The Memory of Your Kiss (25 page)

McIntyre dove at Olson’s legs. Olson dropped one of the guns, but fired the other. Zachary felt a burning sensation when the bullet grazed the flesh of his forearm as he reached to untangle William from the prostrate form of Scrubb. McIntyre, having knocked the inept Olson to the floor, managed to retrieve both weapons.

Ruskin, with Lowell right behind him, stepped into the room and said casually, “Well, you almost managed without our help. Bow Street’s reputation remains intact, though.”

He and Lowell—more prepared in this regard than Zachary and his Rangers—put manacles on these two prisoners. Richardson prodded a begrimed and smelly Laughton into the room. The Bow Street men removed his gag, but saw that he was bound more securely than before. Scrubb had regained consciousness, but still seemed woozy.

Zachary hugged William close, saying over and over, “It’s all right, little man. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.” He continued to hold him with one arm as McIntyre used a knife to open his other sleeve and wrap his wound tightly with strips from a handkerchief.

Ruskin said, “We’ll see to these three. There are two hackney cabs out there on the street—ours and his.” He jerked a thumb at Laughton. “Your carriage is out there, too. We’ll let you know when they come
up on the docket at Old Bailey. Kidnapping. That’s a hanging offense, you know.”

Zachary saw Laughton blanch at this, but the other two were more stoic. “Thanks,” he said, lifting his wounded arm in a salute of sorts.

As they clambered into the landau, Thornton said, “You fellows had all the fun. Next time I want to play too.”

“With luck, there won’t be any next time,” Zachary said. He held William on his lap, glad to see the exhausted baby fall asleep with the swaying of the carriage.

“By the way, Quintin,” Richardson said, “you owe McIntyre and me new breeches for our uniforms.”

S
ydney
arrived home to find the entire household in an uproar. Her first concern was to reassure herself that Jonathan was all right—he slept soundly—even as she worried about William. Where
was
he? Why? Why had someone taken William? Roberts had already seen to barring the door the intruders had used. Bessie Watkins was more frightened than injured by her ordeal, but Sydney sent her to bed and ordered another maid to move Jonathan’s crib back into the boys’ room and to stay with him for what remained of the night.

There seemed two possible explanations for this disaster. First, it was a bizarre, horrible mix-up. Those scoundrels who had taken William had been after Jonathan. In that case, Percival Laughton was somehow involved and she recalled very well how Henry had felt about his cousin. In the second possible explanation, William was the target and the only ones who might remotely consider taking such measures against baby William were Lady Ryesdale’s in-laws. Her intuition told her the first explanation was by far the more probable. She prayed fervently that Zachary could find William and bring him home safe.

Even though he had been at Paxton House such a short time, and even though she knew and welcomed the fact that William had a mother who loved him, Sydney had grown to love this child as her own. She marveled at his growth, felt sorrow at his pains just as she
did with Jonathan. The boys were very alike in appearance, but already no one who knew them had any difficulty telling them apart. Perhaps because he had so far been an only child, Jonathan was quieter, more self-contained, while William was more gregarious, eager to share.

“I never expected to love William so much,” she said tearfully to Aunt Harriet and Celia, who had come in moments ago along with Trevor Harrelson.

The four of them sat in the smaller family drawing room with the door ajar, simultaneously sharing their anxiety and trying to avoid it as they waited.

“Have you informed Lady Ryesdale yet?” Aunt Harriet asked.

“I sent a note saying we had an emergency and ask that she come here as soon as possible. But, frankly, at this hour, I have no idea when, or even if, she will get it. That is such a strange household.”

No one had a response to this.

They tried to reason out the who and why of such a terrible deed. Sydney shared her initial thoughts on the matter.

“If Laughton
is
behind this, that baby’s life may be in real danger,” Harrelson said. “However,” he added on hearing all three women gasp, “I happen to know that Zachary has had him watched ever since he returned to London. The major will have things in hand.”

“I just keep thinking of that poor, scared little boy in the hands of some ruffian,” Celia said.

“He is such a sweet child,” Aunt Harriet observed. “It is just so unfair that innocent children are often made to suffer so.”

Sydney appreciated their sharing her worry, but she only half listened, attuned as she was to any sound of someone arriving below. Finally she heard the pounding of the door knocker, but the voice that followed was not the one she wanted to hear. It was Louisa’s voice, not Zachary’s.

Louisa, in a rather drab green cotton dress and no jewelry, entered the drawing room, saying, “I came as soon as I could. What is it? Has something happened to William? Is he ill? I must see him.”

Sydney patted the cushion of the couch next to her. “Come and sit down, Louisa.” She took Louisa’s hand in her own. “William is not here.”

“Not here? What do you mean ‘not here’?” Her voice rose in panic.

