A Season of Seduction (43 page)

Tristan shrugged. “He might. Especially if his best means of escape from England was anchored in the Thames.”

Becky rose. “Will you take me there? Please, Tristan—”

Tristan raised his hand. “Wait, Becky. The
Gloriana
has already left London. They sailed with the tide yesterday at noon.”

His words sucked the air from her body. Deflated, she sank back onto the sofa, staring at him hopelessly. “If he was aboard—”

“Then he is gone.”

“Where… where were they headed?”

“The West Indies. Jamaica.”

The West Indies. A world away. Becky rose on trembling legs. “I—I’m sorry, Tristan, but I must be by myself for a while.”

He stood, too. Reaching out, he pulled her into a quick hug. “I understand. I’m sorry.” He tipped her chin up so she faced him. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

“Yes… all right,” she murmured. She stumbled away from him, then headed upstairs. She found her heaviest coat and told Kate she was going for a walk. Josie would chaperone her, but her lady’s maid knew her well enough to know when she wanted to be left alone, and she’d keep her distance.

It looked as if it might snow. Frigid air bit at Becky’s cheeks as she strode through Mayfair, but she hardly noticed. She walked with a brisk stride toward the banks of the Thames. She knew she’d never find the
Gloriana
. Even if the ship was still in port, the docks were too far away, beyond neighborhoods too dangerous to walk through. But something drew Becky in that direction. If only to look at the river and daydream that Jack might be near.

She walked as far as the Tower of London before she considered turning back. It was growing late and she should return before her family began to worry. She couldn’t miss too much of Christmas. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Josie a few paces behind her, scowling. Clearly the maid believed they’d already ventured too far.

Becky walked past the Tower gates. Garrett would have been held prisoner here if he’d ever been accused of William’s murder. But Jack wasn’t a peer. More likely, he’d be imprisoned at Newgate, where the lowest of the criminals were held.

She’d walk just a little longer. She couldn’t face Christmas with her family—not quite yet. Another few minutes, and then she’d turn around and go home. Sinking deep into her thoughts, Becky strode on.

She couldn’t wait for Jack and the
Gloriana
to returnfrom the West Indies. That would be a fruitless endeavor—not only would the
Gloriana
be gone for months, but when the ship did return, he probably wouldn’t be aboard. He couldn’t return to England.

That meant Becky would have to follow him. Secure passage to Kingston. As soon as possible.

Something hard poked her side. Startled, Becky jerked back, but a long, strong arm slid around her waist, pinning her against a tall body. Metal flashed at her waist, hidden from other pedestrians by the wide, faded black cape he’d swept around them both.

“Shh.” The man squeezed one side of her waist and dug his pistol into the other. “Keep walking, if you please, my lady.”

Gasping, she looked up at the man’s pallid face. She knew instantly who it was.

Instinct told her to scream, to yank herself away and run to safety. But she held those compulsions at bay. The barrel of a gun was digging into her side. He could very well shoot her dead right here on the street.

Surely this man would know Becky wouldn’t venture out on the streets of London on her own. She hadn’t paid any attention to Josie since she’d glanced at her back at the Tower, yet she didn’t dare look behind her. Becky didn’t want to give her captor any hint that a third party might be watching.

So she simply said, in a quiet voice, “You’re Tom, aren’t you? Tom Wortingham?”

The man had a long, slender neck, and his Adam’s apple undulated when he swallowed. Giving the appearance of looking straight ahead, gray eyes slid in her direction.

“Let’s move along, shall we?”

He had a gentleman’s accent. But she shouldn’t be surprised at that, should she? Jack had said he was a vicar’s son.

“Very well.” She kept her breaths strictly regulated, kept her focus between the pavement in front of her and the man tugging her against him. He smelled of parchment when it turned yellow and began to flake at its edges. It wasn’t a disgusting smell to Becky—it reminded her of old books. But it wasn’t particularly appealing, either.

And the man himself wasn’t appealing at all. He was too thin, and his skin had a yellowish, unhealthy hue. Was he a drunk? Nausea twisted through her as she contemplated the additional danger he might pose to her if he was. Yet he didn’t smell of spirits.

His lips curved into a skeletal grimace. “You’ve made it easy for me, my lady. We’re almost home.”

“Home? Where…?” Her voice dwindled away. She’d walked nearly as far as the London Docks, she realized. She’d passed the construction at St. Katharine’s Docks, quiet today due to the holiday, without paying any heed to how far she’d gone.

Wortingham snickered softly. “You’ll see soon enough.”

She found his politeness quite odd. She wondered if he had the will to do it. Actually pull the trigger, shoot her, if she called for help or tried to run. She could feel a tremble in the touch of his fingers. Forcing her legs to continue moving, she studied him covertly. He did look afraid, but Jack had said he was desperate.

They walked along a street lined with dock warehouses—close to where Tristan had said Jack’s ship had been anchored. But the
Gloriana
was already gone. Keeping her voice steady, she asked, “You will hold me for ransom?”

Wortingham hesitated, then said, “How much did our friend Jack tell you, my lady?”

“I discovered the crux of it on my own. I daresay I’d eventually learn the contents of any letter sent to my home, and you were kind enough to send two—one to London and one to Cornwall.”

