A Rogue’s Pleasure (23 page)

“Then where is she?” Lord Tremont frowned at Reggie, who had drifted over to the liquor cabinet. “Well, I'm waiting.” His lordship's bushy gray brows lifted. “How the devil did you come by that eye? On second thought, I don't want to know. Just answer my first question—where the hell is your sister?”

“Papa, I, er…Anthony has something he needs to tell you.” Reggie slunk farther away.

Now, the bad news
. Anthony squared his shoulders. “I'm afraid Phoebe was kidnapped last night.”

“Kidnapped!” The color drained from Tremont's puffy cheeks. “I don't believe it.”

“I'm afraid it is so, sir.”

“Oh, God.” He slapped a hand to his sweaty forehead and sunk into a seat. “Montrose, you must help me. My wife is still abed and, based on her habit, shall remain so for several more hours. Before I set out, I left the message that I'd taken Phoebe for an early ride in the park. She'll find that odd—Phoebe rarely rises before noon—but 'twas the only excuse I could think of. If she should discover the truth…” He stuffed a fist in his mouth.

Anthony laid a hand on his future father-in-law's shoulder. “I'll do everything in my power to bring Phoebe safely home, sir.” Reasoning that any man who'd remained married to Lady Tremont for five-and-twenty years must possess some mettle, he added, “But I'm going to need your help.”

Tremont looked up at Anthony, his faded blue eyes earnest. “I'll do anything to bring my daughter home.” His voice cracked.
“Anything.”

Moved, Anthony nodded. “Very well. I believe Phoebe's kidnappers are the same two who abducted the brother of a friend of mine. I've set a Bow Street runner to watch them for two weeks now. We have reason to believe they're hiding the boy inside St. Giles' Rookery. My guess is that they've taken Phoebe there as well.”

“Good Lord!” Lord Tremont's face puckered. “Do you mean to say that my Phoebe's been taken to a den of prostitutes and pickpockets?” Tears filled his eyes even as he fisted his hands. “They wouldn't dare harm her…would they?”

“I don't believe so,” Anthony replied, “but if word leaked that she'd spent the night in such a place—”

“Her reputation would be in rags,” Lord Tremont finished, shoulders drooping.

Anthony inclined his head. “Which is precisely why I want you and Reggie to stay here and keep the magistrate occupied for as long as possible. As soon as I've given my statement, I'll set out to search.”

Tremont popped from his chair. “She may be your fiancée, but she's my daughter. I'm coming with you.”

Anthony tried to imagine Lord Tremont trolling the East End, or Reggie, for that matter. He tried and yet he couldn't.

He shook his head. “Unless you want to put Phoebe in even greater danger, you and Reggie will remain here.” In a milder tone, he added, “All I ask is that you give me a few hours. If I haven't found her by noon, I'll send for the magistrate—” he looked from Lord Tremont to Reggie, “—and for you both.”

“Very well.” Tremont grabbed the drink from Reggie's hand and set it firmly down.

“There's no time for that. We need to start rehearsing your story. And I strongly suggest you make it
good
.” He shuddered. “If your mother ever finds out Phoebe went missing—and remained so
overnight
—we'll both be taking rooms at the club.”

 

The scraping of the key turning in the lock brought Robert sharply awake. Stiff and bruised, he sat up just as the door opened. Light, blessed light, sliced through the darkness.

Stenton sauntered inside, candlestick in hand. “I've brought ye company, lad.”

Luke followed, a granary sack slung over one shoulder. Robert cleared the crust of sleep from the corners of his eyes and squinted to adjust his vision to the light. A kick in the ribs had not been his only punishment for taunting Stenton with the truth that he and Chelsea were poor as church mice. He'd been without a candle for more than a week, left to grope in the dark like the animal he was becoming. The day before he'd accidentally overturned the chamber pot. That had earned him another beating as well as a day without food, not even the miserable gruel they'd taken to feeding him.

