A Most Delicate Pursuit (17 page)

“Indeed you will, my friend,” Ash said. “What puzzles me is why he wants her so badly? There are plenty of women on the marriage mart, and most of those far better connected than she is.”

Michael considered his words. “Likely, it's her connection to you. In all the realm, I believe you are the only one with fatter bank accounts and more influence amongst the aristocracy than he. If he controls the most powerful man in government, doesn't that make him the most powerful man by default?”

He watched Ash consider his words. “You may be right. But he hasn't got her yet and we can still best him at his own game. As soon as the wedding is done, I'll be returning to London and put together a team to find him and bring him to justice.”

“The sooner you do,” Michael said, tamping down on his urge to chase the man down himself and find his own kind of justice, “the better it is for us all.”

Michael stood outside Slyddon's small stone chapel. It was a rainy afternoon and his only companion at the moment was the distant twitter of birdsong and the steady pattering of rain on the grounds around him. His wedding day had arrived at last. It should have been the happiest moment of his life, the beginning of the life that most men dreamed of: a wife, a home, and, one day, a family.

And yet, a sense of foreboding stood beside him like a ghost. It wasn't the fear of the future that so unsettled him, but rather the echoes of his past. Lost lives and broken hearts and unreachable dreams spun in his thoughts like hawks circling carrion.

“Well, if that's not the face of a man about to be led to the gallows, I don't know what is,” Ash said, suddenly beside him.

“Which would make me a condemned man, eh?” Michael tried to laugh but it came out a dry and brittle sound.

Ash grinned and clapped him on the back. “Nonsense, it's a rebirth, if you ask me. Most think of marriage as an end to freedom, but it couldn't be further from the truth. True independence doesn't come from being unattached but rather from joining with another to set on a new path. Two people building a life together. Nothing compares to that, I can tell you.”

“You and Caroline seem to have made a good go of it.”

“Then why the worry?”

Michael looked at his friend. Though his outer appearance had changed little since they'd met, there now lived a sense of purpose, a set direction in his life. And Ash had more than survived his marriage; he'd thrived in it.

“I'm not you, Ash. I'm not even a poor shadow.” He laughed. “My experience has been…” He stopped, unable to continue, as if his words might summon the devil that haunted him.

“Your experience has been a result of the most miserable man that has ever walked the earth. Your father meant to damage you because he hated your mother. He thought he could punish her by damaging you. He was wrong.”

“Was he?”

Ash scoffed. “Yes. Because you survived. Don't you see? You're alive and he's not. Every day that you rise from your bed and he stays in the ground, it's a victory. You should celebrate.”

It was a raw, new idea that Michael had never considered. His father, gone the last two years, had left him penniless and in disgrace. He'd shamed him repeatedly and then laughed at his son's pain. But now there was only a distant memory of his taunts, of his twisted, tortured face.

For the first time, Michael remembered him another way. A sickly, broken man, gasping his last breaths and cursing God before dying.

“I don't want the same death,” he told Ash. “I won't die cursing the world.”

There it was. All of a sudden Michael realized what lay at the root of his pain. He would never measure up to his father, but that hadn't been why the old man hated him.

“Of course you won't,” Ash said. “None of us are our fathers. We're born to be different, to make our own choices, commit our own sins, and either rise or fall on our own.”

“He didn't hate me,” Michael said, the world finally opening up to him. “He hated himself. I was just a reflection of the man he could never be.”

Ash nodded. “You are your own man, Michael. And you're one I'm glad to call my friend. Now, for the love of God, and to save us all, marry that woman.”

Michael looked up to see Beatrice coming down the walk from the main castle—a vision in a pale blue gown with her hair piled up, tiny white flowers encircling her head. Around her neck was a string of pearls Michael instantly recognized.

“My mother's pearls?” He looked to Ash.

“Amelia found them at your father's estate auction just before his death. She's been holding them, waiting for the right time to give them to you.”

As Beatrice neared, she met his gaze and her face transformed from the abject fear of a drowning woman to that of one who'd just been tossed a lifeline.

