Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) (30 page)

Augusta mentioned her stipulations anyway. “You must depart immediately—before the wedding is held.”

A bubble of outrage tried to surface. She wanted the opportunity to say goodbye to acquaintances. It was all happening too fast! Too soon! But she realized she could breathe deeply for the first time in ages. Why not leave at once? What reason was there to stay?

“I’d be delighted to.”

“The mail coach will pass through the village around four. I’d like you to be on it.”

“I will be.”

“And…you are never to come back to Kirkwood.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

“You say that now—”

“And I’ll say it tomorrow and next week and next year. You’ve always hated having me here, Augusta, but guess what?”

“What?”

“I’ve always hated being here.”

That wasn’t really true. Mostly she’d been content and grateful, but it was an awful existence being poverty-stricken and reviled.

“Well!” August sniffed, it never having occurred to her that Georgina didn’t like her or Kirkwood.

“I’ve disliked you most of all,” Georgina added, merely to be spiteful. She extended her hand. “Give me what you promised, and I’ll be on my way.”

Augusta dithered as if—with her being insulted—she might change her mind. In the end, she provided what Georgina was dying to have. She pointed to the corner where Georgina’s battered portmanteau was on the floor.

“Since you were supposed to be evicted today,” Augusta said, “you’d already packed. I had the servants carry your belongings over from the cottage. I believe everything is in it.”

“Thank you.”

“I had the carriage prepared. A footman will drive you into the village.”

“I can walk.”

“I insist on you taking it.”

Georgina scoffed. In all the time Georgina had resided at Kirkwood, Augusta had never offered her the carriage. With Augusta being shed of her so easily, she was feeling generous.

“If it’s so important to you,” Georgina said, “I’ll ride.”

“You are to talk to no one.”

“I don’t see how you can stop me.”

“There has been enough upheaval, Georgina. We don’t need more, and I especially can’t have you quarreling with Portia.”

“Poor Portia. We shouldn’t upset her.”

Augusta ignored the sarcastic remark. “There’s money for the coach fare, and I’ve included a bit extra to tide you over for a few months. It’s not much, but it should be sufficient to get you established with your family.”

With my family…

Georgina had considered Augusta and Miles to be her family, and she was thrilled that she no longer had to claim them. She stood and went over to her bag. Her pelisse and bonnet were there too. She put them on, grabbed the portmanteau, and started out.

As she stepped into the hall, Augusta snapped, “Georgina!”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”

“No.”

She marched down the stairs and out the front door. For a fleeting moment, she’d thought about slinking out the back as if she should be embarrassed, but she was a Marshall daughter, a Marshall granddaughter, and she refused to act as if she was leaving in disgrace.

And she wasn’t
leaving
. She was escaping! She was at the beginning of a new and better life.

The carriage was waiting, the horses harnessed, a footman in the box. He moved to jump down and help her in, but she waved him off and climbed in on her own. She gazed out at the manor, expecting to suffer strong sentiment: nostalgia, regret, fury. Yet no emotion was stirred.

She was empty inside, passionate sensation having been drummed out of her by Mr. Drummond earlier that morning.

Briefly she wondered if he was all right, if he was alive, if he would survive his brutal beating. Briefly she wondered if she should find Sophia, if she should mention her plans to the only person who might care about her situation.

But she felt as if she was invisible and floating free, cut off from all that was familiar. None of them had ever deserved to know her, and if she vanished, who would fret?

She knocked on the roof, and the driver called to the horses. The team pulled her away, and as they rumbled past the house, she didn’t glance out, didn’t watch it fade into the distance.

Instead she opened the envelope Augusta had given her, and there was a piece of paper in it.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan and Sarah Fogarty,” she read, and she assumed they were her grandparents. Or perhaps they were an aunt and uncle. They were fine, solid names, and she was excited to meet them.

They approached the end of the lane, and the driver easily maneuvered the turn out onto the road. In a few seconds, they were headed to the village where the mail coach would deliver her from her every heartache and woe.