Lack of food probably explained why the sack Luke was lugging appeared to end in two tiny, slippered feet. Female feet with delectably slim ankles.

“Set 'er down.”

Luke obeyed. The sack weaved. Laughing, Stenton caught it in his arms. Imitating the sound of a drum roll, he stepped behind.

“Ta da.” He pulled the cover up, then off.

Robert held his breath. An angel stood in the center of the chamber. A slightly disheveled one, with a dirt streak across one pale cheek, but an angel nonetheless. Silver-blond hair framed her fine-boned face, and her sylph's figure was clad in celestial blue.

I must be hallucinating. They must have started administering the sleeping drought again. Or maybe I've finally starved to death and this is heaven?

The angel stared back at him, pale eyes wide. He got to his feet, chains rattling. Her eyes darkened and her lips parted. A piercing peal rang out.

Robert winced. He'd been wrong. The lovely newcomer was no angel but a demon sent to bleed his eardrums and freeze his blood.

Laughing, Stenton covered his ears. “Don't appear she fancies 'im, do it, Luke?”

The giant's thick features twisted. “She's 'urtin' me ears. I'm gonna make 'er stop.”

Large palm outstretched, he walked toward the woman. She shrank away, still screaming.

At the last minute, Stenton intervened. “Leave 'er be. Let's you and me get some supper while 'er and lover boy 'ere get acquainted. She'll pipe down soon enough.”

The kidnappers left. The new arrival fortified herself with a fresh gulp of air, then opened her mouth.

Head clearing, Robert realized she was neither angel nor demon but a very frightened girl. He held up a hand. “They're gone. You can stop now.”

Miraculously she did. Looking about, her lower lip quivered. Then her face crumpled.

Splendid. She's stopped screaming only to start bawling
.

He pulled a chair, the
only
chair, from the table and held it for her. “Please, won't you sit?”

She hesitated, brushed the seat, and then gingerly sat. And then the floodgates opened. She dropped her head in her open hands and sobbed.

“Look, it's not
that
bad,” he consoled. Dragging his chains behind him, he stood across from her, feeling helpless. “At least they've left us the candle.”

She lifted her tear-tracked face and stared up at him. “Not so bad?”

The disdain in her watery eyes made him painfully aware that he hadn't bathed, shaved, or changed clothes in weeks. What a sight he must be with his greasy hair brushing the back of his collar and a matted beard blanketing the lower half of his face. He didn't even have a clean handkerchief to offer her.

“Not so bad!” she repeated, wiping her eyes. “I've been abducted, stuffed into a smelly sack, and brought here. And…and I don't even know where I am or who
you
are.”

Her waspish words stung but at least she was neither screaming nor crying. Progress.

“I can't answer for the where, but allow me to introduce myself.” He took a step back and bowed as best he could. “Robert Bellamy, at your service.” He straightened. “And you are?”

She hesitated as though weighing whether or not she should reveal her name. “Phoebe Tremont.”

A final tear spilled from the corner of her eye. Fascinated, Robert watched it flow down her alabaster cheek, through the dark streak of dried mud, until it brushed the corner of her delicate mouth.

“Phoebe. What a beautiful name.”
What a beautiful girl.

She frowned. “You are impertinent, sir. If we must speak at all, you will address me as Lady Phoebe.”

Robert's patience began to slip. He braced a palm against the table edge and regarded her. “Rather formal given our circumstances, don't you think, especially as there is no one to overhear save these four walls?”

“Mama says there is no excuse for bad manners, Mr…. Bellamy.” Expression decidedly
un
angelic, she added, “Your family must not be very important, for I've never heard of them.”

Delicate mouth or not, Robert's ire rose. “I'll have you know that my father was the best magistrate Upper Uckfield ever had.”

“Was?”

A lump blocked the back of his throat. “He died in a carriage accident last year, along with my mother.”

Her cross expression softened. “Oh, I am sorry. It must be terrible to be an orphan. Have you any brothers or sisters?”

