The Accidental Abduction (2 page)

“You'll let Mother and Father know?” he asked instead. “I need to be . . . somewhere else.”

He heard Fiona agreeing, but didn't bother to look back. Instead, he retrieved his hat where he'd left it on the hall table and headed out into the street. What he needed was a drink or a dozen, and to be away from women.

Harry settled his hat lower on his head and across the square toward St. James Street, and the one place he could be sure of an entirely masculine welcome.

When Harry arrived at the Silk Road Club, it wasn't even ten o'clock, and the club room was less than half full. Most of the members would still either be home at dinner, or out on the town. But Nathaniel Penrose was there, and he raised his glass as Harry walked in. Harry grunted in answer and headed directly for the sideboard and its collection of bottles. Most of the club members were merchants of one sort or the other, and club rules required they help keep the cellars stocked. This meant that the Silk Road had some of the best, and hardest to find, spirits in London, which was exactly what Harry wanted.

He'd hoped the walk here would help clear his head, but the more he played the farce of his proposal over in his thoughts, the harder bitterness dug into him. Wine, port, and brandy were all far too weak for what he needed. He unstoppered the scotch whiskey.

“I take it things did not go well,” said Nathaniel. Nathaniel was not in trade, at least not directly. He worked with the naval office, but he never said exactly what he did there. It was widely suspected it involved ferretting out smugglers and insurance frauds, but if anyone knew for sure, they held their peace on the subject.

Harry poured a good two fingers into a glass and swallowed it down in one burning gulp. He set the glass down with a sharp clack, and poured another.

“That bad?”

Harry saluted Nathaniel with his glass, and knocked back the second whiskey. “You can't be serious, Mr. Rayburn,” he drawled.

“Ouch. Better bring that over here.”

Harry collected glass and bottle and dropped into the chair beside Nathaniel. “What the hell was I thinking?” he demanded.

“You weren't.” Nathaniel took up the bottle before Harry could, and poured out two measures of whiskey, both, Harry noted grumpily, rather smaller than the ones he'd just downed. “It's what girls like that count on.”

“You are speaking of the love of my life Miss Agnes Featherhead.” No. That wasn't right. He shouldn't call her that. Christ and damn, he didn't even have the excuse of being drunk yet. It must be the heartbreak. Heartbreak made a man mean.

“Harry, everybody makes an ass of himself once in a while. This was just your turn.”

“The consolations of philosophy.” Harry raised the glass in a toast and gulped down the drink.

Nathaniel shrugged. “It's true. Eventually, every man meets a woman who makes him go out of his mind.”

“I thought that was this ‘true love' I keep hearing about.” He reached for the whiskey, but somehow, Nathaniel had gotten there first, again, and was pouring his own glass, and taking his own damn time about it.

“No. True love doesn't make you loose your wits. It lets you find them.” He refilled Harry's glass—in that same confounded leisurely fashion, and nowhere near far enough—but Harry couldn't exactly snatch the decanter out of the man's hand. Not here in London, where he was nice, steady, boring Harry.

“I don't know what came over me.” Harry stared into his glass. “It's not like I'm some schoolboy. I was only even at that ball because of Fi. But when I saw Agnes she seemed . . . perfect.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “There's marriage in the air. When a man like Philip Montcalm finally takes to it, the rest of us bachelors start looking about and saying ‘Perhaps it's time.'” Nathaniel spoke the name of their mutual friend, and the man who had, until recently, been known about town as “the Lord of the Rakes.” “The next thing you know, you see some young lovely who's everything you've been told to want, and that's that.”

Was Nathaniel right? Had Harry wanted Agnes just because she'd
seemed
perfect? The idea left him with a very bad taste in his mouth and Harry took another swallow of whiskey to wash it away. What if the real problem was that he hadn't remembered, or hadn't bothered, to look beyond appearances?

No. That couldn't possibly be what had happened.

Could it?

Harry felt his eyes narrow. “Don't tell me
you
ever fell for some little English rose . . .”

“All right, I won't tell you. Point is, Harry, you're no more a fool than thousands of others.” Nathaniel paused and eyed Harry over the rim of his glass. “Unless there's something else behind all this?”

“No, nothing.”

“Because to some of your friends, it looked like the whole thing proceeded in a tremendous hurry, especially for someone who always talked about how love should be the lifeline of the heart . . .”

“I said there's nothing behind it.”
Nothing at all
, he repeated to himself. Then he had to tell himself it was just the whiskey making that feel like a lie. “I thought I fell in love and I thought she did, too. Apparently I was wrong, but as you say, I was no more wrong than thousands of others.”

“If that's really it then, finish your drink, be thankful for a narrow escape, and next time find someone who wants Harry Rayburn, not Lord Byron or Dick Turpin.”

“They should advertise,” said Harry. “Or wear signboards. ‘Maiden seeks dashing highwaymen, no plodders need apply.'”

Nathaniel chuckled. “I think the chaperones might prefer it. Maybe the matchmaking mamas could post the notices over those little chairs where the candidates sit.”

“
Women!
” sneered Harry, lifting his glass high.

