Miss Antiqua's Adventure (20 page)

“Where is what?” she countered.

“Come, let’s not fence with each other. I want the information you so kindly offered to sell me.”

“But you could have had that back at the spinney. Why this elaborate abduction, my lord?”

“You seem to forget—forgive me for pointing this out so bluntly to you—that you are not in the position to ask any questions of me. I am growing impatient, Miss Greybill.”

She met this veiled threat with a defiant shrug. “The packet I got from your brother was in my reticule. You must ask your confederates what has become of it.”

Balstone reached the door in two long strides. He yanked it open to reveal the pair of henchmen contorted together, ears pressed to the air. After a stunned second, they bolted upright and scurried away.

A muffled groan brought Antiqua down to her knees beside the Marquis. As Balstone watched with deadly amusement, she removed both the gag and blindfold. Archie moaned again, more loudly, then painfully blinked his eyes open.

“Antiqua! Are you all right?” he croaked.

“Yes, I’m fine, Archie. But we are in somewhat of a fix.”

Glancing past her shoulder to see the Viscount’s leering face, Archie said slowly, “I’m sorry I let myself be culled so easily, Antiqua.”

“It’s I who must apologize to you, for getting me into this,” she said.

A scornful laugh cut short this exchange. Both twisted round to regard with loathing the man who was so evidently enjoying their discomfort. They saw the return of his underlings, the larger of the two incongruously carrying the fringed pink reticule. The other held aloft a leather bundle, his beady eyes racing over it to glide lubriciously across Antiqua’s face.

“As touching as this scene is,” remarked Balstone, “I really cannot linger to appreciate it.” He took the packet from the thin, weasel-faced man and tore the bindings in one motion. Triumph gleamed wickedly in his cat-like eyes. A fraction of an instant later, triumph vanished. The sudden erasure of his exultation would have been funny had not the look replacing it been so frightening.

“What jest is this?” he demanded.

Antiqua paled as he threw down the worthless sheets. “It’s no jest—”

His arm lashed furiously out, the back of his hand cracked against her cheek, leaving a red and stinging imprint. She staggered, and within that second, she thought of Vincent, of her love for him, her misjudgment and distrust, and felt a strength flow into her. She would not let his enemy get the better of her. As she righted herself, she resolved not to let Balstone have the satisfaction of seeing her pain and fright.

“My God! You cur!” Archie exclaimed as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet.

Antiqua saw murder in the narrow yellow eyes shifting to the Marquis. Not pausing to consider the consequences, she pressed herself between the two men. “My lord, wait! It wasn’t what you think! We didn’t mean to play a jest upon you!”

The fervor of her entreaty penetrated the fog of Balstone’s violent rage. His hands fell to his sides as he worked to control himself.

Antiqua quickly pressed her advantage. “The pages are as we found them yesterday. This was all we had—”

“Where are the documents Thomas had with him?” Balstone cut in brusquely.

“I do not know,” she whispered.

“Miss Greybill had nothing to do with your damned documents,” Rosewarren put in to devastating effect.

With one rapid movement, the Viscount knocked Archie to the floor, then pulled back his foot to kick his prey. Antiqua brought her own foot smashing into Balstone’s shin. Instantly, painfully, she was ensnared. She was tossed onto her chair, her head lolling like a rag doll’s from the ferocity.

“Bind her! And make certain the two of them are here when I return,” Balstone snapped as he flung from the room.

Though she feared the dirty wad would again be jammed into her mouth, the Viscount’s minions merely whipped a length of rope about her wrists and ankles, then another around her waist to secure her to the chair. The man she mentally called Weasel pawed her as often as possible during this procedure, his lecherous pale eyes scudding over her in brief bursts.

Throughout all this, Antiqua strove to remain calm, quelling her desire to panic. She must remain practical, she told herself, or they would not get out of this, a thought which instantly and vividly recalled Balstone’s feral fingers on her neck. Pushing the chilling image away, she sat quietly, blankly. Once the pair had tightened the knots about Archie’s ankles and wrists, they snuffed the few candles and left their captives in darkness.

“Archie? Did he hurt you very badly?” she asked on a hoarse whisper.

“No, not so very badly. How about you? When he hit you that way, I wished nothing more than to murder him on the spot!” Archie said with great feeling “And I must say, Antiqua, you were a great gun, a true ripper!”

