The Earl's Mistress (40 page)

But the elderly Marsh was not fine; Isabella could see him wincing in discomfort as they maneuvered the cumbersome thing back from the gate.

Isabella turned and dashed back down the alley, round the corner, and to the shop door.

The
Closed
sign still hung in the bow window, but the vestibule door was unlocked. Isabella pushed it open, hiked up her skirts, and hastened up the stairs.

Mrs. Barbour was just coming out the door, a piece of buttered bread still in her hand.

“Have you got it?” said Isabella.

Mrs. Barbour shrieked, flinging the bread high. “Oh, Miss Bella!” she cried, spewing crumbs as she spun about. “Scared the life out o’ me, you did! Just nipped in for a bite of nuncheon.”

“I’m so sorry,” Isabella said, reaching up the steps. “Just give me the key. They are holding the blasted thing in the alley.”

Mrs. Barbour’s brow furrowed. “Aye, miss? Holding what?”

“Georgina’s dollhouse.” Suddenly Isabella’s knees went weak. “Lord Hepplewood is . . . is holding Georgie’s dollhouse.”

Mrs. Barbour’s furrow deepened.

Suddenly Isabella could not get her breath. “Oh, dear God,” she said, setting a hand over her heart. “Barby—the key.
Jemima came up for the key.
Yes?”

But Mrs. Barbour just shook her head. “Why, bless me, no, miss,” she said. “I’d no notion any of you was back a’tall.”

Isabella’s hand clutched at the banister. And then she was screaming for Jemima. Screaming so loud it filled the darkened stairwell as she rushed back into the street.

The next few minutes passed as if in a blur. Her scream brought Hepplewood round the corner, hooves pounding. Flinging himself from the saddle, he reached Isabella in three strides.

By the time he’d made sense of her panic, the baggage cart had drawn up, and Marsh with the carriage soon after it.

“Mills!” he barked at the footman who climbed off the cart. “Forget the baggage. Get Lissie and Caroline from the coach and take them back to Clarges Street. And don’t let them out of your sight, do you hear me?”

He turned back to Isabella. Standing now in the vestibule door, she had bent down to pick up something gold and glittering.

“The front door key!” she sobbed. “Dear God, Jemma got the door open
, then dropped the key!
But she is
so
careful. Anthony, it is Everett! He has taken them! I know it!”

He was looking up and down the street assessingly. “Bloody damned right it’s him,” he said grimly. “But he cannot have gotten far.”

Suddenly, the coachman appeared at the earl’s side. “My lord, what can I do?”

“Forget the dollhouse for now, Marsh,” he ordered. “Go up and down the street banging on doors until you find someone who saw those girls getting into a carriage. I want a description of it.”

Isabella looked about. “On Brompton Road,” she said swiftly, pointing. “The greengrocer’s wife. She was sweeping the doorstep. Ask her.”

“Aye, ma’am,” said the coachman, hobbling away.

Isabella tried to think, pressing her fingertips into her temples. “Everett will be driving Papa’s old traveling coach,” she whispered. “He would not dare use an open carriage. It is dull and black, with mustard-colored wheels. Black and gold livery.”

“It is remotely possible he has taken them on foot,” he said, “but I doubt it.”

“Jemima would never go with Everett,” she declared. “He would have to drag her. He could not drag two children through Knightsbridge, Anthony, in broad daylight—
could he
? Oh, dear God! I shall never get my girls back!”

“You will have them back,” said Hepplewood grimly, “before this day is out, depend on it. The bastard is taking them down to Thornhill.”

“You cannot be sure,” Isabella cried. “He . . . He has kidnapped them! He may go into hiding!”

“Sadly, he has not kidnapped them—not Georgina, at any rate,” he said. “He has the law—or a bit of it—on his side. But then there is reality.”

“Reality?”

“Never mind, my love,” he said. “He is taking them to Thornhill. Because he expects and wants you to follow. They are safe enough for now. Likely he has that conniving mother of his with him.”

“He wants me to
follow
?” Isabella cried. “Why? What kind of logic is that?”

“Because the bastard has a special license in his pocket this very minute,” Hepplewood gritted. “I’d wager half my fortune on it.”

“A . . . A
marriage
license?” she said incredulously.

