Tony looked at David, who nodded, then at Jenkins, recovering in a chair. Jenkins nodded, too. “He’s very good about details, my lord. Excellent memory.”
Tony paused, then swallowed the curse that rose to his lips. Rising, he turned to the bookshelves behind the desk, scanned, then pulled out his copy of Debrett’s.
A tap fell on the door, then it opened. Geoffrey Manningham strolled in. Across the room, Tony met his gaze.
Instantly, Geoffrey came alert. “What? What’s happened?”
“Caudel has kidnapped Alicia.” Tony opened the book, swiftly flicking pages. He found the entry for Caudel. He read it, and swore beneath his breath. “Sir Alfred Caudel.”
He slammed the book shut. “A. C. Currently with the Home Office. From an old if not ancient family, his principal estate is in north Oxfordshire, near Chipping Norton, not far from the tavern where those letters from the French captains were sent.”
Geoffrey’s mouth had fallen open; he snapped it shut. “Caudel? Good God—no wonder he’s so desperate to scotch the investigation.”
“Indeed, and no wonder he knew so much about the investigation itself.” Standing behind the desk, fingers lightly drumming, Tony rapidly assembled a plan, checking and re-checking, mentally listing all the necessary orders. He glanced at the three boys, spared them a reassuring smile. “I’ll go after them.”
Geoffrey frowned. “You know where they’ve gone?’
“Maggs has them in his sights—he’ll send word as soon as he passes a hostelery.” Tony spoke to the boys.
“Maggs knows what to do—he won’t stop following Alicia. I’ll head out as soon as I know which road—Maggs and I have a system we’ve used before. It’ll work, so don’t worry that we’ll lose the trail.” He looked at Geoffrey. “I need you to get word to the others, and then wait here with Adriana, Miranda, and the rest—no need for vapors, I’ll bring Alicia back.”
Geoffrey nodded. “Right. Who do you want me to get hold of?”
Tony gave him a list. Dalziel first; Tony wrote a short note summarizing the evidence that Sir Freddie was A. C. He handed it to Geoffrey. “Give that to Dalziel—into his hand, don’t show it to anyone else. Use my name, that’ll get you through his pickets. Then go to Hendon House and tell Jack, then to the club, and tell the majordomo, Gasthorpe. Tell him the others—Deverell’s out of town but the other five—all need to know.”
While he’d talked, he’d risen and tugged the bellpull. Hungerford appeared; Tony ordered his curricle brought around with the bays put to. Without comment, Hungerford left.
Almost immediately he returned. “A message from Maggs, my lord, brought by an ostler from Hounslow. Maggs says it’s the Basingstoke road.”
Having assimilated the fact that Sir Freddie was A. C., which he verified beyond doubt by telling her the details of how his scheme had operated, and of how he’d worked since Ruskin’s death to turn all blame on her, Alicia still didn’t know the answer to her question. She fixed Sir Freddie with a steady gaze. “What do you plan to do now? What do you want me to do?”
“At the moment, nothing.” Reaching out, he lifted a window flap, glanced out, then let the flap fall and looked back at her. “We’ll be journeying through the night. When we stop to change horses, you’ll remain in the carriage, calm and composed. At no time will you do anything to attract attention. You won’t forget that your brother’s future lies in your hands, so you will do exactly as I say at all times.”
She debated telling him that Tony and his friends knew about Ellicot, but decided to hold her fire, at least until she knew more. “Where are we going?” Through the night suggested deep into the country.
Sir Freddie studied her, then shrugged. “I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you.” His tone was cold, unemotional. “Given how forthcoming I’ve been, I’m sure you’ve realized by now that this last and, I fancy, winning throw of the dice involves your demise.”
She had, but refused to let it panic her. She raised a brow, faintly haughty. “You’re going to kill me?”
He smiled his chilling smile. “Most regretfully, I assure you. But before you waste breath trying to tell me such an act won’t get me anywhere, let me explain how things will appear once you’re no longer about to state your case.
