Sally MacKenzie Bundle (183 page)

Bloody hell!
He might have said the words aloud—he registered Mrs. Fallwell’s sharply indrawn breath as he charged onto the crowded dance floor.

“Alvord, watch where you’re going!”

“My hem!”

“Have a care, man!”

James ignored the complaints as he pushed his way to the garden. He would flatten anyone who tried to stop him—fortunately no one did. He reached the doors and pounded down the stairs.

He was too late. All that was left of Sarah was a broken, yellow plume.

“James, what happened?” Robbie and Charles hurried down the garden steps.

“They’ve taken Sarah.” James studied the ground. Two, no, four men—four men against one woman. He pushed aside his terror and thought quickly. “I’m going after them. They must be in a coach—the crush of traffic outside should slow them. I’ll catch the hackney driver Parks has waiting down the block.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“All right, Charles. Robbie, will you see the ladies home?”

“I’ll make arrangements for them, and then I’m coming after you.”

James nodded and took off at a run to the back gate, Charles at his heels.

The gate stood open. The alley was deserted; Parks’s boy, gone. Laughter and music drifted faintly from the ballroom; the rattle of carriage wheels, the creak of harnesses, and the clopping of horses’ hooves came from the street. James ran down the cobblestones toward the main thoroughfare.

“Yer grace.” A small boy darted out of the shadows, chest heaving. He pointed down the street. “If ye hurry, ye can catch Rufus—he’s goin’ after ’em.”

“Well done, lad.” James tossed the boy a coin. “Tell Parks.”

James ran up to an old, broken-down hackney and grabbed hold of the driver’s seat just as Rufus started to pull away.

“Hey!” Rufus raised the butt of his whip, aiming it at James’s hands. “Let go, if ye knows what’s good for ye.”

“It’s Alvord, Rufus. I’ll take over now.”

Rufus squinted down at James. “Oh, sorry, yer grace. Didn’t know it was ye.”

“No offense taken. Hurry down, man, and let me go after them.”

“Sure, yer grace.” Rufus jumped down from his seat. “Keep your eye on the coach with the wide scratch on the back.”

James glanced ahead and nodded. “I see it. My thanks.”

“Good luck, yer grace.”

Rufus stood aside, and James swung up to take the reins. Charles climbed up beside him.

“Not exactly what you’re used to,” Charles said.

“No.” James urged the nag into motion. Her ancient feet shuffled forward. “We don’t want to overtake Richard’s coach anyway, nor get close enough to let them know they’re being followed. There’s no telling what Richard would do to Sarah then.”

“True. Let’s just hope this sorry specimen of horseflesh can manage to keep Richard’s equipage in sight.”

James nodded, weaving between the carriages waiting to take their wealthy owners to the next entertainment. The horse had a mouth of iron. The only blessing was that Richard was also stuck in traffic. If only he had his own rig—but then any of his own carriages was distinctive. If Richard or his henchmen happened to glance back, they’d know immediately who was following them. A hackney was much less obvious.

“There—they turned right,” Charles said.

“I see.” James yanked on the reins and the nag reluctantly responded. Patience, James counseled himself. Patience was bloody difficult.

Richard continued east. They followed him through the broad streets of Mayfair down Piccadilly to Haymarket. The streets got narrower and more cluttered as they made their way toward Covent Garden, but they managed to stay close. Richard’s carriage was just ahead of them as they approached the intersection with Henrietta Street.

“Hey, yer lordship, what’s a nob like ye doing drivin’ that hack?”

James glanced over for a split second to see the sorry drab who had called out to him. Then he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves coming too fast. He swung his head back to see disaster barreling down on them from Henrietta Street.

Richard’s coach got clear, but the poor animal hitched to their carriage never had a chance. She stood in the intersection and screamed as two matched grays and a fashionable curricle crashed into them.

Chapter 17

No one bothered to take the bag off Sarah’s head. That was a mixed blessing. It was hot and she could barely breathe, but the men in the coach ignored her. She curled up tightly in her corner and held very still, listening and hoping she would learn something that would help her escape.

“We did it, Philip!” That was Richard. “We got the bitch. You’re sure James can’t find us?”