Not knowing how else she might put it, Sydney simply blurted out, “He has been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? My William? Why, for heaven’s sake? Who?”

“Major Quintin and his friends are looking for him now,” Aunt Harriet said, obviously trying to inject calm into the discussion.

“In a city of a million people and more? Oh. Oh. Oh.” Louisa took deep breaths trying to control her sobs. “T-tell me what happened.”

As matter-of-factly as she could, Sydney did so, but she could not stop the tears streaming down her face.

“But
why
?” Louisa persisted. “I-I thought he would be so safe here.”

Sydney choked back a sob as she said, “I think it may have been an accident—that they may have mistaken William for Jonathan. Henry’s cousin, Percival Laughton—”

Louisa’s eyes held sheer terror as she said, “Oh, my God! Henry always distrusted him. Thought him capable of almost anything.”

Harrelson now said, “It may be possible, Lady Ryesdale, that it was not a mistake, that William really was the target.”

“William? Oh, I shouldn’t think so. There is no title associated with William—nor a great fortune.”

“It is no secret in the clubs that Baron Rysedale’s family disapproved of your—uh—relationship with Paxton,” Harrelson said.

“That is true,” Louisa admitted. “But they direct their venom at
me
. They do not recognize that William even exists.”

“What if he suddenly did not exist?” Aunt Harriet asked gently.

Louisa took time to think before she responded. “I cannot see either the dowager or her son George sullying their noble hands in such a thing as housebreaking or kidnapping. Ralph would have done so, but they wouldn’t. And of course Ralph has been out of the country ever since—since—”

“That duel,” Harrelson said, and she nodded.

There seemed nothing else of substance to say on the matter, so Sydney said, “Well—now we wait.” She rose. “I’ll have Roberts bring us some coffee.”

A predawn glimmer of light shone through gaps in the drapes when at last they heard a clamor in the entrance below, then the muffled sound of boots on carpeted stairs. Suddenly Zachary stood framed in the doorway, holding a sleepy looking William on one arm.

“Oh, thank God,” Sydney said.

Louisa rushed over to gather her son in her own arms and shower him with kisses. Sydney could not resist just touching him and stood with one arm embracing Louisa’s shoulders and the other hand caressing William’s back.

As Zachary moved farther into the room, Richardson and McIntyre followed him. Aunt Harriet stepped into the hallway briefly, then resumed her seat as Sydney invited the newcomers to sit as well. “Please. You must tell us what happened.”

Richardson gestured at his stained breeches and scuffed boots. “We are hardly fit to be in an elegant drawing room.”

“Fiddlesticks!” she said. “We are so happy to see you and to have William back safe that we would welcome you covered top to toes in mud—or—or worse.”

Roberts and a footman entered with trays: more coffee and a pitcher of ale and a pitcher of cider along with glasses and cups. Roberts said quietly to Sydney, “Cook is preparing an early breakfast, my lady.” Sydney caught Aunt Harriet’s eye and mouthed a “thank you.”

When everyone had a drink of choice in hand, she said, “Now—do tell us.”

“It was Laughton, just as we thought,” Zachary began. He recounted the rescue mission with an occasional correction or elaboration from the other two—as well as incoherent but happy interjections from William.

The next day Sydney had additional locks put on outside doors, and she spent hours in the nursery with both boys. Every day that week Louisa somehow managed a visit to Paxton House for an hour or so. Sydney was glad that not once had Louisa blamed her for William’s ordeal. For Sydney, the rest of the month of July was anticlimactic—historic celebrations of the end of the war notwithstanding.

The Prince Regent’s much talked-of gala at Carleton House went off as planned, but in the event turned out to be something of a disappointment. Not that her expectations had been so very high to start with. She was quite sure she had received an invitation only because her late husband had lent nominal support to the Tories. These days
the prince—who had once allied himself with his father’s Whig enemies—now that he was regent, actively courted the Tories.

While Sydney applauded the prince’s celebration of genuine heroes, she deplored his use of such celebrations to shore up his own political interests—especially as so often he seemed to be trying to belittle his estranged wife in the process. The grand affair at Carleton House had started in early afternoon on a very hot day. Military men in full dress uniforms were forced to stand in parade formation for long periods of time. Many of them suffered heat stroke—all because one self-important buffoon wanted to show off, Sydney thought, but she wisely forbore voicing this opinion aloud.

In order to accommodate the hundreds and hundreds of guests, giant tents had been erected on the lawn. The whole affair was incredibly crowded. And what a waste of money, she thought. All those lobster patties, rich pastries, and champagne for people who had probably never known what it was to be hungry, while even within the city—let alone the country at large—were thousands who were this very instant experiencing hunger pangs. Moreover many of them were members of the newly demobilized army the regent was so intent on honoring.

