Scandalous (18 page)

By standing still and looking long and carefully about
her, she was able to make out a few faint streaks of…not quite light, but paler darkness. These, she thought, must be cracks between the boards of the shed. There was in one wall a definite thin line of paleness that ran in a rectangular shape. Priscilla made her way carefully toward the traces of light, holding her hands out straight in front of her and sliding her steps across the floor. When at last her hands made contact with the wooden wall, she felt her way along to a corner and an intersecting wall. She continued, turning corners and groping her way along, until she was certain that she was in a very small room and that there were no windows.

She was trapped in the darkness, she realized, unable even to alleviate it by opening a window. Panic began to rise in her, clawing its way up her throat. Priscilla clamped her mouth shut on the scream that wanted to come out. She clenched her hands into tight fists and shoved the panic back down.

It was night, that was all, she told herself. There was nothing to fear here in this small hut. In the morning, the sunlight would come through the cracks, and she would be able to see better. She would simply have to wait. In the meantime, her family would have realized she was missing. John would know about it…if he had returned from the village.
What if they had gotten him, too?

No. She forced herself to calm down. She refused to think that way. They could not have gotten John, or else there would have been no need to take her. No doubt they hoped to bargain with him, to get him back in exchange for her. They would have perceived that it was too dangerous for them to try to take John once
they could not surprise him. That was doubtless why they had come after her.

John was free, and John would guess what had happened. He would search for her. Would he guess that she was at the same hut? Would he be able to find it?

It never occurred to her to wonder whether he would make the effort. She knew him better than that.

He would come for her. And that thought was what enabled her to remain calm in the small, dark hut as she waited for him.

J
OHN RETURNED FROM
E
LVERTON
not long after Priscilla left for Lady Chalcomb's. He grimaced when Mrs. Smithson told him where Miss Hamilton had gone, but he was not surprised. He was sure that she was angry at him for having left her behind when he went into the village this morning. He could understand that, too, but there had been no way he could go into the rough taverns and housing that he had visited today with a lady on his arm. And it was in that sort of place that he would find his quarry—or news about them.

He had found news, too, which was pleasing, but it had been of little use. The two men had been staying in rooms above a dark and dirty tavern, where they had been serviced frequently by the women who worked the streets outside. He had found three girls who got over their disappointment that John was not a prospective client and were happy to talk about the two men from London who had hired them, one of whom had blacked Maisie's eye. John had heard more than he had wanted to about the pair's sexual habits, and he had also learned that the men had cleared out of their room this morning, taking their belongings with them.

They were gone, had no doubt hurried back to London when they saw him yesterday in the village, scared that he would turn them in to the constabulary.
Now he would never find out why they had seized him or who he was. He had turned back, failure grinding at his soul. He was not used to not getting what he wanted. He was sure of that. He hated failing, and he hated the thought of facing Priscilla and telling her that he had failed. It was not that he thought she would upbraid him for it—no, the scolding would doubtless be reserved for the fact that he had gone without taking her along on the adventure. It was simply his pride; he hated to have her think he was not capable of capturing two buffoonish ruffians. It was bad enough to be penniless and nameless, to be completely dependent on Priscilla's generosity, without showing that he was incompetent, as well.

Disgruntled, he had sat down to wait for Priscilla, sure that she would take her sweet time about the visit. She would want to make sure that he returned before she did; otherwise, there would be little point in going. At first he read, but as the afternoon wore on, he became less and less able to keep his mind on the story. By tea-time he had abandoned the book altogether, and when it grew dusk, he was pacing back and forth across the sitting room like a caged animal.

Florian looked up from the book he was perusing with a pained expression. “I say. Whatever are you doing?”

“Don't you realize that she has not come home? Don't you realize how late it is?” John turned on the man with a growl.

Florian blinked, taken aback by John's ferocity. “Why, yes, it is a quarter till seven. But what has that to do with—”

“She hasn't come back yet!”

“Who?”

“Who?” John repeated in amazement. “Your daughter, that's who. Priscilla! She has been gone since early this afternoon, and she has not returned yet.”

“There is nothing unusual in that.” Florian waved away the problem. “You know how it is. You are going somewhere. Then you sit down for a spell, and pretty soon you are thinking about something, and before you know it, several hours have passed.”

John gazed at him blankly. “No. I don't know how that it is.”

