“He’ll speak with Ben and ask about the brooch—he may try to disguise his purpose but he will, eventually, ask. The circumstances of that meeting will make it impossible for Ben to identify him later—he’s too clever to take that risk.”
He drew in a long breath. “And for the same reason, I think, once Ben gives him an answer, that he’ll order his henchmen to release Ben somewhere in London. He knows we’ll be searching, and he has no reason to be party to murder—as long as Ben can’t identify him, he has nothing to fear.”
Madeline had been following his reasoning; she nodded. “And leaving us quartering London, of all places, trying to locate one ten-year-old boy…that will keep us fixed there for the foreseeable future.”
“Leaving the peninsula, as far as he knows, open territory, undefended.” Gervase studied her face; the afternoon sunshine lit the hollows and planes, showed the strain of the past twenty-four hours, but he could see nothing in her features or her eyes, when they met his, to suggest she’d followed where his mind had ultimately led.
Summoning a smile, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed, then lowered his arm and faced forward. “We’re doing all we can to catch that carriage—at the moment, that’s all we can do.”
He felt reasonably certain the villain would order Ben’s release somewhere in London—most likely in the stews. What he wasn’t anywhere near as confident over was whether the man’s unsavory henchmen would follow his orders to the letter, or instead decide to make what they could off a gentry-bred ten-year-old boy.
That was the stuff of nightmares, but every bit as bad was the thought of what might transpire should the henchmen obey—and leave Ben wandering the slums of London. With no protector, alone—helpless.
Evening was closing in when they reached the outskirts of Basingstoke. The nearer they’d drawn to the capital, the more other carriages, carts, mail coaches and drays had thronged the road; their pace had fallen significantly.
Madeline bore the frustration by silently repeating Gervase’s observation that the traffic would slow their quarry just as much.
Neither of them had slept the night before, just short naps, unsettled, no real rest; tiredness was now a real burden, dragging at her mind.
The horn blared; a minute later they turned under the arch of the Five Bells, one of the town’s major posting inns. The instant the carriage rocked to a halt, Gervase opened the door and got down, shutting it behind him. Madeline leaned across the carriage and watched as he spoke with the head ostler, whose team was wrestling the big post-horses out of their harness.
Gervase asked questions, the head ostler answered, then Gervase nodded curtly; he paused for a second, then turned and strode back to the carriage. Face grim, he opened the door, and held out his hand, beckoning for her to take it and descend.
Grasping his fingers, she did; looking into his face, she asked, “What is it?”
He met her eyes. “They stopped here to change horses. The head ostler got a chance to glance into the carriage. He saw a young lad—Ben—asleep on the seat, wrapped up tight in a blanket. Ben might have been tied up, restrained in some fashion, but the ostler didn’t see any bonds. However, from his description of the two men in the carriage, we were right in thinking they’re just henchmen—the reason the ostler glanced in was because he couldn’t imagine where such men got the coin to travel in such style.”
“So…” Madeline glanced at the front of the carriage, at the shafts propped on blocks as the horses were led away. Not seeing fresh horses being led out, she frowned. “I assume we’ll be off as soon as possible…?”
Brows rising, she glanced at Gervase; he met her eyes.
“Their carriage is more than an hour ahead of us. We’ve caught up significantly, but we’re four to five hours from the capital—even racing as we are, we can’t catch them in that time, over that distance.”
The fear she’d held at bay throughout the day clutched at her heart. She kept her eyes on his, held to the contact as she prompted, “So…?”
He didn’t look away. “So we’re going to have to accept that they’ll reach London ahead of us and disappear into its streets—and we’re going to have to search for Ben there, when they let him ago. The one point in all that in our favor is that it won’t be immediately. The villain will need to meet him first, so the earliest they’ll release Ben will be tomorrow afternoon.”
She searched his amber eyes, read in them a steadfast, rock-solid promise that they would find Ben. She eased out the breath tangled in her throat. “So what now? What do you suggest?”