Sydney had arrived at this affair on the arm of one of those being honored, Major Zachary Quintin. She knew the Rangers had come under duress; but a sovereign’s invitations amounted to a royal command that could not be refused. The guest of honor was, of course, the Duke of Wellington, who appeared in a resplendent army uniform with medals and colorful sashes awarded by both domestic and foreign entities. Nevertheless, the duke’s attire seemed starkly simple next to that worn by the English Prince George, the Prussian King Frederick, and the Russian Czar Alexander.

As they waited in a long line to present themselves to the dignitaries, the Rangers talked quietly among themselves.

“I hear Prinny had that uniform made especially for this extravaganza,” Lieutenant Harrelson said.

Ensign Gordon snorted. “A puffed-up uniform to fit his puffed-up claims of having actually led troops into battle.”

“Careful, Gordie,” McIntyre warned. “You’ll have us thrown out of here before we meet the royals. Then what will you tell your grandchildren one day?”

“That I served honorably with men of honor,” Gordon replied.

“Hear. Hear,” Captain Richardson said.

When they at last reached the dignitaries, instead of merely acknowledging Major Quintin and the Rangers with a nod and a handshake as he had others, Wellington, in a booming parade ground voice, said, “Ah, Quintin, I see you brought most of your Rangers home. Saved me writing those letters, for which I heartily thank you. Great job, all of you.”

Sydney felt Zachary’s arm tighten under her hand as he said in a controlled, neutral tone, “Thank you, your grace.”

There was murmuring among other guests at the great man’s singling out these few and for the rest of the evening, the Rangers were singly and collectively much admired. Sydney was proud of her friends, especially Zachary, but she was anxious for this evening to end and she knew they were too.

As she and Zachary waited for their carriage, Sydney was glad to see two very welcome faces: those of Allyson and Nathan.

“Can you imagine what the Fairfax sisters could do with what this grand show must have cost?” Allyson asked rhetorically.

“Allyson, enough, my dear,” her husband admonished only half-jokingly.

“But, darling—”

“No. Enough. Much as you’d like to do so, you cannot save the whole world and you cannot deny others their right to be extravagant and ostentatious if they so choose.”

“I agree with you,” Sydney said to Allyson in a stage whisper. “An
army
of hungry poor people might be fed on this night’s leftovers.”

Nathan threw up his hands. “I surrender. I cannot fight two of you. ’Tis a pity we have no women in Parliament.”

Their carriage finally arrived and Sydney sank into the seat with a sigh of relief as Zachary gave the driver instructions then climbed in beside her. She was keenly aware that not since the Vauxhall Gardens excursion had they been so alone together, for McIntyre, who had accompanied them here, was leaving later with Gordon. A carriage lantern offered only muted light, but never had Zachary looked more attractive to her.

He slipped an arm around her to draw her closer. “Now, about that unfinished business between us,” he murmured and kissed her. She had anticipated this, had wanted this for days. He was not comforting
a distraught friend this time. He was seeking, needing, and claiming a lover’s response. One she eagerly gave him. Her lips parted and the kiss deepened. When his hand moved to cradle her breast, she gasped at the flood of desire that swept through her.

She pulled away, albeit reluctantly. “Zachary, we—”

“Too much too soon?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Not exactly.”

“Good.” He settled his lips on hers again, thus reigniting that incredible desire.

She felt almost deliciously helpless, but found herself able to withdraw again. “Zachary,” she said, suppressing a soft laugh, “I am not making love with you in a rolling carriage.”

In a pretense of thinking this over, he said, “Hmm. Am I to assume you object to the location, not the idea of our making love?”

She felt herself blushing, but she answered boldly. “Yes. You may assume that.”

He grinned. His kiss this time was more subdued, but full of promise. “I can wait.”

In the next few days, Zachary saw Sydney only intermittently and fleetingly. He sent her a fresh bouquet of violets with a one-word, unsigned message, “Waiting.” His sister and her family were still in town. Also, his younger brothers had come for the celebration and insisted he join them for rounds of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon and to inspect horses at Tattersall’s market. His mother so enjoyed having all her children around her that Zachary hadn’t the heart to disappoint her by skipping out on family dinners. His younger sister Delia, who had made her debut just this year, demanded that he escort her to Almack’s.

Sydney was also at Almack’s, along with her aunt and her cousin—and the ever-present Trevor Harrelson. Zachary thought Sydney might be bowing to the strictures of the patronesses, for she wore the silver gray gown she had worn to the theatre when he had first arrived in town. He was able to persuade her to one dance, but not the waltz that he so dearly wanted. Later, he overheard someone comment on the phenomenon of seeing Lady Paxton on the dance floor and counted himself privileged.