Elusive Passion (21 page)

“Mmf!” She struggled against it, thrashing her head from side to side in an effort to elude him.

It was pointless. With her mouth gagged, she had no choice but to breathe through her nose. Sobbing in defeat, she inhaled.

“That’s it, Varya,” the singing man cooed. “Breathe.”

“Any news?” Carny strode into the room without being announced, tossing his coat onto a chair.

Miles looked up from the papers on his desk. “The
messager says the man who hired him wore a mask. He knows nothing.”

“Damn. Have you slept?” The earl helped himself to a glass of port.

“What do you think?” Miles asked peevishly, rubbing a hand along his unshaven jaw. “Of course I haven’t slept. I can’t sleep knowing some maniac has the woman I—my wife.”

“I know how you feel about her, Miles. Not even your bizarre sense of honor could have forced you to marry a woman you didn’t care about.” Carny lowered himself into the chair before Miles’s desk.

“I have no idea who took her or where she might be.” With a weary sigh, he slumped back in his chair. “I’ve half of Bow Street out looking for her and still nothing.”

Carny sipped his wine. “But we know it has something to do with Bella’s death. What have you found out about Dennyson?”

Rubbing his tired eyes, Miles yawned. He wiped his hand over his face and regarded his closest friend with a bleary gaze.

“Only that he’s not our killer.”

Carny sprang out of his chair. “What?”

Miles stood, moving to the cupboard to pour himself his own drink. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything in the cabinet that could deaden his fear.

He took a long, fortifying draught.

“Dennyson was in bed with a bad case of quinsy the days surrounding Bella’s death. I have the apothecary’s sworn statement that he attended the earl’s bed
side. Dennyson was quite delirious with fever for days and unable to even use a chamber pot by himself, let alone orchestrate or commit a murder.”

He ran a hand along the glossy surface of the desk, remembering his and Varya’s lusty embrace on it just the day before. What if he never got the chance to tell her how he felt?

He slammed his fist down on the wood. “I can’t just wait for the bastard to send me another note!”

“You may not have to.” Calmly, Cary handed him a folder. “I took the liberty of investigating another possible angle just in case we were wrong about Dennyson.”

Puzzled, Miles opened the pages. “What is it?”

His friend cleared his throat. “It’s a file I had prepared on you.”

Miles froze. “You did what?”

Carny held up his hand. “Hear me out. For some time now I’ve wondered if perhaps this whole mystery didn’t go a little deeper than Bella.”

“How?” Miles demanded, angered that his friend had investigated him, but even more angry that he hadn’t confided in him about it until now.

“You remember Maria?”

“Of course I do.” She was a beautiful Spanish courtesan who used to spy for Carny and sometimes Miles. Her relationship with Miles had gone far beyond business, however.

“I trust, then, you also remember how she died?”

She had been strangled months after they’d ended their affair. Everyone assumed the French had done it. “Yes. I remember.”

Carny sipped his port. “I went out on a limb and asked a few questions. The answers are in that report.”

A muscle in Miles’s jaw twitched. “And what are the answers?”

His friend shook his head. “I don’t know. I wanted you to see them first.”

What Miles saw on the first page was a list of five women’s names. All the names he recognized as women he had once been involved with.

Ones that he had actually cared for.

Beside each name was the letter D and a date. All the dates fell within a year period—starting with Maria’s death in Spain and ending with Bella’s in England. Before Bella was Emile—a French dancer Miles had been involved with when Charlotte died. Awareness washed over Miles like thick, black oil. In the back of his head he could hear Caroline’s voice,
“You had that French girl to console you.”

He handed the file back to Carny. “It can’t be true.” His voice sounded hollow in his own ears. This was a nightmare.

Pale-faced, Carny quickly scanned the papers. When he was done, he met Miles’s gaze grimly. “It is.” He sighed. “We have to get to the bottom of this quickly, my friend. If this falls into the wrong hands, you’re going to find yourself as the number one suspect.”

Miles chuckled bleakly. “If I didn’t know the truth, I’d think I was the
only
suspect.”

“It appears, however,” Carny spoke meaningfully, “that you are the intended victim. And whoever is do
ing this is someone who knows you. Someone who was in the Peninsula with us.”