“We’ll continue to London, but there’s no longer any sense in pushing ourselves or the horses.” He glanced around. “We’ll take a break here—have dinner, a short rest—before taking to the road again. This is an excellent inn—their table is highly regarded.”
She didn’t think she could eat, or if she did, all food would be tasteless, but she’d lectured her brothers often enough over recklessly taking unnecessary risks.
Gervase’s lips eased as if he read her mind. “You’ll be little use to Ben when we find him if you’re fainting with hunger.”
She humphed. “I never faint. But perhaps dinner would be wise.” Now she thought of it, she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since a light lunch the day before.
Gervase took charge, leading her into the inn, sending the coachman and his mate into the main taproom to eat and refresh themselves, then commanding rooms in which he and she could wash away the dust of the road and the day, before retreating to a private parlor where a substantial dinner would be served as soon as they were ready. While it felt odd to have someone else organizing things for her, giving orders for her comfort, he was efficient and effective, and seemed to know precisely how not to step on her toes, how to make it feel perfectly natural for her to metaphorically lean on him, to allow him to care for her. Seductive support—that’s what it was—but in this instance she let it wrap about her.
Shown to a pretty bedchamber, she glanced into the mirror, sighed, and set to work to repair the depredations of the journey. A quick wash revived her; the maid shook out her gown, frankly scandalized at the trousers she still wore beneath.
Redonning her gown, she removed the trousers; arriving in London in such attire definitely qualified as another unnecessary risk. Letting down her hair, she combed her fingers through it, subduing it as best she could, then she twisted the mass back into a knot and secured it, more or less, with her remaining pins.
Returning downstairs to the private parlor, she found Gervase, similarly refreshed, waiting. They sat down at the table and the food was brought in; contrary to her expectations she could taste the game pie well enough, and she was indeed famished.
Between them they accounted for most of what the beaming innwife set before them. Nevertheless she felt a spurt of relief when, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates, Gervase gave the order for their coachman to make ready and the fresh horses to be put to.
As the door shut behind the retreating innkeeper, Gervase turned to see her wiping her fingers on her napkin. “No need to rush—we’ll be on our way soon enough.”
Laying the napkin aside, she frowned. “How will we proceed when we reach London?” Her head felt clearer—clear enough to ask a question she hadn’t, until then, spared much thought for; she’d been focused on catching up with the carriage and Ben before town.
Gervase had given the matter long and considerable thought. “We’ll go to the Bastion Club.”
She frowned. “I thought it was a gentlemen’s club.”
“It is—or was. But of our seven members, five are now wed, and other than me, no one actually stays there anymore. Christian Allardyce, the other yet to marry, has his own house in town. He only uses the club as a bolt-hole—a place to hide from his female relatives and others who want to hound him.”
“Oh.” Her expression suggested she was intrigued—intrigued enough to fall in with his plan. “So we can go there, and…?”
“Using the club as a base, I’ll organize a search for Ben. I’ll call on whoever’s in London—Christian’s there, I know. I’m not sure about Trentham—or Dalziel.”
“Your ex-commander?”
He nodded. “He has…abilities, facilities, minions we can only guess at that he can mobilize.” Pushing back his chair, he rose.
She frowned; giving him her hand, she let him draw her to her feet. “But will he? Dalziel, I mean. After all, he doesn’t know me or Ben from Adam.”
“That won’t matter to him. It’s the need he’ll respond to—a young boy abducted in these circumstances, then abandoned in London.” He felt his jaw, his face, start to set in stony lines; he tried for impassive instead. “He’ll help—he won’t need to be asked twice.”
She seemed to accept that. He led her to the door. Pausing before it, he met her eyes. “Ready to go on?”
Lifting her chin, she nodded, every inch his Valkyrie. “Let’s get back on the road.”