“She's beautiful,” he muttered.

Caroline and Amelia walked behind her, and behind her were his friends Braden and Jeremy. Between them, they were helping Bea and Caro's mother, Sarah Hawkins, navigate the rough steps.

“I don't know,” Ash said beside him. “But I believe we are about to have a wedding.”

“When did the others arrive?” he asked, his eye never leaving Beatrice.

Ash coughed. “Barely an hour ago. You've never seen such a sight. Amelia could have led the troops at Waterloo, such a force she is.”

Michael stood there, eye transfixed and barely able to think what to do next.

“I should go inside,” he said, his gaze transfixed by the approaching party.

Ash took his arm. “You damn well should. You need to be at the altar.”

Nodding, he pulled his suit jacket taut and turned away. “You are quite right, Your Grace. If you would fetch my bride…”

With that, Michael walked past his friend and into the chapel, finally facing his future and leaving his past behind. A new life awaited him and he was damned determined to enjoy it to the end.

After the wedding, Bea and Michael enjoyed a late supper with their family and friends. Ash had commented that two members of the Hunt Club remained yet unmarried, and they were gaining quite a bit of notoriety amongst the bon ton. The gentlemen all laughed, although the viscount and the surgeon with much less joviality.

That had been three days earlier and though Bea missed her family dearly, she treasured the time she and Michael had been together.

Every day since their wedding had been amazing. Rising early, taking walks around the grounds together, and returning early to spend their evenings together, Bea enjoyed every minute with her husband.

That night, as had become their routine, she and Michael had spent a quiet evening together in bed, watching the dying embers in the fireplace. Twice they'd let the servants come in and stoke the flames, but as the night approached midnight, nothing was left but ash amidst a muted red glow.

Sometime after that, Bea awoke to a chilly breeze blowing in the room.

“I'm going to close the window,” she told Michael.

He rolled over. “I'll get it,” he said, but a few seconds later he fell back asleep.

Bea smiled at him. Half-moon light spilled into the bedroom and it gave him the look of a pale, blue angel. The flat planes of his body met the angles of bone and sinew. But it was a devilish grin that had stolen her heart. And now, staring at the slow steady rise and fall of his chest held her transfixed. They'd been together for days, but still the sight of him took her breath away.

Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed her robe and pulled it around her shoulders and tiptoed to the window. Pulling the shutters closed, she hooked the latch and turned to find herself face-to-face with two strangers.

Before she could scream, a hand clamped fast over her mouth, a sheet was thrown over her, and she was lifted from the ground. Choking and struggling, she barely made a squeak.

Just as they'd reached the hall, she heard the click of a pistol and a voice hissing in her room.

“Make a move and I'll put a shot keen through you,” a man shouted behind them.

“Prime your shot, then,” she heard Michael growl from across the room, “and take good aim because you'll only get one shot.”

There was a shuffling noise and a loud thud, followed by the report of a pistol. She heard nothing more because in the next instant she was slung over the stranger's shoulder and carried down the stairs and through the house.

“Michael!” She tried to scream, and though she fought against the quilts trapping her, her voice came out muffled and thick.

Suddenly, the beast dropped her to the floor. “Get the carriage. Crawley's been shot,” her abductor yelled out.

“Aye, sir,” another man answered.

Flailing around in the quilt, Bea finally managed to free herself. “Michael?” she screamed. She was in the main foyer, only feet from the front door. She could hear the sound of doors slamming and rustling upstairs. “Someone, help!”

The stranger ignored her screams and turned to the woman beside him.

“You'd better be right about this, or I'll take the strap to ya, I will.”

“It's what himself wants, no doubt about it. Married or not, she's his woman.”

“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly stunned, realizing there hadn't been time for her letters to arrive in London.

“My lady,” she scoffed, and gave Bea a mocking bow.

“What the devil is going on here?” Bea scrambled to her feet and started to back away, but the man grabbed her arm and held it in a viselike grip.

“I've come to get you, is what. And gone to a great lot of trouble to do so.”