Suddenly, he turned and seized her hands. “Isabella, you will not do it,” he ordered her. “Do not panic. You
will not
marry that man.
Promise
me.”

She looked up at him through tearing eyes and said nothing.

How could she promise anyone anything?
The worst had happened. She had pressed her luck. Misjudged and dawdled. And now even fleeing England was not an option.

“Dear God, what have I done?” she whispered, blinking back the tears.

He squeezed her hands hard. “This is
not
your fault,” he said. “Even I did not dream the devil would stoop to something so bold. He is desperate indeed.”

“But . . . why?”

“Money,” said Hepplewood beneath his breath. “Always, with his sort, it is about money.”

“But the girls
haven’t
any money,” she cried. “Anthony, what is happening?”

“What is happening is that I am going after Jemma and Georgie,” he said, releasing her hands and striding off in the direction of the cart.

“Papa!” cried Lissie, who was being carried by the footman, “why is Mills taking us?”

Hepplewood seized his daughter’s hands. “Lissie, I need the coach,” he said. “And I need you to be extra, extra good for a few hours. Georgie and Jemma are lost, and I must find them. You and Caroline go back to Clarges Street and wait for me, all right?”

The child nodded. “Yes, Papa,” she said, eyes suddenly anxious. “Will you bring Georgie home to Clarges Street?”

He cut a swift glance over his shoulder at Isabella. “I might,” he said. “We shall see. Go now, and be good, minx.”

“I will watch her, sir,” said Caroline Aldridge.

“Good girls, both of you,” he said, peeling a banknote from a wad he’d drawn from his pocket. “Mills, give me your whip and go and find yourself another. Drive these girls home, and hand them personally into Seawell’s care—oh, and find Jervis if he’s got home. Tell him what has happened. That Tafford has taken the children. He’ll know what to do.”

“Aye, sir.” The footman tugged at his forelock.

“Should we call the police?” uttered Isabella as the cart drove away.

“No, it is the very last thing we should do.” Hepplewood was lashing the whip to his saddle as he spoke over his shoulder. “Isabella, you must let me deal with Tafford. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Do you trust me?”

She merely wrung her hands. “Yes.”

His task finished, Hepplewood turned on his heel and marched back toward her. “Isabella, listen to me,” he said. “I know what he is up to. Do you trust me to deal with this? Do you empower me to act on your behalf and get those girls back?”

“Yes, but I am coming with—”

“You are not,” he ordered. “You don’t want to be a part of this if it turns ugly—which it will. You will go inside the house and pour yourself a brandy. Then
wait
.”

“No,” she said, gathering herself. “I will not simply sit here whilst my sisters are being carried off by that—that
villain
.”

Just then Mrs. Barbour came huffing and puffing her way back up the street. “No one that direction’s seen a thing, my lord,” she said to Hepplewood, clearly discerning who was in charge. “Couldn’t have gone out by Hyde Park, shouldn’t think. Shall I take Miss Bella upstairs?”

“In a moment,” he said curtly.

The coachman was hastening back from Brompton Road. “Black coach wiv brownish wheels went out that a’way wiv a screaming child in it,” he said, “and turned right.”

“He is trying to skirt much of Town, but he has to cross the river.” Hepplewood seized the coachman’s arm and drew him near. “Come here and listen carefully,” he said to Marsh. “Now, Isabella, tell us how Tafford will go down to Thornhill from that direction? What is the quickest way? What roads through what villages?”

“Due south, through Croydon,” she said. “It is not hard. There aren’t too many options if he wishes to make any speed.” Swiftly, she told them village by village, the coachman listening.

Hepplewood dropped her hands again. “I’ll catch him within the hour on Colossus,” he said confidently, going to his saddlebags. “You, Marsh, come on my heels. And take this up on the box with you.”

Here, he handed out one of the carriage pistols.

“It’s loaded, mind, but not cocked,” Hepplewood said. “I’ve the mate on the other side. On the off chance you find him first, hold the gun to his head—but mind the mother, for she’s got the only brain in the family. Tell her if she so much as twitches, you’ll kill Tafford.”

“Good God, sir,” said the coachman.

“Don’t actually kill him,” said Hepplewood. “Shoot him in the foot first. Now go. I’ll pass you shortly.”

“Y-yes, sir.” The coachman rammed the big gun down the back of his trousers and climbed up on his box.