They rolled into London in the predawn. The sky had barely lightened from the night’s black velvet, the eastern horizon a pale stripe of dark gray pearl. They hadn’t pressed the horses but had made good time; it was between three and four o’clock, the hour in which no one stirred, honest man or villain. The streets were silent as their horses, tired but still game, plodded on.
Madeline sat forward looking out at the sky. Gervase studied her profile, knew she was thinking of Ben, wondering where he was, how he was, whether he was well. Finding Ben; his entire personal focus had drawn in to just that—nothing else rated, not until he had Ben back in Madeline’s arms.
He’d given the coachman directions several times. When the carriage turned into Montrose Place, he leaned out and called softly, “Number twelve—the green gate ahead on the left.”
The coachman drew rein; the carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt immediately before the gate.
Opening the carriage door, Gervase stepped down to the pavement. The house, like all the other houses in the street, stood in darkness. He turned back to Madeline, leaning forward to peer through the door at the shadowy outline beyond the stone wall. “Wait here. I’ll go and rouse them.”
He’d arrived at the club in the dead of night on a number of occasions, so it was no surprise to find his confident knock answered within minutes by a sleep-rumpled Gasthorpe dragging on his coat. What always amused Gervase was that the portly ex-sergeant-major, now majordomo, seemed able to scramble into his clothes and look passably neat in just those few minutes.
“My lord!” A smile lighting his face, Gasthorpe beamed and swung the door wide. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you back.”
“Thank you, Gasthorpe, but I’m not alone. I have a lady with me—the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne—and we’ll need to use the club as our base.” Gervase met Gasthorpe’s widening eyes. “Miss Gascoigne’s young brother has been kidnapped. We chased the blackguard’s carriage to London, but couldn’t catch it—we’ll need to organize a search come first light.”
At the first sign of trouble, Gasthorpe’s eyes had lit. “Naturally, my lord.” Glancing out into the night, noting the carriage at the curb, he drew himself up. “If you’ll conduct the lady indoors, I’ll have a chamber—the larger one to the left of the stairs—ready momentarily.”
Gervase nodded, relieved he could rely on Gasthorpe’s abilities and his discretion. He turned to the street, then recalled…and turned back to Gasthorpe. “We had to set out on our chase unexpectedly from Helston. We’ve no luggage, no clothes bar those on our backs.” He grimaced. “And we’ve been on the road more or less continuously since the evening of the day before yesterday. We’ll also need to house the coachmen—there’s two of them—for as long as we stay. I suspect we’ll need to race back to Cornwall at some point, and they’re excellent whips.”
Gasthorpe drew himself up. “Leave everything to me, my lord. We’ve been rather quiet of late—it’s a pleasure to see action again.”
In spite of the hour, despite the situation, Gervase grinned; he knew what Gasthorpe meant. Stepping off the porch, he said, “Incidentally, Lostwithiel sends his regards. I’ve left him and his lady holding the fort at Crowhurst.”
“Very kind of the earl—I hope we’ll see him, and his lady, here one day soon.”
Gervase’s grin grew wider. “I’ll tell him.” They truly would have to rethink their use of the club, or Gasthorpe and his helpers would run mad. None were the usual sort of staff; inactivity didn’t suit them.
Returning to the carriage, he helped Madeline to the pavement; she glanced around while he gave the tired coachmen directions to the mews behind the house, then she let him twine her arm in his and lead her up the path to the door.
“Your butler’s going to be shocked to his back teeth.”
He chuckled. “We don’t have a regular staff. Gasthorpe acts as majordomo. He was a sergeant-major during the wars, and you may believe me when I say that I’ve yet to see him at a loss regardless of the many and varied—and sometimes quite startling—demands we’ve all at one time or another made of him.” He looked ahead to where the hall was now aglow with warm candlelight; beyond he could hear the rapid-fire thump of feet as footmen ran up the stairs, rushing to do Gasthorpe’s bidding. “If you doubt me, just watch how he handles this.”