“First, I’m aware of the activities of Torrington and his friends. They really are quite tediously tenacious. Ellicot was an obvious liability—he, naturally, is no longer with us. His family, however, are most likely aware that he had a sleeping partner, so I took care to remove all evidence of my association with him… and replaced it with evidence of your association with him.
“When Torrington and his friends look, they’ll find a circle of evidence that leads them back to you—where their attention should have stayed all along. I’m sure they won’t be happy about it, but they won’t have any choice in laying the blame at your door. I’ve become quite adept at bending society and the upper echelons to my bidding; there’ll be such irritation that you’ve escaped, your guilt will be established by default.
“Naturally, you won’t be there to answer the charges, which will only reinforce them. Your disappearance will be seen as an admission of guilt, one your supporters will be at a loss to counter. When your body is eventually found, as I’ll ensure it is, everyone will conclude that, weighed down with remorse, with the investigation closing in—something you would know with Torrington as your lover—with social disaster of ever-greater proportions looming over you and your precious family… well, you took the only honorable way out for a lady.”
She let contempt infuse her voice. “You said you know of Torrington and his friends and how tenacious they are. My death won’t convince them—it won’t stop their investigation, it’ll intensify it.” She was perfectly certain of that.
Sir Freddie, however, smiled, coldly condescending. “The key is Torrington, and how he’ll react to finding your dead body.”
She couldn’t stop her lashes from flickering.
Sir Freddie saw; his smile deepened. “He’s in love with you, not just a passing fancy, I fear, but well and truly caught. What do you think it will do to him to be the one to discover you dead?”
She refused to react, to give him any indication of what she thought; the arrogant fool had just said the one thing above all others guaranteed to make her fight to the last.
“With you gone and nothing left to save, Torrington will retire to deepest Devon. The others won’t be able to sustain the investigation without him.” He paused, then added, “And that, my dear, will finally be the end of the story.”
She drew breath, but didn’t challenge him; there had to be some way to scuttle his plans. She kept her mind focused on that, refusing even to think of defeat. Defeat meant death, and she definitely wasn’t ready to die.
Leaning her head against the squabs, she went over his plan. He was right in predicting she would do nothing to put Matthew at risk, but the risk came from Sir Freddie. He’d said his men would hold Matthew until they heard from him; if they didn’t… there’d be time to find them and free Matthew unharmed.
She needed to escape and simultaneously take Sir Freddie captive, ensuring he could send no message. Once they’d turned the tables, Sir Freddie would tell them where Matthew was held… she needed Tony for that, but…
In her heart, she was sure he’d come for her. Maggs had been watching; he’d probably realized she’d been kidnapped before she had. Maggs would get word to Tony, and Tony would come. However, she couldn’t rely on Tony catching up with her before Sir Freddie tried to kill her.
She looked across the carriage. Sir Freddie’s eyes were closed, but she didn’t think he was asleep. He was some years older than Tony, a few inches shorter, but of heavier build. Indeed, he’d be described as a fine figure of a man, still in his prime; he’d never looked out of place in Adriana’s court.
Physically, she couldn’t hope to win any tussle, yet if Sir Freddie had any weakness, it was his overweening conc
eit. He believed he’d get away with everything. If she played to that belief, there might be one moment, almost at the end of the game, when he might be vulnerable….
It would likely be her only chance.
She saw a glint from beneath his lashes; he’d been watching her studying him. “You didn’t say where we’re going.”
He was silent, clearly weighing the risk, then he said, “Exmoor. There’s a tiny village I was once stranded in. The evidence will suggest you stopped there, then wandered out onto the moor, threw yourself down a disused mine shaft, and drowned.”
Exmoor. Closing her eyes, leaning her head back again, she focused on that. An isolated moor. They’d have to walk to any mine… the coachman would have to stay with the horses…
As the day rolled into evening, she behaved precisely as Sir Freddie wished. She considered pretending to fall apart, weeping and despairing, but she wasn’t that good an actress, and if Sir Freddie suspected she wasn’t resigned to her fate… instead, she behaved as she imagined a French duchess would have on her way to the guillotine. Head high, haughtily superior, yet with no hint of any struggle against an overwhelming fate.
