Miss Hillary Schools a Scoundrel (23 page)

Drew arrived with the vicar at four o’clock sharp and discovered the butler had already shown his family to the drawing room. Their early arrival didn’t surprise him as his mother was beside herself with excitement. Her only lament was not planning another large celebration as she had done for Rich and Phoebe, but a more intimate gathering suited Drew.

Mr. Hillary joined everyone in the drawing room first, followed by his wife who greeted Drew’s mother and sisters with hugs.

“Lana should be down soon,” Mrs. Hillary said. “I sent a servant to announce your arrival.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hillary.”

Everyone took a seat except Rich, who paced the room on Drew’s behalf, a habit his brother had developed when anxious. Jake entered next, taking a seat close to Drew, but still there was no sign of Lana.

Fighting back his impatience, Drew attempted to engage her brother in conversation. Jake wore that somber expression he often sported when he was deep into his cups. Drew discreetly sniffed to see if he detected alcohol. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

“Is everything satisfactory, chap?”

Jake swiped his hand across his brow. “It’s nothing. Just a personal matter on my mind.” Then he amazed Drew by offering a slight grin. It was a poor effort at gaiety, but it was an effort all the same. “Lana is happy. Do not foul it up.”

“Agreed.”

Jake accepted Drew’s handshake.

After a long while, the butler approached Mr. Hillary and murmured in low tones Drew couldn’t make out.

He scooted to the edge of his seat and rested his hands on his knees, ready to jump up and go to Lana. If she was having second thoughts, he could change her mind again. With any luck, she kept a lock on her door, for his powers of persuasion worked best without uninvited guests barging in.

Lana’s father moved outside of the drawing room to speak with the servant, but his voice carried. “What is the meaning of this? Have you searched everywhere? Look again.”

Drew bolted from the chair and stalked from drawing room. “Something has gone awry.”

Lana’s father scratched his head. “Hogan reports my daughter is not in her chambers.”

Mrs. Hillary bustled into the corridor. “James, what is it? Where’s Lana?”

Soon every member of their combined families gathered outside of the drawing room, asking for explanations.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Mr. Hillary said. “The servants are searching the house.”

“She has to be here somewhere,” Lana’s mother stated. “Where would she go?”

“Perhaps she came to her senses,” Gabby mumbled.

Drew ignored his precocious sister.

The pinched-faced butler returned. “Sir, I’m afraid Miss Hillary is not in the house. The staff searched every place imaginable.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jake said and sprinted toward the staircase.

Drew liked his initiative and followed on his heels. They dashed through the open door of her chambers, but no one was inside.

“Check under the bed,” Drew said.

Jake took two steps then halted and threw a harassed look over his shoulder. “She’s not hiding under the bed, you dolt.”

Drew crossed to the mahogany bed and checked anyway. Not finding her, he hurried to the wardrobe to throw open the doors. She wasn’t there either, not that Drew had expected she would be, but he didn’t trust the servants to have checked
every
conceivable hiding place. He glanced toward the window then dismissed the idea.

“Would she have gone for a walk with her lady’s maid?” he asked.

Her brother pulled a watch from his pocket and checked the time. “Not bloody likely. She knew the time of the nuptials. I can’t fathom she would leave the house.”

Truth, the blasted rounder, delivered a gut-punch. “Hell’s teeth. She has changed her mind again. I knew I shouldn’t have left to change attire.”

“Lana is too stubborn to cry off.” Jake shoved the watch back in his pocket. “She has vowed to make me miserable ever since I pulled off her dolly’s head when she was four. Now that she has found a way to make good on her promise, she isn’t going to leave it go.” Jake moved toward the staircase. “I’m searching outside.”

“Not without me.”

Jake, Rich, and Drew huddled on the front steps to form a plan of attack before each of them took off in a different direction. They would search the surrounding neighborhood while servants combed the gardens and fanned out to search Hyde Park. Two hours later, no one had seen any sign of Lana nor found a clue to hint at her whereabouts. Drew refused to give up the hunt. He expanded his search, praying she
had
come to her senses and was crying off. This seemed the better scenario than any other he imagined.

