My Wayward Lady (21 page)
My Wayward Lady
by Evelyn Richardson
as instructed and keep as close an eye as possible on Lady Harriet Fareham.
Thus it was that Richards was standing in the shadow of a flight of steps leading to a building a few doors away from the Temple of Venus several days later when Rose emerged from the establishment all alone and headed off in the direction of Bond Street. Richards was instantly on the alert. He had not been keeping an eye on Lady Harriet long enough to be absolutely certain of her routine at Mrs. Lovington's, but he knew that this pattern differed from the last time he had followed her there, and he thought it highly unlikely that Harriet would dispense with the protection of her maid when that would mean she was all by herself in a place of questionable repute.
Suspiciously Richards sidled closer to the Temple of Venus's doorway and waited. He carefully scrutinized the hackney that drew up to the door a few minutes later, but could see nothing amiss there. However he was watching closely enough to observe Harriet, who had hurried down the steps soon after its arrival, hesitate as she began to enter me carriage and then appear to lose her footing as she disappeared inside as though someone had jerked her in roughly. The door was slammed shut more violently than was customary, and the jarvey whipped up the horses and drove off at an uncharacteristic clip.
Thoroughly alarmed by these disturbing events, Richards only stayed long enough to note the direction of the carriage and then hastened back to Mount Street to relate his misgivings to the marquess. "Of course I could be mistaken, 193
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by lord, but it looks havey-cavey to me," he concluded, still panting from his mad dash back to Lord Chalfont's chambers. Adrian, who had risen immediately from a desk awash in correspondence, grabbed his jacket and began pulling on his boots before the first few words were out of his batman's mouth, did not stop to discuss it beyond ordering that his horse be saddled and brought around. Hastily scribbling a note to Harriet's brother Charlie, he handed it to Richards instructing him to deliver it to the captain at his barracks in an hour's time. "And do not let that young hothead try to follow me whatever happens," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "Do what you must to stop him. I know that things are in good hands with you, Richards. You've done excellently thus far. Fletcher is no match for the pair of us."
The old soldier's weatherbeaten countenance broke into a rare grin. "That he is not, my lord. Now off with you, sir, and Godspeed."
And may you find the young lady safe and sound,
he muttered to himself as the door slammed behind Lord Chalfont.
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In the meantime, the young lady in question was struggling violently to free herself from her captor's iron grip. Harriet had been puzzled when the new serving girl at Mrs. Lovington's had greeted her at the door of the schoolroom with the information that Rose, feeling faint, had gone outside for fresh air and was waiting for her in the carriage. It was most unlike Rose who was proud of saying that she had never had a sick day in her life, but Harriet had been too preoccupied with the lesson she had just taught to give it much further consideration until, climbing into the carriage she had spied a pantalooned leg in the doorway instead of Rose's skirts. She had hesitated, trying to see into the murky depths of the carriage, but by then it had been too late. One hand had grabbed her wrist and pulled her in while another had stuffed what she presumed to be a handkerchief into her mouth.
Almost before she had realized what was happening, the door slammed behind her and the carriage clattered off down the street. Harriet fought furiously, kicking and wriggling with all her might, but it was worse than useless, for the hands only gripped her more tightly and her abductor chuckled heartily at her efforts.
"Squirm all you like, missy, but you are in my power now and you will dance to whatever tune I choose. If you become any more unmanageable, I shall not hesitate to bind your hands and feet."
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Recognizing that for the moment she was at a severe disadvantage, Harriet ceased resisting and, stiffening her back, mustered what dignity she could in such a humiliating situation. The hands that had gripped her were now forcing hers together behind her back, binding them tightly. Though this meant the hands were no longer covering her mouth, the handkerchief had been stuffed in so far that it was all she could do not to gag, much less spit it out. Her eyes stung as the cords cut into her wrists, but Harriet refused to blink lest her captor think she was shedding tears of weakness.
I will not give way, I will not give way,
she repeated to herself over and over again as she tried to collect her scattered wits. Even now when she was free to turn her head, she refused to look her abductor in the face. There was no doubt that it was Sir Neville. She recognized the disgusting hands with their short stubby fingers covered in black hair from her last struggle with him.
No, there was no doubt at all in Harriet's mind as to who it was or what he was going to do with her. The only question that remained was when, and how long could she forestall him, for, in spite of her confidence in her own resourcefulness, Harriet could not foresee that she would ever be clever enough to escape such a thoroughgoing villain. Why he must have enacted such scenes dozens of times if half the stories she had heard at Mrs. Lovington's were true. She was safe for the moment at least for surely he was not going to have his way with her in the carriage. Either he was taking her to some den of iniquity within the metropolis or he was carrying her to his estate in the country. Either way it 196
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would not be long before they arrived at their destination or changed horses, and perhaps she would have a chance to escape or at least call for help.
Think, Harriet, think.
She closed her eyes, trying to focus her energies on freeing herself from such a dreadful situation.
"You think to feign sleep, my little spitfire. Go ahead, sleep then. That will only make you all the more wide awake later and I like my women to be lively." He chuckled again in an exulting way that made Harriet long to wipe off the gloating smile she knew was on his face with a punishing blow. Never in her life had she yearned to be a man as much as she did at this moment.
At last they slowed and pulled into what must have been the yard of an inn. Harriet could hear horses stomping, the rattle of harnesses, and the shouts of ostlers, but before she could formulate a plan for escape or for enlisting the aid of a sympathetic bystander, she felt something hard thrust into her side.