She grinned and shook her fist in triumph.

I
warn you,” Damian
said with a cool, lethal reserve, “not to untie my wrists. For if you do I’ll murder you before you can draw a breath.”

“Shut up you impertinent dog.”

The villain sitting in the carriage next to him—a dunce named Harry—whacked him with his club, and Damian bit down a yelp of pain. He thought his arm might be broken, as well as a few ribs, but he’d suffered many worse torments in the past.

They’d been traveling on the road to London for several hours, and they’d finally stopped at a coaching inn so his guards could eat and rest their horses.

Everyone was inside except for Damian, Harry, and a younger dolt named Tim. The contingent believed two men sufficient to act as sentries while the others dined. After all, he was trussed like a Christmas goose so he’d allowed them to assume two was enough. Eventually he’d have a chance to strike back, and he would strike viciously and thoroughly.

Tim wasn’t much of a threat, but Harry was stupid and thuggish, good at dishing out physical punishment, but then so was Damian—as Harry would discover once Damian was free.

He wasn’t worried about what would transpire when they arrived in London. He was very rich, and the rich could buy whatever they needed. No, he was simply aggravated that he’d been so distracted at Kirkwood. He’d been so furious with Georgina that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his eyes.

The most humiliating part of the entire episode was that Miles had gotten the best of him. Incompetent, bungling Miles had managed to assault and subdue Damian, and his shameless defeat was galling.

If he’d learned naught else during his incarceration, it was that he had to always be prepared for an attack, but he’d forgotten that lesson because of Georgina, and if that wasn’t evidence of how she’d ensnared him, he didn’t know what was.

In the grueling miles where they’d bounced over the rutted highway, his injuries screaming with each impact, he’d had plenty of time to ponder her and what sort of future he wanted. Why couldn’t he be happy? Why couldn’t he bind himself to someone who cherished him?

He was so jaded, and his life had been filled with brutality and betrayal. He didn’t think he could attach himself, that he could promise himself and mean it. But what if he forged ahead and it turned out to be wonderful?

“I’m very wealthy,” he told Harry.

“Shut up!” Harry snapped again.

“And I’m remarkably violent and vengeful. What do you suppose will happen to you once my lawyers have me released? Kidnapping is a felony, and the penalty is hanging—especially when the victim is as obscenely affluent as I am. Haven’t you ever noticed that the rich can purchase any punishment they desire?”

They shifted uneasily, then Harry said to Tim, “He’s just trying to rattle us. Don’t listen to him.”

“You’re fools to have participated in this fiasco,” Damian said. “When you’re standing in the dock in chains and having to explain yourself to the judge, I can’t wait to hear what your excuses will be. Of course I shall insist the maximum penalty be imposed. Have I mentioned that it’s hanging by the neck until dead?”

“One more word you cocky prick, and we won’t have to take you to London. You’ll die right here.”

“Tough talk, Harry,” Damian scoffed. “I’m a betting man, and I’m betting you don’t have the guts to kill me. You were awfully brave when you had ten chums guarding your back. How about now? I’m bound hand and foot, but I’d be delighted to spar with you. Let’s see who prevails.”

Harry bristled, and Damian stared him down. If he moved, Damian would strangle him. The rope on his wrists was loose enough that he could drape it over Harry’s head and pull it tight, but he really wasn’t feeling well. His strength had been significantly reduced from the beating he’d endured, and he’d rather not kill anybody if he didn’t have to.

Harry warily studied Damian, then glanced away, and even though he’d been cowed Damian was too vain to back down.

“I figured you didn’t have the balls,” Damian snorted.

The taunt was too much. Harry swung his club, and Damian’s reaction was swift and brutal. His arms flew up, the rope choking Harry so he couldn’t exact any further damage.

“Drop the club!” Damian ordered as Harry was being slowly throttled. He relented and it thudded to the floor.

Tim viewed it all with confused horror, then shouted, “Help! Help!”