He nodded, feeling the lump expand. “I have an older sister. Her name is Chelsea.”

“And she lives with you, in Upper Uckfield?” She wrinkled her nose. “Such a funny name. Where is that?”

“In East Sussex, six leagues or so from Maresfield. Why?”

“What a coincidence. My fiancé, Lord Montrose, has an estate not far from there.”

“You're engaged?” He felt an odd twinge in his upper chest. Disappointment, perhaps? No, that was ridiculous. She was a stranger and a hoity-toity one at that.

“Of course, otherwise, I couldn't have a fiancé, could I?” She lanced him a superior smile, and Robert had the sudden urge to crush her mouth beneath his. “When I marry I shall be a viscountess and someday a countess.”

“You don't look old enough to be either.”

She frowned. “I shall be nineteen next month. Mama wed when she was only seventeen.”

“I see.” He smiled. “By comparison, you are a woman of the world.”

“You are making fun of me, aren't you?” Her pale eyes darkened. “When Lord Montrose comes to rescue me, I shall tell him of your insulting manner.” Her expression turned smug.

“Perhaps he will call you out.”

Robert tossed back his head and guffawed. It was the first time he'd laughed since his capture.

Wiping his eyes, he said, “If he does, he must be an excessively proud and pea-witted gentleman.”
And a very fortunate one
.

Her face fell. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That he would be more likely to direct his energies toward bringing our kidnappers to justice than redressing
imagined
slights.”

Her shoulders slumped. “In truth, I do not know him well enough to say.”

Her sad admission piqued his curiosity. “And yet you are marrying him?”

Her chin snapped up. “I know everything that I need to know. He is handsome and amusing and very rich, although a good deal older than I. Thirty, I believe.”

Thirty
. It was none of his business whom she married and yet Robert couldn't help feeling indignant on her behalf. She was too proud, to be sure, but she was also young and comely. Too young and comely to be married off to some middle-aged lord, no matter how rich he might be.

“Do you love him?” he asked suddenly.

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. She twisted her hands in her lap, and he began to suspect she'd never considered the question before.

“He is always courteous,” she replied after a lengthy pause. “Our parents believe we shall suit. I…esteem him.”

“You
esteem
him?” He started to laugh, and then realized she was serious.

She nodded. “What more is there?”

“A great deal more, I should hope. When I marry, it shall be for love and no other reason.”

She shot up from her chair and rounded the table toward him. “Had I desired your opinion, I should have asked for it.” She planted both palms on his chest and pushed.

Weak as he was, he held his ground and pinned her wrists in his one hand. “So, Miss Prim and Proper has a temper, does she?”

“Let me go.” She pulled back, but he held her easily.

“If you said please, as well as my Christian name, I might consider it,” he suggested
gamely. Missish girls usually bored him, but something about this one intrigued him.

“You're hateful.” Her pink nostrils flared. “And you smell horrid.”

It was the truth and it hurt. He released her abruptly. “As would you had you not stirred from this chamber or been allowed to bathe for…”

He turned away and propped one shoulder against the wall.

A light touch landed on his back. “How long
have
you been here?”

He ground his forehead against the rough stone. “I can't be certain. They drugged my food at first, and I slept most of the time. Weeks. Almost a month, I think.”

Looking over his shoulder, he saw her stamp her tiny, slipper-shod foot on the packed earth floor. “My papa and Lord Montrose will not stand for this. They will rescue me and, when they do, I shall insist they rescue you as well.”

“You shall, shall you?” He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her, thinking how much she reminded him of a feisty kitten, both helpless and utterly adorable. Unable to resist teasing her, he added, “But perhaps they will not want to sully themselves by rescuing someone from such an
unimportant
family.”

Two hot spots appeared on either cheek. “Then I shall insist.”

“That's awfully decent of you. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” She cleared her throat. “How much longer will they keep us here?”

Suddenly drained of strength, he slumped against the wall. “Would to God I had the answer to that.”