"Do not think to call for help, my fine young lady, or you will be a dead young lady," an unpleasant voice growled in her ear. A voluminous cloak was thrown over her head, and she was hauled out of the hackney and into another carriage so quickly that she had no time to put up a struggle even if she had dared.
The carriage in which she now sat was more luxurious than the hackney, well cushioned and well sprung. With a sinking heart Harriet realized that it must be Sir Neville's own traveling carriage. There was nothing to do but close her eyes and lean back against the cushions, awaiting further 197
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developments with as much composure as she could muster. Though outwardly calm, Harriet was having some difficulty fighting the rising panic within her.
She had been hoping that they would remain in London where she at least had some hope of prevailing upon a sympathetic or curious person. In the crowded metropolis there were many more opportunities for attracting attention. Imprisoned in the country, she was likely to be surrounded by retainers whose livelihood depended on Sir Neville's favor and would therefore be unlikely to be at all disposed toward helping her. Harriet wondered how long it would be before Rose raised the alarm. Even then, would they be able to guess what had happened to her?
For some strange reason the image of Lord Chalfont rose before her, causing her to swallow to get rid of the aching lump in her throat. He had saved her from Sir Neville once before, but he could not save her now. Even if he knew she had disappeared, which was highly improbable, he could not forever be rescuing a young woman who was the merest acquaintance. But oh she did wish for him to come and rid her of the odious beast sitting next to her with the same dispatch as he had done before.
Harriet squared her shoulders against the seat.
Buck up,
my girl,
she admonished herself severely. There is no use repining. The only person who can rescue you is you, so you had better start thinking, and quickly, about what you are going to do to save yourself. However, when they stopped to change horses some time later, she was no closer to a solution than she had been at the outset. Her captor pulled 198
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down the shades and kept her well away from the windows so there was not the least hope of attracting any notice. At last, they appeared to slow their slapping pace and turn onto what sounded like a gravel drive. The journey had seemed endless, but Harriet supposed that in reality it had not been much more than two hours, if that. Where was she then? She racked her brain trying to think if she knew where Sir Neville had his estate—Surrey, Buckinghamshire, Sussex?
She had been too upset at the beginning to listen for any telltale clues as to which way they were leaving the city. In fact, she could not even say whether or not they had crossed over the river—not that any of this speculation did her the least bit of good; she was well and truly caught, for the moment that was.
At last the carriage halted and the door was opened. "We have arrived, my pretty one," the hateful voice whispered in her ear.
Refusing to give any sign of acknowledgment or recognition to her abductor, Harriet allowed herself to be helped down and led into the house. She made no attempt to struggle or break free. Sir Neville seemed to expect it, to hope for it even, and he watched her as a cat watches its prey, ready to pounce at the least sign of movement. But Harriet was not about to give him the satisfaction of overcoming her. Resistance only seemed to excite him, and the last thing she wished to do was gratify his brutish impulses.
The only servants she saw as he led her into a cavernous dark entry and then down dimly lit corridors were a sour199
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looking butler and the half-witted boy who came to hold the horses. There was no help here, no chance of prevailing on the sympathies of a housekeeper or maid, some woman who might be made to see the misery of her situation. Finally they came to a bedchamber as uninviting as the rest of the house. Dust lay thick on the chest of drawers and the escritoire, while the hangings on the enormous bed were moth-eaten and dangling in shreds.
Sir Neville freed her hands and untied the gag that had been choking her. "And now my little fire-eater, and now..." He glided toward her, rubbing his hands together. At last Harriet was able to take a gulp of fresh air. "Stand back, sirrah," she gasped.
"Oh no, I am coming a good deal closer, my dear." He chuckled ominously as Harriet shrank involuntarily. "Oh yes, a very good deal closer."
Harriet clapped a hand to her mouth and muttered through her fingers, "I warn you. I am about to be quite unwell." It was the truth. The close air, the motion of the carriage, the handkerchief jammed in her mouth, coupled with the natural tension of finding oneself in such a dire situation had made her head ache dreadfully and her stomach lurch queasily. Undoubtedly she could have overcome these unpleasant symptoms if she had wished to, but it occurred to her that it was better to suffer these than something far worse. Sir Neville hesitated. His captive did look rather green about the gills and while overcoming the struggles of an unwilling victim had its charms, forcing himself on a sick one did not.
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Seeing his indecision, Harriet took advantage of it by gagging most convincingly and glancing desperately around the room for a chamber pot.
The would-be ravisher had had enough. Hastily he retreated from the room slamming the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.
Continuing to make retching noises and banging about as though she were indeed searching for the chamber pot, Harriet sank into a chair by the window. A cloud of dust rose around her, but she could have cared less. At least she was alone for the moment. Freed from her captor's oppressive presence she could at last marshal her scattered thoughts and plot her escape.
Trying to keep herself from being seen by anyone set to watch her, she peered cautiously around the curtains at the window to the park below. The window catch looked easy enough to undo and the window large enough to climb out of, but it was a twenty-foot drop to the ground below and there was no convenient tree or vine to cling to. Furthermore, this part of park appeared to be surrounded by a high stone wall with no gate in sight nor any tree or shrub she could use to scale it.
Harriet sighed. She was in the very devil of a coil and with no obvious means of escape. For the moment she could fob off Sir Neville by feigning illness, but this would only serve as the most temporary of excuses and then she would have to think of something else.
If escape was impossible, then outright assault appeared to be the only solution. She had already had proof of his 201
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brutal strength and knew that unless she had a most superior weapon she was destined to be beaten in any physical contest. In fact, she could deduce from his remarks that such a contest would only serve to heighten his enjoyment of the situation. No, there could be no struggle. She would have to eliminate him with the first attack, whatever form that was to take.