Corey McFadden (34 page)

“But, Sir Giles, you’re exhausted as well,” the woman remonstrated. “When was the last time you slept, sir?”

“I don’t really remember,” he said wearily, passing his hand through his damp hair. “But I cannot take the time to sleep now. God knows where the villain has taken them. I must go. It won’t be the first time I’ve snatched sleep in a moving carriage.”

He turned and left the room, his back disappearing into the dark of the hall. And now the good woman did sit down and weep....

* * * *

But it was three hours before he climbed wearily into the carriage, allowing Will, at Jims’s insistence, to take the first turn driving. Giles was furious with himself for falling asleep in Eleanor’s desk chair. He’d been skimming her vapid correspondence—the insipidity of the woman’s existence would drive him mad. There had been only one bit of interest tucked in among the innuendo and drivel, and he pondered it as the dark carriage made its way along the road to Penrith. It was a letter from a Lord Beeson in London—a rather large, mean-looking man, as he recalled—an enigmatic sort of letter which contained no sexual allusion, no nasty bits of gossip, and no reference to gambling debts. Indeed, the letter had been short to the point of rudeness, reminding Eleanor to hold her tongue and exercise the utmost caution, and wishing her good luck in their “mutual endeavor for a successful arrival in London.” But one part caught Giles’s attention, reading simply: “I have the utmost faith in your man, Eleanor. He seems to be steady and have good judgment.”

It had to be a reference to Hawton. For the life of him, Giles could think of no one of Eleanor’s male friends of whom it could fairly be said he was steady or had good judgment.

London. It might as well be the moon. It would take him days to reach London, even traveling without stopping for sleep. The horses would have to be changed, and he knew enough about the quality of posting-house horses to know that the best speed they could expect to make would be with his own team, before they were forced to change. And by his calculation, Hawton now had a full forty-eight hour start on him.

He settled against the squabs, cursing the ruts in the road which he knew would slow them down, and blessing the same ruts which would even further slow a larger, heavier carriage such as the one Joanna must be in. He could feel his eyes closing, but he knew that sleep would not bring him a merciful oblivion. He was trapped inside a nightmare and he was not sure he would ever awaken again....

* * * *

Joanna could hear angry, muffled voices outside. Something had gone wrong with the carriage—she knew that much when it had given a drunken lurch a half hour ago and come to rest on the side of the road. Hawton had refused to enlighten her, but she rather supposed they had broken the rim of a wheel, or an axle, something difficult to fix.

The door to the carriage was pulled open and Hawton climbed in, his face taut with anger. “We’ll bide here awhile,” he said to her. “Help me wake the girls. We might as well eat while we wait.”

Joanna held her questions, figuring she would be able to see well enough what was wrong when she got out of the carriage. Gently she shook the girls, who took an inordinately long time to rouse themselves. It was close to dawn now and they had been traveling nearly straight through since night before last. Joanna had yet to see any of the girls any more than semiconscious enough to tend to their most basic needs. Emma and Tom had slept until late morning and had each taken long naps in the afternoon. When they were awake they were silent with fear, holding Joanna’s hands as if her grip alone kept them alive. Hawton had removed their gags after more threats from Joanna, but had managed to impress upon the children the fear that if they so much as whispered, the consequences would be unspeakably dire.

One by one, in the daze that Joanna was now convinced was induced by some sort of opiate such as laudanum, the Irish girls stumbled from the carriage into the deep, muddy ruts. Hawton led them away from the road over the hedgerows and left them to their sleepy business. Joanna followed with Emma and Tom, taking her time as she surveyed the carriage.

As she had thought, one of the carriage wheels was broken clean through, its spokes gaping drunkenly, the iron rim bent beyond use. The two drivers, with whom Joanna had shared not so much as a word, had unhitched one of the four horses. It appeared that one of the men was set to ride bareback, no doubt to fetch help. With a flame of hope leaping within her, Joanna shepherded the children over the hedgerows. Perhaps there would be some possibility of help now—someone might pass along the road and she could call for help, or she could appeal to whomever came to make the repairs. There had to be some way to break free. If not, she was surer and surer that evil awaited them....

