Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (13 page)

“Ah? What does Robert do?” Casimir asked.

“Control.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Imogen had spent a good deal of her life on ships, so she knew that the horrid feeling in the pit of her stomach was dread rather than seasickness. In the close quarters of the boat, she felt the press of the men’s feelings constantly. Their avarice and lust had washed over her for hours, and she knew that she would never have survived a life immersed in the baser parts of society. She tried to focus, instead, on the energy of the three women with her. They seemed unconcerned with the rough men, preferring to chat amongst themselves as though standing at a
ton
ball, instead in a cabin of a dirty Channel boat in the middle of the night. It should not have taken so long to cross the Channel, and Imogen imagined they were sailing near the coast looking for a particular port. A talent usually only practiced by smugglers and thieves.

“Don't you agree, Miss Grant?”

Imogen was pulled from her reverie by the duchess's voice.

“Beg pardon?”

“The fashionable colors for young ladies are far too dull.”

Imogen had to grin. Who discussed fashion in such dire circumstances? The Duchess of Beloin, it would seem. “I'm not to be trusted on the subject of color, your grace. My travels have made me favor the bold fabrics of China and India.”

The duchess gasped and grabbed the countess's arm. For a moment Imogen was scared by the wave of shock, but then she heard the duchess say, “That's what I want. Red Chinese silk.”

“With a pattern?” Imogen asked.

“Yes, some sort of a pattern, something classic.”

“I have a bolt of red with trees and cherry blossoms,” Imogen said. “It's yours if we make it out of here alive.”

“Really! Well, I must have it.”

Imogen glanced at a sailor that passed far too close. “Just remember my conditions.”

Sabre smiled. “You'll make a fine viscountess.”

“I have no interest in being a viscountess.”

“I didn't want to be a countess,” their pregnant friend offered.

“Sabre definitely wanted to be a duchess,” the blonde one added.

“I was willing to settle for it, seeing as I got Quince in the bargain,” the duchess agreed.

“You realize you're all mad,” Imogen said.

“Quite mad,” the duchess agreed with a smile.

While the women continued to chatter, the blonde, George, took the duchess's arm and began to trace a pattern on it with her fingertip. Imogen couldn't imagine what the two might be doing, but as they seemed intent on making it appear they were empty-headed Society misses she wasn't about to ask. Then she heard the Captain call for the ship to be made ready for dock and knew that the next challenge in their trial was upon them.  

* * *

Robert looked up at the stars and counseled himself to be calm. The men needed him to lead them. To keep them focused, keep them from pursuing misguided plans. Not that he knew where they were going yet. A ship. It could mean anything from a simple trip up the English coast to sailing across to the continent to, well, going anywhere. He needed to think. To stop obsessing over Miss Grant's betrayal. How had he ever believed himself a good judge of character? First Sims, now Miss Grant. First nearly losing George, now losing all of them. After Sims he should have become more circumspect, less sure of his own judgment.

With the thought of Sims, all of his dormant rage and grief rose up within him. Damn the man. Damn him for his betrayal and for what he had wrought. Yes, Robert had blood on his hands, as Miss Grant had accused. None of it innocent blood, but there was so much of it. Death and betrayal and lies within lies. That was all his life had become.

“Robert?”

His brother's voice carried quietly in the chilly night air, but it still made Robert suck in a breath. He had been so trapped in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard Charlie approach.

“Yes?” he asked tersely. 

“John says he can show us where the boat launched from. He's hopeful we can find the carriage and horses as well.”

“Very well.”

“Do you still want me to go home?”

Robert was silent for a moment, pondering. He wouldn't risk Charlie. Couldn't. He had been protecting his brother his whole life. “I haven't decided yet,” he admitted.

“Good enough. John and I will ready the horses. We should be able to ride out within an hour.”

“I thought you wanted to stop for the night.”

“That was when I thought there wasn't any particular place for us to go.”

