The trouble was, time had lost meaning for me. I paused so long between words that minutes went by before I could form the complete sentence.
Felicity didn’t answer. The rush light burned out, the straw of it crumpling into nothing, and I was in darkness.
Much later, after more hunger and thirst, another light made me open my eyes again. This light was made by a tallow candle—I smelled it—and its glare illuminated the eyes, nose, and mouth of a man. Only his eyes, nose, and mouth, a disembodied face in the darkness.
The sight was so terrifying I began to laugh. I could hear Lady Breckenridge’s cool voice, admonishing me for being late to my own wedding—You were waylaid by a bulbous nose, bleary eyes, and slash of mouth? Really, Gabriel, why did you not simply lay him out and climb out the window?
I had no idea who the face belonged to. I did not recognize him from my wanderings about London, or as a friend of my many acquaintances. He was, as far as I knew, a complete stranger.
“Why were you at the theatre?” he asked me.
The question brought the buried laughter to my lips. Two eyebrows joined the rest of the face as they came down over his nose, which made me laugh harder.
A kick to my ribs made me cough, but I couldn’t stop laughing. “Why were you at the theatre?” he repeated.
“Seeing a play,” I managed to gasp out. Why else did one go to the theatre?
“I meant today. Drury Lane. Through the back. No performances tonight.”
With effort I drew a breath and forced my laughter to quiet. I raised a weak hand and beckoned him closer, coughing a little, which wasn’t feigned. My mouth was dry, and the kick to my ribs had radiated pain.
The man bent down. Now I could see wiry side-whiskers growing on his cheeks, shaved off before they reached his upper lip.
I opened my mouth and shouted as hard as I could, “None of your business.”
The answer got me a blow across the face. The man swung on Felicity. “Get it out of him. Any way you can.”
He walked away. The glow of the candle illuminated a compact figure, the man not tall. Strong, though. My face and side ached.
He disappeared, taking the candle with him. While I lay still, trying to quiet the waves of pain, I assessed what I’d learned of the man in the short moments. His speech and accent put him as middle-class or even a gentleman, not a ruffian from the gutter. I hadn’t seen his clothes, but he’d smelled of soap and clean wool. His side-whiskers had been carefully trimmed, as had been his thinning hair.
I still had no idea who he was or why he was interested in me or Drury Lane theatre. Had I just met the man who’d put together the incendiary device meant to kill Abigail Collins?
Felicity rummaged in the darkness, struck a spark, and lit another rush light.
I hated rush lights. The smell of them reminded me of my miser of a father who’d refused to pay the tax on either wax or tallow candles. Not that he wouldn’t turn about and spend a fortune on his mistresses or gaming, but the rest of the family lived under the sputtering gloom of rush lights. Good lighting and his family had not been as important to my father as women or cards.
Felicity sat down on the cot with me and smoothed her hand over my chest. The gesture, as light as it was, hurt. I’d likely broken a rib.
“Tell me,” I said to her.
“Well, I don’t really know, do I?” Felicity settled in beside me as though she were a lady come to take tea. “He thought you fancied me and would come when I beckoned. I told him he was wrong about that, but he doesn’t like to listen.”
“Why is he interested in the theatre?”
Felicity opened her brown eyes wide. She was a striking woman, the bone structure in her face and the color of her skin displaying both her African and European ancestry. “I told you, I don’t know. He snatched me too.”
“You were walking about freely on the street,” I said, anger allowing my words to flow past the pain. “I struggle to believe you’d be obedient to a man you didn’t know.”
“I obey him because I’m trying to avoid chains,” Felicity said. “If I don’t help him, he said he’ll sell me onto the first ship to Jamaica. Not why would I want to go there? After all the trouble my mum took to get away from there in the first place?”
