Louise M Gouge (19 page)

Pain ripped across the usually stoic facade, and Greystone experienced a wave of pity for the man. “My lord, could you see fit—” He coughed away emotion. “I realize the girl deserves no mercy, but if you could grant a measure of grace...”

“Tell me what you are thinking.”

“If I could accompany her to Greystone Lodge, there to place her in guarded service as a scullery maid, she would have no access to anything valuable. A few years of that drudgery would perhaps be sufficient to reform her.” Again he coughed. “More than transportation.” He straightened to his full five feet nine inches. “And if you will have me, I will be pleased to serve as a footman under Johnson.”

Greystone regarded the man, who was clearly struggling. He had hired his own granddaughter, believing her to be of good character. Yet her head had been turned by a clever boy who wanted only to use her. Greystone had considered transportation to Australia a more lenient punishment than simply casting her out without references, for that would undoubtedly lead to a sordid life. But this solution trumped them all. Of course this meant Crawford would be demoted to footman to serve under the Greystone Lodge butler. Truly, his devotion to his granddaughter was costing him dearly.

“A good plan, Crawford.” Greystone clapped him on the shoulder and received a gasp of surprise for the gesture. He started to turn away, his anxiety about the climbing-boys beginning to consume him.

“My lord.” Crawford’s pained expression conveyed his regret over delaying his master. “May we do this posthaste? The gossip?”

Greystone would have laughed had the situation not been so serious, for the Almighty certainly had a way of bringing together important matters. “When I return with Kit and Ben, have Lucy prepared for the journey. You and I will take the coach and deliver them to Greystone Lodge ourselves. Convey my orders to Gilly. He must go, as well.”

Crawford’s eyes reddened. “I thank you, my lord.” He bowed away, clearing his throat as he went.

Greystone returned to his companions. “Shall we go?”

Within minutes they had mounted three of Greystone’s best horses for the ride across town. He found himself beyond eager to see the boys again, for he felt the urgent need to reassure them that they had not been abandoned, that he would keep his promise to see to their futures. And to add a tangible note to his pledge, he had tucked their new shoes into the satchel that hung from his saddle. They might be required to run.

But as evening drew on and they traveled deeper into the London slums, Greystone sensed this mission would involve more than a struggle against one vile kidnapper. They were descending into a world of darkness and evil such as he had never before witnessed, and he prayed God’s mercy upon them all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“M
elly!” Beatrice hurried into Mrs. Parton’s drawing room, hoping against hope that her employer would not be told of his visit before she could persuade him to leave. “What are you doing here?” A movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention to another man—a gentleman, if his clothes were any indication.

“Beebe, darling.” Melly walked toward her none too steadily. “Is that any way to greet your only brother and his friend?”

A sick feeling came over her. This was not a gentleman at all, but Mr. Rumbold, against whom Mrs. Parton had so emphatically warned her. “Who let you in? Not Palmer. He has strict orders to keep you and this person—”

“Hush!” Melly’s pasty complexion reddened. “I forbid you to insult my friend.” After a scolding look from his companion, he drew himself up and tugged at the hem of his blue jacket as if to regain his dignity. Unfortunately that endeavor would require much more. “Besides,” he leaned close and murmured urgently, “you agreed to meet him.” Again he straightened. “Lady Beatrice, may I present my good friend, Frank Rumbold?” He chuckled, an odd little sound so unlike him. “Rumbold, this is my sister, Lady Beatrice Gregory.”

She did not offer her hand, but nonetheless the man stepped over and took it, raising it to his lips in a familiar way rather than bowing over it as a gentleman would. When she tried to pull back, he held tight and smiled in that same familiar way that made her stomach turn.

“Lady Beatrice, I have longed for this day. When I saw you across the room at Lord Greystone’s ball, I was utterly smitten with your beauty. And now, so close to you—” he kissed her hand again, holding his lips against her knuckles for entirely too long “—I see that my eyes did not fail me. You are the most ravishing creature I have ever met.”

Beatrice yanked her hand away. “How dare you?” She spun around toward the door, but Melly grabbed her arm, emitting that horrid, nervous laugh again.

“Now, Beebe—”

She pried off his hand and thrust it away from her. Strangely, he seemed to have very little strength to stop her. “I demand that you leave this instant.”

“Why?” He blinked innocently, as if he had no idea why she was angry. “I have merely come to make a good match for you, dear sister, just as I promised.”

“Yes, Lady Beatrice.” Mr. Rumbold moved close to her, far too close for even a brother to approach a lady. “We shall make an excellent match. You have the social credentials, and I have the wealth. We will take London by storm. That is, after they get over the shock.” He laughed, an evil sound that sickened her clear into her bones.

She stepped away, praying he would not follow. Perhaps this required a different tactic. “But you are too late, Melly.” She would not honor this man by addressing him directly. “I have an understanding with someone else.” She would not speak her beloved’s name to these two. But how she wished he would come calling this very moment.