* * * *

Giles did not know whether to laugh or cry. He had finally yielded to Will’s insistence that they stop and change horses at one of the scarce posting houses along the road. They had stopped very briefly at each inn along the way to seek word of their quarry. At two ostleries, they had found stablehands who seemed to remember a carriage fitting the description, after a liberal dose of memory restorer in the form of silver coin. The descriptions given by each lad were identical, so Giles was hopeful that they had been accurate, but no one had seen hide nor hair of any passengers. Indeed, both lads had assumed that the coach, driven by two unremarkable sort of taciturn men, was carrying baggage only, since no one had dismounted to make use of the inn’s facilities.

Now, at a rather run-down ostlery between two larger towns, they stopped to inquire about renting a team of horses. The ostler informed them, quite sorrowfully at the loss of the potential income, that he had rented out a team late last night by prearrangement and he had no more horses to rent. Giles questioned him closely, and, indeed, it seemed that it must have been Hawton’s coach that had taken the horses. Giles asked if he could rent out the horses that the other coach had left and was told, with all the more sorrow, that after the requisite rest, those mounts, too, had been pressed into service, it being market day locally. The man suggested another establishment further down the road, and Giles could all but see the bile rising in his throat at having to pass good business along to his competition.

He and Will had traveled as fast as they had dared, fearing most a horse’s broken leg or axle on the rutted, muddy roads. It appeared they had made up a great deal of time, gaining a number of hours on the heavier, bulkier coach. But it was nowhere near enough, and the coach was still better than a half a day ahead. And they drew nearer to London. Giles had nothing more than an address for a Lord Beeson in Hanover Square. God help them all if this was but another wild goose chase.

Having wrung all the useful information he could from the unhappy ostler, Giles climbed up onto the box. It was Will’s turn to sleep, though neither was getting much rest, jostled about inside the carriage. The horses had slowed considerably, he noticed as he made his way down the road to the next inn. They would have to be changed, and he would lose even more time.

* * * *

Joanna thought it must be just past dawn when she felt the carriage slowing. They had been traveling about three days, she figured, having nothing more to tell time by than the light and dark of day and night showing through the cracks in the closed window flaps. Meals and stops were erratic, and certainly their sleeping habits were much disrupted. The Irish girls remained comatose—Hawton had continued to dose them, Joanna had noted. Emma and Tom had retreated more and more into sleep, a depressed, heavy unconsciousness that a child seems capable of in times of great trouble. Even in sleep, neither lost a fierce grip on her hand, and she tried to be as still as possible so as not to awaken them.

The carriage stopped altogether and Hawton sat up, alert. He had been tense and irritable for the past twenty-four hours. They had lost a good half day in repairing the wheel, and Joanna was downhearted about her inability to turn that mishap to her advantage. No one had happened by at that hour of the morning, and to her great disappointment, the driver had returned alone, a large carriage wheel lashed to the horse’s rear. The repairs had been swift from that point and they had been on their way again, Joanna’s spirits sinking as her chance at flight or rescue receded into the distance.

The door of the carriage opened suddenly and Joanna could make out in the dim light the two hulking figures of the drivers standing outside. “We’re here,” she heard one of them hiss. “We’re going inside to get help. You wait here and keep everyone quiet.”

Hawton nodded curtly as the carriage door was shut again. Joanna could hear that his breathing had quickened. The man was nearly more agitated than she was, but as yet she had no answer to the mystery.

Moments later the door opened again. Now Joanna could see several burly figures outside, muffled up. With a studied precision, each grabbed two of the Irish girls, none of whom did more than stir sleepily as they were hauled from the carriage.

One man was left now at the door to the carriage. He peered in intently at Joanna. “The mistress wants to see ye, sir, right away,” he said gruffly to Hawton. “These be the three ye’ve brought us unexpected?” He gestured at Joanna and the children. Hawton nodded. Joanna could see that his lips were thin and white and his hands were clenched at his sides. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively.

“Will they come quiet-like? We don’t fancy scenes in the street ’ere.” The man’s voice was cold in the gray dawn.

“Of course they’ll be quiet,” Hawton answered, nudging Joanna and glaring threats at her.

“I’ll take the children, then,” said the man, reaching in with large hands.