“Women!” echoed the entire room.

Dear Mrs. Wakefield:

I am writing to request the favor of a private interview, tomorrow. There is a matter that has long been on my mind to discuss with you. As it intimately concerns the future security and well-being of yourself and those to whom you are most nearly connected, I am certain you will find the proposal acceptable.

I intend to call at four o'clock. I trust I will find you at home.

Your servant,

Terrance Valloy

L
eannah Morehouse Wakefield laid the letter down on the desk. Had there ever, she wondered, been a declaration of intent less calculated to rouse tender sentiment in a maiden's bosom?

Not that Leannah could be considered a maiden by any stretch of the imagination—especially once her five years of marriage and another year of widowhood had been taken into account. Neither did she harbor any idea of romance ever playing a part of her life. Still, it would have been nice if Terrance had made some small effort to sound more like a suitor and less like a solicitor.

This unfortunate thought brought with it the equally unfortunate image of Mr. Valloy seated behind his vast desk and handing across a marriage license tied in red ribbon.
Everything's quite in order. You just say, “I will,” and the matter's settled. You will? Excellent.

Leannah's late husband had been far older than she, but he had done his level best to be good to her. Still, there had been a point when she hoped any second marriage might be more compatible, perhaps even more passionate. In her private heart, she longed for a union where she was not seen as a girl to be indulged, cosseted, and, not to put too fine a point on it, bred. She had thought, perhaps, that if there was to be a next time, it might be with someone who knew the ways in which she longed to be touched and who understood how to ease the deep ache that came when she was alone.

Now I'm just being ridiculous.
Leannah made herself look again at the ledger where she'd been entering the household accounts.
Romance is for those who can afford it. Terrance will make a civil, amiable, and steady husband. That is what I need.

What
we
need.
Leannah closed the ledger so she would not have to see all the red ink she'd entered just this evening. She'd let the fire burn down to its last coals and was working by lamplight with two shawls over her shoulders and her thickest stockings and slippers on her feet. Although it was finally April, the weather had yet to turn warm. She yearned to go up to bed and burrow under her quilts, but Genevieve hadn't returned yet. Leannah wouldn't be able to sleep a wink until she was sure her sister was safely home.

But she had finished the accounts, and she felt too tired to read. That meant the only thing left was to answer Mr. Valloy's note, and assure him she would be at home when he arrived at four tomorrow.

Today,
she reminded herself. She glanced at the clock. It was almost two.

“Leannah?” A man's anxious voice reverberated through the study door. “Leannah?”

Oh, no.
Leannah rose at once and hurried out into the cold, dark hallway.

“Leannah?”

Octavian Morehouse Leannah's father, stood on the stairway landing. His dressing gown hung open over his nightshirt, and his thick gray hair stood wildly on end. He swayed on his bare feet, looking about him like a child who had lost his way.

“I'm here, Father.” Leannah hurried up the stairs to grasp his hands. “I'm right here.”

It took his pale green eyes a moment to focus on her. “I couldn't sleep,” he said. “I thought they were looking for me again and . . .”

“Shhh.” Leannah patted his hands, appalled to feel how cold they were. “It's all right now. There's no one here but us.”

“Leannah?” A new voice drifted down from overhead. “Is something wrong?”

This time it was Jeremy, the youngest of the Morehouse siblings, leaning over the upstairs railing and rubbing hard at his eyes with the heel of one hand.

“No, nothing's wrong.” Young boys were supposed to sleep deeply, but her brother never had. This, combined with a youth's unerring instinct to head straight for wherever the most trouble might be, made it impossible to protect him from scenes such as this. “You can go back to bed, Jeremy. Father, come into the study. You'll catch cold out here.”

“I'm sorry,” Father murmured as he let her lead him down the stairs. He hadn't brought so much as a candle with him. Given the way his hands shook, however, that was probably for the best.

Leannah sat him on the end of the sofa closest the hearth and set about building up the fire.

“There now, that's better.” She tried to sound cheerful as the fresh flames sprang up, but the collier's bill was on the desk along with all the others. “You take a moment to warm yourself.”

Father stretched his trembling hands out to the fire, rubbing them over and over as if trying to clean off some stain. Leannah looked away. She didn't want him to see her expression just then.

When she'd been a girl, Leannah's father had seemed a giant of a man. He could carry her and Genevieve together—one on either shoulder. She'd loved his booming laugh, and the way everything around him was always the best, the finest, the grandest. The Morehouses were the flower of England, his daughters the fairest and the finest girls. When Jeremy arrived, Father held the infant up high, declaring before the entire neighborhood that his son was the brightest of boys and his future was limitless.

But that was all long ago. Father's collapse had left him a bent and haggard old man whose spotted skin hung loosely off his bones. He looked lost in his own dressing gown. Leannah suddenly hated the worn, forest green garment. She should buy him a new one. And a new nightshirt. He shouldn't have to wear those old, flapping things.

She looked down at her own frayed sleeves and tugged them over her wrists.

“Are the curtains closed?” asked Father.

“Yes, Father. Closed tight. Try not to make yourself anxious.”

