Sweet Awakening (40 page)

“We obviously need the help of a constable,” said Sabrina. “Giles must be reported missing this morning.”

“I have thought of that, of course,” Andrew replied slowly. “But I am not sure it is the best way to go.”

“Why not, Andrewp” Clare asked quietly.

“Suppose it is as I suspect. If the proprietors hear they have the wrong man ... well, perhaps they might do him harm in order to silence him.”

“But they must know already that Giles is not you,” protested Sabrina.

“Not necessarily. I don’t think they would have kidnapped Giles personally. They would have hired someone. Giles
could
have told them who he is, of course.”

“Or he is lying unconscious or dead,” whispered Clare.

“Truly, I do not think they would murder a peer of the realm,” Andrew reassured her.

“But you have just argued that they think he is you, Andrew,” Sabrina said tartly. “If Giles may be in danger, I say we need a constable. Unless you are more afraid for the outcome of your case? It will be quite a surprise for these men when you walk into the courtroom after all.”

“Sabrina, you are being unfair,” Clare exclaimed.

“Perhaps she is right,” said Andrew, stung by the disdain in Sabrina’s voice. “I confess, that were it not a good friend, I’d be happy to know they thought I was out of the way. But Giles is my oldest friend, Sabrina. And you of all people should know me better.”

Sabrina sat very still and then in a tightly controlled voice apologized. “My only excuse, Andrew, is that I am frantic with worry. I am sure Giles is still alive. I would know if he were dead, for a part of me would have died. But I am very sure that he is in pain and in danger.”

“I understand, Sabrina,” said Andrew gently. “Actually, I think the best course to follow is to hire a Runner to do some quick investigation. Someone near my chambers may have seen something. And if it were a random act, well, the Runners would have word of a well-dressed victim, I am sure.”

“Andrew is right,” agreed Clare. “Let us get a Runner here right away. And have him work quietly. We don’t want to alarm anyone after all.”

“We are all expected at the Bellinghams’ tonight,” said Sabrina. “If Giles is absent again, it will be all over town by morning that something is wrong.”

“We will say that he was called back to Whitton for an emergency,” said Clare matter-of-factly. “Will you go to Bow Street, Andrew?”

“Immediately.”

* * * *

They were lucky, for there was a Runner available and Andrew outlined the situation for him. That first afternoon’s investigation yielded nothing, but the next morning, the Runner appeared at Andrew’s rooms, where he was, for the most part, keeping himself.

“Have you found anything at all, Ruthven?”

“Yes, sir. There was a young woman coming out of a house across the street. One of the maids. It was raining hard so she couldn’t see their faces, but she saw two men bundling a third into a hansom cab right about the time Lord Whitton would have been leaving your chambers.”

“Damn them to hell,” said Andrew. “Was he alive?”

“The young woman couldn’t tell.”

“He must have been,” said Andrew, trying to reassure himself. “Why else would they take the trouble to bundle him into a hansom?”

Neither man spoke the possible answer to that question: to drop the body elsewhere, like in the river.

“There isn’t very much for me to go on, Mr. More. My guess is that if Lord Whitton is alive, which we certainly hope, he is being held somewhere in one of the rookeries.”

“Well, you are the professional. What do we do now?”

“I could hang around 75 St. James Street and see if either or both of these villains shows up.”

“But we don’t even know what they look like.”

“The maid did say, sir, as they looked a bit like Jack Sprat and his wife. One tall and thin, and the other short and broad.” The Runner hesitated. “The problem is, sir, that these gaming hells, well, they have a nose for a constable or a Runner. I’ll never get inside, Mr. More. It could be a waste of your money to have me hanging around.”

“But if there is even the slightest chance they may contact Oldfield or one of the others, you must be there. Is there anything else we can do?”

“Short of getting someone into number 75 and choking the truth out of one of them, I can’t say there is, sir.”

“I’d be happy to do so, but I’d never make it past the first door, either! And I don’t want them to know they have the wrong man.”

