The Waylaid Heart (25 page)

Lady Meriton moaned and sagged down on a stair step. Janine's hand gripped Lord Havelock's arm tightly, her nails digging into the wool sleeve. "With Sir Elsdon," she whispered past parched lips.

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, then everyone began talking at once. Lady Meriton- tried to explain what happened, but her words were disjointed and punctuated with asides to Janine that she was right. Finally Branstoke and Havelock abandoned their efforts to get any sense out of Lady Meriton and turned to Janine.

She gulped and clung to Lord Havelock. "He said he was taking her to Cheney House, for her father was ill. But I watched them as they drove away. They should have turned north at the end of the block to go to Cheney House. They turned south!"

"South!" exclaimed Branstoke.

"Where could he be taking her? From my information his cargo is to sail this afternoon with the tide," said Havelock. He looked up at Branstoke. "The admiralty is waiting downriver to intercept the ship."

"South, you say," repeated Branstoke. "Damn it, of course! He's not using that ship. It's a decoy! He's headed for the other side of the river!"

"What?" Havelock asked, his eyes intent upon Branstoke, though he kept an arm about Janine.

"I've had a man watching Waddley's. Last night he told me of lighter activity in and out of there to the other side of the river. He said the ship docked at Waddley's looked like it was riding curiously high in the water for a fully loaded cargo ship. Cecilia and I concluded he was only going to take his human cargo which wouldn't weigh the ship down as much. But what if those lighters were transferring the cargo to another ship, to a smaller one, perhaps, anchored across the river? To a type of ship that would not be stopped by the admiralty?"

"You mean something like a hoy, which sails the river between London and Margate?"

"Precisely. It gets by your planned reception committee and meets with a ship anchored somewhere beyond Gravesend. Probably along the coast between the Isle of Sheppey and Margate."

"Yes, if he is suspicious at all, which Elsdon is, that is something he'd do. Particularly as I believe he's leaving the country with this, his last cargo. We'd better get a message out using the semaphore towers. My horse is fresh yet." He looked inquiringly at Branstoke.

"As is mine. If we ride hard, we should be able to beat them downriver for the tide's not turned yet."

They bid the ladies good-bye, assuring them they would do everything in their power to rescue Cecilia. Janine and Lady Meriton watched them ride off in the direction Sir Elsdon's carriage took, nearly causing an accident with a heavy traveling coach that was turning the corner. The driver pulled hard to the side, fighting to keep his startled horses from rearing and tangling the traces. He got them settled, though they still danced a bit, and drove them forward only to stop in front of Meriton House. A tall, angular figure with grizzled sideburns framing an ascetic face descended the coach step and looked up at the house. Lady Meriton squealed and ran down the steps.

"Meriton!" she exclaimed before throwing herself into his arms and bursting into tears.

Cecilia studied the face of the complacent gentleman seated across from her. Sunlight through the carriage windows caught the red-gold of his hair where it curled about his collar. It was odd, she thought in a detached manner, how a man moderately good-looking on the outside could be entirely cancerous and vile inside. He was unequivocally a facile and talented actor and decidedly correct when he claimed that if he'd been born a lesser man he would have been a greater man. That certainty prevented her from berating herself too severely for her predicament. Though she was wrong, again, she felt no guilt, only a strange floating feeling of fatalism.

That detached feeling had overwhelmed her when the carriage turned south, away from Cheney House. She remembered Sir Elsdon studying her with a tense set to his posture. He was waiting for her to discover his lie and either grovel at his feet begging for mercy or fight for her freedom. She did neither. She merely raised an eyebrow and praised him for his acting ability.

He had been for a moment surprised and taken back by her reaction. That pleased Cecilia, and she filed that knowledge away carefully in her brain. Recovering swiftly, he smiled at her in a manner she'd never seen him use. It was more of a leer, and spoke volumes for the depth of his self-confidence. She filed that knowledge away as well.

He in turn had praised her for her perspicacity for which she demurred, saying if she had intuitive talents, she would not find herself in the carriage with him at that moment.

He demurred. He assured her that she would have been right where she was because that is where he wished her to be. She begged that he accept that they were doomed to disagree, and the conversation slackened there. Cecilia turned her head to look out the window and desultorily followed their journey through the changing landscape.

Now, with the smell of fish, timber and tar redolent in the warm afternoon air, she knew they were approaching the river from a direction she'd never come. The carriage was slowing as it picked its way through narrowing streets. She wondered if she dared try to bolt, then decided to husband her energy for a more auspicious time. Sir Elsdon, though now more relaxed, was wait-ing and watching for her to make a break. Besides, she didn't see how he could escape the net being cast for him by both Bow Street and the government agent. To do anything untoward would likely result in her early demise or worse, an early induction into the trade he planned for her.

