The Black Duke's Prize (18 page)

"Why in the world would Katherine be
here?" Nicholas asked, sitting up a little straighter and ignoring the fact
that until several weeks ago it wouldn't have been unusual at all for him to be
entertaining a woman at home.

"Please, Nick, just answer me," Neville
pleaded, continuing to pace around the room. "I'll forgive you. Just tell
me she's here."

"She's not here," Nicholas said flatly,
the feeling of uneasiness in his stomach changing to one of dread. "Tell
me what's happened."

"She's gone."

Nicholas stood. "What do you mean, 'She's
gone'? Explain yourself, man."

"She went riding with Sheresford and the
Hillarys, rode back on her own, and brought her mare to the stables. She never
came back inside." Neville held out a crumpled lump of mauve felt.
"We found her hat halfway between the stables and the house."

"Let me see it," Nicholas ordered.

Neville sat heavily in one of the chairs.
"Nick," he whispered, "someone's taken Kate."

Nicholas clutched Katherine's riding hat in his
hands. He was angry, quite possibly more than he'd ever been in his life.
Someone had taken his Katherine, and someone was going to pay. And pay dearly.
"You said she rode back on her own," he murmured. "Where the
hell was Sheresford?"

"I went to Thomas's first. They apparently had
something of a disagreement, and she refused to ride further with him. He said
they were only a street or so from home."

''The fool," Nicholas spat out.

"He's gone to the Hillarys' and to the
Dremonds' to see if Kate's there. He's the one who suggested she might be
here." Neville's face was drawn and gray, and if Nicholas had needed any
proof that the Hamptons cared deeply for their goddaughter, he saw it in the
Baron of Clarey's worried countenance.

"And you naturally thought that might be
so," he said with a sneer.

"You've made your own reputation,"
Neville retorted, then stood, blanching. "I'm sorry. I'm half out of my
mind. If anything happens to her . . . "
        
 

"Nothing is going to happen to her,"
Nicholas snapped, refusing to believe otherwise. "If she's been kidnapped,
it must be for some purpose."

"Kate has done nothing . . .
 
except to be seen with you."

"I know." If Katherine had been taken
because of him, because of something he had done, he would never forgive
himself. Other than Josette Bettreaux and her young conspirator, there had
been nothing blatant of late. And Josette, as far as he knew, was still in
Paris nursing her wounds. He straightened, cursing. There was one other
possibility, something that Kate had most definitely been involved in.
"Francis DuPres," he said.

"DuPres?" Clarey echoed. "I know
he's an annoyance, but kidnapping?"

A knock came at the library door. ''Not now,
Grimsby!" he. said with a growl.

"It's Gladstone, Your Grace," came his
secretary's muffled voice.

"Not now, Glad―" He stopped
abruptly, another horrifying thought jolting into his mind. He strode over to
yank open the door. "Get in here."

Gladstone complied, nodding at the baron as he
entered. "With your recent incapacitation I thought you might have
forgotten our schedule regarding"―Gladstone paused to glance at
Neville―"regarding that property up north," he continued,
"so I thought to stop by and remind you."

Nicholas waved an arm at him, thinking madly.
"Never mind the secrets," he said. "The Baron knows all about
it."

"Oh, splendid," Gladstone said, and took
a seat, opening his case in his lap. "Well, then―"

"Quiet," Nicholas interrupted before his
secretary could get started. "Was Mr. Smith aware that the heir would have
to sign the Crestley Hall deed over to make the transfer legal?"

"Oh, God," Neville moaned, sinking back
into his chair and covering his face with his hands.

"Why, yes, Your
 
Grace. In fact, he brought it up before I
could remind him of the fact. He informed me that there would be no problem.
And you pointed out several days ago that he would likely handle that little
difficulty himself."

It was Nicholas's turn to groan. When he had so callously
suggested that getting the heir to sign the deed was not his problem, he had
had no idea. that the "youth" they had been referring to was
Katherine Ralston.

"What have I done?" Neville whispered.

"You thought you were acting in her best
interests," Nicholas replied. Neville was distressed enough as it was.
"Don't fault yourself for that."

"Your Grace, might I inquire as to what is
going on?" Gladstone asked, looking up curiously.

Nicholas nodded. ''The heir to Crestley is
Neville's goddaughter, and we believe that she has been kidnapped by her
uncle, our Mr. Smith." Gladstone had known the intimate details of the
Duke of Sommesby's finances for years, and Nicholas saw no reason not to trust
him with this.

"I see the complication," Gladstone
commented, frowning.

"Is everything prepared for my trip to
Crestley?" Nicholas asked him.

"Yes. I did as you instructed, and the proper
amount of currency has been collected and is being held until Thursday, when
we were to depart."

Nicholas had forgotten that the purchase was to be
made with cash. That would make things easier. "Can you get the money
tonight?"

"I would imagine that could be accomplished,
Your Grace," Gladstone replied, his tone indicating that the request
might have been substantially more difficult to grant if it hadn't been the
Duke of Sommesby who was making it.

"Good." Nicholas returned to the door and
opened it. "Grimsby, have Jack hitch up the coach immediately!" he
bellowed, and shut the door again.

"Nick, you can't travel all the way to
Crestley with your shoulder like that," Neville protested.

