Black Silk (24 page)
After his aunt’s vitriol, she couldn’t bear to have everyone know she had been a courtesan’s partner. She couldn’t horrify Anne, who wanted to be friends.
But she refused to let Georgiana force her to live a life of fear.
She had to go to Georgiana’s carriage as her friend requested. Which, wrote Georgiana, would be waiting at the end of the drive.
And she would tell Georgiana to go to the devil.
Dressed in her pelisse, Maryanne slipped out the kitchen door—the low-arched, heavy-timbered door that led to the kitchen gardens. Blue shadows stretched across the snow, and she stepped from blazing heat into frigid cold. And silence. The sun had dropped, and the sky settled its gray embrace on the estate.
Maryanne tucked her hands into her muff and drew in a frosty breath. Her lungs ached instantly with the cold. She exhaled, and her breath danced in the air. Above her, the terrace curved, and light spilled from the gallery windows. But, here, she stood in the shadow, hidden from sight.
She had to get this done with.
Hurrying, Maryanne kicked up snow as she followed a narrow path around the side of the house. She passed the shrubs on the east wing, evergreens sculpted into fanciful shapes. The dim light pouring from the lower windows sent long black shadows across the snow.
Heart pounding, she raced across them. But she stopped as she reached the corner of the house, for often footmen and grooms loitered in the front yard.
A soft crunch came from behind her. Followed by a sigh.
Not her imagination, she was certain—
A hand clamped over her mouth, stuffing cloth between her teeth. She screamed—useless, of course! She kicked backward, and her heel connected with a hard boot. A huge arm ensnared her waist.
And lifted her.
She flailed her feet, and a rough voice chuckled. The villain’s arm squashed harder over her breasts. The stench of liquor swamped her nose, and she choked on the dirty cloth in her mouth.
“Feisty wench, aren’t you?” the villain growled.
A second man eased out of the shadows, and he grabbed her swinging feet—gripped them so hard his fingers drove into her calves. Dragging her ankles together, he held them in one massive hand and looped rough twine around her. The wretch wasn’t content just to bind her ankles, he trussed her up to her thighs with the rasping rope, sniggering all the while. And the first idiot juggled her to tie up her hands. The cord cut into her skin through her kid gloves. Her fur muff fell to the snow.
Then they hauled her around the house as if she were a sack of grain to be tossed on a wagon. Just her luck; not a servant was in sight—it was too blasted cold. They quickly crossed to the shadowy trees that lined the drive, making speed even as she struggled.
Dash!
But she just choked on cloth for her trouble. He’d see the footprints at least, and find her muff, but it would only lead to the front gate. Was there any way she could leave a trail?
She tried to wrench in the first man’s grip—her head was pressing against his hard gut, and she couldn’t see for his flapping coat. She had paper in the pocket of her pelisse, but what good would that do? If she’d had ink, perhaps she could have dripped it in the snow.
With bound hands. And how would she drip it from the carriage?
Brilliant
.
They reached the plain black carriage. With a grunt, the first villain chucked her in through the open door. She landed on her chest, arching her back to keep from smacking her face. Behind her, the blackguard clambered up. The second disappeared, and just as she managed to roll onto her back, they were off.
A woman’s half boot stood right by her nose.
And she spit out the cloth and gazed up.
Cradled in sumptuous sable, a jaunty sable-trimmed hat perched upon her pale blond hair, Georgiana sat on the blue velvet seat and gazed out the window as though she was terribly bored. Maryanne would not have that. If her friend, her partner, was kidnapping her, Georgiana would bloody well face her. She was not going to let Georgiana escape the vicious immorality of kidnapping her by looking away.
“Why are you doing this?” Maryanne demanded. Fibers of the cloth stuck to her tongue and made her want to retch. But then, so did being with her Judas of a partner.
Obviously startled by an autocratic demand in place of a whimpering plea, Georgiana gazed down at her.
“Well,” Maryanne snapped. “This is how you repay me for helping you? For rushing to your rescue?”
With a sigh, Georgiana looked to the dark-haired man. He sprawled in the seat opposite, picking his wretched teeth.