“Seeing where the ship set sail isn't likely to give us the information we need.”

Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “One step at a time, eh? Have something to eat while I work on the horses.”

It was a good reminder that while Robert excelled at planning, Charlie excelled at taking life one day at a time. “You mean you left something on the sideboard?”

“There are a few crumbs you might sustain yourself with. Provided Gideon didn't eat them already.”

“I assumed he would be drinking his dinner.”

“There's a fair bit of that, but his angel is hovering over him.”

“Then I'd best go in before they finish it all off.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

After docking, there had been an interminable wait as transportation was secured. Imogen fretted while the Haberdashers continued to chat. They were bundled into another carriage, but this time the leader of their abductors joined them. He sat between Sabre and George. Imogen sat beside Jack and they threaded their fingers together, each wanting to give and receive comfort.

“So, your grace,” the brigand said, back to his falsely genial tone, “introduce me to your friends.”

“Well, this is George and Jack and Gen. Who might you be, sir?”

“You may call me Jean. But surely these women must be of some import to travel with a duchess?”

“Friends from Derbyshire, and cousin of friends in London.”

“It sounds like you have a great many friends, your grace.”

“I assure you that I do.”

“I have only to deliver you to my employer. Perhaps I will hold on to your friends and see what value they might be to me.”

Imogen felt her stomach drop to her knees. She couldn't decide which was worse, delivery unto this mysterious employer, or remaining with this man who set her teeth on edge and made her feel like washing to remove the memory of him.

“I must warn you that if your employer is my father, he would be most put out if harm came to any of these women.”

Her statement surprised a chuckle out of Jean. “You think your own father would do this thing?”

“If you think he wouldn't, then you obviously haven't met him.”

“My apologies, little feisty one, but perhaps I have not met your father.”

“The man you work for,” the countess said, “is he of middling height, plain, and wears a pin about this size?” She held up her fingers to form a small circle. “It looks something like a snake swallowing its tail and has a red stone in the center.”

That served to sober their captor. “You know this man?”

“My husband and I banished him from England,” Sabre said. “We warned him that if he should try to interfere with our affairs again that he would come to an unpleasant end. Obviously he did not believe us.”

“For one so tiny and,” the brigand’s eyes swept over the duchess’s assets appreciatively, “feminine, you have a terrible mouth. This father you speak of, perhaps he did not discipline you enough?”

“I would never dream of speaking to my father the way I speak to you. I respect him.”

Imogen could see the man’s anger flare again and thought that the only reason he didn’t immediately strike Sabre was the fact that he was too tightly wedged between the two women on the seat. Instead, he put his hand on the duchess’s throat. “You will learn to respect me.”

Imogen sat forward and put her hand on the brigand’s arm. “Stop it! Please.”

His arm flew, backhanding her and sending her crashing against the seat. Her face felt like it was on fire and her head ached where it rapped against the carriage wall. Tears sprang to her eyes. She wasn’t sure quite how the duchess stood up so quickly after the man hit her earlier.

She heard the young noblewoman’s voice, brusque and vicious. “Treat me how you like, but if you touch her again it will be to forfeit your life.”

“Stop threatening me, you mewling sow.”

“They aren’t threats, they’re warnings.”

He turned more fully toward the duchess, putting his hand more securely on her throat. Imogen could feel his murderous rage. She tried to struggle forward again, but the countess held her back.

The blonde called out, “Sabre?”

The duchess nodded, but the blonde couldn’t see her. The countess said tightly, “Yes, George.”

It was a moment before Imogen realized quite what had happened. The blonde drew the man’s own knife from his belt and stabbed him in quick jabs to his back. So quick, that he didn’t react at first. The pain sliced through him and Imogen could feel it herself. When he turned to face the blade, the blonde lunged with all of her weight behind her, driving the knife up though his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and thick. He collapsed back against the duchess, his body writhing and twitching. Imogen felt bile rise up. The violence and death washed over her, through her, like waves of a dirty tide. The two women pushed him to the floor while the countess held Imogen close. She realized she was whimpering and curling up against the calm, steady presence of the woman next to her.