Weighing the empty tumbler in his hand, Miles stared blindly at his distorted reflection in the glass. He squeezed the glass as his terror and frustration mounted.

“And now the son of a bitch has Varya!”

The tumbler cracked.

G
roaning at the stiffness in her shoulders, Varya rolled slowly on to her side when the daylight awoke her. She was surprised to discover that she was untied and alone in the room. She hadn’t expected to be given any freedom of motion or privacy at all. No doubt there was a guard outside her door. Probably the short one.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She was still wearing the gown she had been forced to don the night before. It was wrinkled beyond repair.

Tossing back the blankets she swung her legs over the side of the mattress. A wave of nauseating dizziness swept over her. Gripping the edge of the bed with all her strength, she waited for it to pass before even
trying to distinguish where she was. As the sickness passed, she opened her eyes.

She had been correct in assuming she was being kept in a middle-class home. While the room was large and charming, it was nowhere near as large as her chamber at Wynter Lane. Several pieces of finely crafted, yet obviously out-of-date furniture were scattered along the walls. A hand-painted screen standing discreetly in the far corner no doubt hid a chamber pot, of which she was in need.

Gingerly, she slid forward on the bed, holding on to the bedpost for support as she placed one foot, then the other on the short steps that led down to the floor.

She had to lean on furniture all the way to the painted screen as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. The drug they had given her, combined with hunger and stiff muscles, made her as weak and clumsy as an infant learning to walk.

Relieving herself took a little bit of ingenuity, but the task was soon accomplished, and by the time she made it to the washstand, her limbs were feeling decidedly stronger.

She was moving toward the barred window to try to figure out just where in London she was when the door opened.

Sure enough the short guard stood sentry outside as a squat, heavyset woman Varya could only assume to be the housekeeper bustled in carrying a tray.

Breakfast? Varya’s stomach growled.

“Why am I being held here?” she asked the woman.

The servant stiffened, but continued unloading the
contents of the tray onto a small table near the wardrobe.

“I don’t know, my lady,” she replied without looking up. “I was told only that you were a lady and that I was to treat you as such but not to allow you out of this room.”

Varya could have struck her. “He’s keeping me here against my will.”

The woman reddened. “I know.”

Varya’s stomach turned. “You
know
?” She crossed the floor as quickly as her tortured legs would carry her, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “He has taken me away from my husband and my family and you accept it?”

The woman’s frightened gaze flickered briefly to Varya’s face. “I need my position, my lady.”

Varya was very tempted to strike her. “I am cousin to the czar of Russia. If that means nothing to you, then perhaps the fact that I am also the wife of the Marquess of Wynter will.” She stepped directly in front of the woman and stared down at her harshly. “When my husband finds me, your master is going to hang and so will all those who assisted him. Is your
position
worth dying for?”

The empty tray clattered to the floor as the housekeeper ran pale and shaking from the room. The door slammed shut behind her. Varya heard the very distinct
click
of a key being turned in the lock.

“Damn!” Not only had she lost her temper but she had also frightened off possibly the only person who might have been persuaded to help her.

Mentally berating herself, Varya sat down to breakfast. She would eat, and then find a way to escape.

Breakfast was delicious but she ate only enough to take the edge off her hunger. She did not want to stuff herself and be too lethargic to move quickly if need be.

Winding her hair up into a bun, Varya paced the carpet. What was she going to do? How was she going to get out? She couldn’t just sit there and pretend she was a houseguest, not with bars on the window. There was no doubt in her mind that her abductor was the same bastard who had murdered her friend, and that he intended the same fate for her.

She couldn’t rely on Miles coming to her rescue either. Even if he did by now have some idea as to who had taken her, he would have no idea where to find her. The view outside the barred window had been nothing but courtyard. She had no idea where she was.

Chewing anxiously on the side of her thumb, she willed herself to be calm. She had to think of something.

Her gaze landed on the table. The teapot wasn’t overly large, but it was solid and would certainly stun someone who was struck with it.

It wasn’t long before the housekeeper returned. Her eyes downcast, she didn’t even look in Varya’s direction as she began to clear the table. She didn’t even seem to notice that the teapot was missing.

