The Officer's Little Rebel (11 page)

“Poor fellow’s cold,” Imogen said, breaking off a bit of the carrot to feed the horse as Mr. Sutton removed the blanket from its back.

“He’s a tough old fellow,” the tutor said. “And he’ll warm up a bit once we get on the drive.”

She’d not been in a trap or carriage since she could remember, and held to the side of the swaying seat as the horse began to move. There was a dusting of snow on the drive, but it was dry and the trap’s large wheels got good traction as the horse picked up its pace.

Imogen knew where they were headed. She could see the pond from her nursery window, and beyond it the meadow just to the left of the stone pillars that marked the entry to Stonehaven. She clutched the remains of the carrot she’d nicked in her one hand and gripped the side of the seat tighter in preparation of the stop. But as they came level with the meadow, Mr. Sutton flicked the reins, throwing Imogen off balance as the horse moved to a canter.

“What are you doing?” She looked back frantically, as the meadow and the house behind it quickly receded from view. “Stop!”

But Mr. Sutton’s face had turned into a mask of determination, and he clucked to the horse, which continued its path down the snow-dusted lane. The reality that dawned on Imogen was chillier than the air around them. He was taking her! She glanced down, considering a jump from the trap, but the ground was hard and the roadsides rocky. She’d be injured or worse if she attempted something so rash.

All she could do was hang on, hang on and wait for him to stop and give her an explanation. Mr. Sutton’s hand shot out to push her against the seat as the trap veered off the main path onto a narrower side road.

“Help!!” Imogen decided if she could not jump, she could at least scream. “
Help!
”

Mr. Sutton grabbed her by the hair, pulling her against him as he hauled back on the reins, causing the trap to bounce to a stop. Now Imogen felt herself turned and yanked against him, his gloved hand so tight over her mouth she could hardly breathe.

“I could break your pretty neck with just a twist of my hand, you spoiled little chit.” He wrenched her head just enough to emphasize the point before relaxing. “And mark me, if you scream again, that may be what I do.” Slowly he released his hand from her mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” Imogen shook her head in disbelief as she turned to look at him. Gone was the studious, calm expression of her tutor. The eyes staring at her now were menacing and shifty.

“It’s not me who’s doing it,” he said. “I’m simply making a delivery, although I worried for a bit that your interference would nix my plan. I had to think fast to convince Major Kingsley that your accusation yesterday was spiteful. And last night I was told that I needed to act now to get you away from him. Of course, that meant setting out at dawn and killing those stags to distract him. But it’ll all be worth it once I hand you off for a nice pay. It’s just business, love.”

As if on cue, a coach careened around the corner, heading toward them. When it was level with the trap, it stopped and a door opened. Mr. Sutton hopped down and pulled Imogen with him. A bag was placed over her head and tied, and her hands were bound behind her. She felt herself lifted and tossed onto a seat in the coach. Through the bag she could catch a muffled exchange of words before the door slammed and the coach went on its way.

Her heart was pounding. She could sense someone else was in the coach. She cursed herself at having believed Mr. Sutton, and she silently cried out to her papa for help. How long would it be before anyone even discovered she was missing? Tears ran down her face, and she couldn’t even wipe them away because her hands were bound. It was tempting to give in to helplessness and self-pity and pray for someone to rescue her. But Imogen knew something her captors did not. She’d had a different life before she’d come to Stonehaven Manor. She’d survived years of cruel treatment at the hands of a man who sought to break her spirit. But she had endured because she was resourceful. She’d used her wits to thwart the efforts of men who would have raped her. She’d managed to help a drunk man keep the inn going because it was all they had. Ribbons and bows and willful submission to the man she loved had not dimmed the part of Imogen that had allowed her to survive until Royce found her. It was time, she decided, to put the little girl he’d awakened to bed and let the savvy woman deal with the threat she faced.

Once the carriage stopped, the door opened and she felt herself bodily picked up and taken inside a building. She knew the smells of an inn, knew the sounds of rickety stairs. The man who abducted her was not a man of means. A door shut behind her. She felt her hands being unbound, felt herself placed in a chair.

When her captor pulled the bag from her head, she stared directly at him.