Damian glowered at Tim and commanded, “Be silent. Your caterwauling gives me a headache.”

As if nothing shocking had occurred, he released Harry and settled against the squab. Harry slid to his knees. He was gagging, rubbing his throat.

“You’re insane,” Harry spat once he could speak again.

“Yes, I always have been, and I take it we have an understanding now. Keep your fucking club to yourself.”

“Bastard,” Harry grumbled.

Damian kicked him very hard. “Don’t you dare insult my mother.”

Harry remained on his knees, too stunned to climb onto the seat. Tim gaped with dismay as if he’d never previously witnessed such a vicious brawl. What kind of inept idiots had Miles hired? They’d have been murdered the first week at Botany Bay.

He relaxed and was steadying his breathing so his ribs wouldn’t throb quite so much when the carriage door was yanked open. He’d been expecting some of the other guards rushing to rescue Harry, but to his great surprise, he was staring at Kit.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Where’d you come from?”

“Kirkwood. We’ve been following your sorry ass all day.”

Kit stepped aside, and Damian was surprised again as Michael Blair took his place.

“Michael? What is this? An odd sort of family reunion?”

“My mother sent me to check on you.”

“She worries too much.”

Michael pointed to Damian’s battered face, his shackles. “Considering your current condition, I’d say she doesn’t worry nearly enough.”

Damian looked at Kit. “You must have stopped by Kirkwood and found out what happened.”

“Yes, Miss Fogarty told us.”

“Miles orchestrated this disaster. Did you kill him for me?”

“Michael wanted to, but I convinced him you’d want to handle it yourself.”

“You’re right about that.”

Damian held out his wrists, and Michael—always prepared for trouble himself—drew out a knife and sliced through his bindings.

Tim and Harry had been nervously observing them, and as the rope fell away, Harry complained, “Now see here! He’s our prisoner. You can’t just cut him loose.”

Michael loomed in. “Do you know who I am?”

Harry scrutinized Michael’s livid expression and gulped with alarm. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. Who’s in charge of this dirty business?”

Damian nodded to the coaching inn. “He’s inside with his other men. They’re having supper.”

“How many are there?”

“Ten. He left these two to watch me.”

Michael gestured to Harry who was still rubbing his neck. “It doesn’t look as if they did a very good job.”

He marched off, and Kit helped Damian climb down. Normally Damian wouldn’t have accepted any assistance, but Harry’s accursed club had landed many, many times at Kirkwood. He suspected—when he removed his clothes later that night—he’d have bruises on every inch of his body.

His head was aching, and he had to focus carefully so he didn’t see double.

“How’s your head?” Kit asked as if reading his mind.

“It’s pounding.”

“You’re so obstinate. If they only banged you on your noggin, you’ll be fine.”

“They hit me in other spots too,” Damian said. “With this.”

He grabbed the club, and Kit gaped at it with fury.

“That horse’s ass”—Damian flicked a thumb at Harry—“inflicted most of the punishment. The rest of them used their fists. You know that doesn’t bother me.”

“I know.”

Damian had been in hundreds of fights when they were boys. He understood a man’s need to lash out with his hands. It was when weapons were employed that he grew irate. He felt it gave his opponent an unfair advantage.

“I’d deal with him myself,” Damian said, “but I think he broke a few of my ribs. Maybe my arm too.”

“He broke your arm?” Kit was slow to anger, but when riled, he could be as violent as anyone.

Kit leaned into the carriage and motioned to Harry, “You! Out!”

“Sod off!” Harry blustered, but Damian could smell his fear.

Kit clutched Harry’s coat and dragged him out, asking, “When you seized him, were you aware of his identity?”

“Damian Drummond, but it doesn’t mean squat to me.”

“What about my companion who went inside? His name is Michael Scott. If you’ve lived in London at all, I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Tim muttered, “Dammit, Harry! We shouldn’t have joined in this foolishness.”

Harry said to Tim, “We’ll be paid. Don’t worry.”