“I’m not sure of anything.” Philip’s voice was low and hoarse. “But your cousin should have no way of knowing where we are. We should have time, time enough for you to send the note.”

Sarah smiled to herself. They obviously didn’t know that Mr. Parks’s associates were following them.

“Ah, yes, the note.” There was a pause, then Richard continued. “I’d say there was no rush to send the note.”

“What do you mean?” Philip’s voice was sharp.

“That we should take time to amuse ourselves.”

“Finishing this is amusing enough.” Sarah thought she heard a thin whine of panic. “You’ve—we’ve—waited for this for years, Richard. This is it, do you understand? Half the
ton
saw you leave the ballroom with the girl. You can’t hide any longer. When this is over, either you or Alvord will have won.”

“I’ll win, Philip, never fear. With the girl, we’ve got James by the balls. A pity Dunlap didn’t manage to kill him, but this may actually be better. He won’t want to lose the only bit of tail he’s ever gotten. He’ll acknowledge my claim to the dukedom. I’ll finally get what is mine. I’ll be Duke of Alvord.”

“I don’t think it will be that easy, Richard.”

“You can’t tell me that the man will give up swiving now that he’s finally figured out how to do it?” Richard laughed. “I don’t think so. He’ll do anything to get her back.”

The coach lurched to the left. Sarah heard the clatter of carriage wheels and the sound of two vehicles colliding. Then pandemonium. Horses screamed and men shouted. She hoped Mr. Parks’s men had decided that now was an excellent time to free her.

Richard knocked on the roof of the coach. “What’s going on, Scruggs?”

“Nuttin’, sir. Some drunken bucks crashed their curricle into a hackney, that’s all. Just missed us, sir.”

“Good.” Richard laughed. “That was close, heh, Philip?”

“Yes, it was close. Allow me to point out, Richard, that we have just had demonstrated the fact that no plans are perfect. You cannot delay sending the note to your cousin.”

Sarah listened to the noise fade behind them. Her hope of immediate rescue faded with it.

“I don’t think we should just hand the girl back to James.”

“Richard.” Philip’s voice was icy. “We have discussed this.”

“You’re just an old maid, Philip.”

“It will be difficult to kill her and escape hanging. And if she’s dead, you’ll have nothing to bargain with.”

“I won’t kill her, though she may wish that I had.” Richard chuckled. Sarah’s heart leapt to her throat.

“Richard! You are losing sight of the main goal.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. The goal is the dukedom, not revenge.”

“
Your
goal is the dukedom. Mine is the dukedom
and
revenge.” Richard’s voice grew louder with enthusiasm. “God, can you picture James’s face when he finds out his precious wife has been ridden by half the British navy? If she ends up pregnant, he’ll never know if the brat is his or some drunken sailor’s. And if she doesn’t get a babe, she’s bound to get the clap.”

Sarah thought she was going to vomit. She bit her lower lip.

“Richard, your cousin is not powerless. He has many friends, in both high and low places. See how easily he got rid of Dunlap? I’m quite certain he would kill us or have us killed if we injure his wife in any way.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” Richard was silent for a few minutes. “Maybe I’ll have her myself.”

Philip grunted.

Sarah thought quickly. Her hands and feet weren’t tied. If she could get the bag off her head, she could shake off the cloak and run when the coach stopped. The carriage was slowing. She readied herself to take advantage of any opportunity.

“I don’t think so.” The words were whispered in her ear as Richard’s arms came around her. She twisted and he tightened his grasp, making breathing difficult.

She heard the carriage door open and smelled the familiar stench of the docks. Rough hands grabbed her and dragged her out of the coach. Someone hefted her over his shoulder and carried her through a narrow door. Here she smelled smoke and ale. She heard the low drone of male voices, punctuated by curses, the scrape of chairs, the clink of heavy glass mugs.

She struggled, and the man carrying her tightened his hold, grinding her stomach against the point of his shoulder. He started up a flight of steep, winding stairs. He wasn’t careful with his burden. Sarah had her head knocked against the wall twice before she was carried into a room and dumped onto a soft surface. She heard the sound of booted feet retreating and the scrape of a key in a lock.