“You’d have done as much—more!—had you not been bound,” she returned stoutly. “What we must need do now is formulate our escape.”

“Escape! But how? Even if we weren’t trussed up like a pair of fowls ready for roasting, we should be hard put to overpower that twosome Balstone has in his employ. Born on Newgate steps, in all likelihood, the pair of ’em.”

“We can’t just sit and wait for them to put an end to us at their leisure!” she scolded. “If we just think hard enough, we are bound to come up with something.”

Despite the assurance Antiqua tried to infuse in her voice, the silence that fell between them bore a distinctly dejected air. She was on the verge of blinking tears from her eyes when Archie next spoke.

“Antiqua?”

“Yes, Archie,” she answered eagerly. “Have you thought of something?”

“You know, even if we do manage to escape, it will be hours before we get back home. Morning or even later.”

“
If
? Are you saying you haven’t thought of an escape plan?”

“Not yet, no,” he admitted. “But, Antiqua, I want you to know that if—if we come out of this all right, I’ll do the right thing by you.”

“Right thing? What do you mean, Archie? I’ve no inclination to play at riddles!”

“I mean that I’ll see your reputation remains undamaged,” he explained in the measured tones of one speaking to a simpleton. “I shall marry you, of course. Daresay it’ll be tolerable enough once we’ve had some time to get used to the notion.”

“How can you be so, so . . .” She struggled for words. “So idiotic?” she found at last. “Talking about my
reputation
at a time like this! I mightn’t live to have a reputation—”

“Yes, but, dash it all, Antiqua, it’s got to be thought of! You can’t think me the sort of cad to leave you in the lurch. Of course I’ll wed you.”

She stared at him. “Tell me,” she finally said in explicit accents, “is this some hereditary tendency that you Vincents must propose the instant you’re left alone with a female? First your brother feels compelled and now you—”

“Are you saying—can you mean—you can’t mean—
Jack
has offered for you?” Archie interrupted in strangled disbelief.

“Well, not offered, precisely,” she conceded. “Commanded would be a more fitting description. Not that he wanted to marry me, you understand. He made it quite clearly known just how little he wanted to. But he thought he must,” she ended forlornly.

After a pregnant pause, during which she tried not to feel stricken by the thought of how little Vincent wanted to marry her, Rosewarren said firmly, “It makes no odds, Antiqua. After tonight, I’ll have to marry you. It’s the only honorable thing, so we’d both best face up to it.”

“There won’t be any necessity for us to face up to anything at all if we don’t come up with an escape plan,” she returned dampingly.

Another silence ensued, broken at length by a loud groan.

“Antiqua! What is it? Have you taken a hurt?”

The only response to Archie’s solicitous inquiries was another louder, longer wail. “Ohhh, sir!” Antiqua cried in a quivering voice. “Sir, please help me, ooohhh!” She set her chair to rocking, stamping her feet upon the wooden floor as she did so.

“Oh, God, Antiqua, are you going to be sick?” Archie asked anxiously as the door opened to throw a thin beam of light against the darkness.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” growled their giant warder.

“Ohhh,” Antiqua sighed in a weak voice. “I’m not—ohhh, I’m not feeling well. Please, sir, fetch me a bowl. I’m—I’m going to be
sick
!”

The man held his candle high. The slender ray of light cast an eerie pattern over her face. Still he hesitated, obviously uncertain what to do.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” Antiqua moaned.

“For God’s sake, man, do something to help her!” Archie commanded urgently.

“P-please, sir,” she begged in a thin vibrato.

“Here, now, hold steady. Don’t cast up your accounts just yet,” the man said gruffly. He set down the candle and disappeared on a lope.

Antiqua whined and mewed. Archie added his counsel to that of the warden by telling her to hold steady, there’s a good girl. The large man did not run back into the room; even in his haste, his gait was too lumbering to qualify as a run. But it was evident he had hurried for he panted from lack of breath.

“Here’s a bowl, now, Missy,” he said as he shoved a round pewter tureen beneath Antiqua’s chin. “Just give it of your best.”

She bent her head and worked her mouth, then raised her head and rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank you, sir, but I could—ooohh, I could not. If I could—could just hold it myself.” Her head swayed. She seemed ready to swoon.

The bowl was dropped into her lap and the man’s large fingers clumsily undid the knots binding her wrists.

