A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (22 page)

             
Chapter 32

              Lady Delia had at last finished her manuscript and sat, waiting in the well-appointed front saloon of Lady Burke’s town house for her future husband to visit her. She had written requesting an audience with him, given that her novel was finished, and she needed to meet with her publisher and editor. She was not sure what to tell Lady Burke and had requested the Marquess wait on her and, she admitted, she had not seen him alone since she had left Durham House.

             
When Lord Durham was shown into the room, he looked as achingly beautiful as ever; his dark hair just barely curled over the pale, straw color of his jacket and his snow-white breeches were impeccable. Lady Delia tried not to think about how she had removed a very similar pair only days before. When he came into the room, he smiled at her, but remained formal, only kissing her hand. Lady Delia was confused again. They were alone. Why did he act so?

             
“My dear future husband,” she said lightly, trying to pull him closer.

             
“My dear Lady Delia,” replied Lord Durham, holding her gently, but firmly, at a distance a few inches from his chest. “Will you not sit?” he gestured to a chair.

             
“Of course,” Lady Delia replied, determined not to be rattled by his formality.

             
“I am happy to hear that you have finished your manuscript,” he began.

             
“Are you? I was afraid you’d be displeased. I am not sure, after all, that you entirely approve of my occupation as authoress,” Lady Delia said, unsure if she ought to press him again to approve of her desired occupation.

             
“We will of course need to discuss the matter further once we are married,” The Marquess answered, “but I can hardly deny you the joy of finishing a project on which you have labored so long.”

             
“I give you thanks, my lord,” replied Delia, still a bit off kilter, “for your generosity. But compliments are not why I requested this audience. I am afraid I simply must meet with my publisher to review the final details of my manuscript.”

             
“My dear Lady Delia, I’m afraid you must know that as you are now quite well known and celebrated as my future Marchioness, it is quite impossible for you to be gallivanting about the city, tossing off manuscripts of romantic literature hither and thither.  Most especially when a visit to a publisher would immediately identify you as the author of
Annabelle’s Adventures
and by default, give credence to the rumors we have worked so steadfastly to quash.”

             
“But my lord,” she began, “I cannot simply do nothing! They are expecting it!”

             
“Well, I am quite sure that is the case. However, if you would like to draft a message to the effect that the finished manuscript has been delayed and you will be able to deliver it after the first of the year, by which time I can arrange for a more private audience, then I should be happy to deliver it.”

             
“Mason!” Delia’s voice rose and she used his Christian name out of desperation, “I cannot postpone delivery even another week! I will lose my readership!”

             
“It hardly seems to signify,” replied her betrothed, “given that you are no longer in need of a means of support for yourself.”

             
“But I’m
proud
of what I’ve done and how the books have sold! I do not wish to give that up. It makes me happy to write and I wish to continue! If I prove to be a flighty and inconsistent author, I assure you I will not easily be able to find another publisher.”

             
“My dear, I do sympathize,” said Lord Durham. “But I cannot have you wandering about alone and unprotected in this city until we discover the whereabouts of Rosewood. And I cannot accompany you to the publishers, nor can Lady Burke, without immediately exciting suspicion that you are, in fact, the authoress of
Annabelle’s Adventures.
I am very much afraid that as distressing as it might be for you, you must postpone the novel’s release.”

             
“You do not understand!” protested Delia, tears pricking her eyes.

             
“I do understand your disappointment. I just do not understand your desire to put yourself and everything we have worked for in danger.”

             
She sighed. “I see that I cannot convince you of the necessity of this outing. I do hope, however, that you appreciate my willingness to consult you in the first place. When we are married, I trust I will have a bit more in the way of freedom over my own affairs?” Her chin went up and her pink cheeks, usually colored with a blush, were instead glowing with anger.

             
“My dear Lady Delia, I can assure you that I have no interest in supervising your daily affairs. However as my wife, I expect you to comport yourself with a decorum appropriate to your station.” The Marquess’ unhappiness with the interview was increasing by the moment. 