William Kingsley was nearly as tall as Royce, but his dark hair was peppered at the temples with premature gray, his skin was sallow, and his eyes those of one given to anger and calculation. His clothes were fine but worn, giving him the appearance of a man desperate to cling to the trappings of the class that had rejected him.

“You look like your brother,” she said.

“Figured it out, did you?” he said. William pulled up a chair and sat across from her, crossing his legs as he adjusted the tail of his wrinkled waistcoat. “I’m not surprised. Sutton said you were smart. For a whore.”

He was trying to bait her. Imogen wasn’t going to let it happen.

“I’m not a whore. Your brother and I are to be married.”

“So I understand,” William said. “My man Sutton found a letter my brother was writing announcing his engagement. Congratulations on snagging a wealthy landowner. I must say you’re luckier than I am. I thought I’d found my own pot of gold in the form of a young lady named Marilyn Jennings, but she turned out to just be a brass pot, God rest her soul.”

“You’re cruel,” Imogen said.

William smiled. “So, he
has
told you about me? Well, my dear, misfortune can make a man cruel. It also makes him determined to overcome it. I’ve been waiting to settle the score with my baby brother for years. I’d hoped he’d do the convenient thing and die in Africa before producing an heir. But then he came back. With you. Of course, I had to investigate. When I saw the ad for a tutor, I was confused. I thought he’d taken a ward. But then it hit me. He wanted a woman like mother.” He leaned forward, tapping his temple. “It makes sense, of course. He’s a controlling bastard, just like our father, so it’s hardly a surprise that he’d want a sweet little thing to train and breed. Of course you understand that I simply can’t let that happen. I can’t let my brother produce an heir before he dies. That would just ruin everything.”

Imogen tried to keep calm. The man before her was clearly on the brink of insanity.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “I’ve forgotten my manners, Imogen.”

“No, I’m not thirsty,” she said, watching as he rose from the chair.

“Well, then you won’t mind if I have one, do you?”

Imogen couldn’t tell if his cordiality was sincere or a form of mockery. She watched as William splashed some whiskey from a half-filled bottle into a glass and drained it quickly before pouring another.

“It was easy enough to get Sutton in place, you know. I told him what to say in his letters, coached him in how to appeal to my brother’s protective nature. He gave a commanding performance, don’t you think?”

“He didn’t fool me,” Imogen said.

“Yes, but you don’t matter, little girl,” he said. “Only my brother had to be fooled, and in the end I got what I wanted.” He paused. “And I will again.”

“And what do you want?” she asked.

“The inheritance, of course,” he said. “And the satisfaction of seeing my brother die after you help me lure him straight into my hands. He’ll be looking for you, you know. He’ll expect you to reach out, to tell him where you are.”

“I will never do that,” Imogen said.

“Really? You’d not let your papa know where you are? You’d disobey him like that?” William reached into his pocket and took something out. Imogen gasped when she saw what lay in his hand.

“You don’t want to end up like poor Frozen Charlotte, do you?” he asked. “She disobeyed her papa, too. Imagine how sad he must have been, finding her frozen and wondering what made her wander away in the cold. It will be the same for Royce when he finds you frozen in the estate pond. It will be easy enough, dumping you there. And a man like my brother, so noble… the grief he will feel, finding you frozen like Charlotte’s papa found her, wondering what he did to make you leave…

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m using Charlotte to convince you. Mr. Sutton took her. He said she was in the windowsill.” William held the doll up. “I believe this is what we call an object lesson.” He pressed the doll into Imogen’s palm and curled her fingers around it. “Think on it,” he said. “And know that if you do not do as say, I will kill you, little Imogen. I will kill you in the most horrible way, so that when he finds you, it will be with a look of sheer terror frozen on your pretty little face.”

“You’re a madman,” she whispered.

William shrugged. “Perhaps. But you’ll definitely be a dead girl if you don’t write my brother.” He rose and walked behind her, and Imogen winced as he bound her hands to the back of the chair. When he spoke again, his mouth was by her ear, his breath hot and rank on her face. “But I’m not your sweet
papa
. I won’t make the decision for you. It’s up to you whether your beloved finds your broken, cold little body. It’s up to you whether he has to live with that the rest of his life. Now think on it; wouldn’t death be kinder for a man like Major Kingsley?”

