A Season for Love (27 page)

“
Your Grace, shall I send to Bow
Street?” Sims ventured.

“
Yes, of course,” the duchess cried.
“Thank you for thinking of that. Though what any of us can do I
cannot imagine,” she added more to herself than to her audience.
“Three people vanished into the great city of London. If we had use
of all the Guards and Dragoons—even if most had not been sent off
to Belgium—we would not know where to look.” Jen blinked back a
rush of tears as Sarah Tompkins sobbed aloud.

~ * ~

“
Is he dead?”

“
I do not think so,” Caroline whispered
in reply, bending low over Tony’s head, which was cradled in her
lap.

Laurence Carlington was made of stouter
stuff than his recent temper tantrums would imply. Pushing aside
the viscount’s forest green jacket and embroidered satin waistcoat,
he laid an ear directly onto the thin lawn shirt above his heart.
Although the thud of a beating heart was faint, Laurence’s efforts
were rewarded by the warm and indefinable
feel
of a living man. He nodded sagely, a gesture
neither he nor his sister found odd in their present dire
circumstances. “He’s alive,” the boy pronounced.

“
He has a quite terrible lump on his
head,” Caroline said, keeping her voice to a whisper, though at the
moment they were quite alone.

The Marquess of Huntley heaved a world-weary
sigh, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “Then I daresay he will
not be of much help,” he said, his lower lip betraying the faintest
of quivers.

“
I fear not,” Caroline murmured. For
the first time she looked around the room into which they had been
unceremoniously dumped, as if they were but bales of hay. They were
in a vast storage area, evidently a warehouse of some kind. Most of
the floor space was filled with metal-bound wooden barrels and, in
one corner, a tall stack of smaller wooden kegs. In addition,
against an outside wall was a pile of wooden crates, each perhaps a
yard square, stacked one upon another to the height of twelve feet
or more. How that had been managed Caroline could not imagine. Was
there a stout ladder somewhere about? If so . . .

Her gaze rose toward the high ceiling. Above
the pile of wooden crates, narrow windows provided the room’s only
light. If they could but climb up . . .

Obviously, their captors considered that
method of escape quite useless, else they would not have left them
with their hands unbound. An unconscious man, a girl, and a small
boy. All deemed incompetent and in no danger of escaping. They were
probably right, Caroline sighed, her spirit wavering. Perhaps . . .
yes, very likely the windows overlooked the river.

No!
Even the
river was preferable to captivity, Caroline amended, banishing her
momentary weakness. Laurence had been able to swim since he was
five. So could she.

But, at the moment, Tony could not.

Caroline refocused on the handsome face in
her lap, his skin so white, the intelligent blue eyes shuttered,
the charm, the teasing manner, the gallantries silenced. When she
had feared he might be dead, anguish had extinguished her spirit as
a waterfall wipes out a candle flame. Her world narrowed to a
single focus. Anthony Norville. Viscount Frayne. Tony. For a
moment, even her much-beloved Laurence had faded from her
sight.

Tony.
Her mind
balked, refusing to accept the shocking and highly uncomfortable
revelation of just how much she cared for him.

Particularly when the dratted man was utterly
useless, Caroline grumbled to herself, fighting her treacherous
emotions. She, and she alone, would have to save them all. After
all, Papa would never forgive her if they lost his heir.

Unfair. Papa loved her. He would rescue them
both.

But how? Not even the great Duke of Longville
could possibly guess where they had gone.

A moan, a slight stir.
Tony!
Another murmur, and the
viscount was once again inert. Still . . . so very still. Lord
Frayne, the fribble. The fribble who had begun to show signs of
loving her. She could not possibly care for such a man! And was it
not typical that he should be lying there, dead to the world, when
he was most needed?

Quite naturally, Caroline instantly suffered
an attack of conscience. Poor wounded Tony could not help being
useless in this emergency. Tentatively, she traced a finger along
his full lower lip. More boldly, she outlined his mouth with her
fingertip, then gently cupped his cheeks in her hands. “Tony,
Tony,” she murmured, “what are we to do? You must come back to us,
dear heart, we need you.”

