Patricia Rice (39 page)

He couldn’t do that to her. He had full confidence
his intelligent wife could stand up to a worm like Simmons, but he
couldn’t leave her thinking she wasn’t worth all the love he possessed
and more.

Buddy tugged on his trouser leg, and Mac glanced
down to see the child waving a toy sailboat. “I’m sailing! I wanna show
Mama Bea.”

With tears building behind his eyes, Mac crouched down and hugged the boy. “So do I, laddie. I’ll see what I can do.”

He’d have to get rid of the viscount.

Standing again, dismissing the captain’s ceaseless
nattering, Mac started for the deck. “Send the cabin boy down to help
with the children,” he ordered. “Have the men help the nursemaid in any
way she asks. I’m going ashore to see if a governess has been located.”
He strode off, leaving his captain with his jaw down.

James-Matthew eagerly fell into step with him as Mac
traversed the deck in the direction of the rowboat. “If my duty is done
here, I have errands to run in the city. What time will the ship sail?
I’ll see it off, and report to Bea as soon as it does.”

“Balderdash,” Mac said mockingly. “Unless you tell
me the truth, you’ll stay here until I return. I’ll not have you
cavorting about the city, causing trouble.”

“I can’t stay here!” he cried in anguish. “I’ve things to do—”

“You’d best tell me what things, then.” Mac signaled
the ship’s mate and pointed at Bea’s irate half brother. “Keep this
idler here until I give you leave otherwise.” Bea would never forgive
him if anything happened to the fool.

Mac climbed into the waiting rowboat while the
seaman grabbed a screaming James. He’d rather the boy told him what he
was about, but he didn’t have time for games.

“The earl’s supposed to have arrived in town by
now!” James shouted as the rope on the boat creaked downward. “I can get
an audience with him. Let me go with you.”

Mac halted the boat’s descent and considered the
boy’s anxious expression. Not a boy, actually. A man of twenty-four
years who’d never had any responsibility of his own. Mac could
sympathize.

Grimacing, he directed the seaman to release him. “I
can get an audience without you,” he grumbled as Bea’s half brother all
but dove headfirst into the boat.

“I’ll be your witness,” James gasped as the boat
began its descent again. “I’ll testify to your character, to the
children’s well-being, whatever you need.”

Mac had been seriously contemplating returning to
Bea to tell her all those things he’d forgotten to say, but the idea of
confronting the earl had a definite appeal. The earl could stop his son.
The man deserved to know that his grandchildren were safe. Maybe, just
maybe, he could turn the man to his side....

As they approached the shore, Mac frowned at the
unusual amount of activity on the dock at this hour. He could swear
there was a lady in an elaborately decorated feathered hat pacing back
and forth. Perhaps she belonged to the elegant gentleman lounging
against the lamppost, watching the ships on the river, although the lady
appeared considerably older.

He was almost certain that was Cunningham waiting
with his hands behind his back as the boat rowed closer. He hadn’t
summoned him. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to see the earl—

“Lady Taubee!” James whispered in horror. “What is the old harridan doing here?”

Mac didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. Lady Taubee was not good news.

The footman uttered a curse and grabbed Mac’s tall
beaver hat to hide his bare head. “Baron Carstairs,” he muttered,
sinking low in the boat. “Why the devil is Carstairs here?”

“Why do I have the feeling I don’t want to know?”
Mac asked in resignation as the boat rowed closer, and the small crowd
of London fashionables began to gather near the landing stairs. No one
was supposed to know where he was.
Damn Cunningham.
Everyone in town would find the children at this rate. “How well do you know Carstairs?” he asked James suspiciously.

“No more than I know Viscount Simmons,” James retorted. “They hang about backstage, looking for actresses.”

Mac didn’t want to hear about it.

Lord Hugo Carstairs looked mildly interested as he
regarded the liveried footman in a beaver hat, but politely, he allowed
Bea’s aunt precedence as the rowboat docked.

“You wretch,” Lady Taubee shouted. “You vile
ingrate! You venal jackanapes! Had I thought for one moment you would
desert my dearest niece and leave her—”

Carstairs stepped in to right the lady’s slipping
shawl and to block her parasol as Mac scrambled up the stairs. “Badly
done, old boy,” he admonished before Lady Taubee could continue her
tirade. “No matter what the excuse, Miss Cavendish deserves better.”