             
“Do not again suggest that my behavior is improper! I have done nothing but protect my own—“

             
“I am not!” Mason said energetically, “I would never suggest that—not again. I only ask that you please trust me. For just a little longer.”

             
Lady Delia recognized the subtle plea in his voice but was extremely vexed with his stubbornness and refusal to countenance the importance of the prompt delivery of her manuscript. She grimaced.

“I will, my lord,” said Lady Delia, rather tersely. “And I will trust you will still permit me to keep my engagement with dear Lady Harriet, to shop this afternoon in Bond Street? We are, I believe, to take several footmen with us as protection.”

              Lord Durham felt like an ass but could not apologize without taking her in his arms, which would be disastrous for them both, as he felt at this point a distinct possibility that touching her would lead to the immediate requisition of a door that locked.

             
“Of course, my dear. I have no intention of spoiling your outing with my sister. She is, in fact, most likely on her way in the phaeton as we speak.”

             
“I am pleased to hear that, my lord. I was looking forward to the shopping trip and did not relish the prospect of giving it up.”

             
“I would never propose to limit a pleasure of yours.”

             
Delia could not help but snort.

“You are limiting my pleasure as we speak by keeping me from publishing my book!” And, she thought, by refusing to touch and caress and kiss her. But he was prevented from answering as at that moment, Lady Harriet Broadstone was introduced and, after a short admonishment to the
ladies discouraging profligacy, he took his leave.

“I shall see you this evening,” he said to Lady Harriet and Lady Delia, “at Lady Ledgerhall’s musicale.” And, bowing, he called to Lady Burke’s butler to have his team brought round. 

              “Where shall we go, dear sister?” asked Lady Harriet, already taking advantage of her future relationship with Lady Delia.

             
“Bond Street, of course! Gloves? Hats? A new reticule? What should you like to purchase?”

             
“Why, something for your engagement ball, of course! Mason says I am permitted to attend but may not stay up all night. He says it’s only proper I should be there to give my congratulations but I must go home after the announcement since I am not yet out.”

             
“Far be it for me to contradict your illustrious brother,” Delia said with an attempt at good humor, not wishing to alienate Harriet or criticize Mason but unable to entirely resist.

             
“I’m afraid he can be quite officious and it’s rather maddening,” Lady Harriet admitted, giggling. “You will soon learn to tease him out of those moods, as I have.” At this, Lady Delia brightened, thinking that if a little sister could put a stop to her betrothed’s sententiousness, it was likely his wife would learn to as well.

             
“Quite so. Shall we go?” she asked, putting a hand through the crook of Lady Harriet’s elbow.

“Indeed! And you shall see me drive!” replied Lady Harriet with delight.

              The two ladies set off toward Bond Street with the phaeton’s team in Lady Harriet’s capable hands. It was not yet exceptionally crowded and they found the street moderately full of shoppers but found nothing to test the young lady’s control of her cattle. Leaving the footmen to exercise the horses, they walked up and down the street, making various purchases of ribbon or lace but Lady Delia’s heart was not yet in it. She had brought the manuscript with her, with the thought that perhaps she might sneak away to Wright & Wright to leave the unbound pages, even if she could not stay for a meeting.

             
When they approached the street on which her publisher was located, Lady Delia looked about for the footmen who were constantly at the ladies’ elbows. She asked the one walking with her if he might fetch her a glove she had inadvertently left in the phaeton and walked quickly down the street when he turned to obey. She reached the doorstep of Wright & Wright in minutes and, seeing no one, darted inside.

             
“May I help you?” asked the spotted young man at reception, glancing up at her.

             
“I would just like to deposit this manuscript for Messrs.’ Wright? I believe they are expecting it.” Delia waited only half a second for his affirmation before expelling a rushed
thank you
and dashing back out the door. She was walking past an alley when she heard a sharp cry of her name.

             
“Delia!” she turned, quickly, and was immediately grabbed about the waist, a rancid cloth pressed to her face. She tried to struggle but the chloroform was too strong. Despite her struggles, she was unconscious in an instant.