He gagged her and left her then. Only after he’d shut the door did Imogen give in to her fear and despair, her body shaking uncontrollably. She looked around the room of the inn. It was even more rundown than the one she’d been raised in. Across from her was a rickety wardrobe, its door ajar to reveal what likely constituted her captor’s worldly possessions—an extra pair of scuffed boots, a dirty coat, a yellowing shirt, stained breeches. A saddle and bridle were sitting across a chair in the corner. Did the man even own a horse? Likely not.

No home. No horse. No occupation. No future. Only his anger and hatred. William Kingsley was a man with nothing to lose, and that made him exceedingly dangerous. She had no doubt that he would kill her. She also had no doubt that the twisted sibling of the man she loved knew his brother too well. William resented Royce for something far beyond wealth—he also resented his deep sense of integrity and compassion. Now he wanted to use his brother’s two finest traits to destroy him.

Think, Imogen. Think!

William returned a few moments later and Imogen forced herself to calm down. He had a piece of parchment and a quill, which he laid out on a small table before undoing her hands, removing the gag, and raising her to standing.

“Now,” he said as he led her to the chair. “You’ll write your beloved Major Kingsley with the sad news that you’ve taken up with your tutor. You’ll express heartfelt regrets, but say the man convinced you that you were not good enough to be a lady, and were better off with him. It took what savings I had to persuade a few tradesman to provide a man looking for his wife with the intelligence to lead him here, the temporary abode of the happy tutor and his student.” William Kingsley smiled. “Of course, when he arrives, it won’t be Mr. Sutton he’ll find. That would be impossible since Mr. Sutton is now dead. I had a rough sort of friend who owed me a favor. He’s put your faithful tutor in the millpond. Royce
will
find me, however, and when he does I will send my dear brother to join your former teacher.”

Imogen was taken aback by the coldness of his tone.

“And you expect to get away with this?”

“Of course,” he said. “Royce hates me. His latest letter, still in my possession, drips with disdain. When he came in and found me in the company of his faithless wife, well…” William Kingsley turned to pantomime a conversation with another person. “He just went mad, constable. What else could I do? It was self-defense.”

He leaned down and placed the quill in her hand. “Start writing,” he ordered, and Imogen knew just what she had to do. She wrote as carefully as she could, fighting back tears as she penned the letters taught to her by a dead man. She could feel William watching over her shoulder, gauging every word. It was all she could to keep the quill steady, and in the end some of the letters were barely legible.

Still, her abductor seemed pleased, and the ink was still wet when he pulled the newly signed letter from her grasp. A moment later he sealed it, tied her back to the chair, and went off to send the missive to Stonehaven.

Imogen closed her eyes, praying that the man she loved would know her well enough to see the hidden message in the letter she was forced to write.

Chapter Eleven: Brother vs. Brother

Right away, he’d recognized his mistake.

“This is my fault. I didn’t listen.” Royce was pacing in the study, worry etched into his handsome face. “Imogen tried to tell me—us—about the nature of this man, twice: first when she caught his lie at dinner and then just yesterday when she reported how she’d seen him going through my things.” He walked over to the horsehair sofa, driving his fist into the soft backing. “Why did I not listen?”

Miss Quinn, her eyes bleary with tears, shook her head. “It’s not your fault. But fault doesn’t matter now. We have to find her.”

“Yes, we do, and soon as a fresh horse is saddled, I plan to do just that.”

The nanny began to cry anew. Royce knew she felt as guilty as he, for she’d been taking tea with another servant when Imogen had disappeared. At first, she thought the girl had gone to the library, which her charge often did after her lesson. But when the nanny could not find her there, she quickly became frantic as room after room yielded no sign of the girl. Soon she had other members of the staff combing the house. It was growing late in the day, and it had not occurred to anyone that the young woman may go out in such bitter cold. Then a scullery maid who caught wind of the search mentioned seeing Imogen and her tutor leaving with talk of building a snowman. Fresh snow had fallen, but had not quite obscured the two sets of tracks that left off where the tracks of a trap’s wheels led away from the house. It was easy to deduce that the tutor and his student were gone.