He gave a slow nod and spoke in a low voice, mindful of the other pedestrians, though as they drew into the neighborhood beyond the docks, the number of people onthe street thinned. “I shall send a note to His Grace requesting a certain amount to guarantee your safety. I won’t ask for much, and your brother is one of the richest men in England, isn’t he? I just require a few thousand pounds—it will be nothing to him. Once he sends it along, I’ll set you free. You’ll go on your way, and I’ll go on mine.”

“Well, that sounds simple enough.” Becky’s voice sounded strong, but she felt lightheaded, and her knees had gone watery. Biting the inside of her cheek, she concentrated on giving the appearance of strength. How much farther would she have to walk with a gun pressed to her side? It bit hard into her skin. She’d have a round bruise above her hip when this was all over.

He’s in trouble
, Jack had said. Tom Wortingham had been a gentleman once. He must have been threatened with dire consequences if he did not pay off some large debt, otherwise he wouldn’t go to such lengths, take such risks out in the open on Christmas Day.

“Here we are.” Wortingham stopped at the door of a drab building that ran the length of the block. They must be in Shadwell or Wapping. Becky had never been in this area of London before. It was grayer and darker than the angry sky, and the stench of sewage and rot steamed up from the street and filtered through the air.

Where was Josie? Still Becky didn’t dare look behind her. Had Wortingham done something with her? Had she run away as soon as she saw the stranger accosting her mistress? But Josie wouldn’t do that… would she? Becky had thought her more spirited than to shrink away at the first sign of trouble. Yet Becky had never really seen her maid in a precarious situation before. There was no telling what she had done or where she was. Becky was tempted to ask Wortingham if he’d done something to her, but that would only put Josie in more danger, so she kept her lips sealed.

She glanced up at Wortingham’s long face again. For whatever reason, he didn’t frighten her as much as William had at the end. He didn’t mean to rape her, she thought. He didn’t even mean to hurt her, although hemight threaten to, to be certain Garrett sent him the money.

But those were foolish thoughts. It certainly was possible he
did
mean to rape her and to kill her afterward. She didn’t know him from Adam. He could be more evil than even William had been.

Yet he’d been Jack’s friend for many years. They’d grown up together in Kent, had counted on each other. Until, apparently, a woman had come between them.

“Come along, my lady.” Wortingham unlocked the brown-gray door and pushed her inside. She stumbled into a dark entry hall, ripe with the stench of urine, and he slammed the door and locked it behind them.

“You are not going to hurt me.”

Even in the dim light, she could see that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll do whatever I must do. If your brother proves troublesome—”

“He won’t,” she assured him quickly. “You’ll get your money. Whatever you want.”

He pushed her toward a narrow flight of stairs. “You first, my lady. I’ll be right behind you.”

Keeping the pistol firmly trained on her lower back, he nudged her up the stairs and down a long, narrow, poorly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor was a door that was in even worse repair than the rest of this dismal place. It hung crookedly on its hinges and was splintered near the handle.

She hesitated, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I could scream,” she said quietly. “Someone would hear me. Help me.”

He shook his head. “Sure you can scream, but no one will come. No one pays attention to such things in places like these.”

Against her will, her teeth began to chatter. She clenched them together, hard.

“But I’d advise you not to scream at all,” he continued. “The sound tends to grate on a man’s nerves. If you find it necessary to scream, I shall have to devise a way to silence you.”

He fumbled with the broken door. Finally, he forced it to open with a loud, complaining squeal of bent hinges.

She saw the gun for the first time as he waved her inside. She knew enough about weapons to know that it was an expensive, well-made pistol, with an ivory grip and an engraved brass barrel.

“Sit down,” he said.

The room was tiny, with a desk at one end and a dingy bed at the other and little space to move between the two. She stepped toward the desk, but he gave a harsh laugh. “No, not there. I require the chair. I’ve a letter to write.”

Keeping her back straight, she lowered herself on the edge of the narrow bed, folding her hands in her lap.

“How did you know where I was going?” she asked.

“Oh, I didn’t.” Holding the gun in one hand, he pulled out the desk chair with the other. The chair was a spindly thing, with a frayed cloth seat and mismatched legs. “I’ve been waiting at your brother’s house since yesterday morning. As soon as Jack sailed away, I knew you were my only remaining hope.”

She tried not to flinch at his mention of Jack’s name. She sensed that he watched her carefully even as he readied a sheet of stationery and dipped his pen into the inkwell.

“There must be another option. Something that doesn’t entail a hanging offense. Something legal, perhaps.”

He laughed heartily at that. “No, ma’am. I am far past that kind of hope, I’m afraid.”

“Do you owe money?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” was his ready answer.

“To whom?”

“People it’s best you know nothing of, my lady.”

“You’re a gentleman. How could you become involved with such a breed of people?”

His lips curled downward, but then he shrugged. “Why not? What is a gentleman with nothing? No money, no woman, nothing to call his own. One hides behind his demons, because to come out is to expose oneself, to face the disaster of one’s life, isn’t it?”

“But when you hide behind demons,” she murmured, “you risk becoming one.”

“Perhaps that is better than facing a failed life.”