Clarey was likely right, but it didn't matter. This
needed to be done. "Be back here in an hour, Gladstone. The hell with Mr.
Smith's waiting period. I want that deed, and I want it now."

"I'm going with you," Neville said
firmly, rising again. Nicholas shook his head. "No. If Ralston sees you,
he might panic. There would be questions if another Ralston were to die
suddenly, but if he can't sell Crestley off, he might be tempted to get it
through inheritance."

The older man sagged. Neville must blame himself
for all this, Nicholas knew, and now there was nothing the baron could do to
set it right. "You and Alison start out at about noon tomorrow," he
suggested. "It's likely too late, but if there is anything that can be
done to save Katherine's reputation, I'm most certainly not the one to do
it."

Neville straightened again, nodding. "I'll put
out word to her friends that her uncle has taken ill. We'll leave it at that
for now." He started toward the door, then stopped. and looked back.
"Find her, Nick."

"I will, Neville. I swear it."

14

A
fter two days of being shoved and jostled about,
Katherine finally realized where she was being taken. The sounds outside the
coach became increasingly familiar, and as she recognized the bleat of Georgie
Gurstin's sheep in the pasture and the ringing bell in the steeple of the All
Souls' Church, she even relaxed a little. They were bringing her home.

The coach lurched to a stop, and she was roughly
jerked upright. Her arms and legs were numb, and she stifled a groan as she
stumbled. She was handed down to the ground and stumbled again, this time
falling and banging her shoulder.

"Pick her up and bring her into the
house," said her uncle's voice.

She was yanked upright once more, and then thrown
over someone's shoulder like a sack of greens. She was dumped into a chair
upstairs, and a moment later heard the rattle of chains. Something clamped
painfully around her ankle, and then the sack was yanked off her head.

She was in her old bedchamber. The two. men stood
off to one side, smirking at her, while her uncle stood before her with his
arms crossed. "Welcome back to Crestley, Kate," he said smugly, and
she longed to slap him. "Untie her."

They did as he bid, slitting the ropes that bound
her arms. A metal band had been locked around her left ankle, and a chain
trailed from it to the heavy bed frame. Her riding dress was ripped and
soiled, its original mauve color barely distinguishable. Simon Ralston stepped
forward and pulled her gag down.

"You blackguard," she spat out.

He ignored her, motioning the men out of the room
and turning away. At the doorway he stopped and turned back. "There is
food and water on the dressing table. As you can see, it is impossible for you
to leave the room." He gestured at the chain.

Before she could manage a reply he was gone,
shutting the door behind him and locking it. Her hands began to throb
painfully, and tears she hadn't realized she was crying trickled down her
face. Beyond exhaustion, she stumbled to the bed wondering where Nicholas was,
and if he would come after her.

A full day passed before she saw Uncle Simon again.
A coach rumbled up the drive, but the chain didn't reach far enough for her to
be able to look out the window and see what was happening. Half an hour later
the key turned in the lock. Her uncle strode in, slamming the door behind him.
His face was pale, and he looked highly agitated.

"You listen to me, Kate. You clean yourself
up, fix your hair, and put on a clean dress." He crossed the room and
yanked open her wardrobe, pawing through the few gowns that remained. He pulled
out her least favorite, a brown muslin with long sleeves and a high neck that
had always made her feel like a goose. ''This one," he said, throwing it
on the bed.

"I can't change with this on," she
protested, pointing at the chain. She had already tried removing it, with no
success.

He swore at her. "All right," he snapped,
pushing her back into the chair, "but I warn you, if you try anything―
anything―
it'll
be the last trick you
pull." He knelt and unlocked the band, then stood and turned away.
"I'll be back in a few minutes. You be ready."

Because she had no choice, she did as he told her.
Her hair had been pulled, stepped on, and slept on for three days, but she
brushed it out as best she could and pulled it into a long tail down her back.
She used the glass of tepid water and a comer of her riding habit to clean off
her face. When she pulled on the dress she saw why he had picked it. The long
sleeves covered most of the bruises on her wrists.

There was little else she could do, and she was
ready when he returned. "You'll do," he muttered. "Get up. You
play the good girl when we get downstairs, and do exactly as you're told."
He pulled her toward the door. "Understand?"

"Yes," she answered shortly, wincing as
he wrenched her tender shoulder.

She went down the stairs slowly, hanging onto the
rail, for she was stiff and shaky and didn't want to fall. Simon Ralston guided
her to her father's old office and shoved open the door. He gripped her arm
tightly enough to bruise it and pulled her into the room. She stumbled a little
and, frightened and furious, kept her eyes on the floor.

"Mr. Gladstone," her uncle began in an
unctuous voice, "Your Grace, my niece, Kate Ralston. Kate, His Grace,
 
The Duke of Sommesby."

Nicholas stood as Katherine lifted her eyes with a
visible start. It was only a decade of experience at displaying aloofness that
kept him from going to her and pulling her trembling body into his arms. Her
face was white, her dark-blue eyes enormous with shock and fatigue as she
stared at him.

"Good morning, Miss Ralston," he drawled.
"I believe we were introduced once at Almack's, were we not?" he
continued, playing the Black Duke to the hilt and hoping she would realize what
he was doing.