Just then, the doorman, Mr. Jamison, wearing only his nightshirt and slippers, burst into the room holding a short club in one hand and an oil lantern in the other. “See here, sir. You can't come barging in here like this. You are not invited guests.”

“Get out of my way, you blighter. We've got what we came for.”

The smaller, older man stood his ground. “Turn loose of Lady Carver, this instant!”

Before he could move forward, another man came running down the stairs, wearing a dark brown ragged coat. He held up his arm and pointed a primed pistol at them. “Out of the way or I'll put a hole in you like I did your master.”

“No,” Bea called out, but her breath left her and the world spun like a dervish. It couldn't be…

Without thinking, she ran forward and, grabbing the lamp from Mr. Jamison, smashed it against her captor, screaming for all she was worth. Neither the woman, nor the men with her, moved for a few seconds, and Bea took advantage of their surprise. “Get help! Notify the earl! Hurry!” was all she managed before the world tilted sideways once again. In the next instant, she saw an arm raised high over her and then the fine arc of the blow before she felt the dull thud against her skull.

The very next thing she knew, the quilt went over her again and once more she was tossed over her abductor's shoulder. Before the darkness engulfed her, the world went quiet around her and the only sound she was aware of was her own heart thudding like a drumbeat in her ears.

“Jamison,” Michael called out as he made his way down the stairs.

The doorman was lying on the floor, bleeding from a cut on his right temple but still breathing. “My lord,” he began.

Michael rushed to his side. “Easy, old man,” he said, kneeling beside him.

“They took her, my lord. I tried to stop them, but they took her.”

“I know.” He helped the man to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“I can, my lord. Just a bump on the head,” he said.

“Good. I'm going after them. I need you to rouse the rest of the staff. Send two men to inform the duke of what's happened. He'll know what to do from there.”

He started to leave, but the older gentleman grabbed his arm. “But, my lord, surely you don't mean to go after them yourself?”

“I do indeed. And pity the men when I do find them. I will get my wife back. Make no doubt about it.”

That had been two hours earlier and fortunately, they'd passed two carriages on the road so that Michael was able to quickly determine their destination. It was as he'd thought. They were headed to Portsmouth, just as they'd intimated to Beatrice when they'd posed as Lord and Lady Ringsley, which he now knew as a ruse.

At each stop he'd made, he'd sent word back to Slyddon so Ash would know where to find him. With any luck, riding full out, Michael would catch up within hours. Of course, the sky had clouded up once again and rain threatened on the horizon. That would slow Michael's advance, but it would slow them up as well. It was far tougher to drag a carriage through mud than it was to navigate a single horse.

He'd had little trouble on his ride thus far. Except for his thoughts of Beatrice. He doubted that they'd hurt her much, seeing that Bainbridge most likely wanted her alive. But Michael had no doubt what he'd do once he had her in his possession. That thought alone made him spur his horse to go faster. He should catch up with them by late evening, or early morning at the latest. Which was the best possible time to confront them, he thought.

It was with that in mind that his resolve strengthened. Michael would get her back and he would make Bainbridge pay for what he'd done.

It was no longer a matter of honor, and Michael knew exactly how to deal with men like Bainbridge. By the end of it, the beast would be put down and Beatrice would be free.

Bea wasn't sure how much time had passed when she came awake again. She was huddled on a bench in a carriage, being bounced along at an impossible pace.

Bea's one hope was that Michael had somehow survived the attack, as he had done once before. Closing her eyes, she remembered seeing him, pulling her from the carriage, remembered him holding her tightly on their flight to safety.

Somehow she had to get back to him, but she'd no idea how to do that. Light-headed and still stunned by the blow, Bea tried to sit up straighter, but her stomach roiled and her vision swam. There would be no escaping with her in such condition, even if the situation presented itself.

“It's no good,” she told them. “My husband will be coming after me.”

Before she knew what was happening, the woman raised her arm and slapped Bea hard across the face. “Hold your tongue, woman, or I'll cut it from your mouth. Mr. Bainbridge wanted you alive, but he said nothing about talking.”

