Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (3 page)

She turned her gaze on Wiry. “And you are?”

He smiled. “You may call me Fletcher, Miss Wallace.”

Heather thought of a few other epithets she might call him, but she merely inclined her head. Settling on the seat, she leaned her head back against the squabs and ventured nothing more. She sensed that Fletcher expected her to protest, perhaps beg for mercy, or try to subvert him and the others from their goal, but she saw no point in lowering herself to that.

No point at all.

The more she thought of all Fletcher had let fall, the more she felt certain of that. This had to be the strangest abduction she’d ever heard of . . . well, she hadn’t heard the details of any abduction attempts, but it seemed distinctly odd that they were treating her so considerately, so . . . sensibly. So terribly calmly and confidently.

They—Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha—did not fit the prescription for run-of-the-mill kidnappers. They might not be genteel, yet they were not of the lowest orders, either. They were neatly and unobtrusively dressed. Although rather large and solid, Martha could indeed pass for a lady’s maid, certainly a lady who lived mostly in the country. Cobbins appeared reserved, and in his drab clothes seemed to fade into the background, but he, too, did not seem the sort one would find in a seedy hedge-tavern. Both he and Fletcher looked precisely like the sort of men they were claiming to be—the sort some wealthy country squire might hire to act as his agents.

Whoever had sent them to London had prepared them well. Their plan was both simple and, in the situation in which she now found herself, well nigh impossible to counter. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t escape—she would somehow—but before she did, she needed to learn more about the most puzzling aspect of this strange kidnapping.

They’d been sent to abduct not her specifically but one of the Cynster sisters—her, Eliza, or Angelica, and possibly her cousins, Henrietta and Mary, also “Cynster sisters.”

She couldn’t imagine what reason anyone would have for doing so other than a simple demand for ransom, but if that were the case, why take her out of London? Why take her off to some other man? She thought back, reassessed, but couldn’t shake the impression that all Fletcher had revealed was true—the trio were fetching her for some employer.

Hiring three people of the trio’s ilk, and a coachman and coach-and-four, and they’d been watching her and the others for over a week . . . none of that sounded like a straightforward, opportunistic kidnapping for ransom.

But if not ransom, what was behind this? And if she escaped without learning the answer, would she and the others still remain under threat?

They’d had fresh horses put to in High Barnet, and so rattled on past Welham Green and through Welwyn.

Eventually, the carriage slowed, and they entered a small town. Fletcher leaned forward and looked out of the window. “Knebworth.” Sitting back, he studied Heather. “We’re going to stop here for the night. Are you going to be sensible and keep your mouth shut, or do we need to restrain you and tell the landlord our tale?”

If they did . . . if her family came searching for her, as she knew they would—Henry, their old coachman, would have alerted the household by now—then having heard she was a Miss Wallace, the landlord and his staff might not mention her.

Eyes on Fletcher, she lifted her chin. “I’ll behave.”

He smiled, but encouragingly rather than victoriously. “That’s the ticket.”

Heather inwardly sighed. Fletcher’s lack of smugness proved he was intelligent. Despite his story, if she’d been prepared to throw a screaming tantrum she might have been able to have the local constable summoned—might have been able to convince him to hold her while he checked her story against her captors’. Unfortunately, her reputation wouldn’t easily withstand being so publicly found in kidnappers’ hands, Martha notwithstanding. Especially after she had that very evening made the unspoken declaration implied by stepping into the racy world of Lady Herford’s salon.

But above and beyond all else, while she remained quiet and played the role they’d planned for her, she wasn’t, as far as she could see, under any real threat, and wouldn’t be until they reached their employer. Until then, she would put her mind to ferreting out what lay behind this very strange kidnapping.

And
then
she’d use her wits and escape.

Chapter Two

T
hree hours later, Heather lay on her back in a not-so-comfortable bed in a room on the second floor of the Red Garter Inn at Knebworth and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the moon had finally sailed free of the clouds; the shaft of silvery light beaming in through the uncurtained window allowed her to see the ceiling well enough, not that she was actually studying it.