Georgiana waved her gloved hand like a countess. Innumerable bracelets glinted in the low lamplight. “Gag her,” Georgiana snapped. “I don’t wish to have to speak to her.”
“You witch!” Dash’s aunt’s insults rose up, but the brute bent over her and jammed the horrid cloth in her mouth before she could truly let loose on Georgiana.
“And blindfold her.”
As a strip of folded muslin pressed hard against her eyes, and a knot tugged ruthlessly at her hair, she remembered blindfolding Dash. With him, this had been an erotic game.
Now her heart pounded. It was terrifying to lose her sight.
What if Georgiana’s enormous lackey was unsheathing a knife? Or planning to strangle her? What if the fool held a pistol to her head—a jolt on the road could cause him to fire.
Her heart raced far faster than the carriage.
A ditch. They could end up in a ditch.
Her baby. Dash’s baby—
The man gave a lusty laugh.
“She’s got lovely plump tits. I can think of some fun for the—”
“She is pregnant, you lout,” Georgiana snapped, her voice sharp with disgust. “I forbid you to rape her.”
“Not that. But a lovely bit of fondling. A little bouncing of her arse on me cock through me trousers—for that’s the rump of a lady of quality,” he mocked.
“You, Ball, are an irritating fool. Do you not know what happens to a man who thinks only with the little head in his trousers?”
An unintelligible grunt was the response.
“The big head gets blown off his shoulders. Now behave. Or I’ll put a pistol ball through your handsome eyes.”
“In a moving carriage. Nah, you won’t,” the man returned jovially. “You’d miss, and I’d have your throat slit. Or I might amuse meself first—by cutting up your pretty tits and your loose, welcoming cunny.”
“You’d never hurt me.” But Georgiana’s voice shook. “The master would kill you.”
Imprisoned in darkness and rolling about on the wooden floor, Maryanne felt her heart race so fast she feared it would explode. Could this be the man who had killed the actress in Hyde Park?
She tried to fight the urge to throw up. She didn’t dare be sick while gagged. She might choke.
Courage, Maryanne Mouse. Think.
She’d assumed Georgiana had hatched this plan to kidnap her and extort money from Dash. Was Georgiana working for Dash’s uncle? Or Robert? It made no sense—would Georgiana do this to secure favor from a man who only had the aspiration of being viscount?
Her brain threw possibilities at her. Did Georgiana owe Jack Tate a fortune? Perhaps Georgiana was a gambler? Or was Georgiana serving Lord Craven? He was an earl, one with fabulous wealth.
She tried to brace her bound feet against the seat to stop rolling. To protect her tummy and her child.
Her child.
If a son, her child would inherit the title. Even if Dash was to die, the title and the estate would not be given to anyone until she bore a child—until she bore either a girl or a boy.
Sick dread wrapped around her, more tightly than the ropes binding her. She fought to breathe. Was she being taken so they would kill her? So Dash’s heir would die?
Or did Georgiana just want money?
But why do something so extreme? For money, all she had to do was make a demand.
Maryanne’s stomach cramped painfully, and she screamed into the cloth gagging her mouth. She drew up her legs, trying to bear the excruciating agony that racked her loins. It faded but left her shaking.
Was her fear and the rough treatment causing a miscarriage?
Tears leaked into the blindfold.
Courage!
She had to quell fear. She had no choice but to be courageous—she was not going to lose Dash’s child!
But with every muscle tense, she waited for another cramp. She was jostled about on the floor for an eternity, her head bouncing up and slamming down with each rut.
“I hate to see her smacked about like that,” Ball commented. “Let me put her on the seat.”
“Fine. Do it then,” Georgiana snapped.
One of the beefy paws cradled her head; the other wrapped around her waist. “Not much farther, love,” he remarked cheerfully. “And you’ll be more cozy in me arms.”
M
elted snow dripped from Maryanne’s sable muff onto Dash’s hand as he charged up the stairs to his uncle’s bedchamber. He slammed his boot into the paneled oak door, and it bowed and then tore out of the aging lock. It slammed inward.
The bed curtains were drawn, and muffled behind the velvet came a confused, weak voice. “What—? Who’s there? What do you want?”