***

Faraway voices broke through the blackness, but Lana only caught a word or two before sliding back into a dream state. Her arms and legs refused to budge. She tried to swallow against the grit in her mouth, but she couldn’t produce any saliva. Something rough pressed against her cheek, and she thought to change her position, but sleep overtook her before she could put thought into action.

“’Ow much did ya give ’er?”

“I don’t know.” A high-pitched whine broke through her drowsiness. “I just poured it into the teapot.”

“Is she dead?”

Dead?
Well, that would be a dratted inconvenience.

Ice-cold fingers touched her forehead, unpleasant in the extreme, but reassuring her that she was well and alive, and a mite irritated to have been left lying on the floor. The delicate hand settled on her chest for a moment before withdrawing. “She’s warm and still breathing.”

Footsteps clomped toward her. “I should kill ’er
now
. Get it over with.”

Goodness, Vicar Dunlevy was on a tear today. The delay in their nuptials seemed a minor inconvenience at best, but the man had always been a bit of a malcontent.

“I only fainted,” Lana tried to say but her words came out garbled.

“She is only good to us alive,” the woman said. “How do you expect to get the money otherwise?”

As Lana slowly returned to full consciousness, she blinked into the darkness. Where was she? She wasn’t at Hillary House, at least not in her lavender-scented bedchamber. Her lip curled. What was that stench? It was like rotten onions and sheep. Lana turned her head away from the smell.

Moonbeams poked through the grimy glass of a window, doing a poor job of lighting the space. This had best not be Drew’s idea of a decent home in which to raise their family. Men should never be entrusted with a woman’s task.

The small room amplified every sound, the shuffling of feet, the gurgling of the woman’s stomach—or was that
her
stomach? She really was ravenous now.

“Wake ’er up.”

“Quiet, Reg, and speak proper like I taught you,” the woman scolded. “This is your fault. You had one task and you bungled it.”

A deep roar reverberated through the air followed by a crash and the sound of splintering wood.

Lana’s heart leapt in surprise.

“It was a damned stupid idea,” he said. “I shoulda taken ’er when I had the chance. It was a waste of my time.”

“It wouldn’t have been necessary to take her at all if you had done your part, and we wouldn’t be reduced to criminals. The plan would have worked,” the woman repeated. “I know it.”

An involuntary sigh escaped Lana’s lips as her body worked to revive itself, to recover from whatever plagued it.

“I think she’s waking.” Lana recognized the speaker’s voice.

“Betsy?” It came out as a croak.

“Get her something to drink.”

The man grumbled as his footfalls retreated. There was a rustle then more stomping back into the room. “’Ow long do ya think we can keep ’er ’ere? Are ya sure no one can find us?”

A flash of light alerted Lana to the flask in his hand when he thrust his arm toward Betsy.

The maid accepted the flask and slid her arm under Lana’s shoulders. “How would they know to look here? You have to sit up, miss.”

Lana struggled to lift her shoulders from the ground, finding the movement made her head spin. Betsy supported her weight and raised the cold metal container to rest against her lips before spilling the liquid into Lana’s mouth. Fiery alcohol scorched her tongue before blazing a path down her throat. She gasped and sputtered, coughing until she doubled over on her side.

“I take it you have no lemonade?” she asked when she could breathe normally again.

“I know it’s hard to get down, miss, but it’s all we have.”

“Where am I?”

“It don’t matter,” the man growled. “Don’t get no ideas.”

Lana could see his outline in the dark, but she couldn’t distinguish any of his features. Nevertheless, his voice struck a familiar chord and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “It’s you,” she whispered, but neither seemed to hear. The man from Irvine Castle. The one who chased her in the maze. “Wh-what do you want?” Her dry lips stuck together in the corners.

“Why don’t ya shut up?” the man barked.

“Reggie, allow me to explain. I’m certain she will assist us.”

Lana’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could visualize parts of Betsy’s face. Her maid sat by her side, still holding the flask. The man called Reggie snatched the alcohol from Betsy’s hand before walking away with it. Lana caught a brief glimpse of blond hair, but nothing more. The man grunted before opening a door, allowing a gust of cold air to steal into the space and sweep over her body, then slammed the door as he left.