“What the devil am I to do?” She sent the whispered question floating upward, but no answer came.

She’d been right in rejecting the notion of making a scene and trying to bend the innkeeper and his patrons to her cause. Once she’d observed her captors in lamplight, she’d realized her earlier estimation of their competence hadn’t done them justice. Fletcher in particular appeared personable enough to raise questions as to whether she’d left London with him willingly or not. Meeting his eyes with light enough to see into them had confirmed beyond doubt that he was not only intelligent but quick-witted and cunning as well. If she tried to persuade others to help her against him, he would use every possible argument to counter hers. And he knew what “every possible argument” encompassed. If she pushed him hard enough, her reputation would be shredded, and she still might not win free.

Bad enough, but any consequent idea that it might perhaps be wiser to escape now, while she was still within reach of London and the protection of her family, even without learning more about the reasons behind her abduction, had been slain shortly after birth.

They’d taken her clothes.

In the carriage, long before they’d untied her, Martha had produced a dark wool cloak and solicitously wrapped it about her. That, indeed, had been the first sign that they intended to take reasonable care of her; she’d been grateful for the warmth as the night had progressed. At Fletcher’s instruction, she’d kept the cloak close about her when they’d entered the inn. Once she and Martha had repaired to this room and shut the door, however, Martha had reclaimed the cloak. She’d then suggested Heather remove her gown before getting into bed; Heather had complied without really thinking—she wasn’t in the habit of wearing evening gowns to bed.

She was, however, accustomed to wearing something more substantial than a silk chemise, which, barring her even sheerer silk stockings, was all she presently had on.

And there were no other clothes, hers or Martha’s, available to her if she took it into her head to pick the lock on the door—Martha had the key in the pocket of the voluminous undergown in which she’d elected to sleep—and sneak downstairs to raise some alarm. In her chemise and silk stockings? Heather inwardly snorted. And glanced again across the room at the other single bed on which Martha lay snoring.

Loudly.

Martha’s clothes, all of them including those she’d had packed in a big satchel, along with Heather’s evening gown and shawl, and a simple round gown Martha had brought for Heather to wear the next day, resided under Martha’s large and heavy figure. The “maid” had laid the garments neatly under the sheet on the bed, and then lain down upon it.

For tonight, Heather was stuck with her captors.

Part of her was definitely inclining toward panic, not least because thus far said captors had proved adept at guessing what she might do and had taken steps to nullify each option before she’d taken it. Against that, another, rather more intrepid part was pointing out that perhaps her current predicament was fate’s way of ensuring she stayed with her abductors long enough to learn what lay behind the threat to her and her Cynster sisters.

She was debating—panic versus fatalistic pragmatism—when a skittery scraping on the windowpane sent horrible shivers down her spine.

Frowning, she glanced at the window—and saw a shadow looming beyond it.

A man-sized shadow—head and shoulders. Broad shoulders.

Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed the coverlet, wound it about her, then hurried across the bare floor. Reaching the window, she looked out—

Straight into Breckenridge’s face.

For an instant, shock held her immobile. He was quite the last person she’d expected to see. Then again . . .

His exasperated expression as with one hand he brusquely gestured for her to lift the sash window shook her into action. The room was, after all, on the second floor. He seemed to be hanging onto a pipe.

Reaching up, she struggled with the window latch. Perhaps she should have realized he’d appear. He had been watching her walk to her parents’ carriage. He must have seen her seized and bundled into Fletcher’s coach. Finally forcing the latch free, she eased up the sash, glancing over her shoulder at the lump that was Martha as the wood scraped and slid.

Martha’s snoring continued unabated, rhythm undisturbed.

Breckenridge had seen the glance. “Is there someone there?”

The question reached her as the barest whisper. She nodded and leaned on the sill so her head was level with his. “Yes. A large and strong maid, but she’s sound asleep. Those are her snores you can hear.”

