Regency Innocents (58 page)

With that, he left the room, bolting the door behind him.

She was ashamed to find she was shaking like a leaf,
little whimpers of distress escaping her lips with every ragged breath. She had not thought she was a coward, but that man's casual attitude to violence, his clear enjoyment of inflicting injury on her, had been inhuman. He had even indicated he wanted her to resist, so that he would have an excuse to hurt her even more. What kind of a monster was he?

And why had these men taken her? She simply could not understand why anyone should want to kidnap her. Though she was definitely their intended victim. They had called her by name.

Her face and hair felt sticky, her left eyebrow throbbing from where her kidnapper had slammed her face against the coach door. She knew she was bleeding, but had no way of attending to her hurt, other than pressing her already-stained glove to the cut, hoping pressure might stem the flow. There was nothing in her prison, save the mattress she cowered on and a bucket by the door, which she assumed was for her convenience.

The room itself she guessed must be a part of a cellar, since it was so dark. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw that it was shaped in the form of an arch, made of brick. There was no window, and what little light there was filtered in through a small grille set into the stout oak door, which she had heard her captor bolt on the outside.

She did not know how long she crouched there. It seemed like a very long time, yet it was not long enough for her to stop shaking. But at length she heard footsteps approaching, and the sound of a chair
scraping back. Was her captor sitting on the other side of the door then, guarding her? Though why should he, when there was no way she could escape such a secure prison?

She heard the bolts grate and then the door swung open.

She found she was panting with renewed fear. Why had they opened the door? What new cruelty did they mean to inflict on her? She felt so vulnerable, huddled on the floor, that she pushed herself shakily to her feet, leaning against the wall when her legs proved to have the consistency of jelly on a summer's day.

A neatly dressed, thin man walked in, and stood regarding her with his head tilted to one side for several minutes.

‘I expect, Mrs Fawley,' he said eventually, ‘you are wondering why I have had you brought here?'

She nodded, her mouth so dry with fear she was incapable of speech.

‘I need to get your husband's attention. He owes me, you see, and needs to understand he must pay me back.'

‘R … Robert does not have any debts!'

‘Well, now, that is where we have to differ. When he cheated a man who does owe me, leaving him without the means to repay me, that man's debts became his.'

Robert would not cheat anyone!

The only person who could even come close to making such an accusation against him would be … Percy Lampton.

Had the fool borrowed against his expectations?

From this man?

She looked upon the thin man with dawning comprehension. Lampton had no means of repaying anyone
anything now. Robert had all the money he had assumed would be his.

‘I see you know exactly what I mean,' the man sneered. ‘So glad you have dropped the pretence of innocence. People like you need to learn you cannot get away with cheating men like me. You must pay. One way or another,' he said, taking a step towards her, ‘I always make ‘em pay.'

As he moved, she saw the dull gleam of a knife blade in his hand.

‘No!' she cried, feeling the blood draining from her face.

‘I would advise you to hold still, Mrs Fawley, if you don't want to get hurt any further,' the thin man said menacingly. ‘It will all be over before you know it.'

Mad panic gripped her. She darted towards the open door, running full tilt into the burly man, who appeared out of nowhere. He flung her back into the cell so forcefully that the back of her head cracked against the rough brickwork on the wall opposite the door. He stalked in after her, closing one meaty great hand round her throat, whilst deftly untying the ribbons of her bonnet with the other. Deborah's senses swam. The stench of him filled her nostrils, choking her as effectively as the stranglehold he had round her neck. Spots danced before her eyes while pain blossomed and spread its tentacles from the initial point of impact at the back of her head. She only dimly registered him tossing her bonnet aside, for she had seen the thin man approaching, the knife stretched out towards her.

With one swift flick, he cut off a lock of her hair, the
burly man left off his stranglehold, and Deborah fell to her knees on the floor between them.

‘Tsk, tsk.' The thin man shook his head at her. ‘Such a lot of fuss over one lock of hair. Anyone would think we meant to murder you.'