“Will someone tell me what the devil is going on?
Cunningham? What are these people doing here?” Looming over all of them,
Mac still felt outweighed and outnumbered.

“There seems to have been a mishap, sir,” Cunningham replied calmly.

“Bea has been kidnapped!” Lady Taubee shouted,
holding her hat in place against the strong wind coming off the river.
“She has disappeared! I left her in your care and—”

“Mr. Digby believes there may be some connection
with the Viscount Simmons,” Carstairs intruded with a languid air
covering a hint of steel. “You know something of this? Digby was kind
enough to provide Mr. Cunningham’s whereabouts so we might consult you
on the matter.”

The agent cleared his throat. “I have also received a
missive from the viscount.” All heads turned to stare at him. “He
wishes to exchange the lady for his children.”

Mac was aware of James freezing beside him, of Lady Taubee’s furious exclamation, and his agent’s curiosity, but the words
Bea has been kidnapped,
had hit him with the full force of a typhoon. He was halfway up the
street and grabbing the reins of a promising stallion before he realized
the others were racing after him, shouting.

“You’d best see Coventry first,” Carstairs advised,
catching the reins of the horse that Mac recognized from the
blacksmith’s in Broadbury.

“That was my intent,” Mac said grimly. “If you have
his direction, I’d be obliged.” Surrendering the horse, he commandeered a
waiting carriage by the simple expedient of jumping up past the idling
coachman and grabbing the traces.

“That is my carriage, young man.” Lady Taubee struck
at Mac’s knees with her parasol, but he shrugged off the pinprick while
waiting for Carstairs to answer.

He growled as James leapt to the rumble seat but held a firm grip on the reins while the baron shouted up a street number.

“Cunningham, do you have the final paperwork on my
ship?” Desperation ground at Mac’s soul, but he’d trained himself to
think logically at times like this. Fear and fury might be warring
within him, but he understood the need for weapons.

His agent produced the packet from his coat pocket
and handed it up. “All is in readiness and awaiting your word. Shall I
accompany you?”

Mac stuck the papers inside his coat. “Have you had any luck in locating a governess who is willing to emigrate?”

“Two ladies have inquired upon your wife’s recommendation,” Cunningham said. “I thought you might wish to interview them.”

“Normally I would, but if anything happens to me, that ship must sail. Bring both of them aboard if necessary, and await word.”

Excellent agent that he was, Cunningham nodded and stepped back.

In a flutter of skirts and a rash of curses, Lady
Taubee succeeded in climbing up the outside of the carriage and claiming
a seat. “You left Bea!” she ranted, smacking Mac with her parasol
again.

“I have not left her,” he shouted, snatching the
parasol and heaving it overboard. “I have no intention of leaving her,
and I would greatly appreciate it if you would be quiet and let me
think.” Flicking the reins, Mac sent the horses barreling down the
street, leaving the lady to hang on to the seat as she would.

How could the viscount have kidnapped Bea? He’d left
her surrounded by servants. He didn’t perceive Simmons as a
particularly dangerous man so much as a desperate one. His precautions
should have been adequate.

Mac glanced at the old woman. “Why is Carstairs here?”

“Digby sent messengers to everyone in London.” She
regarded him with hauteur. “Carstairs came to me to see if it was a
hoax. Smart young man. I should have chosen him instead of you.”

“Carstairs had twenty-eight years to recognize Bea’s
worth and capture her interest, and he didn’t.” Mac dismissed her
insult without further thought. Digby had sent the message. How had
Digby let Bea be taken from the house?

The carriage careened wildly around a street corner,
but Bea’s aunt gamely clung to her seat and hat. “And you did, I
suppose?” she called scornfully.

Torn from his thoughts, Mac stared at her before
registering her question. “I married her, didn’t I? You don’t really
think you forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do?” He guided the
horses around a tangle at an intersection, then whipped them faster. “I
was afraid it wasn’t the best thing for Bea, but if she agreed and you
approved, I didn’t intend to argue. I know value when I see it. There
isn’t another woman to match her in this world. If Simmons really has
kidnapped her, she’ll have him regretting it soon.”

