Lady Lightfingers (32 page)

Her heart began to thump. Then she heard a plaintive whine, followed by a yelp. She smiled when she saw a puppy on the step. The poor creature must have lost its way. Well, Frederick's basket was vacant, and she was sure he wouldn't mind her lending it to a poor lost pup for the night.

Unlocking the door she pulled it open and stepped outside, stooping to pick it up. Arms closed around her and a hand covered her mouth.

‘Got you,' someone grunted.

Celia lashed out with feet and her hands; her reticule was ripped from her wrist and thrown aside, scattering bits and pieces. Her hair came loose.

Something dropped on Celia's head and a peculiar numbing pain shot through her. Her knees gave and she slumped against a man's body. She wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a sigh before all consciousness fled.

A little while later, Thomas gazed at his watch and frowned. ‘Celia is being a long time.'

‘Perhaps she's forgotten us and has decided to write an account of the concert instead.'

‘No, she'd be too excited after the concert to settle to that.' He rose to his feet. ‘I'm going to check on her.'

‘I'll join you. If nothing else I can carry the supper tray up.'

They felt the clammy cold that was pervading the house before they reached the kitchen, where the door stood wide open inviting the fog inside. The trays stood ready, the kettle was boiling, and had been for some time, for the lid was giving off a furious rattle.

Thomas moved it to one side and called out Celia's name as he went to investigate the laundry room.

Charles had gone outside. He was filled with unease. Something had happened to her . . . he sensed it. The night pressed in on him. There was a yap, and he saw a pup on the step. In the act of picking it up he noticed her reticule on the step, the string broken and the contents scattered over the steps. He scooped it up along with the pup and inspected his immediate surrounds, walking up and down the fog-shrouded street.

He found no sign of Celia, only a metal button ripped from a man's coat at the top of the steps, which could have been anyone's. There were also signs of a handcart having been there, the line of a wheel and a heel mark in some horse dung.

They'd not heard a horse and cart, or any signs of a struggle, but they'd been in the back room, and the fog muffled most noises. It would be useless trying to find her in the fog, since Charles couldn't see more than a yard in front of his face. Even the street lamp was a sickly, yellow glow suspended above, and it sent out no useful light.

‘I think she may have been abducted,' he told the worried-looking Thomas, ‘and by somebody who knows his way around, even in a fog such as this one. My guess is, this pup was used to lure her out. I found her purse on the step, and the ribbon is broken.'

‘Why would anyone abduct Celia?'

‘For ransom, I should imagine.'

‘I must search the entire house. She may have fallen somewhere.'

They searched it together, and there was no sign of her. They searched it again, with the same result, then went back down to the kitchen again.'

Thomas took the pup from Charles, gave it a dish of milk to lap and settled it in Frederick's basket afterwards. There, it curled up and went to sleep. ‘It's a pity the animal can't speak,' he said. ‘We must inform a constable of what has happened, Charles.'

The unconscious gesture of caring for the puppy touched Charles. The reverend was a gentle and sincere man who acted from the dictates of his heart.

He spread the contents of Celia's bag on the table to see if they held any clue – a pencil and diary, a handkerchief and a couple of coins. He picked a card up and gazed at it. It was his . . . an old one, black on white. He used gold-embossed now, to impress his clients. It also looked more professional. He flipped the card over. The name of his club was scrawled on the back in his own handwriting.

There was an instant recall . . . of the beggar girl called Lizzie who he'd lusted over; she with beguiling blue eyes . . . of a satchel containing one hundred pounds or so, that he'd won at the card table.

‘Contact me when you're ready,' he'd said after he'd kissed her, all arrogance, and not even bothering to act the gentleman, because he'd not long been initiated into the delights of lovemaking and had been suffering all the tortures of a randy tom from the moment he first set eyes on her. He hadn't known much about attracting women apart from paying for the services of a professional, something that satisfied his body and left his heart untouched.