* * * *

The first day in the cellar was not so bad, for Giles slept most of it away due to the aftereffects of the chloroform. He was shaken awake for supper by Mr. Toad, as he had come to think of him. Supper was a bowl of clear broth with a few vegetables floating around in it and one grisly piece of lamb. By that time, Giles’s stomach had settled, and he was hungry enough to find it edible. He was left with a small candle and a few matches, but shortly after supper he blew out the light and went to sleep.

The next morning all traces of his headache were gone, and he was beginning to feel restless. He was pacing the room when his breakfast arrived, this time delivered by his taller jailer.

“Ere ye go, gov. A bowl of porridge and a cup of coffee.”

The porridge was a gelatinous mess, burned on the bottom and with no sweetening, and the coffee had so much sugar in it that a spoon could have been stuck up in it. Giles was almost tempted to pour one upon the other, but resisted.

“How long do you intend to keep me here?" he demanded.

“Why, ye know the answer to that, Mr. More.”

“I suppose I do,” Giles admitted. He thought Andrew had said Oldfield was the name of one of the proprietors. He fervently hoped so. “Oldfield and the rest will never get away with this, you know. Nor will you.”

“Oh, hi should think they will,” the ex-pugilist said, tacitly confirming Giles’s suspicions. “And hif they don’t, we will. There ain’t nuffink to connect them to us.”

Just as the man was about to leave, Giles said: “My chamber pot needs to be emptied.”

“Why, as to that, gov, we ain’t got no downstairs maid,” replied the tall man with a wink and left.

Giles finished his breakfast and sat down on his cot. His captors did not seem to mean him harm, but this was obviously not going to be a pleasant few days.

* * * *

By the beginning of their third day of waiting for news, Sabrina and Clare were exhausted. They had decided to follow their regular schedule in order to prevent any gossip, and the effort of maintaining appearances was wearing them out. They were convinced it was worth the effort, nevertheless, since no one seemed to doubt their story about Giles’s emergency trip to Whitton.

At home, Sabrina was the one in the most obvious distress, and when Andrew visited that morning to keep them up on reports from the Runner, he was amazed at how calm Clare seemed and how distraught Sabrina was.

“Has Mr. Ruthven seen anyone ‘round St. James Street yet,” Clare asked calmly.

“No, but I think it important to keep him there.”

“Can we not do anything else, Andrew,?" demanded Sabrina. “I feel so helpless, sitting here in touch with Giles’s distress and unable to take action.”

“If you wish, I will go to St. James Street myself, Sabrina, and tell them they have got the wrong man. Maybe I should have done that immediately.” He hated watching Sabrina in this state.

“No, Andrew. We still have no evidence they are behind this,” said Clare.

“Oh, Clare,” Sabrina exclaimed, “Of course we know they are.”

“And if they are, what might they do to you and Giles if you confront them? We can’t risk it, at least not yet.” Clare put her arms around Sabrina. “We know through you that Giles is still alive, Brina. We will just have to assume that they will release him as soon as they realize their mistake.” Clare turned to Andrew. “Sabrina has been pacing the drawing room for an hour. A walk in the park is just what she needs, and I do not have the energy. Would you take her, Andrew?”

“Of course. Clare is right, Sabrina. You need to get out.”

Sabrina offered a token protest, and then allowed herself to be convinced.

After they had gone, Clare went up to her bedchamber and stood by the window. The small garden below was gray-green and brown. The crab apple tree in the corner had dropped all its leaves but not its fruit, and was heavy with small golden crabs. On another day, Clare might have appreciated the picture, but despite her calm appearance, she, too, was fearful for Giles’s safety.

She had spoken the truth to her sister-in-law: she did trust Sabrina’s feeling that Giles was not dead. But what did they know of these men after all? Did they really plan to release “Andrew More” after the trial? It would be dangerous for them not to, it was true. Yet they seemed to have covered themselves well. They seemed to have hired two ruffians with no direct connection to the gaming hell or themselves. What might these ruffians do to Giles?

Of course, if they knew they had Lord Whitton, the kidnappers at least might be more interested in collecting a ransom. But Clare knew Giles very well: he would surely have guessed why he had been taken, and would never dream of spoiling Andrew’s case by identifying himself. He was a dear, chivalrous idiot, thought Clare, her eyes filling up with tears.