“Have a care,” the countess said. “Miss Grant told us that she’s very sensitive.”

“
I’m
very sensitive,” the duchess countered, her voice cold and vicious. “Having myself and my friends abducted upsets me.”

“Only eight left,” the blonde pointed out.

“And possibly no real leader among them,” the countess added.

The carriage began to slow. “Drat,” the duchess said, peeking out the window, “just as we were considering a new plan, it seems we’ve arrived.”

“We could have surprise on our side if we come out fighting,” George pointed out.

“What if there are more men here?” the duchess asked. “Where would we go as we left? How would we travel? Do you have a plan for all those things?”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t have a plan for, and that’s staying at their mercy.”

“We are at no one's mercy,” Sabre insisted. “We are biding our time.”

There was a knock at the carriage door and the duchess pushed it open, stepping out without assistance.

“See to your man,” she said breezily, as though handing her wrap to a footman. “He seems to have fallen on his knife.”

Imogen darted out of the carriage, trying not to touch him, and fell to her knees beside the carriage wheel, retching. All of this was outside of her experience. What world did these women live in? What had Robert Bittlesworth involved her in? When she had sensed death on him she should have broken their acquaintance. She should have left for Scotland early, not dallied in England with a dangerous man. She heard shouting in French, anger and commotion. The maelstrom of it all was too much, and she clung to the side of the carriage, wishing to be elsewhere. After a time she felt comforting hands on her shoulders and knew that it was the countess. How did a woman of such apparent compassion survive in this hellish place?

“Come, Miss Grant.”

Imogen stumbled to catch up to the rest of her party as they ascended stone steps in the misty, early morning light.

* * *

Encouraged by the additional information from John, the men pressed on to the dock. A tavern stood nearby, dim candlelight still burning even in these wee hours of the morning. Robert had the men wait in the stable yard as he and John went inside seeking information. He hoped that John might recognize anyone who had been near the ship when it had sailed.

“Master Robert,” John whispered tensely shortly after they entered. “That man in the corner. He was one of the brigands that ambushed us!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay here.”

While John loitered in the shadows of the entryway, Robert strolled over to the barkeep and chatted for a few moments. Ale in hand, he moved on to the man John had indicated.

“Heard you were looking for someone.”

The man looked up, a bit bleary.
“Oui,
but the dog is doubtless long gone by now.”

“Is there a reward?”

“Non.
If there was, I would have looked harder!” He chuckled, well entertained by his own joke.

“Perhaps you will be interested in a reward, then.”

The man tried to focus. “Reward?” he asked.

“Yes, if you tell me where the ship was going.”

“The ship?” He had the befuddlement of a man not sure how the conversation had veered into new territory.

“The one carrying those girls you kidnapped earlier.”

The man's eyes widened as his foggy brain began to comprehend what he was being asked. “I don't know what you mean, 
monsieur.”

“I'm sure you do. The first reward on the table is your miserable life. Certainly that is a reward you would like to earn?”

The man stood, a bit too suddenly for the amount of spirits he had consumed this evening. It was clear he was trying to decide whether to fight or run.

“My men are outside,” Robert cautioned. “Although I can assure you that if you don't give me what I want, you will never make it far enough to meet them.”

The threat proved too much for the man, who reached for his sword. Or tried to, with limited success. Robert sighed and spun him into the wall, stunning him. The drunk was docile enough that Robert was able to push him, stumbling, towards the door. Tossing a few coins to the proprietor, Robert said, “For your trouble.”

John skittered out of the way and Robert steered the man towards the stable yard.

“What have we here?” Casimir greeted them.

“One of the men who abducted the girls.”

Unsurprisingly, the earl was the first to react, planting the brigand a facer. The drunk went down in the stable yard muck like a sack of grain.