No, it was best to remain calm and clearheaded. Strong emotions would muddy her thinking. Furthermore, calmness on her behalf would likely disconcert him more and perhaps lead to errors on his part. One could only wait, hope, and fervently pray.

Sir Elsdon glanced out the window then turned to address Cecilia. "You surprise me, Mrs. Waddley," he said, pulling a bottle out of his pocket. "You have exhibited none of the reactions I expected on the realization of your abduction. You have not fought and screamed, nor collapsed in a prostrate bundle of pathetic tears and pleas for mercy."

"Indeed, sir. I shall take that as a compliment."

"Nor, curiously, have you fainted or complained of bodily failings as so often society has been audience to."

"It has been my good fortune to have my health improving daily."

"If I were you, I would call it misfortune," he said smiling evilly. He looked at the bottle of brownish liquid that he held. "Almost you convince me that this is not necessary."

She stared at the bottle and wished she'd fought him and tried to escape earlier. It was laudanum. He was going to drug her. She looked from the bottle to his grinning face, tensing her muscles.

"Almost,” he repeated in a soft murmur before his free hand shot out to grab her around the throat, choking, forcing her mouth open.

Cecilia bucked and flailed at him, twisting and turning against his weight as he leaned on her, using his body to anchor her while he guided the bottle to her lips. She jerked her head aside, only to feel his fingers cruelly digging into the soft white skin of her throat. She gouged his face with her nails drawing pinpricks of blood. He swore viciously and jammed the open bottle between her teeth. She gagged on the liquid, trying to spit it out, but she had no breath. It ran out the sides of her mouth. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. Her eyes blurred and her head began to swim. Spots of gray-blackness danced at the edges of her vision then rushed to close against consciousness. She went limp.

Cecilia regained consciousness slowly, her first awareness a fiery pain in her throat and the aching muscles of her neck. She moved fitfully, as if to escape the relentless pain only to discover the slightest movement intensified her agony. A damp cloth touched her brow, her face, and then her neck. She relaxed and listened to the deep, husky murmur of a voice above her head that seemed to accompany the soothing progress of the cloth. In the background she heard soft crying, creaking wood, and the dim echoes of shouting from somewhere above.

She opened her eyes, then blinked as they grew accustomed to a gloomy world. A tangle of dark red curls slid into her field of vision. "Angel," she whispered in a thin, croaking thread of sound. She tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. She swallowed painfully and parted her lips to speak again when a finger lightly pressed against them.

"Hush, don't try to speak yet," said Angel. "Have some water first. Here, let me help you sit up."

It was then Cecilia felt the unfamiliar cold weight about her wrists and heard the clank of chains. Iron manacles around each wrist were joined by a length of chain two feet long. She quickly struggled to sit up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that assailed her. Angel handed her a small jug of water. She drank some thankfully, the tepid liquid remarkably cooling to her battered throat. Each swallow was painful, but less so than the last.

Handing the jug back to Angel, she took stock of their surroundings.

They were obviously below deck on some sailing vessel. Light came in through a small grated opening to the main deck that also let in fresh air. The narrowness of the space convinced her they were not on a large ship. Still, it was a surprisingly roomy hold that would even allow an average-sized man to stand upright. It was empty of all cargo save for the human kind, for with her and Angel were some eighteen to twenty women.

Cecilia sucked in her breath as the reality of the scene filtered into her mind. She scrambled to her feet and, leaning on Angel, slowly picked her way past the straw-filled pallets on which they lay or sat and looked at each closely in turn. The women were for the most part about sixteen years of age, all comely and, judging by their dress, predominantly of middle class or better station. A few were no more than children, the youngest a flaxen blond child of perhaps nine years. It was from her that the crying came that she'd heard. The others were either drugged into a stupor or so frightened and cowed that they sat listless and silent. Accumulating horror robbed Cecilia of strength, and she sank back down on her own pallet, Angel by her side.

She turned to Angel, her mind overwhelmed with questions that she couldn't get past her battered throat. Angel nodded in understanding.

"This—we are Elsdon's spice trade," she said softly, her voice a deep rumble in Cecilia's ear. "We're on a small ship that will take us downriver. Somewhere along the coast we'll be trans-ferred to a larger ship. Elsdon's coming along. He's leaving England: too many deaths, too many suspicions."

"Havelock?" Cecilia croaked out.

Bitterness etched Angel's features. "If I'd trusted him I wouldn't be here now."

"Don't despair," she managed, and swallowed painfully.

"If you're meaning Sir Branstoke and Bow Street, he's wise to them. The big ship's going out clean to fool them."

Suddenly the implications of being on a small ship percolated through to Cecilia and the fear she'd heretofore held at bay swept through her. Her breathing grew rapid and her eyes wid-ened. She clutched Angel's arm.