“I don't want to be seen. I don't want to hurt anyone. You won't let me hurt you anymore?”

“No, Father. You cannot hurt us.”

“But I can. You don't know. I keep reading the papers. I see the numbers and the reports of the markets. I keep thinking if only I had a little money, I could do so much for us. I start thinking how to get it, and it all begins again, all the schemes and the plans.”

“I won't let anything happen, Father.” At the same time, she thought irritably:
Who let you have the newspapers? I'll have to speak to Bishop about it.

The problem was, Bishop had so much else to do. He was the man of all work, and their only servant now besides Mrs. Falwell. Father needed a real nurse who could watch over him properly and be there when he got anxious like this.

Leannah tugged on her frayed sleeves again.
And this is exactly why I have to make up my mind to say yes to Terrance Valloy.

“Close the drapes, Leannah. Please,” whispered Father.

She moved behind him and gripped the puce curtains—a horrid color but they'd come with the furnished house—and rattled the rings. “There, Father,” she said. “It's done. Please try to rest.”

“You're a good girl,” he said. “I wanted to be a good father, but I failed in that as well.”

Leannah's head was aching. She had to distract him. If he fell into one of his brown studies, there'd be no sleep for anyone tonight. She tried to be gentle, to be forbearing, but sometimes it all felt impossibly hard, especially when there was so much else to do just to keep the house running and looking after Jeremy and Genevieve.

“I thought we might go driving tomorrow,” Leannah said. Never mind that she'd just spent the last half hour trying to decide whether it would be best to finally sell the team and the barouche, or if they could cut expenses far enough by just selling the saddle horse, Bonaparte. “I think we all deserve an outing, don't you?”

“I'd like to see you drive,” he said. “Do you remember the Lady Day races back home? I was always so proud of you.”

No one's going to beat a Morehouse at a race. You get right back up there.
Leannah bowed her head. As a child, she hadn't minded how much time Father had made her spend learning to handle a team. She'd basked in his pride, and driving fast always felt like flying, like freedom. Even now, when she knew all about the cost of the lessons, the horses, and the carriages, and when she understood all of that money had been thrown away on the exercise of pure pride, she still missed it.

“Well, that's settled,” she said. “If the weather holds, we'll all go out. The snowdrops are blooming in the park, and Gossip and Rumor certainly need the exercise.”
I can put the stables off for another week. When Father's calmer, I'll be able to talk to him sensibly. If we sell the team, we can sell the carriage, too, and keep Bonaparte for Jeremy, and maybe me . . .

“Where's Genevieve?” asked Father suddenly. “She shouldn't be out so late.”

“Genevieve's at the Fosters' charity concert, Father. I told you about it.” Genevieve had been glad to go, too, even though she hated charity evenings, and even though Leannah had insisted she take Mrs. Falwell with her as an extra chaperone.

“Oh, yes, that's right, you did.” Father patted the chair arm restlessly. “Well. She'll be home soon then.”

“Yes.” Leannah glanced at the clock. In fact, Genevieve should already be home. Worry stirred in her. She pushed it aside. Probably her sister was lingering with friends over punch and ices. After a solid two weeks at home, Genny deserved an evening out. Especially now that she'd given up pestering everybody about Mr. Dickenson. Genevieve was a good girl, but she had all the Morehouse stubbornness. Well, Leannah's position regarding Mr. Dickenson had been made quite plain, and that whim was finished. Now Genevieve would be able to meet a man who would want her for the right reasons. Perhaps a political man. That would suit Genny very well. But in any case, he must be a man with whom she could be herself.

Not that I've provided her the best example on that score.
Leannah very deliberately did not glance back at the desk, and the letter from Mr. Valloy.

“Would you like me to read to you, Father?” she asked. “Or would you rather just sit quietly?”

Father looked up at her, and after what seemed like great effort, he managed a smile. “I think I'll just be quiet a bit now, Leannah. I'm feeling much better already. You get on with your work.”

Leannah drew a deep breath. She needed to tell him how matters stood between her and Mr. Valloy. She'd put that off for far too long, and she really didn't want it to come as any kind of a shock when Terrance asked to speak to him tomorrow. She needed him to understand the matter was settled and entirely for the best.

But before she could find the words, Leannah heard the soft but distinct sound of floorboards creaking outside the door.

“There, that's Genevieve now,” she told him instead.
If it's not Jeremy creeping down to eavesdrop.
But then, Jeremy knew precisely which of the rented house's boards creaked by now. Come to that, so did Genevieve. “I'll just go bring her in, and you can say good night.”

Leannah took up the lamp and went back out into the hall. She was just in time to see an aging woman dressed all in black put her foot on the first stair.

“Mrs. Falwell!” cried Leannah, and Mrs. Falwell spun around. She clapped her hand against her mouth and her watery eyes grew wide. “Where's Genevieve!”

But Leannah needed no answer. Mrs. Falwell's shock told her everything. Genny was gone, with Mr. Anthony Dickenson. She hadn't given up on her whim after all.

Genevieve was on her way to Gretna Green.