“Get out of here. On your feet or I’ll shoot you through the bloody drapes.” A lie—he had no pistol, but it proved effective.
A wavering hand clutched the drape, and two legs emerged, along with the cane. White as the proverbial sheet, his uncle slithered out from between the crimson velvet drapes, and he cautiously dropped to his feet, but the petulant look on his fat face enraged Dash.
“What did you do with my wife?” Dash raged.
Confusion met his demand. “What in blazes are you talking about, Swansborough—”
But Dash had his uncle by the throat—by the cravat, for he’d obviously lain down for a nap fully dressed. “Maryanne is missing. If you don’t tell me what you did to her, I’ll rip out your windpipe with my bare hands.”
His uncle desperately shook his head. “I didn’t touch the girl. I’ve no idea where she went.”
“I don’t believe it.” He gripped Blackmore’s flabby throat.
The beefy hands clawed at his wrist, but Dash’s grip was like iron, stronger than even he’d expected.
A surge of power and rage thundered through Dash’s head. All his life, he’d feared this man. He’d been vulnerable. Frightened. And now he was physically superior, more powerful.
“It’s the truth. God’s truth.”
Relentlessly Dash squeezed tighter. His uncle’s fingers grew weaker.
“Please. Please. I know nothing. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” Broken, beaten, a weak man in tears. Pleading for his life. All bravado and anger and courage gone.
“Swansborough, stop!” His aunt’s voice filtered into his head. He twisted his head to see her in the doorway, her head bowed and her hands clasped. Pleading. “His heart is weak. Any strain and he might be gone. Remembering his son, his lost son might be enough.”
Dash blinked, unable to reconcile this controlled woman with the shrieking harridan who had attacked his wife. But he released his uncle and stepped back as she hastened across the floor.
Had the display in the drawing room been a trick? Wrapping her arms around his uncle’s sloping shoulders, his aunt soothed Blackmore and helped the shaking man lower onto the bed.
Helplessness hit Dash. He slammed his fist into the gilt column of the bed canopy, knuckles colliding with a furled leaf, but he reveled in the pain that bit into him. “I want to know what he did with my wife.”
Straightening, his aunt’s resolute set of mouth, sharp features, and unflinching gaze gave her the look of a tower of strength. Even with iron-gray hair in disarray. Vehemently she shook her head. “Nothing. He didn’t touch her. You think he plots against you? He is an old, confused man. He lives only for the time he spends with her—his mistress—for she makes him believe he is still a young man. I believe he should accept the truth.”
Hell, he didn’t care about their marital issues. He wished them both a miserable union. “I do not believe it. I know he would hurt a woman to hurt me—”
“He has changed—the shock of losing Simon, of losing a boy he loved, preyed upon him.”
“He was bloody content to kill me.”
She shook her head and grasped his forearm. Dash flinched at the touch. “Come,” she whispered, and he followed, cursing his dependency, damning the wasted time. “He didn’t send the footpads to hurt your mistress; he did not send that ransom note. He did not send the assassins who killed Simon.” Her watery gray eyes met his gaze. “I did. I hired them. I paid them. I sent them. And I lost everything. Everything.”
Rocked back on his heels, Dash bent over her, his fist pressed against the wall. “Why? Did getting that blasted title mean so much to you?”
“It meant so much to him,” she snapped bitterly. She wrapped her thin arms around her chest. “I wanted to be the one to give James what he yearned for.”
“You’re both mad, but I don’t give a damn about either of you.” Menace turned Dash’s growl into a hoarse rasp. “All I want is Maryanne safe and sound. I’ll spare you both if you get her back to me.”
But his aunt stood, trembling. “Every night, for all these years, I’ve dreamed about Simon’s death. I’ve seen his cold, still face. I’ve heard his death rattle.” Beseeching, she gazed at him. “I would never…could never hurt anyone again.”
Liar. His uncle had played the jovial country gent and kind relative while trying to kill him. But how could Dash get the truth out of her? “On the other hand, such a great loss could make you more determined to get that blasted title.”
Panicked, she shook her head. “No. You must believe me, Swansborough.”
“That you wouldn’t hurt my wife after you insulted her? The only reason you remain in this house is because you know where she is!”