Grimly, Varya walked up behind her, gripping the pot by its handle. She would have to think fast when the guard came in to investigate the noise. Hopefully the teapot wouldn’t break.

She brought the pot up and crashing down onto the housekeeper’s cap. It exploded into hundreds of pieces on impact, raining lukewarm tea and porcelain all over Varya and the rest of the room. The woman grunted and crumpled to a heap at Varya’s feet.

Varya stared at the remains of the pot in her hands. All that was left was the gold-rimmed handle.

The short guard burst through the door not even seconds later. Thankfully he was unarmed. He ran toward Varya with a mixture of fear and determination on his face.

Without thinking, Varya swept up the china plate containing the remnants of her breakfast and swung. It caught him full in the face, covering his features with egg and ham, and snapping in half with the force of the blow.

One broken edge caught Varya’s hand, slicing the skin, but she didn’t care. As the plate crashed to the floor, so did the short guard, blood spurting from his nose.

Varya hiked up her skirts and ran. Her heart hammering wildly in her chest, she flew along the corridor and down the stairs, her legs pumping so hard she almost fell several times.

She skidded on the carpet in the foyer but kept on running. The door was only a few feet away. She was going to make it.

No sooner had she felt the thrill of victory than the door opened. For one brief second, as her eyes fell upon the distinguished-looking gentleman, she thought she had been rescued. As he caught her in his
arms, she almost sobbed in relief at having been rescued. Then he spoke.

“Oh, my dear Varya. You’re not going anywhere.”

She had been taken by men he had trusted to protect her.

Miles sat at his desk with his head in his hands. He had scarcely moved from there since Carny had left near dawn. The sun was now creeping stealthily higher in the clear blue sky and he had yet to change his clothes.

He had brought Varya men he thought he could trust, having served with them in the Peninsula, but that wasn’t what disturbed Miles the most.

What disturbed him was that soldiers were, for the most part, a loyal bunch. Whether noble or common, they held themselves as a separate breed. If they had betrayed Miles it meant they had betrayed him for one of their own—someone who could afford to pay them—someone Miles knew.

A list of men with the means to hire such a group of mercenaries lay on the desk before him. It had half a dozen names on it: Pennington, Rochester, Dennyson, Phillips, Edwards, and Carnover.

Their personal history automatically removed Carny from the list. Even if Miles found Carny standing over a body with a bloody knife in his hand, he wouldn’t believe him capable of cold-blooded murder.

It had been horrible enough to find out about Bella. Learning that others had died because of him was sickening. He could have believed Pennington, Rochester, even Dennyson capable of killing in a moment of pas
sion, but he couldn’t imagine anyone he knew being so insane.

Whoever it was had known he wasn’t at home on his wedding night. He had to know that Varya was alone in her room and that there was no chance of Miles returning home. He tried to recall who had been with him at White’s, but couldn’t summon up a single face.

“Good Lord, you’re still wearing the same clothes you had on when I left you.”

Miles leaned back in his chair, all too aware of the smell of his own sweat and the state of his hair and clothing.

Carny’s grimace turned into a concerned frown. “Have you heard from the kidnapper?” Tossing his hat and gloves onto a small table, he crossed the room.

“Not yet.” Miles’s frustration seemed to grow with every step his friend took. “It tears me apart knowing this monster has Varya. I feel so helpless.”

Carny seated himself in a chair on the opposite side of the desk and leaned forward. “That’s how he wants you to feel. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

A chorus of voices outside the door announced the arrival of what sounded like a small circus.

Carny arched a brow. “The family approaches?”

“Yes.” Miles sighed. “I can’t have a hysterical Russian prince running about the city demanding to have his daughter back.”

“Of course not,” Carny agreed with a chuckle. “The less people who know about this the better.”

“Mm. I’m hoping that since the kidnapper is someone we know he’ll slip up—say something wrong. If
no one else knows Varya has been taken”—his face hardened—“any slips will be easier to catch.”

“Let’s hope our boy decides to be social then.”

The door opened and in walked Blythe and the dowager, followed by Vladimir and Ana.