“Oh.” Florian looked surprised. “Well, perhaps you aren't like that. I am. Priscilla is. She likes to daydream, think up stories, you know. She will be back before you know it. Is there something you want her to do?”

“No. But a young girl out like that for hours…there's no telling what might happen to her.”

“I shouldn't think anything would happen to her.” Florian's brow wrinkled with thought. “Pris is quite careful, you know. Never knew her to break a bone or anything. That was Gid. He was a daredevil, forever coming home with bruises and broken bones and all.”

“Other things can happen to a woman by herself.” John grated the words out through clenched teeth.

Florian looked at him in amazement. “Here? In Elverton? I wouldn't think so. It is different here, you see.”

“Different from what? The rest of the world? Have you no crime here? No assault? No—”

“My dear fellow!” Florian turned pale. “You cannot be suggesting that someone would…would… No. It's unthinkable. Everyone knows Priscilla. She is very well liked.”

John groaned at the older man's naiveté. “Priscilla is a very attractive young woman. There is always the possibility of someone passing through. I did. Those men who kidnapped me did.” He stopped, his stomach turning to ice. “Those men…”

His increasing fear had been only a general one before, the idea that something must have happened to keep Priscilla so late. But as he mentioned his kidnappers, his fear coalesced into a very real, very possible, form. The men had left their inn. But that did not necessarily mean that they had left the area. Perhaps they had moved into the woods, even taken up residence in the very shack where they had put him. One of them had seen him and Priscilla together yesterday in the village. What if they were not simply cowards who had run when they knew he had discovered them? What if they had decided to hide and catch Priscilla alone, then hold her to force him to give himself up to them?

“What are you talking about?” Florian asked, his brow now furrowed with worry. “Do you really think that Priscilla is in danger?”

“Yes. Yes, I really think so.” He turned to the older man. “I am going to look for her.”

“I will come with you.”

“No. Just get me a lantern. You stay here in case Priscilla should come home. If she does, make sure she stays put—tie her up, if you have to.”

Florian goggled at him. “I shouldn't think there would be any need for force. Priscilla is eminently reasonable.”

John grimaced. “I have no time to discuss that now. If anyone shows up with a message for me, say I went
to town today and have not gotten back yet. Don't let anyone know I am out looking for Priscilla.”

“But I don't understand…. I would think the best thing would be to enlist all the help we can.”

“No. Not yet. If I can't find her, we will get out a search party and comb the woods. But I have a fair idea where she is, if
they
have taken her.”

“Who! If
who
have taken her?” Florian's voice rose in frustration. “Good Gad, man, you are talking in riddles. What the devil is going on?”

“I'm not sure. I will explain when I get back. Just do as I asked you. Please?”

“If you really think it's so important.”

“It is. I promise you. It could mean your daughter's safety.”

Florian nodded. “All right, then. I will do as you say. Take a message, say you are in town. Keep Priscilla here if she returns.”

“Right.”

“Let me get the lantern for you.” Florian turned and led him through the house to the back door, surprisingly brisk and silent. The older man opened a cabinet door and pulled out an old lantern. Raising the side, he lit the wick, then handed the lantern to John. “Take care.”

“I will. And I hope, when I return, I will bring Priscilla with me.”

He strode out the door and through the backyard to the path behind the house that he and Priscilla had taken the day they went exploring. Priscilla had said that it was the path that led to Lady Chalcomb's manor house. He held the lantern up, looking carefully from side to side as he strode along, his long steps eating up the ground. He forced himself not to think about what
might be happening to Priscilla right now, if she was indeed in those men's hands. He had to think, had to concentrate on what he was doing, if he expected to get Priscilla back. He could not let himself be distracted.

Before long he passed the point where he and Priscilla had turned aside into the woods that day. He had not yet seen any footprints but Priscilla's. The earth was hard, and the path did not provide good tracks, but every once in a while he ran across the partial imprint of a woman's shoe. He had not yet seen the sign of any larger boot or shoe.

He hesitated, thinking of plunging into the woods to seek the shed right now, but he continued along the path. There was always the possibility that Priscilla had not been taken, but had somehow fallen and hurt herself. If she had indeed twisted an ankle, it would be no help to her if he went haring off through the woods looking for the hut. He walked on, alert to every noise in the night, to every deviation in the path. He was beginning to think that he might have to walk all the way to Chalcomb Manor when something on the path before him caught his eye.