He'd initially asked Bessie to approach the girl for him with an offer no self-respecting beggar, or brothel owner, could refuse.

But Lizzie Carter
had
refused.

Lizzie Carter!
He remembered it now. It
had
been Celia's writing on the wrapping paper!

As he thought of Bessie his blood ran cold. The pimp wouldn't have forgotten the money he'd dangled under her nose, nor forgiven the girl who'd deprived her of it.

‘No constables please, Reverend. Not yet. I think I know where Celia might be and it would only put her in more danger. There's nothing we can do until morning, except wander around in the fog. Now . . . I'm of the mind that we need to have a chat. I want to know everything there is to know about Celia Laws and her background . . . including the reason why you were both at the theatre visiting a man called Daniel Laws.'

Thomas looked troubled. ‘I cannot break her confidence.'

‘You might have to if you don't want her fate on your conscience. If it will help, I'll tell you where and when I first set eyes on her. It was about four years ago. I was with a group of my acquaintances and we were making bets on the outcome of a rat and terrier contest. Celia . . . though I didn't know her name then, was reciting poetry. She was none too happy with the terrier promoter for moving in on her patch, but there was nothing she could do about it. I tossed her sixpence and she smiled at me and walked off. I was enchanted by her, and hung around the place at every opportunity, hoping I'd see her again.'

‘She was just a child then, you a fully grown man.'

‘I couldn't tell how old she was because she wore some shapeless rags. I thought she was older. It wasn't until later that I realized how young she was . . . that was after she'd stolen my card case. But she didn't lack in ingenuity; she returned it and claimed a reward for finding it.'

Thomas started, then chuckled. ‘I've had that experience myself.'

A tender smile spread across Charles' face, though he wasn't about to tell Thomas about the one hundred pounds he'd given Celia. ‘She told me her name was Lizzie Carter, and that her mother had just died and she had a baby sister to raise. She said she was going to the country to live.'

‘That's exactly what she did.'

‘I finished my education, did the tour and then moved to Dorset to join your nephew's practice. You know the rest. Lizzie Carter often came into my mind, but I didn't realize that she and Celia Laws was one and the same person, until tonight. She's changed . . . grown into a beautiful woman. Now . . . perhaps you'd tell me about Daniel Laws. Who is he?'

‘Celia thought he might be her father.' Thomas sighed. ‘He isn't her father, just a distant relative. He did know her father in the past though. Jackaby Laws died before she was born.'

He made the tea, and the two men sat at the kitchen table and ate the supper Mrs Packer had provided. Though both were frantic with worry and neither of the men were really hungry they knew there would be no sleep for them that night.

‘I'm taking it as read that Mrs Laws was left destitute by her husband.'

‘Mrs Laws was a decent women who came from a good home, Charles. Having met her I can vouch for that. She fell on hard times, and did her best to cope with her situation.'

‘I've seen that home for myself, and met Celia's Aunt Harriet.'

‘So you have.' Thomas folded his arms on his chest. ‘That's all I'm prepared to tell you. It's up to Celia if she wishes to confide in you in the future . . . but don't count on it. I'd advise you not to push her.'

When Celia woke it felt as though her head had been pulped. Blackness pressed in on her. Cold invaded her bones and she began to shiver, so her teeth chattered together like a bag of loose bones. She was in a cellar, she thought. The damp air contained all sorts of foul vapours, most of which she'd smelled before, and had tried to forget.

She was on a pile of rough sacks. Lifting one arm her fingertips touched against the ceiling. She swung them outwards and touched a wall either side. Squeaks and rustles scattered before her as, getting to her knees, she crawled around her prison, exploring the slimy wall as she measured the space. There was hardly any headroom and she couldn't stand.

And her beautiful gown would be ruined, she thought, the female in her coming to the fore, because when all was said and done it was the least of her worries.

Panic nearly overtook her when she discovered there was no door, so no way to get out – and that thought made her feel as though she was suffocating.