“
Uncle Tony, Uncle Tony,” Laurence
urged, giving the viscount’s shoulder a small shake.

“
Still out, is he?” boomed a voice from
the door. “Guess I ’it ’im a mite hard. Ain’t dead, is he?” Bert
Tunney strode across the worn wood floor and nudged the viscount’s
inert form with his booted toe.

“
Stop that!” Caroline ordered. “Have
you not done enough harm?”

Tunney chortled. “Spirited, are ye, missy?
Even after all that’s ’appened. I likes that in a woman. No doubt
you’ll fetch a good price at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”

“
That ain’t what we agreed,” Alfie
Grubbs whined as he, too, approached the three victims, with Flann
McCollum close behind. “It’s gold we want. The duke’ll pay far more
fer ’er than Mrs. Pritchard.”

“
That’s right,” Flann seconded. “And
what would you say your da’s good for, my fair beauty? Ten thousand
pounds? Twenty?”

So that was it! Caroline stifled her rush of
relief. If it’s ransom they wanted, the duke would pay, without a
doubt. And they would soon be out of this horrid place. “My papa is
a wealthy man,” she told them. “He will pay the ransom . . . but
only if we are well treated. Otherwise,” she warned, very much the
ducal daughter, “you will never live to spend your ill-got
gains.”

“
Don’t matter,” Flann McCollum tossed
off. “It’s the first ship to the Canadas for me. I’m turnin’ me
back on this God-forsaken place as quick as I can.”

“
And me,” declared Alfie Grubbs. “I
reckon the ’ouses ain’t such good pickins on t’other side of the
ocean, but I figure m’ welcome in London is about played
out.”

“
Fools!” growled Bert Tunney. “Haven’t
y’ ’eard? Old Boney’s attackin’ and our army filled with naught but
green troops, with all our fine Peninsula veterans sent off to
fight the Americans.”

“
Boney’s attacking!” the Marquess of
Huntley cried.

“
Oh, aye, m’ lad, he surely is,” said
the burly carter. “Goin’ to whup our fine army ’e is, make mince
meat of ’em. And then he’ll take Europe again, and we’re next. And
then where’ll your fancy title be, boy? Your fine ’ouses and
carriages and high-falutin’ ways?”

“
Good God,” Caroline exclaimed, “you’re
an anarchist!”

Bert Tunney squared his broad shoulders and
preened a bit. “Been in every riot since the ’eighties, I have.
High time we brought the guillotine to London.”

“
You know,” declared a new voice to the
conversation, “you are quite mad, the lot of you. Longville will
have your hides for breakfast.”

“
He’ll grind your bones,” Laurence
added fiercely, accepting his uncle’s resurrection from the dead
without a blink.

“
Also,” Tony continued casually, in
spite of a slight struggle in which Caroline was obliged to help
him sit up, “you were undoubtedly prepared to deal with a footman.
Instead, you are fortunate enough to have me. Which adds to the
amount of ransom you may demand, as my father is rather fond of me
as well.”

Caroline, annoyed, glared at the man she had
so recently admitted into her well-armored heart. Unless . . . but,
of course. He was reinforcing their captors’ greed, reminding them
of the money to be had. Making sure they did not panic and run,
selling Laurence to a chimney sweep and herself into whoredom, with
himself shanghaied into the ever-desperate navy.

Tony must have been conscious for longer than
she had thought, Caroline realized. He had heard what was said
earlier. He . . . oh, merciful heavens, had he felt her fingers on
his face?

“
So what are ye worth to your da?”
Flann McCollum inquired.

“
You might try five thousand for each
of us,” the viscount suggested. “Ten from the duke and the
remainder from my father, the Earl of Worley. That makes five for
each of you,” Tony pointed out. “A sum that will take you wherever
you wish to go and set you up for life. Or,” he added, looking at
Bert Tunney, “fund a good bit of revolution.”

“
If’n ’e says five,” declared Alfie
Grubbs, “then the dook’ll pay twice that. ’Is lordship’s pa as
well.” Flann McCollum whistled through his teeth.