As she dragged in a painful breath through her bruised throat, she knew that was exactly what they had meant her to think. They wanted to keep her in a state of terrified submission. They both laughed mockingly as she cowered on the floor at her feet. And she felt a fresh wave of humiliation that they were succeeding so well. She
was
terrified.

‘Now give me your hand,' the thin man ordered.

Well beyond the point of daring to display any defiance, Deborah held up her hand. At a nod from his master, the burly man knelt on the floor beside her, took her outstretched hand between his and slowly unbuttoned her glove. He then stroked it from her hand, finger by finger, his gloating, puffy eyes never leaving her face.

She felt violated.

She did not stop shivering, her stomach heaving, until long after the door had been shut on her again, leaving her in darkness.

But she would not cry. The burly man was out there, sitting on a chair, guarding her. He would hear if she began to cry. She would not give him the satisfaction!

It was quite late in the evening when Robert received the packet. He was in no mood to receive any kind of post. It was probably a sample from a tailor, he thought moodily. He was past caring about such trivialities,
though once the prospect of having silk shirts and natty waistcoats had filled him with pleasurable anticipation.

‘Here, deal with this, would you?' he said, tossing it to Linney.

Deborah had shunned him last night. She had finally given up the pretence she could bear sharing a bed with him. And this morning, before the rest of the household had begun to stir, she had run off to her mother's house. She had not returned since, not even to keep the various social engagements she had previously arranged.

‘Captain!'

The tone of Linney's voice had him turning from the sideboard where he was pouring himself a brandy.

Linney's face was white.

‘What is it?' Robert demanded sharply.

In reply, the man held out the contents of the package. A bloodstained glove and a lock of dark hair. He recognised that glove. He knew that hair.

‘Deborah!'

In two strides he was taking the note that had come in the package from Linney's hand:
You stole from my client. I reckon his debts now belong to you, along with all the rest you took from him. Settle them if you want to see your wife again
.

There was no signature on the letter, and no direction on the packet.

He went cold inside. How could he pay a ransom, when he did not know who to pay it to?

‘This will be the first of a series of notes, I expect,' said Linney darkly as Robert sank to the sofa, Deborah's bloodstained glove lying limply on his open
palm. ‘This was just to get your attention. He'll send instructions as to how to pay, and how much, once he's let you stew a while.'

‘I cannot!' Robert lurched unsteadily to his feet. ‘I cannot sit here and wait for further messages, while Deborah may be suffering God alone knows what!' He looked at the bloodstained glove, his cheeks going chalk white. ‘They have already hurt her.'

‘Might just have been done for effect. Might not be her blood, sir.'

‘By heaven, it had better not be.' His expression hardened. ‘This is Lampton's doing. There is no one else that could accuse me of stealing from him. Though I had every right to claim that inheritance! It is his lying tongue that has exposed Deborah to danger! It must be!'

‘Sir, Captain sir, just think for a minute—'

‘No, I've done with thinking, and behaving and pretending to be a gentleman! I am a soldier. And I will take a soldier's solution.'

Linney swore under his breath as his master pulled open the sideboard drawers and pulled out a pair of heavy military pistols.

While he clumsily loaded them, Linney fetched a wicked-looking blade, which he hid under the folds of his coat. He helped his master into his old army greatcoat, clapped a battered forage cap upon his head, then both men plunged out into the night, side by side.

The man who opened the doors of Lampton's rooms in Albany Chambers soon lost the haughty expression he habitually wore when denying access to unwelcome
visitors. But then, nobody had ever requested entrance at gunpoint before.

‘Is your master in?' said the scar-faced ruffian on the doorstep. ‘Don't tell me any lies now.'

‘I wouldn't dream of it, sir,' he replied, nervously swallowing as he caught sight of a second, broad-shouldered man standing on the step, his back to the building as he scanned the street.

‘Show me to him, then!'