He had to believe she’d accepted it, that she’d go haughtily but quietly to her death. Given his background, that was very likely the behavior he’d expect of her, a lady of his class.
The farther they traveled, stopping at inn after inn to change horses, the more evidence she detected of his natural conceit overcoming his caution. He even allowed her to use the convenience at an inn, although she had no chance to speak to anyone, and he remained within sight of the door at all times.
Night fell; four horses pulled the coach steadily on. Closing her eyes, feigning sleep, she felt her nerves tensing and tried to relax. Exmoor, he’d said, and Exeter was still some way ahead; it would be hours yet before she got her chance. Her one chance at the life she now knew beyond doubt she wanted. The life she was prepared to fight for, the life she was determined to have.
Not as Tony’s mistress, but as his wife. As his viscountess, the mother of his heir, and other children, too. She had far too much to live for to die.
And she knew he loved her; not only had he said so, but he’d shown her. If she’d had any doubt over what his feelings truly were, the picture Sir Freddie had painted, the question he’d asked: how would Tony react to finding her dead? had blown all such doubts away.
Devastated was too small a word—she knew precisely how he would feel because it was the same way she’d feel in the converse circumstance.
They loved each other, equally completely, equally deeply; she no longer questioned that. Once they were past this, free of Sir Freddie and his deadly scheme, she would speak with Tony. He might not yet see things as she did, but she was perfectly marriageable, after all. He’d established her as his equal in the eyes of the ton; if his mother was anything like Lady Amery and the Duchess of St. Ives, she doubted she’d have any difficulties there.
She wanted to marry him, and if that meant she had to broach the subject herself, then she would. Brazenly. After last night, she could be brazen about anything, at least with him.
The prospect—her future as she would have it with Tony by her side—filled her mind. Joy welled; fear hovered that it would not come to be, but she shunned it, clung to the joy instead.
Held to the vision of a happy future. Let it strengthen her. Her determination to make it happen—that it would be—soared.
Unexpectedly, she slept.
The noisy rattle of the wheels hitting cobblestones jerked Alicia from her doze. It was deepest night, past midnight; she’d heard the sound of a bell tolling twelve as they’d passed through Exeter, now some way behind.
Sir Freddie had fastened back one of the window flaps. Through the window, she glimpsed a hedgerow; beyond it, the ground rose, desolate and empty. The coach slowed, then halted.
“Well, my dear, we’re here.” Through the gloom, Sir Freddie watched her. Holding to her resolve, she didn’t react.
He hesitated, then leaned past her, opened the door, and climbed down. He turned and gave her his hand; she allowed him to assist her to the cobbles, leaving her cloak on the seat. When the time came to run, she didn’t want its folds flapping about her legs. Her skirts would be bad enough.
She’d slipped the cloak off sometime before; Sir Freddie didn’t seem to notice—there was no reason he should care. He’d stepped forward to speak to the coachman; she strained her ears and caught the words she’d hoped to hear.
“Wait here until I return.”
When she’d first emerged from the coach at an inn, there’d been no footman; she assumed he’d been set down in London. The coachman had avoided her eye; she knew better than to expect help from that quarter. All she needed was for the man to wait until his master returned. If things went her way, his master wouldn’t return, not before she did and raised help from the cottages she could see just ahead, lining the road.
Sir Freddie turned to her. Again, he studied her; as she had all along, she met his gaze stonily.
He inclined his head. “Your composure does you credit, my dear. I really do regret putting an end to your life.”
She didn’t deign to answer. Sir Freddie’s lips quirked; with a wave, he indicated a path leading from the narrow road. Within yards of the hedge, the path plunged into a dark wood; beyond, the moors rose, alternately illuminated, then shrouded in gloomy shadow as clouds passed over the moon.
“We have to walk through the wood to reach the moors and the mine.”
Sir Freddie reached for her arm, but she forestalled him and turned, and calmly walked to the opening of the path.