“
Ten thousand apiece . . . a fine
figure,” Bert Tunney declared. “Twenty from his magnificence, the
great Dee-ook of Longville, and ten from the earl. ’Tis likely
they’ve lost more’n that in a night’s play, ain’t they?” He turned
accusing eyes on the viscount, as if to charge him and the entire
aristocracy of taking this money from the mouths of
babes.

“
Perhaps you might allow me to write
the ransom letter,” Tony suggested blandly. “I imagine Longville
and the earl will thus be better assured we are still
alive.”

“
I sees the knock on your head ain’t
scrambled your brains, m’boy,” Bert approved. “Git ’im some paper,
Alfie. Go on, now, ’urry it up.”

“
Please, sir,” Laurence interjected,
“is there some food?”

Four pairs of eyes stared at the
seven-year-old. Caroline hushed her brother, pulling him down
beside her.

“
In the letter I shall make our
well-being a condition for paying the ransom,” Tony said into the
silence. “We all need food and drink.”

“
And a chamber pot,” Caroline
whispered, utterly mortified, but too much in need to any longer
avoid the embarrassing topic.

Flann McCollum laughed. Bert Tunney snorted.
But in not much more than half an hour their requests were granted.
In return for the viscount handing over two letters, one for his
father and one for the Duke of Longville.

Gradually, the light behind the narrow dirty
windows high above darkened to the deep twilight of a London night
close to Mid-summer Eve. “I should have asked for a candle,”
Caroline sighed, as Laurence snuggled close. She was sitting,
shoulder to shoulder, with Tony, their backs against the wooden
crates, which were more even than the sides of the rounded barrels.
“Is your head very bad?” she asked.

“
Devilish,” Tony admitted. “I am
inclined to think we should attempt to climb up to the windows,
using those kegs as stairsteps, but I doubt I can even make it to
my feet. Truthfully, we’ll be fortunate if your papa and mine can
read my letters.”

“
I noticed your hand was a bit
unsteady.” Caroline spoke softly, for Laurence had succumbed to
sleep at last.

“
Caroline . . . I do not like to
increase your fear, but it’s possible they will take the money and
still not let us go. You heard the big one. He’s a bit touched in
the upper works when it comes to the nobility. The other two, I
suspect, are in it for the money, but that one is out to revenge
all the wrongs the lower classes have suffered. I think you must
take Laurence and get out of here as best you can.”

“
No! We will not leave you. And,
besides, I fear what is outside may be worse than what is within.
Laurence and I are, perhaps, more likely to be sold into slavery if
we leave than if we stay. And,” she added with chagrin, “I very
much doubt I could lift even one keg, let alone enough to make
steps to the top.”

“
Necessity, my dear. You and Laurence
together could manage it.” Tony broke off with a groan. “Devil it!
This head of mine has unmanned me. Just as I am needed!”

Caroline laid her fingers on his arm. “When
you can go with us, we will make our escape,” she told him with
calm assurance. “Until then, we must endure. Come, put your head
back in my lap. A few hours’ rest and you shall be right as
rain.”

The viscount did not argue. After a bit of
awkward shuffling, they finally managed some semblance of comfort.
“You will have to marry me, you know,” Tony said into the darkness.
“This is a most intimate position.”

Caroline, already aware of that fact, bent
low, until even in the deep shadows inside the warehouse Tony was
in no doubt that her breasts hung just above his nose. Obviously,
he was beginning to recover from his injury because parts of his
anatomy stirred strongly to life. “Ah . . . Caroline, I think
perhaps we should reconsider . . .”

“
Be quiet,” she whispered. “You cannot
know how I have longed to have you in such a vulnerable position.”
And she kissed him quite thoroughly.

Sometime later, as the silence deepened and
Caroline felt herself the only person still awake in the city of
London, she came at last to the truth of the matter. Anthony
Norville, Viscount Frayne, was not a fribble. No, indeed. He had
not panicked, whined, or begged in fear for his life. He had, in
fact, quite cooly and calmly gone about finding the best solution
to their problem, in spite of a severe blow to his head. How
amazingly fortuitous that he had happened along in time to escort
them on this fateful day. Some might even call it a sign.