“I don’t.”
“Then I turn James Blackmore over to Sir William.”
“Sir William was a peer of James’s. A friend. He would never—”
“He learned about my past when Simon was murdered.” He watched her flinch. “He’d had suspicions; he ensured he freed me of Blackmore. The reason I’m alive today is because Sir William intervened.”
His uncle had known he had to be clever in the way he destroyed Dash so Sir William could not connect the crime to him. And now he understood why Sir William had been unable to arrest Blackmore for the attack on his mistress and Simon’s death. They’d been looking for the wrong culprit—it had been his aunt Helena.
“Who killed Amanda Westmoreland? You or my uncle?”
A blank stare met his question. Did she truly not remember Amanda?
Maryanne. How was he going to protect Maryanne? How could he make this woman reveal where she was? Would his aunt tell the truth to save her husband’s life?
The creak of hinges. Dash swung around to catch the sheen of reflected light. Focusing, he realized Sir William had walked into the room. He held a sheath of folded paper.
“Swansborough, I need a word.”
Helena reached a trembling hand toward Sir William. “We’ve done nothing. We didn’t hurt her. I have no idea where her…” A grimace touched her lips. “Where her ladyship is.”
Dash gripped his aunt’s arm—for Maryanne he had no choice but to bully a feeble-bodied, feeble-minded old woman. “If you are lying, I will make you both pay.”
Abruptly he turned his back on her and strode across the room, but her plaintive words followed. “There is nothing more you can do to us. We are already in hell.”
One of your own making.
His heart felt like a hard lump in his chest as he followed Sir William to his own bedchamber. “You looked in your wife’s room, but you did not look here. This was left folded beneath your sheets.”
What had possessed Sir William to search his sheets? But Dash took the note and read:
Where risk and scandal frolic beneath bucolic sky and
Five rogues await to make a fair lady cry
Her pleasure to the stars as she embraces heaven’s light
And lets her love witness an orgiastic delight.
The bloody Vauxhall clue from the scavenger hunt but slightly changed. His pulse roared in his head.
Embrace heaven’s light. Five rogues…
Raped and then killed…
God no.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. Sir William. “Easy, Dashiel, turn over the sheet.”
The grip of his hand had crumpled the side of it. Small, cramped writing scrawled across the top.
Mine to enjoy. Yours to find. But you are to be witness. Whitby Manor. Alone.
Whitby Manor was in the village of Wising not four miles away. As far as Dash knew, it had been empty since autumn.
“You are not going alone,” Sir William began, eyes grave behind glinting eyeglasses. “I will bring—”
A knock at his door, the knob turning.
Maryanne! Was it possible she’d escaped?
But his heart plunged like a stone as Harriet stumbled into his bedchamber, alone, her glove-clad palm pressed to her cheek. “Dash! It was horrible. It was a nightmare. Oh, I’ve been such a fool and—”
“What in blazes happened? Where is Maryanne?”
She halted, her hand leaving her cheek and exposing a swollen purplish patch. “Maryanne? I have no idea where your wife is. Why should I?” She rushed forward again, cheeks pink and blue eyes bright with tears. “I was with Craven, and the gentleman is an utter monster. You warned me at Buckstead about my behavior, and I’ve mired myself in danger. I have nowhere else to turn, Dash.”
“What did Craven do?” he roared. Was Craven behind this, after all?
His vehemence seemed to startle her, and then, blast her, she flung herself against his chest. “Dash—I discovered what he was. He has kidnapped a girl, an innocent girl, to take her to London. I was enraged, and he mocked me. He keeps these girls as his private playthings. Keeps them in a sordid club and shares them amongst his noxious peers. And there are others he has stolen from the country and sold into sexual slavery.”
He gripped her upper arms and pushed her back from his chest. “Christ Jesus, I’ve no time for your games. Is this the truth? Did you see the girl he took?”
She shook her head. “No, no, it is the truth!” she cried. “But I did not see the girl. I saw her gown—it was left in the cottage. I took him to task, thinking it belonged to a tart. He hit me, throttled me until I passed out—and I was certain he was going to kill me! But I woke to find Barrett there. And he told me all. I had a dagger hidden in my dress. I had to stab him to escape.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, but I cut his cheek, and he will kill me if he finds me, I know he will.”
