Honor's Players (21 page)

“To be sure, you rascal,” she said, pulling away and adopting a prim mien as she straightened her clothes.

Thomas sat back, laughing. “You’re a saucy miss. It would serve you right if I left you to those London wolves. ”

He stood up and stretched. “Speakin’ of London reminds me I’ve a harness to mend afore morning. Be a pet and walk me to the door.”

“Walk you to the door? Get on with you now,” she said pertly.

“’Tis a cold, cold night; I could use a kiss at the door to warm me,” he said glibly.

“You do tell a tale,” she protested. “Well, come on now if that’s your payment, let’s be about. My lady’s fired to patch things with my lord and would be mighty unhappy if we couldn’t be off first light. But let’s go quiet like, I don’t fancy runnin’ across Atheridge or that hatchet faced wife o’ his.”

He nodded his understanding as he grabbed his coat off the peg and opened the door to his room. They stood listening at the doorway then slowly stepped into the hall, grimacing as a floorboard creaked. They exchanged quick, warning glances. Thomas grabbed Ivy’s hand and led her stealthily toward the back stairs and down two flights to the butler’s pantry.

“What was that?” Ivy tugged on Thomas’s arm to halt him. “Listen!” she hissed. She crept toward the dining room then on through to peek out its open doors into the foyer hall.

She nearly gasped aloud, quickly clamping a hand across her lips to still any sound. She beckoned urgently for Thomas to come look.

Mrs. Atheridge stood by the front door, holding a small lantern while Atheridge and Mr. Tunning, hunched over, descended the stairs. They appeared to be carrying something between them. Thomas squeezed Ivy’s shoulder when they saw the dark bundle move.

Tunning laughed softly. “Your struggling just fires my blood. Think that fine husband of yours will take back soiled goods?”

“Sh-h—” hissed Mrs. Atheridge, glancing about the hall.

Thomas and Ivy ducked out of sight. Ivy, biting her lip, looked up at Thomas anxiously, silently asking him if they should intercede. Slowly he shook his head. The devil was in Tunning, right enough, and no telling what he was liable to do if they rushed to save the Viscountess. Tentatively he looked into the hall again, in time to see Tunning sling her over his shoulder while Atheridge opened the door and his wife held the lantern high to guide their steps.

In the wavering lantern light, the Viscountess’s face was ashen yet bore resolute courage. Thomas knew she would not submit easily to Tunning. Through the open door he saw the horse and carriage from the stable. A silent whistle passed his lips at the kidnappers’ audacity. He smiled suddenly when he remembered the worn harness. In the hands of a driver like Tunning, it wouldn’t last long.

He pulled Ivy back into the butler’s pantry and on into the kitchen.

“What are we going to do?” wailed Ivy softly, clutching at his sleeve.

“You’re going to go to your room and stay there till I return,” he instructed, gently disengaging her grasp.

“I—I couldn’t!”

“Yes you can. I’m going to ride hell-for-leather to London for his lordship.”

“It will take too long!”

“Not if I ride cross-country, and remember, they’re driving with a bad harness. But standing here jawin’ ain’t helping. Watch out for hatchet face. I’m off.”

“Thomas, wait!”

He turned back to her, about to protest, when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“That’s to ward off the cold and speed you on your way,” she said softly.

He grinned, swooping to pick her up and give her a hearty kiss, then he sped for the stable.

By the light of day, at a carriage trot, Larchside was situated two hours out of London. At night, with only a faint half moon to guide a horse by, it should have taken longer. Thomas reached London in little over an hour. He sent up a prayer of thanks to his maker as he made his way to the house on Upper Brook Street and added a request for the Viscount to be home. He wasn’t.

Thomas swore softly as he guided the tired horse to St. Ryne’s club. Somewhere on the road to London every minute began to feel like hours, and the hearty confidence he’d shown Ivy dwindled away. Perhaps he should have gone directly to the magistrate, or maybe roused the Humphries. Lines of worry etched his brow as he pounded on the club door. He rudely, pushed past the porter into the hall.

“See here, man, what do you think you’re about?” demanded the porter.