She would
not
cry. She had not cried yet, although Sabrina had. But if any harm came to Giles, she did not know how she would survive.

She stood there for a while, lost in thought, and then rang for Martha. When her abigail arrived, Clare gave her a wintry smile. “I need you to accompany me to Bruton Street, Martha.”

“Bruton Street?”

“Yes. We are going to purchase a pistol.”

* * * *

The shop attendant was surprised to see a lady of quality at his counter. It was not the fact that she wanted to purchase a pistol; their gunsmiths had designed several lovely little guns that fit right in a lady’s reticule. But ladies of the ton usually sent their husbands or brothers. It was rarely that one actually stepped into the shop.

“I have a beautiful mother-of-pearl-handled pistol that would fit comfortably in your hand, my lady.”

Clare let him drop it in her palm and closed her hand around it. She shuddered as the movement brought back the evening of Justin’s death.

“It is very small,” she managed to whisper.

“Why, yes, just the right size for a lady’s reticule.”

“How effective is it?”

The clerk looked puzzled. “It will afford you protection, my lady, should anyone try to become too bold, shall we say.”

“Yes, I can see that it might discourage unwanted suitors. But I am looking for something a bit more substantial. Something that would be frightening to a criminal type.”

Martha and the clerk exchanged surprised glances.

“Hmmm.”

“You see, I am going on a journey alone to join my husband, and although I will have outriders, I would be grateful for a pistol I can keep with me in the coach. Against highwaymen, you understand.”

“Of course, of course. Well, in that case, here is something that may fit your needs. It will fit into a muff or a small basket next to you.”

Clare balanced the pistol in her hand. It was smaller than Justin’s pair, but looked lethal enough.

“And bullets?”

“Of course. I can show you how to load it.”

“There is no need for that,” Clare announced. “My ... uh ... brother can give me lessons before I leave. If you could just load it for me now, please.”

“Oh, I do not recommend that you walk around with a loaded gun, my lady,” the clerk said, rather horrified.

“Nevertheless, I wish to purchase it loaded,” Clare said insistently.

“Yes, my lady.”

* * * *

When they were out on the street again, Martha stepped in front of her mistress.

“Now just what is this all about, my lady? Whatever do you need a pistol for? And don’t try to give me that cock-and-bull story of a long journey to meet your husband. We all in the servants’ hall know that something has happened to Lord Whitton.” Martha had both hands on her hips, and Clare laughed naturally for the first time since Giles had disappeared.

“Oh, thank God for you, Martha,” she said.

Martha belatedly became conscious of how she sounded and how she was standing.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. But I am right, nevertheless.”

“I know you only want to protect me, Martha. But I cannot think of another way to do this, truly I cannot. Believe me, I had thought never to even look at a pistol again. I cannot tell you what I am planning to do, but you must trust that I can take care of myself. And, I hope, my husband.”

By the third day of captivity, Giles would have welcomed any rescuer. The cellar room was fetid with its own ancient odors as well as the unemptied chamber pot.

His captors had not seemed personally hostile at first. Indeed, he told himself daily, they were not personally hostile now: just hostile. When he had asked to have the chamber pot removed, Mr. Toad just laughed in a particularly nasty way and said: “Do hi look loike a chambermaid? This ain’t Fenton’s, gov. Hif you are filling that up, we will ‘ave to stop filling you up. Hit’ll cost us less in the keeping of you.”

And so they had, on the second day, cut him back to two meals and only one pitcher of water.

When he asked for a book, or at least a piece of paper and a pen, they laughed in his face.

This was
not,
he realized, only going to be a matter of sitting tight for a few days.

He had never been so powerless before, so at the mercy of another’s whims. He spent the days trying to remember and recite every bit of poetry he had been made to learn. He paced the floor and declared Aristophanes
The Frogs
in Greek, which seemed singularly appropriate, given the physiognomy of George.

At night he tried to sleep. But he was becoming increasingly anxious about his safety. His deception had seemed so obvious and simple at first, but now he wondered why he had ever done it. Yet if he claimed his own identity now, they would likely not believe him.