The man beside her grinned wide, showing dark spaces between his yellow encrusted teeth.

Bea looked from one to the other, panic rising in her chest. She quickly surmised that even if she did attempt an escape, by the time she reached either door, one or the other would be upon her. The man, as thick as he was tall, leered at her, and she saw that he was twisting a short length of an iron chain in his hands. It was fitted with small metal cuffs on each end.

Bea's mouth went dry and she sank back into the seat. She'd no doubt as to what he might do with the manacles should she attempt an escape. He must have seen her understanding and sent her a toothless grin.

“That's a girl. You're a smart one, I can see.”

“I demand you turn this carriage around this instant and take me back to Slyddon.”

The woman leaned close. “You're being taken to Mr. Bainbridge and from there to his estate in the north, where you'll be caring for his brats and likely seeing to a few of his needs as well.”

North? Would Michael even know where to look for her? No. Escape was her only hope and she must do it now, while she was still close enough to run back to Slyddon. Without another thought, she jumped to her feet. Swinging wildly, she caught the woman on the chin with her fist, knocking into her so that her head thumped against the back of the seat. Then, throwing a hard kick, she hit the man squarely in the jaw and at the same time propelled herself out the door of the carriage. Falling to the ground, the impact hit her hard and she nearly lost her breath. But she didn't stay there long, scrambling to her feet as fast as she could. Fear and shame propelled her forward, and she set off in a run.

Behind her she heard the carriage draw to a halt and the curses of her would-be captors behind her. Running with all her might, she couldn't help stumbling and falling on her face. The brambles scratched her, and her ankle twisted painfully.

Struggling to rise again, she managed to stand, but before she could go any distance at all, the man grabbed her from behind. Hard fingers dug into her shoulders, and before she knew what was happening, his fist came at her in a wide arc, landing a heavy punch against the side of her head. Blackness exploded in her brain, and she swore she tasted blood.

“Michael, I'm sorry,” she tried to say, but only gurgling noises came out of her mouth before she fell into the deep pit of unconsciousness.

It was well past midnight when the knock sounded at Ash's bedroom door. “Ash?” Caro yawned sleepily beside him.

Ash sat up in bed and called out. “Come.” Home for a few days, they'd barely had a chance to get unpacked, let alone see to all of Summerton's business. As it was, it would take him the month until they left for the country to get things straightened out.

The bedroom door opened and light from the hall spilled in. It was Bentley, dressed in robe and slippers, his nightcap askew on his head. In one hand he held an oil lamp and in the other a leather-bound envelope.

“I beg pardon, Your Grace, but this missive just arrived from Hampshire. It's from Lord Bladen, sir.”

Opening it, Ash pulled out the contents and quickly read over the letter. “By the gods,” he swore as he pushed out from under the covers to stand up.

“What is it?”

The last thing he wanted to do was worry his wife, but she needed to know what was going on as much as he did.

“It's a letter from Michael. Bainbridge's men took Beatrice and attempted to kill him in the process.”

“No!”

She was sitting up in bed now, eyes wide, the fear and concern in her expression mirroring what Ash felt.

He nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

“You're going after them,” she said, quickly scrambling out of the bed to stand beside him.

“Too right I am.” He gave Bentley instructions to call up his men and send word to the authorities. “Don't worry, my dear. We'll get her back safe, I promise.”

“I know, my love. Amelia and I will begin sending out letters immediately. This cur will no longer be allowed to hide in the shadows and hurt people as he pleases if I have anything to say about it.”

“That's my girl. An attack from without and within is the best strategy to win the war.” With that he pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “Until I return.”

It was always hard to leave his wife and children, but Beatrice and Michael were his family as well, and he would bend steel if it meant keeping them safe.

Within the hour he was dressed and setting out for Slyddon.

She didn't know how much time had passed since she'd left Slyddon, but it couldn't have been too long. It was still dark, with what little moonlight there was from the overcast sky. It was full raining now, a cold, relentless drizzle that chilled her through to her bones. Her head ached and her body battled thirst and hunger. She didn't know where she was heading or what lay at her journey's end. All she really was sure of was that she'd been riding in a carriage for hours, held against her will, miles from home.