Chelsea awoke to milkmaids, egg men, and saloop vendors shouting their wares below her window. She hiked the quilt over her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated on slipping back into the dream. She had dreamt of Anthony before but never had the fantasy been so vivid, so
real
. She could almost feel his big hands stroking her with shocking intimacy, hear his whispered endearments, smell his musky scent as he labored over her, pleasuring her until she exploded in a place that had no name. The same place that now throbbed with a dull rawness.

Her eyes flashed open. Face hot, she lifted the covers and peaked beneath. Pale flesh—her flesh—greeted her. The night before was no dream.

Dear Lord, what have I done?

She had not merely allowed Anthony to make love to her but had brazenly invited him to do so. The circumstances leading to that momentous decision—their argument at Vauxhall, the confrontation with Ambrose, Jack's absence—trickled through her mind. As she grew accustomed to the idea, she discovered that she wasn't really sorry she'd lain with him. In fact, she was prepared to do so again.

And now it seemed he was gone.

Loneliness stabbed at her. She sat up and smoothed her palm over the imprint where he had lain. The mattress was cold. He must have left in the middle of the night.

She picked up the pillow that had briefly been his and buried her face in it, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of musky male. She shut her eyes, the better to recall every detail, every nuance—the sandpapery roughness of his jaw against her cheek, the minty aroma of his shaving soap, the solid hardness of his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, and the reassuring pressure of his palm cradling the small of her back.

If she had any doubts about how deep her feelings ran, the bleak depression engulfing her dispelled them. She loved Anthony. She loved him with her full heart. That realization should have been cause for rejoicing but her beloved was bound to another. She would, she must, leave London as soon as they liberated Robert.

Robert. Last night, absorbed in the wonder of making love with Anthony, she'd all but forgotten about the brother she'd pledged to save. She
had
forgotten about him, for several hours. And she'd already wasted the morning in feeling sorry for herself. Shame washed over her. She was facing a life without Anthony, but Robert might not have any life at all if she didn't bestir herself.

A sharp rap on the front door sent her bolting out of bed, searching for her wrapper. Despite her resolution, her heart raced. It must be Anthony returned. Who else would call this early? Hoping to reach him before Jack awoke, she ran barefoot down the stairs. She unbolted the door, and her welcoming smile died.

“Good morn, missus.” The milkmaid lifted the ladle from one of the two pails dangling from the yoke she shouldered and dragged it through the froth. “I seen the empty jug by the door and thought ye might fancy some o' this lovely fresh milk?”

Chelsea nodded, afraid to answer lest her voice crack. Anthony had left in the middle of the night without a word or even a note. Doubtless there were any number of explanations for his abrupt departure, but only one kept lancing through her muddled mind—he didn't want her after all.

The milkmaid cast a skeptical glance at the stoneware vessel. Gnats swarmed the spout.
“Shall I pour it into this'n or…?”

Chelsea barely noticed the insects. “Yes, that's fine.”

The woman shrugged. “Suit yerself.” She eyed the jug. “That'll be sixpence for full or thruppence for 'alf-full?”

He doesn't want me. I should be relieved. No, I am relieved.

Anthony's decision would save them—her—the pain of a protracted farewell. In a few days he would be out of her life. That was what she wanted, wasn't it?

The milkmaid tapped an impatient foot. “Beggin' yer pardon, but I've me rounds to make. D'ye want that jug filled or not?”

With her future left hanging, full or half-full suddenly seemed too weighty a decision. “Whatever you think best,” Chelsea murmured.

“Then full 'tis.” The woman held out her palm and cleared her throat.

Thoughts tangled, it took Chelsea a moment to interpret the gesture. “Pray wait a moment, and I'll fetch my purse.”

She walked into the parlor, found her purse, and returned with the money, her movements as heavy and mechanical as a sleepwalker's.

The milkmaid dropped the coins into her apron pocket. “Oh, dearie me, I nearly forgot. A gentleman bade me give ye this.”