Joanna’s grip tightened around each child as she shrank back into the carriage. “The children will stay with me, sir,” she said, summoning courage from where she knew not. “We’ll come quietly if you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

“Ah, the girl’s got spirit, ’as she?” the man said, his grin showing a mouth with blackened stumps where the teeth should be. “The men’ll like that, they will. They’ll take pleasure in beating that out o’ ’er. Bring the brats as ye please, my fine lady, but if there’s a noise from any o’ ye, I’ll be ’appy to split yer pretty skull fer ye.” He withdrew his head from the carriage and stood to one side as Joanna gathered the children to her and rose. Hawton waited while she stepped down, then he disembarked, following closely.

In the dim light of dawn, Joanna could just make out that they stood in an enclosed mews with high walls all around. She looked around quickly and could see that the coach had come through a narrow alleyway that seemed to be the only way out. They began walking toward a rear door, and her heart sank as she felt the heavy gray stone close in around her.

The door opened without a sound, and Hawton gave Joanna an ungentle push. Once inside, Joanna could make out little in a darkened hallway. She held a sleepy Tom in her arms. He was heavy but she did not dare put him down, afraid that if he stumbled in his fatigue he would be beaten or snatched away. The man leading them had said not another word during their short trip to the house.

“Come this way, Mr. Hawton,” said a cold voice from the dark. “And bring your excess baggage so that I can get a good look at the proffered merchandise.”

A tall, dark figure preceded them down the hallway, opening a door and entering. Light from a lamp spilled into the hall. The man who had escorted them in had vanished. Joanna had not noticed him leaving. Hawton put his hand under Joanna’s arm, pushing her through the door. Through her sleeve she could feel that his fingers were trembling.

“Set the children down,” came the imperious voice. Keeping her head down, Joanna raised her eyes just enough to see the speaker. It was a woman, older than Joanna but not elderly, rail thin, with a tight, high-boned, gray face. There was no warmth in her icy eyes and no softness about her tight, thin mouth.

Joanna could feel the woman’s eyes on her, a disquieting sensation, as if she were being stripped bare and examined for defects.

“She’s too old for my establishment, Mr. Hawton, even if she were a virgin, which is doubtful at her age. Are you a virgin, girl?”

Joanna gasped, her hand clenching on Emma’s shoulder. For this child to hear such a thing, let alone Joanna herself being asked such a question! Joanna suffused a bright red as she struggled to regain control. Not for anything would she answer this horrible old harridan.

“She is not a virgin, of that I am certain, ma’am, but she was an innocent until recently,” came Hawton’s oily voice next to her.

A malicious smile curved the woman’s thin lips but there was no sign of mirth in her eyes. “Are you bringing me your castoffs, Mr. Hawton? This is not an admirable way to dispose of an unwanted mistress.”

“How dare you? How dare either of you discuss such matters in front of these children!” Joanna found her voice, no longer caring what the penalty might be for speaking her mind.

To her surprise, the woman began to laugh, but the amusement that lit her eyes was unholy. “Mr. Hawton, I take it the young lady has no idea where she is or what she is doing here?” she asked.

“No, madame,” was his awkward reply. He had not quite dared to share the moment’s amusement with her.

“The little girl will do nicely, Mr. Hawton, once I have satisfied myself that you will not bring the authorities down around my ears, and the young woman can be of use in a more routine sort of establishment. But what on earth do you expect me to do with an idiot boy? I have no clients who would amuse themselves that way.” The woman’s voice had turned icy again, as if she had never laughed in her life.

“We could take him down to the docks and turn him loose, madame. It doesn’t matter to me as long as he disappears. But he can fetch and carry and could be sold, I imagine, for a small price.”

Joanna stood, paralyzed by what she was hearing. A brothel. It had to be. And they would actually force Emma to submit to such a thing. Selling Tom or turning him loose on the docks in London was no better. They would all be better off dead than forced to submit to such a fate. She could feel panic welling up in her chest, and with all the strength she could muster she forced herself to breathe calmly, fighting down the terror. Their only hope of salvation lay in her ability to stay calm, to think it through. There had to be some way out of this nightmare. There had to be!