Nothing But Scandal (14 page)

Tracking down Elizabeth had just become imperative. If he had to hire every Runner in the city, he would find her.

To Elizabeth’s dismay, it took three more days of mental games and constant hunger before she’d “earned” the freedom to wander the grounds. Even then, Harold granted her barely enough food to subsist, and that only when she was submissive. When she did leave her room, her captor and his greasy servant, Bormley, lurked near enough to prevent another escape attempt. The latter was less attentive than Harold, though, and under his “supervision” she’d managed to sneak quill, ink, and paper beneath her gown and then back to her room. Not all at the same time—stealth required patience, and more days had passed before Elizabeth had collected the materials needed to compose a simple missive.

Lack of full meals left her energy flagging, but her resolve hardened. Alone in her room after a week of captivity in the remote country house, she pulled out a sheet of writing paper.

Memories of Alex’s deep voice, his eyes darkened with passion when they touched, swamped her as she wrote. Should she declare that he still held her heart? No. Elizabeth pressed her lips together. Men expected a combination of passion and practicality, not love, from a mistress.

She took a deep breath and folded the paper. A few drips from the candle sealed it.

And, oh, how far she’d fallen.

These last days had proven one thing: Harold would stop at nothing to make her his. With each day his vile hands grew bolder, as though he knew her strength, her ability to fight him off, was waning. She was running out of time. Sacrificing her pride, begging Alex Bainbridge for a position she’d once scorned, was infinitely preferable to this—if only she could get to her former lover.

There was hope. Last night she’d been awakened by an argument downstairs.

“You promised me double wages for helpin’ you bring your woman out here,” Bormley had griped. “I ain’t even seen regular wages for two weeks. Not that I could spend ’em, out here. Feel like I’m the one bein’ kep’ prisoner.”

Harold had answered in lower tones, but from what Elizabeth had gathered, he hadn’t been able to appease his servant. Which meant opportunity was ripe—any man low enough to work for Harold in the first place was a man low enough to accept a bribe.

She tucked the letter into the bosom of her gown and left her room. By the time she reached the tiny parlor, her shadow had appeared. This time it was Bormley, looking disgruntled. Perfect.

She opened the door and stepped into the yard, knowing he’d follow.

The cottage Harold had chosen for this adventure was truly remote. It lay at the end of a narrow dirt lane, with no other homes in sight. The lane itself wound through the hills into the distance. She hoped it led to a village. Under other circumstances the house would have seemed pretty enough, with its shuttered windows and whitewashed fence, but she could look at it only with revulsion.

She continued across the yard and around the corner of the barn, out of sight of the house.

“Ye’re wanderin’ a bit far this mornin’,” her shadow warned.

She slowed until he caught up. “I wished to speak with you.”

A calculating gleam lit his normally flat eyes. He waited.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. Make this about him, not her. “Let me speak plainly. I heard your argument with Wetherby last night. He’s using you. Double wages? Not likely. He’s not a generous man. He’s the sort to pay you off, then turn around and say you stole it.”

Bormley folded his arms.

“We could help each other out,” she pressed on quickly. “Help me escape, and I’ll see you rewarded.”

He curled his lip, eyeing her up and down. His gaze lingered at her bosom, but finally he said, “You’ve got nothing I want. Everyone knows you’re penniless.”

“That may be so, but I’ve friends who would pay dearly for my return.”

He sneered. “What sort of…friends?”

How she hated catering to someone so low. “I can’t imagine, Mr. Bormley, that working for Wetherby is ideal for a man of your skill. You are, perhaps, a man of ambition. Help me, and you’ll never have to do his bidding again.”

He cocked his head, clearly interested. “How do I know I’ll get paid? An’ what exactly do you want me to do? Wetherby’s got a sharp eye.”

It was true. Harold watched her constantly, expecting her to run again. She needed him off guard.

And then it hit her.

Was it asking too much? She had to try.