The crinkle of paper cut through Chelsea's lethargy. A message from Anthony, it must be! She knew no one else in London.

Impatience surged, and she nearly snatched the crisp square from the woman's outstretched hand. Then she saw the ebony border, and her heart sank.

Dear God, no.

The note slipped through her fingers and fluttered to the floorboards. Everywhere she felt numb, frozen, except for her heart, which pounded wildly.

The tradeswoman bent and picked it up. “Black-edging,” she said, shaking her mob-capped head. She handed the paper back to Chelsea. “I hope it ain't a close relation?”

Throat tight, Chelsea slipped the letter into her pocket. “My brother.”

Solemn faced, the woman ladled milk through a funnel into the mouth of the jug with brisk efficiency. “I've lost two brothers o' me own to the typhus. 'Tis terrible 'ard loosin' a brother.”

“Yes, it is.” Chelsea's frozen brain began to thaw. “You said a gentleman bade you deliver it?”

The milkmaid removed the funnel from the jug, replaced the lid, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, 'andsome he were and so polite. Quite the gentleman.” She sighed, coarse features softening. “Well, good day to ye.”

Chelsea nodded.
Handsome and polite. Quite the gentleman
.

She closed the door. Leaving the milk inside the hallway, she carried the note into the parlor and over to the window where an eastern exposure provided sufficient sunlight for reading. Hands shaking, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the foolscap. The penmanship and cloying cologne were the same as before and undoubtedly the kidnapper's.

Your fine lover.
These past weeks, she'd clung to the notion that the kidnapper was a stranger. How could she have been so blind, so unequivocally stupid? Only one man loved—and hated—her so absolutely.

Squire Dumfreys.

Why even the paper reeked of his cologne. That same cloying scent had clung to the original ransom note and to her clothing the day he'd assaulted her.

Painful as it was, she forced her thoughts back to that frightful day. Dumfreys hadn't seemed surprised to see her, nor taken aback by the money she'd requested. When she'd asked for the five hundred pounds, how quickly he'd concluded it must be for Robert. And then, of course, he'd tried to rape her. Determined to put the ugly memory behind her, she'd blinded herself to its connection to the kidnapping.

Like a jealous lover, he'd stalked her ever since, biding his time, watching her as he might be doing even now.

Chills skittered her spine. She stared out the window, scanning the awakening street. A housewife stood on her stoop, waving to her departing husband. An old man loaded produce into the back of a wagon. Two little girls played hopscotch while a spaniel dog looked on. A squat matron headed toward Shepherd's Market, a wicker basket over her arm. All commonplace sights, but Chelsea wasn't comforted. Somewhere, anywhere,
he
might be lurking, watching her even now.

The scenery spun. Chelsea turned away from the window, resisting the urge to snap the shutters closed.

I am the ransom.

Had Anthony suspected as much weeks before when he'd insisted she move into his house? At the time she'd thought he was only out to seduce her; a part of her had agreed for the pure pleasure of thwarting him. But he hadn't tried to seduce her at all, only to protect her.

Now it was up to her to protect him. If he followed her to the tavern, she had no doubt that Dumfreys would kill him. And, if she told him her intention—to take Robert's place as hostage—he would never let her back out the door. No, she would have to do this alone.

Heart pounding, she raced up the stairs, grateful that her bare feet were nearly soundless. Jack might be deaf as a doornail, but he had an uncanny knack for hearing what she didn't want him to. And, for his own good, he mustn't follow her either.

She quickly donned her men's attire and came back downstairs, Jack's pistol tucked inside her coat pocket. Praying for the courage to fire it, she tiptoed through the house. Inside the kitchen, she peered around the pantry corner to Jack's cot. It was empty. Odd that he'd risen so early when he must have been out half the night. But there was no telling when he might return. She snatched a sugar cone from the pantry shelf and hurried out the back door. Mist brushed her face as she crossed the small yard and let herself out the gate.