“Have you found my daughter?” Vladimir demanded.

“No,” Miles replied, sounding as tired as he felt.

“No? Why not?” Vladimir’s face was red with rage. “Because you sit in here and do not look! My Varenka could be dead for all you know! She was taken because of you! Her blood will be on your hands—”

“That’s
enough!
” snapped a steely voice.

Miles’s mouth dropped open in shock as he realized the voice had come from his mother.

The dowager marchioness faced Vladimir with a stern expression Miles hadn’t seen since childhood.

“Your daughter chose to marry my son, Your Highness,” Elizabeth informed him, hands on her hips. “If there is anyone to blame, you can blame yourself for Varya’s fear of you, but right now the most important thing is finding her and bringing her home. So I want you to sit and listen to what my son has to say or leave the room. This is not Russia. You don’t rule under this roof.
I
do.”

For once, Vladimir was speechless. He stared at Elizabeth in stunned silence. Even as Ana coaxed him onto the sofa, his wide gaze remained locked on the elegant woman who seated herself across from him.

“You wanted to see all of us, Miles?” his mother asked sweetly.

Forcing back his surprise, Miles nodded. It quickly
faded as his mind focused on why he had summoned them.

“Yes, Mama. Bow Street has all of their available men out looking for Varya. Carny and I have a few leads of our own to follow as well. What I need the rest of you to do is pretend that nothing is wrong. If anyone asks about Varya, simply tell them that she is ill. The fewer people who know she is missing, the easier I’m hoping it will be to find her.” He gazed pointedly at Vladimir. “Not even the czar is to know. I don’t care what you tell him, but I don’t want a bunch of Cossacks running around London making matters worse by trying to find my wife.”

The prince nodded stiffly.

“Good. I expect to hear from the kidnapper soon. If it is truly me he is after, he’ll be anxious to get me under his thumb as soon as possible. It’s imperative that we keep up the charade, especially at home. If the villain is someone we know, I suspect he might actually pay us a social call to see the effects of his work.”

Both Ana and Elizabeth gasped.

“Surely you don’t believe he’ll come here?” Ana stared at him in horror.

“Do you truly believe it is someone we know?” The dowager wrapped her arms around her waist in a protective gesture.

“Yes, to both your questions. That’s why it is so important that you tell no one what has happened. We don’t know who we can trust.”

“So that’s it?” Blythe demanded. “We just stay quiet and wait?”

Miles raised his hand. “For you, yes. Don’t think this
isn’t difficult for me, Blythe. I want her back more than all of you put together, but I am not going to endanger her life by doing something rash.” His voice dropped to a warning, “And you had better not either.”

Blythe looked away in sullen silence.

“I have an idea,” Carny interjected, his gaze drifting from Blythe to Miles and back again. “Blythe, why don’t you come with me for a ride in the park while Miles puts us all out of our misery by finally performing his toilette? Perhaps we’ll run into our boy there.”

Blythe’s face brightened and Carny rose.

Elizabeth clutched his arm. “Don’t you dare put my daughter in danger, Rowan Carmichael.”

Carny gave her hand a gentle pat. “I will protect her with my life, Mama.”

Elizabeth smiled as she always did when Carny called her “Mama,” and she pressed her lips briefly to his cheek.

“What will you do while I’m gone?” Carny asked Miles.

“Bathe, as you so subtly suggested, and wait for word from our friend.”

Blythe shuddered. “I feel like we’re all flies, waiting for the spider.”

“Do not worry, Blythe,” Carny told her, giving her hand a gentle pat. “Your brother and I are on the case.”

“Be back here in a hour,” he told the departing couple.

The blond man raised his hand in salute.

Miles left the room without another word. As he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber two at a time, he bellowed for his valet.

He was a bundle of nerves, of raw energy. It felt very much as it had whenever he had gone into battle—anxiety coupled with a fierce determination to succeed, to survive. This was one battle he was prepared not to lose.

Miles felt infinitely better as he drifted downstairs almost an hour later. He had bathed, shaved, and changed his clothes, but even soap and hot water couldn’t scrub away the constant fear and the near panic that clung to the back of his mind.