Madeline did have doubts, severe doubts that any male-oriented household could cope with their wholly unexpected and unprecedented demands, but by the time Gasthorpe showed her into a simply furnished but exceptionally neat and comfortable room, indicated his arrangements with a decorous nod and begged her to ask for anything he’d failed to provide, every last one had been swept away.
“No, indeed.” Tired eyes taking in the fine linen nightshirt laid upon the bed—a man’s but perfectly serviceable in her present straits—and the towel and washbasin with its matching pitcher steaming, the single candle alight on the dresser, she could feel her muscles unknotting. “Thank you—you’ve done excellently. This is more than I expected.”
“If I might suggest, ma’am, if you leave your gown outside the door, I’ll have the maid from next door freshen it for you.”
She felt silly tears prickle at the back of her eyes as she turned to the dapper little man who was so patently delighted to be of service. “Thank you, I will. You’ve been exceptionally kind.”
He smiled and bowed his way out of the door, closing it gently behind him. Madeline sighed, then smothered a yawn.
Ten minutes later, washed and clean, with her hair a loose veil about her head and shoulders, she was sound asleep between the crisp sheets.
Gervase stood in the doorway and considered the sight. She’d blown out the candle but faint light washed the room; by its soft glow he could see that the tension of the day, the tightness about her eyes and lips, had faded.
The observation calmed some restless, primal part of him. He considered the bed—its less-than-adequate width—then with an inward sigh turned away. Shutting the door silently, he made for the bedchamber across the landing.
Gasthorpe had served them tea and crumpets in the library while their rooms were being prepared. When Madeline had retired, Gervase had remained to write notes—calls to action—only two, so it hadn’t taken long.
Gasthorpe had verified that of all the club’s members, only Christian Allardyce was still in town—the others had retired to their country estates for the summer and weren’t expected to reappear in London, at least not within the next few days.
Ben’s fate would be sealed by then; they’d either find him within the first two days, or they likely never would.
Going into his room, closing the door, Gervase forcefully put that thought out of his mind, and concentrated, instead, on how to locate Ben.
Shrugging off his coat, unbuttoning his cuffs, he grimaced. Gasthorpe had his two notes; they’d be delivered with the dawn. The only thing left that he, Gervase, could presently do to improve their chances of finding Ben was to pray that the
second gentleman he’d informed hadn’t yet left London.
Chapter 17
As Gervase had expected, Christian was the first to answer his summons. Gasthorpe roused him at nine o’clock with the news that the marquess had arrived and was waiting for him at the breakfast table.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gervase splashed water over his face, then swiftly shaved and dressed, giving thanks for the marvel that was Gasthorpe; aside from providing the razor, a newly purchased brush, cravat, and shirt, the majordomo had worked wonders with his travel-worn coat and breeches and his boots shone. At least he no longer looked like he’d just ridden in from the Russian Steppes.
Exiting his room, he paused, considering the door across the landing. Crossing silently to it, he opened it and looked in; Madeline was still sound asleep, the covers over her shoulder, her hair a red-gold mane spread across the pillow. Contradictory impulses clashed; one part of him wanted to leave her there, recuperating in peace, yet she would expect to be included in any councils concerning Ben’s fate, and had every right to be present.
Inwardly sighing, he crossed soft-footed to the bed. Brushing back her hair, he bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. As she roused, murmured, then turned to him, he trailed his lips across to meet hers. A gentle, undemanding kiss. Then he lifted his head, watched her blink awake.
She focused on him, then glanced around. “Oh.” Shuffling onto one elbow, she looked at the window. “What’s the time?”
“Nine o’clock. Christian Allardyce is downstairs at the breakfast table. Join us when you’re ready.”
“Yes, of course.” She started struggling up.
He turned to the door, and discovered a little maid hovering, hand raised, frozen; she’d been about to knock, then had seen him.