“Oh, we know all about Greystone.” Melly snorted. “Came to me today all high and mighty to ask for your hand.” He winked at Mr. Rumbold. “Unfortunately he didn’t have the bride price.” Both men guffawed as though he had just made a clever witticism. “It didn’t take much to send him packing.”

“Indeed not.” Mr. Rumbold continued to chuckle. “I was in another room listening the whole time, and all the man did was whine. Said you weren’t worth the trouble. That he’d find a wife who actually possessed a dowry.”

Lord Greystone never would have said such a thing, but she would not respond to them. Nor would she excuse herself. Praying they would not follow, she strode toward the door—right into Mrs. Parton.

“Well, I must say.” The lady’s face resembled a threatening storm. “The very idea.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Palmer, escort these
gentlemen
out.”

The burly butler and two equally burly footmen stepped into the drawing room, their faces properly blank, their postures properly threatening.

“If you please, milord.” Palmer gave Melly a slight bow and aimed one white-gloved hand out toward the door.

“Beebe, please.” Melly’s face crumpled into the pout that had always swayed her to his will. And then there was that strange, almost frightened look in his eyes. Did he fear his friend?

But she would have none of it. Instead, she settled her gaze upon Mrs. Parton’s much-loved countenance.

“Never mind, Melton.” Mr. Rumbold’s grating voice rasped across Beatrice’s soul, for she sensed a hint of growing desperation in the vile man. “You’ll find another way to settle your debts. Even if I have to take it out of your hide.”

Beatrice gasped and tried to turn, but Mrs. Parton held her fast. “He would not dare to lift a hand against a peer of the realm.”

“No,” Beatrice whispered. “But he could force Melly to raise the rents on his tenants or sell off valuable heirlooms or some other dastardly thing.”

From the sounds of footsteps moving behind her, she knew they were leaving. Once the door closed behind them, she heaved out a deep sigh and resigned herself to the comfort of her good friend’s arms.

* * *

A yellow-brown fog blanketed the docks and lay over the river like a shroud, while water lapped against the unstable old wharf, causing it to sway in the strong current. Greystone’s knees felt as wobbly as the boards beneath him, and he lifted a silent prayer for strength and courage. Other than the usual gentleman’s fisticuffs, swordplay and wrestling with his brothers, he had never faced any real danger, had never been tried in the fire of warfare as his brother Edmond had when he was a soldier. Strangely, Winston seemed unconcerned, almost cavalier about their surroundings. But perhaps it was mere bravado, a mask in keeping with his usual arrogance. In one way, his attitude gave Greystone confidence, in another way, concern. Bravado not undergirded with real courage would not save Kit and Ben.

Both he and Winston had placed themselves under Slate’s command, trusting the man to know his business, and had been warned not to flaunt their rank. Thus he resisted the urge to retrieve his scented handkerchief to deflect the miasma of death and disease permeating the place.

At a shabby stable—a shed, actually—they had found a reliable lad to keep their horses out of sight until needed. Now with capes around their shoulders and black slouch hats low over their faces, they crept along the outside of a tavern where the sounds of drunken laughter, threatening quarrels and discordant music wafted out into the night air.

A person could barely see ten feet ahead, so they stuck close to one another. Then, with a wave of his hand, Slate silently ordered Greystone and Winston to wait by the tavern’s outside wall. He changed his posture and staggered through the fog toward the dimly lit entryway. One would never know he was an upstanding officer of the law.

While they waited, they could not ignore the sounds coming through the open windows of the tavern’s upper floor some eight feet above them. Greystone ground his teeth. The depravity of this place sickened him, and from Winston’s snort of disgust, he could sense his comrade shared his sentiments. That spoke well of the baron. Perhaps there was more to the gentleman than pomposity and swagger.

Slate slithered back toward them through the fog, his posture straightening as he came. The man was nothing short of brilliant, as good an actor as Elliston. “My lord,” he whispered. “There’s some dozen-odd villains in there. I don’t advise marching in without more men on our side.”

“What?” Winston huffed softly, and an odd bit of merriment colored his tone. “Why, that is a mere four drunks apiece.” He elbowed Greystone. “I’m up for it if you are.” He grasped the hilt of the sword hanging at his side.

“Uh, sir?” Slate’s face was unreadable under his hat brim, but Greystone caught his meaning.

“No sense in getting banged up until we are certain the boys are here.” He hated sounding like a coward, especially in front of his rival. Though he could not imagine why he still thought of Winston as a rival.

“Hmm. You may have something there. I have a younger sister to provide for. Guess I should take care.” Winston shrugged. “What’s next, then?”

Slate stared up at the window above them. “You hear that, my lord?”

“Not that I wish to, but one could hardly miss it.”

“No, sir. Not that. I would never...” Slate cleared his throat. “It’s the other sound. Like a child coughing.”

Instantly alert, Greystone strained his ears. “Yes, yes. I hear it. Kit!” He stepped back and studied the wall. “I am going up. Boost me through that window.” He removed his hat and beckoned for them to give him a leg up.

“Begging your pardon, my lord.” Slate stayed him with his hand. “I’ve a bit of experience with this. I’ll go.”