The earth in front of him, unlike the rest of the trail, had been disturbed. The ground had been stirred up, scuffed and kicked, and the grass on either side looked as if it had been trodden on. A long, narrow rut made him think of the heel of a woman's shoe being dragged across the ground, and in the softer earth beside the trail, he could make out almost a whole bootprint, clearly large enough to be a man's. Most damning of all, a set of colored pencils lay scattered on the grass, along with a small drawing pad. Mrs. Smithson had said that
Priscilla had gone to Chalcomb Hall to copy a design for her needlework.

John's heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment he was gripped by a fear so great he could hardly move, hardly breathe.
They had seized Priscilla!
Somehow, he had hoped deep inside that his fears would turn out to be foolish, that he would find Priscilla still deep in conversation with Lady Chalcomb, or even that he would find her furious and frustrated, sitting on a rock beside the road, nursing a sprained ankle or a broken bone. But there had obviously been a struggle here, and he knew that the worst had happened. The men—his enemies, for whatever reason—had taken Priscilla.

He had to get her back.

John turned and left the path, heading straight into the trees that grew close to the path. He remembered that he and Priscilla had left the trail and headed in a northeasterly way the other day. He thought that if he walked straight ahead, he would probably intersect the path they had taken then. It would be much quicker than going back to the place where they had left the path; he only hoped that he would not be thrown off by the different angle and be unable to find the shack.

Finding the small hut in the woods was not, he knew, a very viable proposition, anyway. He had been there only twice, and he was not familiar with the area. However, he was not about to wait for morning to start searching, nor was he about to waste time raising a search party of locals. He could not bear to think what might happen to Priscilla while time went by.

He was rewarded—and relieved—a few minutes later when the light from his lantern picked up a small scrap of material caught on a thornbush, stirring in the faint
breeze. He reached out and plucked it from the thorn, rubbing it between his fingers. There was no way of telling whether it had been torn from Priscilla's dress. He did not even know what color dress she had worn that day. But this did mean that someone had passed here, and, judging by the condition of the material, it had been recently. It gave him hope, and he pressed on, on the lookout for any other signs that people had gone this way.

He found several such signs as he made his way through the dense darkness: the imprint of a man's boot in the mud, a snapped branch dangling from a tree, still moist inside with sap; another bit of cloth. And where there were no such signs, he struggled on through the trees and underbrush, hoping he was continuing in the right direction. There was a long period where he could see no sign of anyone's having passed that way, and he became certain that he had wandered from the correct path, but then he came upon a small glade that looked familiar. He sank down gratefully on the fallen tree trunk. He was certain that he and Priscilla had passed this trunk on their way to the shack.

Placing the lantern on the ground in front of him, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could see above him only a tiny slice of sky, where a few stars twinkled. He walked slowly around the clearing, cudgeling his brain for memories of the clearing and the way he and Priscilla had gone from there the other day. It seemed to him that they had walked into the clearing facing the fallen log, then walked out past it, whereas tonight he had walked in much closer to the log and to one side of it. Finally, without much confidence, he picked up the lantern and strode out past the log.

It was some time before he came upon the stream, and he could tell that he was farther downstream than he and Priscilla had been the other day. He walked along the bank of the small stream, shining the lantern on either bank, looking for footprints in the muddy area beside the creek. His pulse sped up when he saw a small trampled place on the other side of the stream. He leaped over the stream and held the lantern close to the ground. There were several prints, all of men's shoes, mingling and smeared, as if the men had slipped and struggled to regain their footing. There were no signs of a woman's shoes anywhere about.

But that, he told himself, made sense. They would have had to carry Priscilla; she would have fought too hard if she was on her feet. He surged forward through the trees with renewed strength. He was close; he was sure of it. Priscilla must have been taken to the hut. He would find her there.
And he would find the men.

His fist knotted into a ball, and a certain gleam came into his eyes. If he found the men, he would make sure that they regretted this encounter. He wished he had brought a gun; even Florian's ancient dueling pistol would have been good for whacking someone over the head.

He was sure that he must be nearing the shack. It had not been far from the stream. He brought down the panels of the lantern on all sides except the one facing him, reducing the lantern's glow to the smallest amount he needed to see his way through the darkness. His pace slowed, and he took careful steps, so that his passage through the trees was almost silent. All the while, he looked about sharply. If he were the one hiding someone in the shack, he would have one of the men sleeping and
the other keeping guard, hidden in the trees so that he could see anyone who approached the cabin.