‘Be sensible. There must be a way out, otherwise they wouldn't have got you in here,' she whispered, the sound of her own voice calming her a little.

And there was a draught, from above. Feeling along the ceiling, she traced the directions of the floorboards, and two cuts across, where a trapdoor had been fashioned.

Lying on her back in the dirt she placed her feet against the trapdoor and applied pressure. It didn't give an inch. There was something heavy over it.

If they'd intended to kill her she'd be dead by now, so whoever had abducted her would be revealed sooner or later. In the meantime she intended to conserve her strength in case she got the chance to escape. One thing was certain. If they demanded a ransom the reverend would pay it, and he'd call out the constables and have them all arrested.

Sinking back on to the sacks she curled up, and, ignoring her aching head and the other long-legged inhabitants of her prison, she thought of something more pleasant, the music she'd heard earlier . . .

Twenty

It was still foggy the next morning, but it had thinned enough to be able to see a few yards in either direction.

Word was circulating underground, for a private event was to take place just after dark, and was to be settled quickly before the authorities got to hear of it.

The amusement was only for a select few . . . those gentlemen who could afford to pay the large price demanded for a certain pleasure. They would examine the goods and place their bids independently. The whole business would be over and done with in half an hour.

The merchandise they bought would be spirited away and, if taken on board one of the ships that pushed and shoved at each other in the crowded river berths, would probably never be seen again, until years later, when they might turn up in some foreign bawdy house, coarsened and diseased.

Charles sent a note to Thomas Hambert informing him of his suspicions. He begged him to leave the matter in his hands and remain patient. Then he gathered his colleagues together, men he'd spent his learning years with – men he could trust.

‘It could be dangerous. Bessie will have her wolf pack hidden around every corner, and they'll be armed to the teeth. If they smell a rat we'll be done for, so if any of you want to back out, do it now.'

Bart Granger, crack pistol shot, fencing champion and physician, examined his nails. ‘Are we allowed to know who this girl is, Chas?'

‘I would rather she survived this without the embarrassment of knowing others were aware of her identity, or what's taken place.'

‘I see. Am I to understand that your heart is engaged here, not just your balls.'

‘It is.'

‘Commiserations.'

‘You won't say that when you see her.'

The two men picked up their cloaks, and Bart said gently, ‘All the more reason to rescue the maiden then. There are eight of us. They'll go in two by two, and take out the wolves while you're placing your bid. We've emptied our strongboxes. What will you do if it's not enough?'

‘Abduct her, or die in the attempt,' Charles said grimly. ‘You may present your notes to my stepfather if I do. I've made Joshua Harris aware of the situation.'

A wolfish grin crossed Bart's face. ‘Nothing will happen to you, not while I'm guarding your back. You know, I'm quite looking forward to this.'

‘Who's driving the carriage?'

Edmund Sedgley, breeder of thoroughbred horses, thwacked a sand-filled leather ned against his palm. He was enveloped in an old cloak and wore a ragged fabric cap for his role of cab driver. ‘Me, of course. We'll be exactly where I said I'd be . . . at the back entrance. There will be several soldiers standing about, courtesy of my cousin's regiment with side arms ready to use, or to cause a little mayhem with, while the escape takes place. You know, Chas, this is typical of you if your tale about that girl you told us is true. What's the problem, can't you get yourself a woman in the usual manner?'

Charles shrugged. ‘This is no ordinary woman.'

‘Poor Chas, he's in love, and needs us to help him get the girl,' one of the others said and they all laughed. ‘All right, let us go about our business, gentlemen.'

They patted him on the back, then Charles and Bart left together and climbed into the waiting carriage.

‘Where you going, Guv?' Edmund asked gruffly, getting into his role.

‘Seven Dials, my man,' Bart said. ‘His highness has business to conduct there.' He turned to his friend. ‘May I know her name, Chas? If you are incapacitated—'