She spoke lightly, but I read fear in her eyes. Laws now prevented the slave trade in England, but the unscrupulous still sold human beings onto ships that would take them to the Indies or Americas, where slavery was still legal, and slaves were in abundance. Felicity would be bought and sold like chattel, and I did not need to be very imaginative to understand what she’d be bought for. She sold her own body on the London streets, true, but that was her choice, and she collected and kept the money. She was owned by no one.
If Felicity disappeared into slavery, her life would be impossibly harsh, and likely short. She was intelligent and wily, so perhaps she could convince an owner to treat her better, but the odds were not good. In the end, she would have no rights, no redress, nothing to prevent her captors using her as they wished and disposing of her when they were finished.
My voice was still weak, but my convictions were strong. “I won’t let that happen, Felicity. Never.”
Instead of falling into a swoon and declaring me her savior, Felicity laughed in true mirth. “Fine words from a man tied to a pallet. You couldn’t run a step.”
“Fetch me my swordstick, and we’ll see.”
“Can’t. Left it in the street.”
“In the street?” I half rose, anguished. The walking stick with the sword inside it had been a gift from my lady, bought to replace another stick I’d lost in dire circumstances. The new walking stick had a gold head, engraved. Captain G. Lacey. 1817.
I treasured it. The stick would be long gone by now, stolen by the denizens of Covent Garden.
“I left it there,” Felicity repeated, winking at me. “Where it might be found by a friend.”
“Where it might be picked up and sold at the nearest pawnbrokers.”
Felicity shrugged. “That’s a risk.”
“Blast you.”
“You’re sounding better. Want more gin?”
“No.” I did not feel better—my head pounded, my ribs ached, and my leg hurt like fire. “If you help me, Felicity, I’ll make sure you’re all right.”
She cocked her head and regarded me with intelligent eyes. “Gentlemen have made me such promises before. Men richer and stronger than you. They always lie. Or at least, they forget all about it when the time comes that I need their help.”
“Because those gentlemen aren’t me.” I reached for her again and gripped her hand. “I will keep you safe. I would whether you helped me now or not. I give you my word.”
Felicity paused, but I knew her hesitation did not mean she debated whether to trust me. Trust had been burned out of her long ago. She would decide, but not because of any pretty promises from me.
I drifted away on pain and the dregs of gin for a moment, and when the moment passed, I found Felicity’s soft body on top of mine, she busily kissing my lips.
I couldn’t struggle as she swept her tongue inside my mouth. I could not have tasted very good, and I didn’t respond, both from choice and because I could barely move. Felicity kissed me thoroughly, and she was quite good at it. If I were not anxious to wed another or lying in a wash of pain, I might take her offer. As it was, I rested my hand by my side and waited until she finished and sat up.
I did not ask for help again; I lay quietly and let her decide. Felicity studied me as she traced my lips with her fingertips.
“You’ll take me somewhere this Perry bloke won’t find me?”
“Is that his name? Perry?”
Felicity lifted her fingers away. “What’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re marrying a rich lady. You can give me plenty of money, can’t you?”
I could not answer to what Lady Breckenridge might agree to pay for my safe return, so I ha
d to shrug—a movement that hurt. “I will do what I can.”
Felicity didn’t think much of my answer. “When you marry, her money goes to you. That’s English law. Then you can do with it what you want.”
“Not if the money is in trust. The estate and its wealth go to her son. My wife has only a jointure and whatever her parents put into trust for her. Money under English law can be complicated.”
“Then why are you marrying her?”
I tried a smile. “I like her.”
Felicity gave me a pitying look. “That’s no reason to marry a woman. You marry for money. If you like a woman, you take her as your lover.”
I knew I was a bit unfashionable in my desire to marry Donata simply because I esteemed her. I’d married for passion the first time as well. This time, I hoped I was a little older and wiser in my choice, but I admit, it was still passion that drove me.
“If you can’t give me money, what else can you offer?” Felicity asked. “A night with you?”
“Not that either. I am about to troth myself to another.”
“So, you can give me neither money nor your attentions. You ask me to help you, and in return, I receive only your promise that Perry won’t sell me off. That’s it? That’s your bargain?”