Before he could turn back to Kit, Kit hit him with the club. The blow was fierce, and Harry collapsed to his knees. Kit wailed on him a dozen more times, beating him to the ground until he was a whimpering lump in the dirt.

Tim peeked out. “Blimey! Is he dead?”

Kit was cool as ice on a winter day. “No, but if I stumble on him again prior to my departure from this coaching inn, he will be.” He lifted Harry so they were nose to nose. “No one touches Damian Drummond and emerges unscathed.”

He threw Harry down, kicked him twice for good measure, then spun to Damian. “Let’s find Michael and get the hell out of here before I become angry.”

Damian limped over, feeling much stiffer and more injured than he’d realized he was.

“Great to see you again,” he told his old friend.

“You’d better say that,” Kit complained. “I leave you alone for one lousy afternoon, and look what happens!”

Sophia stood by herself
in the front parlor at the manor. It was almost eleven o’clock, and Miles’s wedding was about to begin. No one else had arrived yet. Not her mother, and most particularly not the bride or groom.

Mr. Drummond had been hauled off in chains, and there had been no explanation as to why that indicated they should rush the ceremony. Miles and Portia were important members of elevated families. They should have been in the church in the village with the organ blaring and the whole neighborhood cheering them on.

Instead the vicar would flit in, read some quick vows, then flit out again. It was the most boring, uninspiring nuptial fête she could imagine. It made no sense, but then nothing made sense anymore.

She’d been off shopping when the ruckus had erupted, and she was glad she hadn’t witnessed it. The household was in an uproar, and if she’d had a choice, she’d have skipped the entire celebration. She was so enraged by Miles and the trouble he’d caused, and in her opinion he could wed Portia or jump in the lake, but her mother had demanded she attend.

She kept peeking around corners, listening for Kit, for Georgina. She was desperate to speak with both of them. Kit had ridden off to retrieve Mr. Drummond. But where was Georgina? No one seemed to know.

Her cousin was definitely missing. Her bedchambers—both at Drummond Cottage and at the manor—were empty, her clothes gone. With the staff hastily preparing for the impromptu wedding, she couldn’t get anyone to agree that perhaps they should search for her.

After the ceremony, Sophia wasn’t about to sit with Miles and Portia and eat their stupid wedding breakfast. She would start in the attic and scour every nook and cranny in the manor until she found some hint of where Georgina was hiding.

Noise emanated in the foyer, and she assumed it would be Portia and her parents. Yet when the butler opened the door and she glanced over, Harold Bean and his mother walked in. She hadn’t seen him since he’d jilted her.

“Harold!” Sophia snapped. “What are you doing at Kirkwood?”

He had the decency to look abashed. “Your mother invited us to the wedding.”

“She what?”

“She invited us.”

“Well, I
un
invite you!”

“That’s really not done, Sophia. We are your closest neighbors.”

“I don’t care. How dare you show your sorry face here where you’re so despised.”

His dour, gloomy mother offered, “We were
invited
, Sophia. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Be silent you old shrew.”

They huffed with indignation, but she ignored them and stormed out to speak with her mother.

How could Augusta blithely have him and Mother Bean pop over for a visit? Was Sophia the only one in the family with any pride? She was so incensed she was surprised she could stand up straight.

Suddenly she was deluged by a wave of fondness for Kit Roxbury. Where was he when she needed him? He’d hurried off to hunt for Mr. Drummond, and she had to believe he’d come back. She’d told him she couldn’t marry him, but in rejecting him, she’d made a horrible mistake.

When her option was to remain at Kirkwood with Miles and Portia, Kit could provide a perfect ending. She had to stop being so fussy and bind herself to the sole person in the world who wanted her and would always protect her.

Despite what Miles claimed, Mr. Drummond owned Kirkwood, and when he ultimately confronted Miles, the conclusion wouldn’t be pretty. She intended to be safely at Kit’s side where she’d be out of harm’s way.