“Why were you carrying a knife?”
She gaped. “I always do. A woman must protect herself.”
“Especially one who consorts with perverts and villains,” he roared. “Where is this bloody club of Craven’s?”
“I don’t know. It is patterned on the Hellfire clubs of the last century. I believe the men dress as Satan—they wear only breeches and papier-mâché horns, and they hold orgies.”
“Bloody hell.” Dash’s heart hammered in his chest. Had Craven taken Maryanne to use her as a hostage as a way of protecting himself from prosecution as a white slaver? Or was it someone else?
A glance up at Sir William showed the man pondering, likely the same questions. “I think Whitby Manor is the most probable, Dashiel. But you are not going alone. And it is dark—you should wait until morning—”
“Leave Maryanne in danger for the night? Not bloody likely.”
And within a half hour, Dash had two loaded pistols in his greatcoat and Beelzebub saddled and ready. He charged out of the front door, jamming his hat on his head. Hail pelted him, and he leaped down the steps.
His boot heel skidded in the slippery snow.
A treacherous night.
But he was going to ride hell-bent for leather to rescue Maryanne. And dying trying was not an option.
“I assume my advice on ways to please Swansborough had him panting with desire for you?”
Silk rustled as Georgiana approached Maryanne’s cell, and the careful speech—every
H
pronounced and the accent controlled—had Maryanne gritting her teeth.
At this moment she despised everything about Georgiana. The witch. Was money worth so much to the heartless cow?
Obviously.
“Or were you too much of a mouse to try?” Georgiana appeared at the bars, a tray balanced in her hands. “It is exasperating that I must do this—carry a tray for you like a servant. And I suggest you eat.”
Since her ankles were shackled to the damp stone wall and a short chain attached to narrow metal cuffs linked her wrists, Maryanne could not see how she could eat. With her fingers, like a rat—and this hideous dungeon must be full of rats.
Two candles burned in the low tunnel outside the bars, magnifying Georgiana’s shadow over tooled stone walls.
Maryanne glared at her former partner, hoping she looked an imperious viscountess, even though she was imprisoned in a cell wearing only a dirty shift and Georgiana gleamed like pure driven snow. The famous voluptuous figure was squeezed into a white gown, her hands clad in white silk gloves, and perfectly dressed golden ringlets framed an artfully made-up face.
Tarted-up old witch.
Insults were fruitless, but they did give some satisfaction.
Georgiana set the items from the tray onto the flag floor. A cup of weak-looking tea, a hunk of cheese, and a torn-off piece of bread. To her irritation, Maryanne’s tummy growled. Sliding through the narrow gap in the bars, Georgiana’s wrist tempted—if only Maryanne had a weapon, she could catch Georgiana and hold her prisoner, bargain her escape.
But she could not move without clanking chains.
“My husband would pay you a fortune to release me.” There was no point in appealing to Georgiana’s sympathy, reminding her they had been friends. “You could escape to Italy and live like a queen.”
But Georgiana stood and drew back. “I doubt your husband would let me live. And it is more than money that I want.”
“Oh, heavens,” Maryanne groaned, shifting her ankles and wincing at the clink of metal on a ragged flagstone. “You are doing this to please a man, aren’t you?”
Georgiana whirled, skirts fluttering. She bent and blew out one candle.
“What in blazes are you doing?”
“Preparing.” And Georgiana picked up the remaining candle, cursing as the handle of the holder smudged dirt on her glove. “Good-bye.”
“No, don’t!” Fear rushed over Maryanne. “I’ll give you money. Bushels of it. Don’t leave me! Don’t take the candle!” Pride, who cared for pride? Desperation gripped her like a living thing, choking away her breath.
But Georgiana’s affected laugh rippled back as light faded. Dim slivers of light bounced over the stone, and then vanished.
Rats. They’d come out now. On her hands and knees, she scrambled for the food—she felt sick, but she didn’t want the smell of it to attract vermin. The shackles bit into her bruised ankles. She could see nothing but spots before her eyes. Damn, she would not cry.