He listened, then nodded. “All right.” Then he frowned. “Where did you get her—the maid?”

“My captors—Fletcher and Cobbins—are working for some man who has employed them to bring me to him, but said employer has instructed them to provide me with every comfort along the way. Hence Martha. She was in the carriage when they grabbed me.”

No matter what else one might say and think about him, Breckenridge most assuredly was neither stupid nor slow.

“Your abductors have provided you with a maid.”

She nodded. “To see to my needs and lend me countenance. Fletcher, the thin, wiry one—he seems to be the leader—actually said so while introducing me and Martha to the innkeeper. They’re calling me Miss Wallace.”

Breckenridge hesitated, then asked, “Is there some reason you haven’t told the innkeeper your real name and demanded his assistance in escaping Fletcher and company?”

She smiled tightly. “Indeed there is.” She told him of Fletcher’s story, the tale of her guardian, Sir Humphrey, her supposed flight to the wicked streets of London, and the letter of authority Fletcher had, presumably, forged.

When she finished, Breckenridge remained silent for some time.

Heather peered over the sill, confirming that he was indeed clinging to a lead downpipe, one booted foot wedged on a support. Given his size and undoubted weight, gaining that position, let alone maintaining it, had to be counted an impressive feat.

If she’d been in a mood to be impressed.

Which made it even stranger that every last iota of her incipient panic had vanished. Raising her gaze, she met his eyes—found him staring, then he looked deep into hers. Then he blinked, shook his head slightly, then eased a hand from the pipe and beckoned. “Come on—time to leave.”

She stared at him, then looked over the sill again—at the ground far below. “You have to be joking.”

“I’ll keep you before me and steady you down the pipe.”

She looked at him. He’d steady her down the pipe by holding her against him, trapping her body between his and the pipe? The notion . . . made her inwardly shiver. “I haven’t got any clothes—Martha’s lying on them.”

His gaze dropped to her throat, bare, then lower, to the coverlet she’d wrapped about her. “You’re naked under that?”

His voice sounded strained. Or was it disbelieving?

“Just my chemise, which, as you no doubt can imagine, is as good as naked.”

He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them again. His expression had grown a touch grimmer. “All right. In that case, go out of the door and I’ll meet you downstairs—”

“The door’s locked, Martha’s sleeping with the key, and although I could pick the lock, I suspect I’d wake even her—and even if I didn’t, do you really think I should risk bumping into some sleepless bumpkin downstairs
en deshabille
?”

He actually thought about it.

“Besides, I haven’t told you all of it.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he suspected her of playing some game. “What haven’t you mentioned?”

She ignored his look and related the instructions Fletcher had been given. “So he could have seized any one of the three, or perhaps five, of us.”

Breckenridge frowned uncomprehendingly. “So? In terms of ransom, any one of you would do.”

“Yes, but if this employer was merely seeking to ransom me, why take me out of London? Why go to all this trouble and expense? Why provide me with a maid? None of that makes sense.”

Breckenridge hesitated, then said, “The maid makes sense if the reason he’s kidnapped you is to force you into marriage and so get his hands on your dowry.”

“True. But if that was his aim, then his orders don’t make sense—anyone who made even the most superficial inquiries would readily learn that while Eliza and I have inherited considerable wealth, Angelica hasn’t. She wasn’t born when our great-aunts died, so she missed out on the inheritances.” In her eagerness to explain, Heather leaned even further forward over the sill.

Breckenridge, with the knowledge of her all-but-naked state high in his mind, would have liked to ease back, but there was nothing but thin air behind him. He had to mentally grit his teeth, not so figuratively gird his loins, and bear with her naked nearness.

“So you see,” the bane of his life continued, utterly oblivious, “that can’t be the reason behind the abduction either.” Her eyes met his, held them. “Whatever the reason, if there’s any chance of learning the truth of it—learning if there’s some continued threat against not just me but Eliza and Angelica, perhaps Henrietta and Mary, too—then I have to go along with Fletcher and company, at least while matters continue as they are and I am under no immediate personal threat.”