“I’ve got to see the Viscount St. Ryne,” gasped Thomas, heading for the stairs.

Two burly footmen barred his path.

“You’ll wait outside and we’ll inform his lordship when he’s free,” pronounced the porter as the two footmen grabbed his arms and hustled him to the door.

Thomas savagely twisted free and ran up the stairs followed by the footmen while the porter shouted from below. The footmen caught up with him on the landing when Thomas paused in uncertainty as to which way to proceed.

The hue and cry caught the attention of several gentlemen who immediately began to place bets among themselves as to the young stranger’s success against their footmen. Thomas’s desperation giving him strength, he landed several flush hits engendering a smattering of applause from his audience and a renewal of betting activity. But he was becoming winded.

“I’m for St. Ryne, they’ve got her ladyship!” he blurted out before a punishing left deprived him of breath.

One gentleman in the group straightened. “Hold!” he commanded. The footmen and Thomas reacted instinctively to his voice. The man strode forward briskly to fix Thomas with a quelling stare. “What is this about the Viscountess?”

Thomas swallowed convulsively. “Mr. Tunning and Mr. Atheridge, sir, they bound her and took her. Mr. Tunning don’t mean well by her neither.”

The gentleman swung around to one of the footmen nursing a sore jaw. “You,” he ordered, “go round to my stables and have them saddle my two fastest horses and bring them here.” He pulled off a signet ring from his little finger. “Use this ring as authority. Have them here in less than fifteen minutes and there’s a gold crown in it for you.”

“I say, Branstoke, what is this all about?” asked one of the sprigs of fashion ogling the fight.

“Stanley! Fetch St. Ryne immediately, even if you have to drag him here.” Branstoke’s voice thundered, a far cry from his habitual languid tones.

Young Stanley reacted instinctively to the voice of authority just as Thomas and the footmen had and trotted off to discover in which room St. Ryne sat.

Beyond seeing that he did as ordered, Branstoke scarcely paid him heed. He turned back to Thomas, dragging him out of hearing of the curious. “All right, lad, tell me what happened.”

The words tumbled out of Thomas’s mouth as he explained what he and Ivy saw. Branstoke’s brows drew together as he listened and a crowd began to gather, filling the hall.

“Thomas! Stand aside. Let me pass!” St. Ryne’s voice came from the far side of the crowd where he was rudely shoving his way through his fellow club members, ignoring their disgruntled oaths.

“My lord!” gasped Thomas, when he saw him finally push his way through.

“What’s going on? Stanley babbled something about Elizabeth.” He grabbed Thomas by his coat, nearly pulling him off his feet.

“Kidnapped, she was, my lord, by Mr. Tunning.”

A small uproar surged through the crowd. St. Ryne ignored them, his attention on Thomas. “When? How?”

Branstoke laid a hand on St. Ryne’s arm. “I’ve sent for two fast horses. Your man can give the details on the way.” He clapped Thomas on the back. “Will you be all right, lad? You’ve been through a lot already.”

“I’m fine, sir. ’Sides, I’d do anything for her ladyship.”

“Enough! We haven’t any time to lose,” snapped St. Ryne, heading for the stairs, Thomas and Branstoke following.

“But, I say, St. Ryne, you’re in your evening dress!” protested a town tulip, eyeing him through his quizzing glass.

“I’d go buck naked if it would get me to her faster!” he called back over his shoulder.

“Wait, you’ll need weapons,” said Branstoke.

St. Ryne stopped short. “Blast! There’s no time, and in the temper I’m in I could rip Tunning to pieces with my bare hands.”

“What about Mannion’s poppers?” suggested a gentleman from the top of the stairs.

“He’s right,” Branstoke admitted. “Mannion’s carried dueling pistols with him anytime these past twenty years.”

“I’ll rouse Mannion,” another offered.

“No time, he’s passed out in the library. Porter! Fetch Lord Mannion’s greatcoat, they’re probably in the pockets. Get St. Ryne’s as well!” Branstoke called after him.

The front door burst open. “Sir, I brought the horses,” huffed the footman.