The horse Jack had let from the lending stable was in the mews across the alley. She entered the carriage house. Autumn poked her head over the stall and whinnied.

“Good morning to you too.” Chelsea stepped back to avoid being
cleaned
and turned the horse's head away. “This probably constitutes spoiling but you'll earn it before this day is over.” She took the sugar from her pocket and offered it. A second later, the stable was filled with the
sound of chomping.

The treat devoured, Chelsea wiped her wet palm on her trouser leg and headed into the tack room. She'd left the door to the carriage house open and enough light filtered inside for her to find the necessary gear. She returned and settled the blanket, then the saddle, across the mare's swayed back.

“Robert's been kidnapped.” Speaking her thoughts aloud, she bent to tighten the cinch beneath the beast's belly. “I can't ask Anthony or Jack for help, so it's up to us to save him. Understand?”

Autumn snorted as if indignant on Chelsea's behalf. Ears pointed forward, she pawed the straw.

“I thought you'd see it my way.” Chelsea tugged on the noseband, drawing the horse's head down. “A kiss for luck.”

Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the white star between the wide-set eyes. Then she stepped onto the mounting block and climbed up.

How precious and precarious life seemed as they cantered through the city streets, a brisk breeze stinging Chelsea's cheeks and teasing her hair loose from its braid. Scenes from her one-and-twenty years played before her mind's eye. So many times it was Anthony who took the lead—wrestling her to the ground after she robbed him, pouring her wine and spilling his soul, loving her with such exquisite gentleness that the memory melted her insides. She had known him less than a month and yet he dominated her thoughts, even now when she was about to throw herself on the mercy of a lust-crazed lunatic.

It was as though her life had begun the moment they met. The previous night, she'd felt her soul merge with his even as their bodies merged into one. She smiled. At once humbling and exalting, this experience of losing herself in another, in Anthony, was one she'd never forget. She had only one regret.

She'd never told him she loved him.

 

Mr. Bellamy—Robert—was sleeping like the dead. That is, if the dead could snore. No matter where Phoebe moved—and she'd visited all four corners of the tiny chamber by now—the sonorous booms followed. Finally she gave up and claimed a corner of the straw pallet at his head. Stifling the wicked urge to pinch his nostrils—a sure cure for male snoring, according to her mother—she lifted the guttering candle. The dying light pooled over his profile, and she found herself wondering what he looked like beneath the beard. Handsome, she decided, her gaze settling on his mouth. Earlier, when he'd dared to flash that impudent grin at her, she'd noticed that his teeth were white and even. Now she saw that he had beautiful lips as well and, she suspected, a strong, square jaw.

Thrashing, he muttered something unintelligible and threw off his red military coat. Badly rumpled, it had been pressed into service as a blanket. Picking it up, she settled it back over him. She sighed. He wasn't a tall man, but she suspected he looked splendid in uniform.

Even so, if he snored like this every night, she pitied his future wife.

Really, Phoebe Elizabeth, Mr. Bellamy's nocturnal habits are none of your affair.

Her mother's voice, strident with disapproval, sent her edging away from him. At any rate, it was likely exhaustion that made him sound off so. Their confrontation had sapped what little strength he still possessed, for afterward she'd had to help him to the pallet. She giggled.
What a fit Mama would have if she'd seen me with my arm around his waist, leading him back to bed, no less!
Her mirth faded when she recalled the sharpness of his protruding ribs and the way his trousers hung from his shrunken shanks.

The prospect of deteriorating to a similar state chilled her. Young as they both were—he'd admitted to being not yet twenty—they might be in their graves ere long. Youth was no protection against starvation—or murder.

A key jiggled in the lock on the other side of the door. She thought of how the scar-faced man had leered at her and how fierce the big oaf had looked when she'd screamed, and her courage curdled.

The door handle turned, and she huddled closer to her fellow captive. A moment later the scar-faced man lurched inside, bringing with him a supper tray and the stench of stale spirits.