She recalled her maid mentioning a brother once when she had started her position. Was it three years ago? “Reggie? Isn’t that your brother’s name?”

“You should keep your observations to yourself, miss,” Betsy whispered. “He won’t be happy.”

“A bit of a curmudgeon, is he?” she muttered.

Lana had no idea why the man was angry with her, but he spoke with such hatred, she didn’t question Betsy’s assertion. She struggled to sit, realizing for the first time that they had bound her hands and ankles. Hearing her maid’s voice upon waking had lulled her into feeling secure, but panic surged through Lana as she recognized the actual danger of the situation.

Her breaths came rapid and shallow as the sound of blood swished in her ears. She fought against the ropes, writhing on the floor and scraping her knuckles against the wood in the process. Papa always complained about the difficulties of finding good help. Now she understood his dilemma.

“Really, Betsy. I’m afraid I must terminate your position.”

The door slammed again. “Keep ’er quiet, or I’ll quiet ’er for good.”

Betsy’s hand cupped Lana’s forehead, and she leaned close to speak softly in her ear. “Please be still, miss. Once your family pays, this will be over and you can go home. But we need something from you.”

Lana forced her breathing to slow and she swallowed. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s easy, Miss Hillary. We simply need you to write something for us, that’s all.”

“
Write
something?” She must have misunderstood. Why sedate and abduct her to have her write something? And what? A letter? “I hope you don’t expect me to pen a letter of recommendation.”

Reggie took several threatening steps in their direction. “You’ll write wot we tell ya, or else.”

Lana suspected she could write
Hark, Hark the Dogs do Bark
twenty times and he would never know the difference. “But I have no writing materials, and my hands are tied.”

Betsy scrambled up from the floor and moved into the shadows. The sound of crinkling paper reached Lana’s ears followed a few moments later by the scratch of a match and pop of its spark. The maid’s face lit to reveal her features while shadows hid the rest of her body. She put the match to the candle, catching the wick. The room glowed around her and Betsy while the man retreated into the blackness of an adjoining room.

“I packed a sheet of foolscap from your desk, miss, and a quill and ink.”

How
thoughtful
. Lana held her bound hands in front of her. “I must be freed to write.”

The maid sat the candle and holder on the floor and worked the knots that held her wrists together.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Reggie said, reinforcing his warning with the click of a pistol. He seemed to have a peculiar aversion to
ideas
. Perhaps because he had none of his own.

Once the rope fell away, Lana grasped her right wrist and rubbed.

Betsy held the foolscap out, and she took it with a shaking hand. “Do you wish me to write on the floor?”

The maid held out the ink jar and quill. “It will have to do.”

Lana settled the paper on the floor to her side. With her ankles still bound, she had no choice but to stretch her legs out in front of her. She rolled to the left to brace her elbow by the paper and reached across her body with her right hand to dip the quill in the ink.

“I’m ready.”

“Let’s see… Start with, ‘Dear Mr. Hillary,’” Betsy began.

“Not
dear
. She ain’t invitin’ ’em to tea.”

“Let me handle this, Reggie.” Her maid returned her attention to Lana. “Actually, since this letter is from you, Miss Hillary, you may want to start it with, ‘Dear Father.’”

“Do you expect me to write my own ransom note?” Lana took a wild guess. “Because having one compose one’s own ransom note seems rather lazy.”

“Jus’ do it,” Reggie snarled.

“We’ve already written our demands, Miss Hillary. This will provide proof that we have you.”

Lana licked her lips and dipped the quill once more. She touched it to the paper and scribbled as Betsy instructed. “What more do you wish me to write?”

“Tell your family you are safe and will remain unharmed.”

“Am I… safe?” She held her breath waiting for the answer.

Betsy patted her shoulder. “Of course you are, miss. There’s no need to be frightened. No one will hurt you.”

That was a relief, if she could believe her maid. Unfortunately, Betsy had just recently proven herself to be untrustworthy.

Lana composed the note as requested, tempted to ask Betsy how to spell numbskull out of spite, but thinking it unwise to antagonize the armed numbskull standing in the shadows. She held the letter up to proofread.