“Here they are, my lord!” exclaimed the porter, trotting back into the hall. “They’re in the pockets like you said.” He pulled out an old flintlock from a deep pocket.

In two strides St. Ryne was at his side, relieving him of the pistols and slinging his own coat over his shoulders.

“Thomas, can you handle one of these?” he asked, handing him a pistol. Thomas nodded. He turned to Branstoke. “Thank you for the horses. I don’t know when—”

“Say no more. Just save her and don’t ever let her go again.”

St. Ryne nodded once curtly then reached out to squeeze his shoulder, silently thanking him for all his efforts on their behalf. “Give my compliments to Mannion,” was all he said, then he followed Thomas out the door.

After Thomas related the events of the evening, the ride to Larchside was hard and grimly silent, each man alone with his thoughts. For St. Ryne it was the longest ride of his life. If what Thomas said was true, then Bess must have forgiven him. Why else would she plan to return to London?

Oh, Bess, he silently called, don’t give up.

What a consummate fool he had been. He remembered the Amblethorp rout when he first saw her and thought she looked fragile. She didn’t appear the shrew until he goaded her. He had been blind to the clues as to her real nature, so intrigued was he to play Petruchio. Now he could only hope that her shrewish mask would again give her strength.

They were surprised, when they turned into the drive leading to Larchside, to see the manor ablaze with lights. Without a word they laid their heels into their mounts and galloped up the drive. St. Ryne was off his horse and running for the door even before the horse stopped. The door flew open before he reached it.

“Oh, my lord, thank heavens you’re here!” Ivy exclaimed. “We got the Atheridges locked in the kitchen pantry.

“And Bess?” St. Ryne asked anxiously.

“Tunning still has her.”

“Who’s we?” asked Thomas, tethering the horses.

“Peter and me. We forgot he were here, too, Thomas. After you left I got to worryin’ and thinkin’. Then I remembered Peter so I roused him and told him all. Together we captured ol’ hatchet face and when Atheridge came creeping back, we bagged him, too.”

St. Ryne grabbed her. “Can Atheridge tell us where Tunning’s taken her?”

“Already done that, leastways where they’re headin’. You were right, Thomas,” she said looking past St. Ryne. “That harness did break, not three miles from here. Caused a devil of a fight atween ’em, says Atheridge.”

“Damn it, woman,” roared St. Ryne, “where’s Elizabeth!?”

“Hav—Havelock Manor.”

“Where’s that?”

“About seven miles by road,” said Thomas. “But I thought that burned down.”

“Atheridge said one wing’s sound and Tunning's takin’ her there, but they had to go the last four miles on foot on account one horse ran off when it were unhitched and the other come up lame.”

“Come on, Thomas,” ordered St. Ryne grimly, swinging around to the horses.

“Have a care!” Ivy called after them.

Tunning shoved Elizabeth and she stumbled, falling onto the makeshift bed. She drew her cut and bleeding feet close to her body as she huddled in the corner, silently watching him as he laid a fire in the massive hearth.

She was cold, colder than she had ever been before, but she refused to let Tunning see her weakness. At first, during the long walk, he delighted in prodding her and laughed when she fell. He even removed the gag in an attempt to goad her to speech, but she doggedly remained silent, only glaring at him.

As the miles stretched and the cold penetrated their bones, he became quiet and morose, occasionally muttering to himself as he was now. At the moment, she feared him more, for it seemed there was little left of the civilized man. His mind was captured by the notion of revenge upon her.

He turned his head from the fire he built to look at her and laughed. The sound sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine. She wondered how long he intended to toy with her. She moved her hands, testing the bonds, drawing in her breath sharply to prevent crying out when the rough rope bit into her chafed wrists. She relaxed. Even if her hands were free, she doubted she could have escaped, so damaged were her feet. As the piercing cold eased, she felt her feet burning and sharp pain shooting up her calves. She doubted her legs and feet could even bear her weight.

“Trollop,” Tunning said. “The veriest trollop you look, fit for the London stews.” He walked toward her. “Perhaps that’s where I’ll drop you when I’m through,” he said consideringly. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out.