“I am afraid so.”
Felicity leaned down and kissed me again, her lips warm and soft. She must have dazzled her clientele, and she must dazzle poor Pomeroy.
“All right then,” she said.
Chapter Three
Felicity had to help me stand. As soon as I got to my feet, I fell to the floor, my head spinning. I lay there in a heap of pain, wanting to expire.
Felicity gave me no mercy. She put a digging hand on my shoulder and dragged me up again. “We have to hurry. If he comes back and catches us, we’re done for.”
I wanted to know more about this man who thought nothing of kidnapping a viscountess’ betrothed off the street and threatening slavery to a young woman if she didn’t help him. But breathing and moving took all my energy; nothing remained for more speech.
Felicity ducked under my arm, half carrying me to the door. The room turned out to be very small, the door not many steps from the bed. The door also appeared to be unlocked. Felicity opened it easily and led me out to a small landing at the top of a flight of stairs.
No lock or bolt? Either her fear had been strong enough to keep her in place, or Felicity had not been honest with me.
She helped me down the stairs and out a door at the bottom, which didn’t seem to be guarded. Again, too easy.
We emerged into a narrow passage that smelled strongly of slops. The night was still black and shrouded in fog. I had no way of knowing where we were or even what time or day it was. Was this the same night I’d been kidnapped? Or had more time passed?
Felicity ducked out from under my arm and pinned me back against a cold wall. My weakness alarmed me. A slim woman, even one as fit and strong as Felicity, should not have been able to shove me about.
“All right, Captain. You make good on your promise. Get me away from here. Somewhere safe.”
I tried to nod, but my head hurt too much. “I’ll need a hackney.”
“I’ll get one. But we need to hurry. No telling when Perry will be back.”
I gave up on the next nod as well. Felicity left me leaning against the wall, the only thing holding me upright. My legs kept trying to bend, and in fact, did so without my awareness. When Felicity returned, she found me sitting on the noisome cobbles, my knees around my head.
“Captain, we have to go.”
She pulled me up too fast, and I nearly fell again. Felicity managed to hold me upright, my arm slung around her shoulders, and we stumbled from the passage to the street. I thought we were in the environs of Drury Lane, somewhat north of the theatre, closer to High Holborn, but I couldn’t be certain.
A hackney waited not far away, the driver looking about him uneasily in the thick darkness. He jumped down from his perch when we approached and helped Felicity lift me inside.
I groaned as the coachman’s touch pressed my hurt ribs, but his look held no compassion. Likely he thought me drunk, and I could not blame him his assessment. I reeked of the passage I’d collapsed in and the gin Felicity had poured down my throat.
“Where to?” the coachman asked.
“Curzon Street,” I managed to say as Felicity crammed herself against me in the small seat. “Number 45.”
“Right you are.”
The hackney listed sickeningly as the coachman climbed back to his box, and I nearly brought up all the gin.
When I dared open my eyes again, the coach was moving and Felicity glared at me. “We can’t go there.”
“Can you name a safer place?” I asked, my voice weak. “My lodgings are unguarded. If Mr. Perry finds us gone, he will go first to Grimpen Lane to look for me. The friends I’d turn to for help are not in London.” All my London friends were gone, in fact—either at country homes celebrating Christmas or in Oxfordshire waiting for my wedding.
“We might be safe from Perry, maybe,” Felicity said. “But are we safe from him?”
“Jump out if you don’t like it. Run back to your lodgings and bolt the door.”
“Those were my lodgings. Perry will be back any moment.”
“Then go to Pomeroy.”
Felicity let out a snort. “He’s a dear one, inn’t he? If he knew what I’d done tonight, he’d slap me in a cell, never mind I’ve shared his bed.”
I could not disagree with her. Pomeroy was unforgiving when it came to crime. He’d attempted to arrest me more than once, and I could easily imagine him arresting Felicity without a twinge of remorse.
“Then it seems you have no choice,” I said.