Any hope the valet had of summoning assistance for his master, who he was convinced was about to be murdered, faded when the second intruder bounded up the steps, slammed the front door behind him, and bore down upon him with grim purpose.

‘He … he's in there,' said the valet, turning white as he indicated the sitting-room door. He could not stand the sight of blood. It had been bad enough the last time, but those men had not used pistols. He really would have to think about handing in his notice. Staving off criminals was not part of his job description. Though after tonight, he would probably not have a job any longer. Resentment swelled his emaciated chest. What kind of person would employ a valet whose former master had been brutally murdered? Only the kind who sought notoriety. He had no wish to work for that sort of person. With an affronted sniff, he sat down on a settle in the narrow hall, glaring waspishly up at the thickset man who stood, arms folded, with his back to the front door.

Captain Fawley strode into the sitting room, training one of his pistols on the young man who was sprawled
on an armchair in front of the fire. He checked at the sight of Percy Lampton's face. It was covered with fading bruises and crusted scabs. The once elegant fop was bundled up in a disreputably shabby dressing gown, a bowl of what smelled like punch at his elbow, a great deal of which, judging by his heightened complexion, he had already imbibed.

‘Come to finish me off, have you, Fawley?' Lampton drawled, eyeing the pistol with weary, bloodshot eyes. ‘Don't suppose you want to hear it, but in fact, you would be doing me a favour.'

‘It would be only what you deserve,' Robert bit out coldly. ‘But I am no murderer. It is answers I want, not your blood.'

‘Just as well. Don't think there's all that much left,' Percy said, his fingers tracing over the patchwork of bruises. ‘Though I don't know what kind of answers you might want from me.'

‘I want to know who has taken my wife!'

‘Taken your wife? In what way?' he sneered. ‘Cuckolded you already, has she? Not that anyone could blame her.'

The pistol went off, shattering the punch bowl and showering shards of glass everywhere.

‘Your aim is off,' Percy taunted, flicking rum punch nonchalantly from one elegant hand, though his lips had gone white.

‘My aim is perfect,' Robert replied, pulling the second pistol from his pocket. ‘The next ball will go straight through your black heart unless you tell me what I want to know.'

‘I have no idea who your wife may have taken as her lover, nor why you should suppose it was me,' he protested. ‘I am no adulterer!'

‘No, just a seducer of innocent young girls!'

‘I have never seduced an innocent young girl!'

‘Have you forgotten Miss Hullworthy already, you rogue?'

‘I did not seduce her! I just—'

‘Led her to believe you would marry her. Toyed with her affections and broke her heart! You villain. Are there no depths to which you Lamptons will not sink? You would destroy a woman for sport—'

‘Now hang on a minute!' Percy sat forward, his brow knotting angrily. ‘A little light flirtation is hardly a crime. I gave Miss Hullworthy no assurances. If she imagined I would ever propose marriage to a woman of her class, that was entirely her own fault! And as for accusing any Lampton of acting dishonourably towards a female …'

‘Your father did! Claiming I was not my father's child was tantamount to branding my mother a whore! It destroyed her! Can you deny it?'

‘Th … that's ancient history,' Percy countered, his face darkening. ‘I had no part in that.'

‘But you are just like him! Claiming a woman is not fit to marry because of her background. No woman should be treated as you have treated Miss Hullworthy. Or as your father treated my mother. Women should be protected, cared for, not abused as though they are of no account!'

As he said it, Captain Fawley realised he meant every word. This was the creed by which he had grown up.
When had he lost that belief? When had he begun to treat women with the cynical contempt that had made him ruthlessly exploit Deborah's vulnerability so that he could exact revenge on his enemies?

It was not just his body that had been crippled at Salamanca, he suddenly saw. His mind had been warped too.

Shakily, he sank into the chair opposite Percy, his fingers clutching convulsively on the grip of his pistol. When he had first seen his face in the mirror in that makeshift hospital outside Salamanca, he had been appalled. As a youth, he had been handsome. Nobody could have looked at the mass of blistered, suppurating skin and felt anything but disgust.