She lay still for a moment, listening. She heard nightmarish noises: deep, drunken voices; the rhythmic squeaking of a cheap bed; a woman screaming; and somewhere, thin, hysterical crying. But all the horrible noises were muffled, like they were being heard through doors and walls. She shrugged off the cloak and lifted the bag off of her head.

She was alone in the most garish room she had ever seen. Everything was blood red—the walls, the draperies, the bed she was on.

She leapt up. She didn’t want to have anything to do with a bed in this place. She tried the door. Locked, as she had anticipated. Maybe she could escape through the window. She pushed the heavy draperies aside. She had expected to see thick, iron bars, but the window was clear. It even opened easily. She leaned out and looked down into blackness. There was enough moonlight to see the oily glint of the Thames far below. Only a bird could escape this way.

She turned back to the room. She made a careful circuit, looking for anything that might help her escape. It was an educational, if nauseating, tour. The paintings on the wall, which she had taken for still lifes and pastorals were, on further inspection, pornographic in the extreme. There were peepholes in the wall across from the window—fortunately all closed at the moment—and broken handcuffs on a table. She found a chamber pot under the bed and picked it up, hoping she might have another opportunity to hit someone over the head.

She studied the red drapes. They certainly were ugly. She tore one down and dropped an end over the window sill. Maybe someone would see it and wonder why a red curtain was hanging down the side of the building. Maybe James would see it.

How long would it be before he came? Would he come? She could not rely on it. Something must have gone wrong.

She eyed the bed. No, she couldn’t stomach it—she would sit on the floor. There were probably bugs in both locations, but the floor’s fauna seemed more appealing than whatever might be lurking in the bedding. She spread out the cloak, sat down with the chamber pot by her side, and tried to formulate a plan.

James held on to one gray’s head. Charles had taken charge of the other. The drunken idiots in the curricle were useless. At least the hackney horse stood still. It was too stupid to bolt.

“Daisy!”

James looked over his shoulder to see Rufus and Robbie running toward the melee. Rufus reached for the old horse’s bridle and started whispering in her ear.

“Need a hand?” Robbie asked.

James nodded. “How did you find us?”

“Ran into Lord Dervin, or is it Devin? You know—the old soldier with the bald pate and hairy ears?”

“Lord Dearvon.”

“Right. Saw him just after you left. He said he’d see the ladies home, so I hurried after you. Got to the street just as you pulled away. Rufus and I—I don’t think Rufus really trusted you with Daisy—grabbed another hackney and trailed you.”

“Good. See if you can get those two in the curricle—who
are
they, anyway?”

Robbie looked over. “Viscount Wycomb and the Honorable Felix Muddleridge.”

“Oh, God. I should have known. Get them to take charge of these cattle, will you?”

Robbie pulled the two drunken men out of the curricle. The drab who had called to James obliged by bringing over a large bucket of liquid which Robbie dumped over the gentlemen’s heads. It was sufficiently cold or noxious to shock them out of their alcoholic stupor.

“I say,” Wycomb sputtered. “What the hell are you doing, Westbrooke?”

“He’s waking you up,” James said. “Come take charge of your horses.”

Wycomb peered at James. “Alvord, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. You ran me down with your cow-handed driving.”

“Sorry. In my altitudes, I’m afraid.”

“I’d say so. Take this horse and have Muddleridge take the other.”

“Well…” Wycomb scratched his head.

“Now,
Wycomb.”

The man finally moved. James dropped his hold on the gray.

“Rufus, I’ll leave you with Daisy. We’re taking the other hackney. Tell Parks…” James raked his hand through his hair and looked at Robbie and Charles. “Any suggestions as to where Richard might be taking Sarah?”

“How about the Rutting Stallion?” Robbie said. “It’s in this direction.”

“As are most of the brothels of London.” James closed his eyes. God, he wished he had something to go on. Sarah could be anywhere. Every second counted. If he guessed wrong, Sarah paid a horrible price.

“Let’s try the Rutting Stallion.”

James prayed he had guessed right.

Chapter 18

The doorknob rattled. Sarah grabbed the chamber pot and leapt up, ready to smash it over Richard’s head.

“
Duchess
,” Richard said from the hall. Malice dripped from his voice. “So kind of you to greet me.” He lunged, grabbing her wrists and twisting them down. “You’re not going to play the same trick on me that you did on Dunlap.”