It was all she could do not to cry. Keeping her eyes cast down did no good, because the woman beside her stirred.

“Looks like you're awake,” the woman said. “I'm sure your head's a throbbing something fierce after the wallop that ol' Hargraves gave you.”

“My head does hurt, yes. A bit of tea and a night's rest would help immensely.”

The woman gave her a coarse grunt. “You're not at court, missy. You'll not get amenities on this trip.” She reached beneath her cloak and pulled out a small amber bottle. “Here, have a sip of this. It'll get you warm and ease your bruising a bit.”

She took the bottle and sniffed it warily. She'd not ever been one for spirits, but she took it, and though it was coarse and burned, she was glad for the small kindness. Her gratitude was cut short when the other woman yanked it away from her when she'd barely had a chance to swallow it.

“Enough, girl. I'm sure you're not used to spirits and I'll not have you indulging and losing your gut in here.”

“Thank you,” she said. While she was not as clever as her sister, Bea knew her only chance out of this trouble was to outthink her captors. The woman beside her likely had once been in service, judging by the way her clothing, while well worn, was relatively clean and pressed. The man, however, was a different story.

Tall, thick, and brooding, Hargraves sat quietly beside her. His huge hands clasped in his lap, he kept looking out the window, as if expecting either a monster or highwayman would appear. Or, perhaps he was worried that Michael might show up.

Closing her eyes, she imagined him coming to rescue her. He would be riding full out, his left arm working a whip on the horse's backside, heels dug into its sides, and a grim expression on his face.

How dashing he would look, dark and dangerous, the black patch covering his right eye, a scowl on his lips.

“If you're thinking your man will come to your rescue, my lass, you can forget about it. He'll think you're on your way to America, not where we're headed.”

“And where is that?”

The woman smiled at her. “I suppose it wouldn't matter if you knew, since you're hardly in a position to object.”

“I don't understand.”

She reached into her pocket again, this time pulling out an envelope. “What I have here is a missive from you to his lordship, explaining that you had a prior engagement to Mr. Bainbridge and have decided to live in the north with him. That you duped the earl and had plans to meet with your fiancé long before you accepted the earl's proposal of marriage. You're running away because you can't face the humiliation when your lies are found out. As far as he'll know, you're on your way to America with your beloved husband, Mr. Bainbridge.”

“You can't believe that he'll think that letter came from my hand.”

She laughed. “Of course he will, as I am an expert forger. When we reach Bennington, I shall post it, and by the time you've arrived at your new home, your precious husband will know the truth and will be free to seek solace in the arms of his mistress.”

“You're wrong. He'll know I didn't write that letter,” she said, never more certain of anything in her life.

“It doesn't matter what he believes. If he tries to interfere with the master, he'll be put down like a dog. Mr. Bainbridge employs the best fighters in the land, you know. Best let this one go, miss. You wouldn't want to be the cause of him dying now, would you?”

Bea sniffed. “Of course not. But you don't know him,” she said.

“Let him go,” the woman said. “At least it would give him a chance at life.”

The thought of Michael risking his life to save her ripped into her gut. What was she supposed to do? Give him up and face a life in the frigid north, wife to a man she didn't love, caring for his children, keeping his house, and warming his bed?

Her heart breaking, Bea wrapped her arms around her waist to fend off the growing chill inside the carriage, as well as to retreat into herself.

“ 'Tis no good. Even if he doesn't end up dead by my master's hand, what good would it do? The courts will see the truth of it, you know. Mr. Bainbridge had a prior claim to you and His Grace and the earl both know it. That's why they scuttled you away. But the judges will see the truth of it.”

Bea's heart sank. Though she hadn't wanted to accept it, the other woman spoke the truth. It had been a ruse, and though Ash and Michael had tried to work around it, she'd known that their plan might yet fail.

In the end, would it be right risking Michael's life for a suit they would likely lose anyway?