She was presently under more personal threat from him than from her captors. The realization made him wince, an expression she saw and took to signal his understanding.

Reaching out from under the coverlet, extending one slender arm, she briefly touched his hand where it gripped the windowsill. “If you would consent to take a message home for me, let the family know that I’m in no immediate danger, and that I’ll send word the instant I get free?”

He looked at her. She actually thought he would . . . “Don’t be daft.” He glowered at her. “I can’t leave you like this, in your captors’ hands, and simply drive away.”

He studied her, wondered how much she weighed, wondered if he dared risk—

She must have sensed the assessment in his gaze; she straightened, took a step back, and leveled a finger at his nose. “Don’t even think of grabbing me and hauling me away—not now, not ever. I’ll scream bloody murder if you so much as lay a finger on me.”

Wonderful
. He narrowed his eyes at her, but he knew her well enough to know her threat was not an idle one.

She seemed to realize he’d accepted that. Her stance softened. “So if you would take a message—”

“I’ve already sent your coachman back with a message for your father, telling him you’re being driven up the Great North Road in a coach, and that I’m following. I suspect that if they don’t hear from us within a day, your cousins will start tracking us.”

Folding her arms, she frowned at him. After a moment, she inquired, “Does that mean you intend to follow me onward?”

“Yes.” He spoke—whispered—through clenched teeth. “Naturally. I could hardly let you be taken God knows where.”

“Hmm.” Her gaze on him, she seemed to ponder, then offered, “All right. Here’s what I’m planning to do. I’ll interrogate and extract everything I can about their employer, his orders, and his motives from Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha, enough at least to determine what the threat to my sisters and cousins might be. Then I’ll escape. If you’re still close, you can help me.”

She paused, her eyes on his, clearly waiting for his response.

He knew what he felt like saying, but . . . she had to come with him willingly, and Stubborn was her middle name. “Very well.” The words were an effort. He considered, then said, “I’ll send word back to London, then follow the coach onward, staying close.” He met her gaze, his own ungiving. “I’ll need to meet with you every night.” He glanced toward the maid, still snoring in her bed. “Clearly that shouldn’t be too difficult, even if we have to meet like this. Once you’ve learned what you feel you need to—immediately you do—you’ll leave with me and I’ll escort you back to London. When the time comes, I’ll hire a maid, so it’ll all be above board.”

She considered for a moment, then allowed, “That sounds an excellent plan.”

He bit back a sarcastic retort; she never reacted well to such rejoinders from him. He nodded. “Close the window and go back to bed—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She stepped forward and slid the sash carefully down. She remained behind the pane for a moment, then turned and glided away.

He looked down—manfully resisting the temptation to peek when she doffed the coverlet and climbed between the sheets—and started on his journey back to the ground.

Although more or less disgusted, certainly disgruntled with how matters had played out, as he backed down the wall, hand below hand, foot by foot, he had to admit to a lurking but very real respect for her stance.

Family mattered.

Few appreciated that better than he. He who had no true blood kin. His biological father had been the late Camden Sutcliffe, diplomat extraordinaire—womanizer extraordinaire, as well. His mother had been the Countess of Brunswick, who had borne her husband two daughters, but no son. Brunswick had from the first claimed Breckenridge as his own—initially out of relief arising from his desperate need of an heir, but later from true affection.

It was Brunswick who had taught Breckenridge about family. Breckenridge rarely used his given name, Timothy; he’d been Breckenridge from birth and thought of himself by that name, the name carried by the Earl of Brunswick’s eldest son. Because that’s who he’d always truly been—Brunswick’s son.

So he fully comprehended Heather’s need to learn what was behind the strange abduction, given that it had been targeted not specifically at her but at her sisters, and possibly her cousins, as well.