“When you and Wetherby brought me here, he gave me wine laced with something…a sleeping draught, perhaps. Is there any remaining, and if so do you know where it’s kept?”

He eyed her steadily, unreadable. “There is, and I might.”

“If Wetherby were…distracted, it would help greatly.” She remembered the letter tucked in her dress. “Can you deliver a message?”

“Not likely. I’m near as much prisoner here as you, ’less the boss decides to send me on an errand.”

“I see. Never mind.” She’d have to manage that part herself. “When I’m ready, I shall give you a signal—I shall let my handkerchief fall.”

She began walking again, not wishing to remain hidden behind the barn for too long. As Bormley had pointed out, Harold was already suspicious.

“An’ the payment?”

“The Duke of Beaufort will see to it, I assure you.” She prayed her faith in Alex was true—even if he didn’t love her, he’d not stand to see her harmed.

Her coconspirator gave a slight nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It wasn’t a promise, she noted. But it was something.

As they rounded the corner, coming back within sight of the house, the servant dropped back a few paces. If Harold observed them now, nothing would suggest they’d been plotting behind his back.

Could Bormley be trusted? She had no illusions that he would consider helping her out of Christian charity. She only hoped greed, the lure of profits greater than those Harold could provide, would drive him to her aid. For once she was grateful the gossip about her scandal with the duke had spread so far. If Bormley had heard it, he’d be more likely to believe she had the connections to pay him off.

She hugged her arms protectively, only in part to ward off the cool morning mist. Though the sun was out, the chill in the air suggested an early fall.

“Cold?”

Her stomach clenched as Harold approached, but she kept her expression neutral. “A bit.”

“Perhaps you should go in and warm yourself before we go.”

“Go?” Her hopes soared dizzily. They were going somewhere? He hadn’t mentioned this before, but she didn’t care. She would be away from her prison. Maybe even have a real meal…for surely he’d not keep food from her in public?

“Yes, did I not say?” His sing-song tone made it evident he enjoyed tormenting her. “I have a surprise for you, Elizabeth.”

What sort of surprise? More starvation? Another beating?

“I am most eager to learn what it is,” she managed. She’d have to be on guard.

“No, no, my sweet,” he laughed condescendingly. “You must wait. But I assure you, you will find it most, ah, engaging.”

His play on words sent shivers up her spine. Elizabeth dug her nails into her palms. This wasn’t part of her plan. She needed more time.

She moved toward the house, passing Bormley on his way to the stable. She met his eye, desperately trying to convey new urgency, yet unable to speak openly in front of her captor. She took out her handkerchief, held it briefly to her nose, then let it slip through her fingers and flutter to the ground. She bent to retrieve it, watching Bormley for any reaction.

The slippery servant returned her gaze with an inscrutable look. Panic welled in Elizabeth’s chest.

She stepped inside and collected a warmer shawl, a handmade piece she’d found in a trunk in what she’d come to think of as “her” room. To whom it had previously belonged, she couldn’t say, for Harold had told her nothing of the ownership or past occupants of the house.

She warmed herself by the drawing room fire while Bormley readied the landau and horses. Would he come through for her? Or was he even now revealing her plot to Harold?

“It’s time, Elizabeth.”

Stiffly, she went to the vehicle, still trying to determine whether this change in events signaled opportunity for escape or only more danger. Bormley helped her up, but his blank expression gave nothing away.

As Harold hefted his considerable girth onto the seat beside her, Elizabeth’s hopes diminished.

The servant moved to take the driver’s perch, then suddenly veered off course. “One moment, sir,” he called, hurrying back into the house.

Her heart thundered in her chest and she sent up a quick prayer. Harold gave an impatient grunt.

Rushing from the house, Bormley handed up a flask and a small, cloth-covered basket. “For your journey, sir.”

Hope flared and Elizabeth flashed him a look. Was it only her imagination, or did he nod this time? And what did it mean?

Harold took the offering, and his servant bowed and climbed onto the driver’s perch. A slap of the reins, and they were off.