"I know," Angel said grimly, "it hit me like that too."

Cecilia's frightened gaze swept the small hold. She looked from the blank faces to those turned toward her and Angel, looking at the two of them for comfort. She realized she and Angel were the oldest of the captives and as such, the others would look to them for guidance. She couldn't crumble now. She had to be strong for them, no matter what the future held in store. She closed her eyes a moment, summoning Branstoke's face to her mind. She would draw strength and hope from that image she held of him. It wasn't over yet.

The strident squeal of protesting hinges followed by a flood of bright light preceded a ladder descending into the hold. The sight of immaculate top boots on the rungs followed by an elegantly attired male form warned them of Elsdon's visit.

Cecilia drew a little apart from Angel, not wishing to be seen leaning on another. A haughty mask descended over her dirt-streaked features. She lifted her head high, revealing deeply purpling bruises on the fair skin of her neck.

He walked toward her, a deeply satisfied smile on his face. "Ah, so the final item on our manifest has awoken. Excellent." He reached out one long finger to tilt her chin up. "Tsk, tsk, my dear, I do not like the sight of those bruises on your fair neck. Damaged goods bring lower prices, you know. We shall hope that they fade before we reach our destination."

She moved to bat his hand away but the clank of the length of chain between her wrists warned him of her action and he raised his hand out of reach.

He laughed. "Definitely not the flighty, sickly female. So much the better. Liveliness and fight also increases value. And quite frankly, my dear, at your age, every advantage is necessary to boost the price. Lovely though you are, you are past your prime in my market." He took a few steps toward the flaxen-haired child and hunkered down before her, running a hand down her quivering form. "Now this one, on the other hand, will bring a pretty penny, a very pretty penny indeed."

The child flinched and scuttled back against the curving walls, whimpering.

"Leave her be," Cecilia croaked out, getting up. Behind her, Angel stood as well. A couple women stirred, rising to their knees.

Elsdon turned toward Cecilia, his eyes narrowing. He rose smoothly, his hand delving deep into his pocket to bring out a pistol. He leveled it at Cecilia. The other women drew back.

"I have not that alacrity of spirit,

Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have."

His voice was light, yet rung with a power to reach the boxes had he stood on a stage.

A shiver traversed Cecilia's spine, yet she stood her ground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Angel grasp the chain between her hands, holding it taut so its links could not ring against one another. There was an unholy glint to the woman's pale eyes and a rigidity to her jaw. Cecilia's gaze fixed upon Elsdon, challenging him to break it.

"So, you would still play King Richard?" she whispered huskily, forcing the words harshly past her throat. They had ghostly cadence. "A doomed and defeated man? A curious choice for mentor."

"Perhaps.. But I have learned from him. In the end, despite his words:
Conscience is but a word cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong at awe
: he was troubled by his conscience. I shall not be. And I have learned what he did not. That gold buys a good many consciences."

"For a time."

"Ah, you are thinking of your brother. It is a sad fact that tools often become too worn for repair and therefore need replacing."

"And Havelock?"

"Yes, Havelock, my Buckingham. Almost he had me fooled. He could be nearly as great an actor as I if he weren't plagued with notions of honor and duty and the other artificial trappings of our so-called polite society."

"Not quite your Buckingham, for he is free and alive," she said, intent on keeping him talking. Angel was stepping carefully around to the side of him. Two other women had grabbed their chains in like manner and rose to their feet.

He waved her words aside. "I shall deal with him later, as I shall your Branstoke and Mr. Thornbridge. Tell me, how did you get those two to do your bidding? Have you been rehearsing for your new role, my dear?" The gun seemed to sink a little, his guard relaxing.

"Not everyone uses your methods of deceit."

He laughed. "Are you telling me my empire's toppled for love? That's rich, I vow. Or are you trying your hand at comedy? It won't wash. Remember, I knew your husband and we discussed your abilities—or lack thereof."

Cecilia blushed then paled at his vileness.

"Luckily the customer you are destined for is not so particular in such matters. You shall be the fifth I've sent him. The others are all dead, though one did last as long as two years. He is quite voracious."

Cecilia gagged involuntarily. "You monster!"

He laughed heartily, taking a step closer. "Women are commodities. They have value like gems or precious metals. Unfortunately like fresh fruit, they are also perishable."

To the side and a little behind him Angel stood. Cecilia could see her gathering herself for an attack. She stepped to the side, leaning against a beam as if she were sickened. His eyes followed her, away from Angel.

Suddenly there was shouting and the sound of running feet above.

"No!" Cecilia yelled, too late.

Elsdon was already turning toward the hatch and Angel just as she lunged for him. He saw her rush, his pistol jerking up as she threw herself at him, her arms descending over his head as the gun went off.