Lady Taubee stared at him as if he were deranged.
“How can you say such a thing? My poor Bea will be terrified! I know she
is priceless, but the poor dear is afraid of her own shadow.”

Remembering how her “poor dear” had seduced him out
of his decision to leave her bed, Mac grinned. “I hate to disagree with a
lady, but Bea has the soul of a soldier. She’s civil and obedient and
willing to do as told until she’s told to cross the line between right
and wrong. The woman knows her own mind and is as stubborn as an old
mule.”

“Sir!” Indignant, Lady Taubee sat back. “That is no way to speak of my niece.”

“Calling her timid isn’t either.” Mac hauled on the
reins at the sight of Carstairs dismounting in front of a mansion far
bigger than the one Marilee had called home. If this house was his, the
Earl of Coventry had wealth and power to spare.

It had never crossed his mind that he might lose Bea.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he might lose Marilee either.

Terror grinding at his gut, Mac leapt down the instant the carriage halted. Let James assist the harridan.

A powdered and liveried servant buffing the newly
installed door knocker swung around in astonishment at Mac’s abrupt dash
up the stairs. The man’s eyes widened as Mac grabbed him by the back of
the coat and shoved him past the partially open door.

“Get the earl. Now!” Mac threw the man in the direction of the interior stairs.

The servant stumbled and hesitated. Lord Carstairs
sauntered through the open doorway, swinging his walking stick and
doffing his hat. “Is the earl receiving?” he asked in polite tones.

The servant looked relieved at this example of
civility. “No, sir, he is not. He and”—the man looked nervously at Lady
Taubee as she swept in—”and Lady Coventry are still abed.”

“He married an actress,” Lady Taubee hissed in loud
tones that would have fared well in an opera house. “Old fool. Of course
they’re still abed.”

Mac didn’t have time to waste arguing. He started up the stairs two at a time. He’d find the earl without help.

“I say, old boy,” Carstairs called to him, “that just isn’t done.”

“Someone intending to stop me?” Mac continued
upward. He’d spent too long waiting for the old man to show up and
inquire after his grandchildren. Well, he wasn’t waiting any longer.

“MacTavish!” James-Matthew shouted up at him. “That’s my mother up there. If you insult her, I’ll have to call you out.”

Every head in the foyer turned to stare at the
garishly dressed footman as he entered, removing Mac’s hat to reveal his
shorn red hair. James-Matthew glared back.

“What the devil is all the racket?” a querulous
voice called from the upper landing. “Constance, is that you I hear?
Paula won’t be up for hours. Go away.”

Into the appalled silence that fell, Mac shouted up
the stairs. “Coventry? I want my wife back, and I’ll hang your son if he
doesn’t hand her over!”

“Can’t a man have a minute’s rest without being
driven from his bed by every ragtail and gaggle in the kingdom?” the
earl roared, stomping down the stairs in bedslippers and satin dressing
robe. “Where the hell are my servants? What do the lot of you want?
Constance, you’re old enough to know better,” he shouted, finding the
one woman among them.

“Don’t speak to me that way, Percy Ludlow Simmons,
or I shall rip every gray hair from your soft head!” Constance called
back, wielding her mangled hat like a sword. “Your wretch of a son has
kidnapped my niece, and I’ll have him dipped in boiling oil if he
doesn’t release her at once. We’ve known each other far too long for
your blustering nonsense to fool me for one moment.”

Mac interceded before the angry old man could launch
into a harangue and the argument descend into name-calling. “Your son,
sir, is threatening my wife.”

The earl tightened the belt on his dressing robe,
ran his fingers through his full head of graying hair, and, stomping
off, led the gathering into his front parlor. A man of considerably less
stature than any of the younger men in the room, he still commanded
their attention with his presence.

“Why the devil should I believe you? This is
preposterous. Leave the country for a few months and the whole place
goes to rack and ruin. What do you want of me? If I had any control over
my son, he’d not be the sot he is now.”

Mac cut off a cacophony of replies with a chopping
motion. “Yesterday at this hour, your son was in Broadbury, threatening
my wife. Last night she disappeared. This morning my agent received a
ransom note. My wife would not have gone with him willingly or quietly.
Where could Simmons take her that they would not be noticed?”