Chapter 33

              Lord Durham was at home that evening, wondering why he was feeling so off about his conversation with Lady Delia that day, despite the fact that everything he had said was for the specific purpose of her safety and well-being. He heard the dinner gong and was approaching the door to the dining room when Weebold approached him.

             
“Yes?”

             
“My lord. The Lady Harriet has not yet returned from shopping. Should you like us to hold dinner?” The Marquess sighed. Tonight, just as he was hungry and thought perhaps a good dinner might improve his mood, his sister decided to stay late in Bond Street or over at Lady Burke’s. 

             
“No, Weebold,” he replied. “I will dine alone. But send a message to Lady Burke’s requesting that the Lady Harriet return as soon as she finds it convenient. I do not like her to drive that phaeton when day turns dark.”

             
“Yes, my lord.”

             
He had only finished the soup when Weebold received a message from a footman.

             
“My Lord, Lady Harriet is not at Lady Burke’s. The footmen who were accompanying the lady today only just arrived at Lady Burke’s with the information that her phaeton is still in Bond Street and the ladies nowhere to be found.”

             
“What!” Mason stood up and dashed to the door. “She is gone?”

             
“Lady Burke does not know where she is and Lady Delia has not returned, either. After a short search, both footmen sent word to Lady Burke and have been searching the streets near her phaeton for nearly an hour.”

             
“Good god!” Mason ran his hand through his hair in utter fury and frustration at the realization of his worst fear. 

             
“Get Blackwell here immediately. Find him. I don't care where he is. No—tell him to meet me in Bond Street. I want to see where the phaeton is left. And get me Melville.”

             
Weebold did as he was bid, as his lordship flew out the door, shouting for his horse. He tore toward to the shopping street he had so many times frequented but never with such terror and energy. When he found the abandoned phaeton in the street, the footmen were searching about, clearly frightened witless that they had lost their charges.

             
“How could you let this happen?” demanded the Marquess as he examined their surroundings. “You had strict instructions never to let the ladies out of your sight!”

             
“Yes, my lord. But we did not expect them to be taken off, my lord! Or to try to give us the slip, sir!”

             
“What?” he demanded as he took inventory of the shops and alleys nearby.

             
“The Lady Delia, my lord! She asked me to return to the phaeton to collect her glove, my lord, I am so sorry, my lord,” replied one footman, Thomas, with terror.

             
“Where was she?”

             
“She was over there, my lord, right outside the book shop. She asked me to get the glove, and then she was gone.”

             
Lord Durham cursed at himself for not telling the footmen that the ladies were in fact in danger, and cursed again his desire for privacy. And now his precious sister was missing as well. He walked to the corner where the footman indicated Lady Delia had gone and noticed, on the next block, the name of Delia’s publisher. The one she had begged to visit that very afternoon. The normally urbane and sophisticated Marquess of Durham swore a blue streak. She had surely evaded the footman to drop off the manuscript, but then what had happened?

             
“Where was the Lady Harriet?”

             
“My lord,” the footman responded with horror, “The Lady Harriet, she says, ‘Thomas,’ she said to me, ‘Where is Lady Delia?’ and so sir, I pointed to the direction I thought she went! Then Lady Harriet said she would follow and she told me and Willie here,” he pointed to his compatriot footman, “to look in the other direction. I am most aggrieved, my lord! I did what I thought I ought what when I was looking and getting her glove!” Thomas was clearly terrified but as angry as Mason was, he was aware that Lady Delia had purposefully attempted to avoid her guard. He was as furious as he was terrified of what would happen to her. And now Harriet was with her.

             
“I am certain you did as you thought best, despite this disastrous result. However, recriminations at this juncture are pointless. Where is Lord Blackwell?”

             
“I will look again for him, my lord,” replied Thomas, fairly running in the opposite direction to find the Earl.

             
Lord Durham walked down the street to where the publisher’s was, now closed, and then back up toward Bond Street. He saw that a few yards from the offices of Wright & Wright, there was a small alley. He stepped into it and looked it up and down. A piece of thick white paper rested on the dirty cobblestone. It was a calling card.
Lady Harriet Broadstone.

             
So they had both been taken.