierced him nearly as painfully as his headache. He swung his feet out of bed and hung his head in his hands. After a few seconds, he stood up—and nearly fell forward onto his face.

  He fought through the dizziness, now beginning to really worry. Had Hestia been struck with the same illness? Was she lying somewhere, unable to make it back? Oh, Lord. Or had Marstoke had something to do with this?

  He pulled a blanket from the bed and staggered to the doorway. He stood there, panting, holding his aching head and waiting.

  Eventually the boot boy came scurrying up the stairs. “Here, lad. Come here.” He beckoned and the boy cautiously approached. “Have you seen my lady? I fear we’ve caught something. Do you know where she is?”

  The boy did not. “Didn’t you lose her once already?” he asked.

  “Coffee, lad,” he ground out. “Fetch me coffee.” His stomach objected to the notion, but he needed to clear his head. “And send up the innkeeper. We need to find my lady.”

  He managed to get dressed, forcing coffee down as he did so—and his headache did settle to a dull ache. His alarm had only risen, though. No one had seen Hestia. Her travel clothes were gone again.

  He did not believe she had left him. Not voluntarily. Not after last night. He didn’t know what had been done to him, but he was sure now, that it had been Marstoke.

  Had they done the same to Hestia? Taken her while she was incapacitated? He had to find her. And he had only one clue. Clevedon.

  But where was Clevedon? On the coast near Bristol was all he knew. And even if he went straight there, he couldn’t scour the whole town. He went in search of someone to ask and found the clerk from yesterday downstairs, talking to a groom.

  “Excuse me, I need to know more about Clevedon. Where is it in relation to Bristol? And how big a place is it?” he asked, striding up to them.

  The clerk looked startled. “It’s a small coastal town, I believe. But my lord, you need to hear this groom’s story.”

  Stoneacre turned to the man. “Have you an idea where my lady has gone?”