“And please,
please
don’t shoot Brooks!” Isabella cried after him. “He’s Papa’s former coachman. He’s very kind; he will help you if he can.”

Marsh tugged his forelock by way of acknowledgement. “Horses are weary, sir,” he called down. “But we’ll be along, I promise.”

“Have a care, sir,” Mrs. Barbour said. “He’s up to wickedness, that one. Been here three days running with that mother of his in tow.”

“Dear God,” said Isabella again.

But Mr. Marsh and the coach were already rumbling back toward Brompton Road.

Mrs. Barbour looked back and forth between Isabella and Hepplewood. “I’d best go put the kettle on,” she murmured, turning and going inside to the stairs.

Gently, Hepplewood drew Isabella into the shadows of the vestibule and set the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “Go up and lie down, my dear,” he said. “I’ll catch Tafford, and he’ll have the devil to pay then, I promise you.”

“I cannot,” she said. “There must be something I can do?”

He hesitated. “There is one thing that might help,” he said. “Not the police, but perhaps my cousin Royden.”

“Where do I find him?”

Hepplewood gave a short shake of his head. “That’s half the problem,” he said. “I don’t know. Go down to Number Four and tell the duty sergeant you’re looking for his new office. They’ll know. Say nothing of the children, but just that you’re a friend.”

“Yes, all right.” She nodded.

“He might be at Burlingame,” Hepplewood warned. “Just find his office, and if he isn’t there, leave a message he’s needed urgently at my house. Then hurry back, and wait to hear from me. There is always the chance Jemma might escape Tafford and come home.”

“Yes, yes, you are right. Thank you.” Swiftly, she rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek, already faintly stubbled. “Thank you, Tony. For God’s sake, be careful.”

He gave her another of his swift, hard kisses—right there on the pavement—then strode away.

Her heart in her throat, Isabella watched for the second time that day as he threw himself up on the great horse and sprung the beast toward Brompton Road.

CHAPTER
20

H
epplewood made extraordinary time leaving London, passing Marsh and the carriage just beyond Hans Place, then winding his way through the midday clog of carts and carriages to cross the river at Battersea Bridge.

Colossus was by no means fresh, but the stouthearted beast pressed on at the lightest command. It was possible, Hepplewood inwardly acknowledged, that Tafford might have taken another route, but somewhere south of town they would surely merge.

Traffic soon thinned to a trickle, and the outskirts of London gave way to occasional expanses of green broken by places more village than town. Anger churning in his gut, his gaze followed every twist and turn into the distance.

Halfway along Wandsworth Common, he caught a dull, old-fashioned coach lumbering beneath the canopy of trees. Bloodlust surging, he nudged Colossus forward and waited for just the right angle.

In the next turn, however, he caught a flash of red wheels. He cursed beneath his breath and pressed on, overtaking the carriage. An hour later, with Croydon in his wake, Hepplewood began to question his judgment.

After weighing it out, however, he could still see no better plan. Georgina might be placated by sweets and coddling, but Tafford had made the mistake of snatching Jemima, too. She was no one’s fool. There would be no putting that girl on a train without kicking and screaming; not unless she was drugged senseless.

No, Tafford might be a mindless brute, but his mother was too sly for that.

Certainly they would not remain in London; Jervis’s information had been very clear on that point. The Canadian solicitor was to travel via Liverpool with every expectation of calling upon Isabella at Thornhill Manor in Sussex. So it was to Thornhill, then, that Isabella must be lured.

Hepplewood had kept her from Tafford’s grasp just long enough, he thought, to avert true disaster. But he had not managed—unless Jervis was about to greatly surprise him—to have the Canadian gentleman intercepted. And he had not counted on sheer coincidence.

There remained, of course, the possibility that Tafford had been sly enough to bring an unknown carriage to Isabella’s shop. But that was unlikely; neither Tafford nor Lady Meredith could have known that Hepplewood and Isabella would return with the children on that particular day at that particular time. And Isabella, for all that she’d been distraught, was a sensible woman. She had been very certain of the coach.

No, this kidnapping had been opportunistic, and driven by desperation. Hepplewood was sure of it. Moreover, it did not escape his understanding that the desperation had been his doing; he had suspected Tafford’s motivations and had taken Isabella beyond Tafford’s grasp or control.