For the first part of the journey, she sat stiffly by her captor’s side. He’d not told her anything more about their destination, nor had she asked, unwilling as she was to upset whatever good humor had prompted him to take her out in the first place. Curiosity ate at her, though, as she tried to fathom his intention.

“Drink?” Harold offered her the flask, his manner unusually companionable.

She shook her head, and watched as he took a swig, then rummaged in the bread basket.

The landau rolled past small farms, their fields nearly ready to harvest. Bormley had left the cover down, and Elizabeth was glad she’d brought the shawl. They passed a few other travelers on the road. Would they think her mad if she called to them for help? No, she had to wait. She couldn’t afford another ill-fated escape.

Finally, she saw the steeple of a village church off in the distance.

A village, with real people, and a marketplace, and, and…tears rushed to her eyes at the longing for such normal, everyday life. She could stand Harold’s silence no longer.

“Are we going to the village?” she asked, hating the pleading sound of her own voice. Between imprisonment by Harold and the isolation she’d endured in London, both at Bea’s and at her family’s house, she’d been too long starved—not just for food but for human contact.

“Yes, to the church.”

“For service?” What day of the week was it? Sunday? She’d lost track.

“Of a sort.”

Her hands twisted in her shawl as her unease grew.

“Consider your actions carefully, Elizabeth,” Harold admonished her, “for it is not only your own fate that rests upon your decision.”

Elizabeth frowned, questioning.

“Think of your sister.”

“Charity?” Her surprise was real. “What has she to do with this?”

“The way things stand now, you’ve ruined her chances at a decent future.”

Shame flooded her. It was true. Though Charity had told her she could take care of herself, Elizabeth knew her own actions had cost her sister dearly. The Medford family’s reputation had been shaky after her father’s death, but now it was in shreds. And none of it was Charity’s fault.

“Of course, we may be able to fix that.”

“I cannot see how.”

“Society is unforgiving, but when they wish, they are quite capable of forgetting a person’s foibles, especially if that person sees the errors of their ways and settles into a respectable, legitimate marriage.” He took another swig from the flask.

Elizabeth yanked her gaze from his, staring instead at the road as the vehicle rolled slowly along the road. The golden-brown fields and farms swam in her blurred vision as tears welled in her eyes. He’d said they were going to church. Now she knew why.

Still, there was time. The banns had to be read on three Sundays before they could marry.

“Marry me, and when the gossip settles, I will sponsor Charity for a Season of her own.”

She shook her head in protest, her throat too thick for words.

“Think carefully, Elizabeth, before you make a decision you will regret.”

She would do anything for her sister. But Harold’s offer was empty, for though he might be able to afford sponsoring Charity, he did not have the necessary political and social wherewithal to launch her successfully—especially given the gossip surrounding her family.

Harold was wrong. Gossip might die down, but people did not forget. Not unless they feared the social clout of the person asking them to forget.

When Elizabeth remained silent, Harold gripped her upper arm, hard. “If you are still unconvinced, we could return to your home, where I will inform your uncle that, in spite of our interlude in the country, I find you unsuitable. And that I prefer to marry Charity instead.”

Something inside her snapped.

“Never!” She pummeled him with her fists. “You will not touch my sister.”

He batted away her fists.

Furious, Elizabeth grappled with him, desperate to regain control over the madness that had become her life. “Bormley, stop this vehicle now!” she shouted, but the servant did not so much as acknowledge her.

Harold’s face twisted in anger. He outweighed her by at least five stone, and in the weakened state brought on by near-starvation, she was unable to compete with his bulk.

Realizing her folly, Elizabeth retreated to the edge of the bench and prepared to leap from the carriage.

A stunning blow knocked her back against the seat, then onto the floorboard in front of Harold’s knees. Her jaw hit the opposite seat with a
crack,
just before his meaty fist yanked the back of her hair, forcing her chin up to look at him. Her head rang with pain.