Tony swore; hauling on the reins, he swung the latest pair he’d had harnessed in Exeter onto the road to Hatherleigh.
Why here, for heaven’s sake? Was it the isolation?
He’d had hours to consider what Sir Freddie was about while following his path across the country. It had been decades since he’d driven at breakneck speed—he’d been pleased to discover he hadn’t forgotten how—but even the exigencies of managing unfamiliar cattle hadn’t stopped him from thinking first and foremost of Alicia, of the danger facing her.
Up behind him, Maggs was hanging on grimly, every now and then muttering imprecations under his breath. Tony ignored him. He’d caught up with Maggs at Yeovil; before then, whenever Maggs had stopped to change horses he’d sent a rider wearing a red kerchief back along the road. Tony had stopped each flagged rider, and thus known which road to follow.
As it happened, it was a road he knew well—the same road he’d traveled countless times between Torrington Chase and London. The familiarity had helped; he’d have missed their turning to Hatherleigh if he hadn’t known to ask at Okehampton.
Sir Freddie taking Alicia so far from London had been a boon initially, giving him time to catch up. Even though Sir Freddie had been rocketing along, always using four fresh horses, Tony knew he was close on their heels.
While they were traveling, he had no fears for Alicia. Once they stopped…
His experience lay in pursuing someone he needed to catch, not save. Every time he thought of Alicia, his heart lurched, his mind stilled, paralyzed; shutting off such thoughts, he concentrated on Sir Freddie instead.
Why this route? Was Sir Freddie intending to drive through to the Bristol Channel and rendezvous with some lugger? Was Alicia a hostage? Or was she intended as the scapegoat Sir Freddie had from the first sought to make her?
That was Tony’s blackest fear. The landscape, the desolate sweep of the moors rising up on either side of the road fed it. If Sir Freddie intended to stage Alicia’s murder and make it appear a suicide, and thus quash the investigation…
Tony set his jaw. Once he got hold of her, he was taking her to Torrington Chase and keeping her there. Forever.
Sending the whip swinging to flick the leader’s ear, he drove the horses on.
TWENTY-ONE
ALICIA EMERGED ONTO THE MOOR WITH A S
ENSE OF RELIEF; the wood had been dark, the trees very old, the path uneven and knotted with their roots. Here, at least, she could breathe—dragging in a breath, she looked up, tracing the path they were following to where it skirted a pile of rocks and earth, the workings of the disused mine in which Sir Freddie planned to drown her.
Every nerve taut and alert, she kept walking, head high, her pace neither too fast nor yet slow enough to prompt Sir Freddie to hurry her. Scanning the area, she searched—for a rock, a branch, anything she could use to overpower him. Closer to the mine would be preferable, yet the closer they got…
She was supremely conscious of him walking steadily at her heels. He seemed relaxed, just a murderer out to arrange another death. Quelling a shudder, she looked again at the mine. The path rose steadily, steeper as it led up the shoulder of the workings before leveling off as it skirted the lip of the shaft itself.
The clouds were constantly shifting, drifting; there was always enough light to see their way, but when the moon shone clear, details leapt out.
Like the discarded spar she glimpsed, just fleetingly, to the right of the steepest section of the path.
Her heart leapt; her muscles tensed, ready…
Quickly, she thought through what would need to happen. She had to distract Sir Freddie at just the right spot. She’d already decided how, but she needed to set the stage.
Reaching the spot where the steep upward slope commenced, she halted abruptly. Swinging to face Sir Freddie, she found the slope was sufficient for her to meet his gaze levelly. “Do I have your word as a gentleman that my brother won’t be harmed? That he’ll be released as soon as possible in Upper Brook Street?”
Sir Freddie met her eyes; his lips twisted as, nodding, he looked down. “Of course.” After a fractional pause, he added, “You have my word.”
She had lived with three males long enough to instantly detect prevarication. Lips thinning, she narrowed her eyes, then tersely asked, “You haven’t really got him, have you? There is no second carriage.”