Felicity gave me an unhappy look but collapsed against the seats in silence.
I drifted in and out of consciousness as we moved through the shrouded city. I hoped Marianne had not met with misfortune on her way home. Perry had asked me about Drury Lane, knowing I’d been there. Because I’d given him no answers, he might turn to Marianne for them—it had been his ruffians and Felicity who’d followed us in the dark, so Perry would know Marianne had accompanied me. At least she’d gotten into Grenville’s coach and had been taken to the safety of the house he kept for her.
Then again, Perry might decide to walk to the theatre itself and find the blind Hannah vulnerable there. I thought of Coleman, huge and strong, and felt a little better. Coleman seemed to care about Mrs. Wolff and would look after her.
It could not be coincidence that Perry had abducted me just after Marianne asked me to make inquiries about Mrs. Collins. After I married—if Donata would accept a beaten up, tardy groom as a husband—I would return to London, find Mr. Perry, and shake some answers out of him.
Number 45 Curzon Street was a plain Georgian house with less pretension than most of its neighbors. The house had a black painted door, a thick brass doorknocker, sash windows with black shutters, and solid brick walls.
The coachman descended, and the horse cocked one back foot to rest its leg. Before the coachman could lift the doorknocker, a large, beefy man yanked open the door and peered out into the fog in suspicion, much as Coleman had at the theatre.
I clutched the hackney’s windowsill and pulled myself forward, so the man would see who I was. His look turned to faint surprise, but the suspicion remained. He called to someone behind him and stepped out of the house.
He and another equally large man—I knew both had once been prizefighters—carried me between them into the warm, lighted house. I had no chance to see whether Felicity followed, because the two men carried me all the way up three flights of stairs and into a bedchamber before I could look for her. The bed here was made up, as though the owner of the house had been expecting a guest, although no fire burned in the grate.
While I sank onto the soft bed, one of the lackeys laid a fire and the other lit candles. Real wax candles, the scent of them soothing. No rush
lights for Mr. Denis.
I hoped to drift to sleep, but a third man, this one spare and small with gray hair, joined the first two. Denis’s former pugilists quickly and competently stripped off my clothes, and the third man, apparently a surgeon, wrapped up my ribs and tended to my other wounds. A sip of laudanum went past my lips, and I slept.
I woke, blinking, to daylight, in an elegant room decorated in hues of ivory and Wedgwood green. Plaster medallions depicting women in classical Greek dress adorned the walls, and above the fireplace hung the painting of a young lad bending forward to blow a spark to life on a spill. Blackness surrounded the boy, but the spark threw a bright light upward, illuminating him in brilliance. The painting was a masterwork, no doubt old, no doubt pilfered, and no doubt priceless.
A man I hadn’t met before entered the room. He was younger and more slender than the other lackeys, and he started laying out shaving gear with expressionless competence.
He helped me out of bed, bathed me, shaved me, and dressed me in clean clothes—my own. The lackeys must have gone back to my flat for my things.
My ribs still hurt but were bearable now that they’d been wrapped. Touching them gingerly, I surmised they had not been broken but perhaps severely wrenched. I’d live.
I missed my walking stick, but I made my way downstairs the best I could without one to a private dining room in which I’d breakfasted before. A place had been set for me at one end of the table.
At the other end sat James Denis, a man who thought nothing of hanging priceless stolen paintings in his guest rooms. My life had become tangled with his in a complex mesh, and here I was again, at his mercy.
I’d always supposed a criminal mastermind would be aged and bent with a lifetime of dissipation, as novelists and playwrights would have us believe. Mr. Denis, in contrast, was a little past thirty, had dark hair cut short, a clean-shaven face, a slender build, and dark blue eyes that missed nothing.
His eyes also held a cold cruelty, an intelligence that weighed everything and assessed it in terms of how it might be of use to him. I’d only once seen Denis grow emotional about anything—a few months ago, in fact—and that emotion had led to disaster.