“T-thank you, sir,” she murmured feebly as the ropes fell from her hands. Collecting the bowl, she lifted it to the level of her chin. “If—if you would not mind?”

With unexpected delicacy, he nodded and turned his back. She tightened her grip on the tureen, thrust up her arms and crashed it down upon the base of his skull. He crumpled where he stood, sinking noiselessly to the floor. Antiqua spared him not a glance, but set aside the now-dented bowl and bent over her ankles.

“What the devil!” Archie exclaimed, peering into the faint light with widened eyes.

“Shh!” hissed the object of his concern as she busily untied the ropes at her feet. She could not reach the knots at her back, so she scraped the chair across to where Archie sat on the floor, his back propped against the wall. “Give me your hands,” she directed. With some effort, for his ropes had been bound more tightly, she freed his hands, then he quickly returned the favor by releasing the binding about her waist.

“I say,” he whispered in admiration as he undid his feet, “that was brilliant thinking, Antiqua!”

“Here, help me tie him up,” was her only response to this compliment. “It’s a pity I had to dent such a pretty bowl, but it couldn’t be helped, of course. Now, Archie, I’ll call out to the other man, then you knock him down as he enters.”

They rolled their tied-up prisoner behind the cover of the linen spread over a corner settee. Archie picked up the dented pewter tureen and slid behind the open door. Antiqua placed herself on her chair and began to sniffle noisily, calling out, “Sir, sir!” as she did so. After a few minutes, they heard a flowing stream of oaths grow louder.

Weasel swayed slightly in the doorframe, a bottle dangling from one hand. What you be wantin’, dearie?” he asked on a slur. “I thought ol’ Elton was come to take care o’you. Wasn’t he man enough to do the job?”

His leering grin made her feel ill in truth, but Antiqua gritted her teeth and answered calmly, “No. You’re the man I want.”

An ugly laugh preceded his first unsteady step. On the second step, Archie planted the pewter squarely on the back of his head. The bottle shattered on the floor, spilling a colorless stain over the wood as Weasel toppled.

“By God, Antiqua, we’ve done it!” exulted his lordship, tossing the battered bowl aside. He knelt and began winding rope around his latest victim’s arms and legs.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” she cautioned. “Listen!”

The clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels outside rang clear. They exchanged a speaking look and rushed behind the door.

Chapter 17

Two of the three occupants of the Winthrop’s blue salon sat exchanging virulent glares. Each appeared singularly disposed to outdo the other in depth and duration of a series of silent, deadly stares.

The stout gentleman began each volley by thrusting his mane of white hair from his wide brow and puffing out his already round cheeks. Such action invariably signaled the imminent firing of another fierce scowl from the lady.

In her turn, this formidable woman shook her triple chins with determination and expanded her massive chest with a mighty intake of air before leveling him with all the venom possible from two steely eyes beneath heavy bars of black brows.

The third member of this discordant party stalked the length of the room with an unbounded energy which seemed to offend the other two. By some unspoken accord, they intermittently ceased fire long enough to direct a mutual scowl of hostility upon him. His athletic frame was very fashionably encased in gray satin knee breeches and a maroon velvet evening jacket. A diamond-studded fob swung with animation against the embroidery of his waistcoat as he paced. The ormolu clock on the marble mantel had chimed the quarter-hour fully five times before both he and the fob were stopped in mid-stride by the precipitate entrance of Lady Julianne.

For a wavering instant, she poised, her evening cloak and jeweled headdress shimmering in the candlelight. Then with a shake of her blond curls, she flew into the energetic gentleman’s opened arms. “Father! Whatever are you doing here? And at this time of night?”

Dismissing these unpleasant inquiries with a fond squeeze, the Duke of Sedgwick addressed a brief nod over her shoulder. “Hullo, Winthrop.”

“Good evening, your Grace,” Sir Giles responded in mild surprise. “I trust you’ve not been waiting long upon our return?”

“No, no, not at all!” the Duke denied while a snort from the man seated to his left loudly disagreed. Ignoring this, Sedgwick went on, “The thing is, you see, we’ve come to see Vincent and learned at his lodgings that he was engaged to go out with you. So here we are!” His hopeful blue eyes gazed beyond Sir Giles. “Where’s that damned rascally son of mine?”