Greystone gave his offer only the briefest consideration. “The boys know me. I shall go.” It was an order, and Slate bowed to it.

Greystone also set aside his cloak and gun, but kept the sheathed knife at his side. Then the other two men formed a step with their joined hands and launched him through the window. Barreling over the casement, he landed with a thump in a narrow corridor, and for the briefest moment, the entire establishment went silent. Then riotous laughter burst forth from below, and the evil merriment continued.

Light from below filtered up the staircase to reveal some six or seven doors. Greystone listened for Kit’s voice to no avail. Then...another cough and a whimper. He moved down the corridor toward it.

“Shut yer face, you wretched brat.” A woman’s voice. Probably an older woman, from the croaking sound of it.

“Leave ’im be!” Kit cried. A smack, another whimper.

Greystone burst through the door just in time to seize a barbed stick the slattern raised.

“What—”

None too gently Greystone covered her mouth from behind and pulled her against him, fighting off nausea from the odors of sweat and ale. “Not another word,” he hissed.

“Gov’ner.” Both boys seemed to understand that they must speak softly. They leaped off a narrow filthy bed and grabbed his legs, clearly not understanding that he needed to keep his balance. The whole group came near to falling in a heap. All the while the stout woman tried to scream beneath his gloved hand and struggled to free herself.

“Kit. Ben. Stop.” He managed to huff out the words.

They backed off, good lads, freeing him to take out his handkerchief and cram it into the woman’s mouth, then pull out his knife. Too bad he had not thought to bring a rope, but perhaps a stern warning would sufficiently bind her. “If you make a sound.” He whispered with as much of a growl as he could manage while his emotions threatened to strangle him. He could never use the weapon on her, but he must not betray that sentiment. He punctuated his words with a fierce scowl that likely would have made Elliston proud.

Success! In the dim candlelight he read raw fear in the woman’s face as she stared at the knife. From the dark bruises on her face he guessed she had seen her own share of beatings. No doubt she would receive another one for letting the boys escape. But he could do nothing for her, at least not now. “We are going to leave, and you will not make a sound.” He sweetened the order with a gold florin—entirely too much, of course, but the first coin he found in his waistcoat pocket—and was gratified to see tears and a small nod in response.

She pulled the handkerchief from her mouth. “Well, ain’t you a pretty one, milord?” She fingered the monogram, then held the cloth out to him. “Fer the coin and yer good looks, I won’t say nothin’.” Her ale-laden breath forced him back a step.

“You keep it.” He could not resist a derisive snort. “And if anyone wants to know what that
G
stands for, it is Greystone, the lord whom your master bragged about besting.”

He resisted the urge to embrace the boys and instead herded them down the corridor toward the window.

“’Ere now, what’s this?” The erstwhile chimney sweep staggered up the stairs and lumbered toward Greystone. “Them’s my property. What’ya think yer doin’?”

“Out the window, boys,” Greystone ordered as he slammed his fist into the drunken miscreant’s jaw, knocking him to the floor. Even though his knuckles stung from the blow, the urge to beat the man to a pulp was palpable. But he must not take the time. “Jump down to the gentlemen below. You can trust them.”

“Help! Thief!” The man scrambled toward the staircase.

Greystone started after him, but the woman stepped from the room and tripped the crook. He barreled down the staircase head over heels.

“That’s a bonus, milord. No need to pay extra.” The woman cackled. “Been wantin’ to do that fer twenty years.” She waved a hand toward the window. “Best be off now.”

Unable to stop himself, Greystone blew her a kiss, then jumped to the ground. His feet hit harder than he’d expected, and pain shot up his legs. He grunted in disgust at his weakness. He should be in better shape, but who expected a peer to face this sort of danger?

“That’s them what stole my property.” The sweep limped out of the tavern with half a dozen thugs behind him. “Get ’im. Get all of ’um.”

Greystone shook off his discomfort and snatched up Kit. Slate pulled out two pistols, while Winston unsheathed his sword, a double-bladed rapier.

“Take the boys,” Winston said. “I shall manage this lot.”

“Sir, it’s my duty to deal with this sort,” Slate said.

Winston smirked. “My good man, this is a mere trifle. Be gone.” He gave a careless wave of his free hand. Turning to the mob, he aimed the rapier first at one, then another. “Who will be the first to die this night?”

“Come, Slate.” Greystone prayed the baron would not be injured, but these criminals would not likely kill a peer. A Runner was another matter.

“Aye, sir.” Slate grabbed Ben, and the two men dashed up the pitch-black alley toward the stables where their horses awaited.

Within five minutes Winston sauntered into the rundown shed and sheathed his rapier. “Cowards, the lot of them. Not one would take me on.”

Greystone shook his head. This gentleman was not all pomp and bluster, after all.

In a short time the small troop had paid the lad who had kept their horses, reclaimed the beasts and now hastened through the fog back toward Greystone Hall. Even in the hazy darkness he could see the boys trading looks as Kit sat in front of him and Ben clung to Slate. His arrogance firmly in place, Winston had rejected the opportunity to carry one of the lads. The baron had no idea what he was missing.