Screams from the other women drowned out Angel's little cry of surprise and pain as she sagged against him, smearing him with her blood. He cursed and tried to shove her dead body away but her manacled arms were around him, imprisoning him in the circle of her arms. He stumbled awkwardly against a pillar.

Tears of rage and sorrow streamed down Cecilia's face. She would not let Angel die in vain! She came up behind Elsdon as he struggled to wriggle out from under Angel's grasp. She brought her arms over his head, crossing them so the chain formed a noose. His neck was caught in the loop. She pulled her arms apart with all the strength at her command. The chain bit savagely into his neck. He gagged, his eyes bulging. He clawed uselessly at the chain. Two women beat at his arms and legs with the slack of their chains.

"Sir Elsdon! Sir Elsdon!" cried a voice from above. "They're ignoring the big ship! They're ordering us to heave to! Sir Elsdon!" A man's boots appeared on the ladder.

Cecilia howled in rage and frustration as the man bent double to look into the hold.

"Holy mother, they've up and kilt him!" he muttered. Hurriedly he climbed the ladder, pulling it up after him and slammed the hatch shut.

Sir Elsdon squawked once, feebly, but went unheard by the man. Then he went limp, falling to the floor, dragging Cecilia' and Angel's body with him.

Caught under the weight of his shoulders, Cecilia's arms quivered as she eased the pressure around his neck. "The key. Check his pockets," she croaked, her head falling back against the dirty floorboards.

Above them came the sounds of panic: shouting, gunshots, and the splash of men jumping into the river. The smell of smoke wafted into the hold.

"Hurry!". Cecilia urged the two women tentatively touching and poking his body. She struggled to free herself from his leaden weight.

"Here!" one of the women cried, pulling an iron key out of his waistcoat pocket. With trembling hands she unlocked her fetters and those of the other woman who stood over Elsdon. Then she freed Cecilia and rolled Elsdon's and Angel's bodies off of her.

Cecilia climbed painfully to her feet. Dark, acrid smoke curled into the hold through the grating. Cecilia coughed and held out her hand for the key.

"One of you climb onto the other's shoulders and see if you can push that hatch open. I'll unlock the others," she cried against the pain in her throat. Her eyes were stinging from the smoke.

Hands clutched at her to get free, knocking her down. Doggedly she continued. The women who were not drugged scrambled to help those at the hatch. They boosted one of the thirteen year-old girls out of the opening. A blast of heat entered the hold followed by great billows of smoke. A cry of thanks went up as the ladder descended followed by pushing and shoving as each fought to be the first free of the hold.

"Wait! Stop! We've got to help these women!" yelled Cecilia as she frantically removed the last of the irons from three drugged women. Only the youngest child remained in chains. She was coughing and knuckling her eyes, but Cecilia freed her and managed to get her and one of the drugged women to stand. "Go! Go!" she urged the child, pushing her and the woman toward the ladder. Tears caused by the smoke mingled with tears of frustration. It couldn't end this way. "Oh, James, help me," she murmured as she crawled to the next woman and pulled at her, trying desperately to get her to respond. "Don't let any more die!"

Frantically she poured water on the woman's face and slapped her cheeks. "Please," she cried, sobbing, "please!"

"Cecilia!"

She paused and looked up toward the hatch.

"Cecilia!"

Her face grew bright with hope and joy. "I'm down here!" she yelled, her throat denying her sufficient volume. She swallowed. "Here!" she cried again, louder.

Her call was rewarded with the sound of boots on the ladder.

"Where are you, Cecilia?" he called through the smoke, searching the shadowed hold, his gaze stopping on the entwined figures of Angel and Sir Elsdon.

"Over here. Help me," she croaked.

His head swung around and he saw her kneeling by two prone women. "Havelock!" he yelled up the ladder, "I need your help!" He strode over to her and pulled one of the women up, slinging her over his shoulder just as Havelock dropped into the hold.

"There's another one over here," he told him, jerking his head to the side. With his free hand he pushed Cecilia ahead of him as Lord Havelock brushed past him to pick up the other woman.

Cecilia scrambled up the ladder, every limb of her body quivering from exertion and fatigue though her head felt amazingly clear and alert. On deck she could see that the fire, primarily in the rigging, was being fought by sailors from the naval ship nearby. But the fire was spreading faster than their efforts to put it out. As they crossed the deck, the call was being given to abandon ship. A burly seaman swept Cecilia off her feet and dumped her unceremoniously into a boat drawn alongside. Looking across the water, she saw a boat with a load of frightened women reach the safety of the naval vessel. Havelock and Branstoke lowered their burdens to waiting seamen then jumped down beside them. Branstoke pulled Cecilia into his arms where she clung to him, gulping cooler air while tears of relief slid down her cheeks.