The Accidental Abduction (31 page)

F
or Leannah, the next weeks passed in a blur. Her days were filled to the brim with errands of all description. She had everything to buy, not only for herself, but for the beautiful house Harry had taken in Dobbson Square. The new brick residence was entirely unfurnished, and Harry left it to Leannah to choose how it should be fitted out—including the drapes, wallpapers, and all the movables. There were servants to be interviewed and engaged, a pantry to be stocked, and accounts opened with grocers and provisioners. Workmen had to be supervised, and everything in the house, or about herself, seemed to require endless amounts of measuring and remeasuring.

Not one item was to be puce, or even lavender.

The flurry of it all left her breathless, but nowhere near as breathless as the moments that came with the end of each day. That was the time when Leannah returned to the suite at the Colonnade to find Harry waiting for her. However tiring her day might be, however difficult the arguments with the workmen had been, it all fell away when Harry opened his arms and drew her to him. She did enjoy plundering the shops and warehouses with Genny and Meredith. That enjoyment, however, was nothing compared to the feelings that came over her when she remembered that come evening, she would again lie down next to Harry, and when morning arrived, she would wake up in his arms. Admittedly, most nights, they did not wait until the morning to wake, or until darkness to lie down. Her hands had healed, and she was able to caress his delightful body in the most intimate fashion without the irksome layers of bandages, or even his joking reminders to be careful. Although, more than once he did raise her arms above her head and order her to keep still so that he could pleasure her.

It was not only in the new house that things were changing for the better. With Meredith's assistance, Leannah engaged a new doctor for her father. The doctor, in turn, brought in a staff of nurses. There would also be a new cook, new maids, and two new menservants as soon as persons of suitable experience in invalid households could be located. Genny was to have her own maid, and a brand-new subscription to the circulating library, which Leannah suspected would please her far more than having someone to look after her wardrobe. The stable bill was paid in its entirety, as were the grocer's and the dressmaker's. Harry sent his tailor around to the Byswater house to see about new clothes for Father.

“It's too much,” Leannah tried to tell him, as she saw him writing yet another bank draft.

“No,” he said flatly. “It's just as it should be.”

Those words were as close to anger as she heard him come in all those giddy days while spring warmed and brightened the world around them. She did her best not to dwell on the moment, but she still couldn't help wondering. Harry's family and friends clearly harbored serious doubts about her, and their marriage. So serious, in fact, that Harry made no move to introduce her to any of them. They did not go out at all. She once ventured the suggestion that they might have a small supper party, but he'd shaken his head and declared he wanted to keep to himself for a while yet. Then, he'd demonstrated the advantages of their absolute privacy to her in such a magnificently daring fashion that she quite forgot to argue the point.

It didn't matter, Leannah told herself. They were just beginning. There was plenty of time yet. They had so much to learn about each other, and a whole new life to build. They could take this time. Call it, as Meredith suggested, a honeymoon. It might be the oddest honeymoon possible, and the capper on the oddest possible wedding, but it was hers, and Leannah was determined to enjoy it.

Besides, she really couldn't find fault with Harry keeping her away from his family when she hadn't yet taken him to meet Father. Not that this meant anything, either. Harry really didn't need to meet Father until after the household improvements were complete and everyone was used to the changes. After all, her family would be moving in with them once the Dobbson Square house was ready. There was no need to rush the introductions, was there? She had told him the truth about her family and past. She would tell him anything more he wanted to know, as soon as he asked. She would hide nothing. He had only to ask.

But he didn't ask.

Not that the days passed entirely in isolation. Encouraged by Meredith's readiness to resume their relationship, Leannah wrote to some of her friends from the time when she had first married Elias—other members of what they'd informally christened the Schoolroom Club, because they had all been very young matrons and mostly married to older men. They'd formed a bulwark for each other against the usual slights and jibes that society leveled against girls in their circumstances. To her relief, Leannah found that not only was she remembered by her old friends, but she was readily welcomed back. She could pay at least a few calls, and to receive them in the suite at the Colonnade. She also found herself starved for news—of Amilee's baby; of Margaret's sister, who had become engaged to a member of the diplomatic corps; of Lucille, who had gone to Philadelphia of all places; and of Geraldine, who was whiling away her widowhood writing a fashionable novel.

Meredith had been right. It did feel like coming home.

If Genny hadn't lost the ring, it might all have been perfect.

“I've don't know where it is,” she'd said when Leannah had asked her for it. “I'm so sorry, Leannah. It is entirely my doing. I'll explain to Harry if you want.” Her agitation was so extreme that Leannah felt a moment of genuine alarm.

“No, there's no need,” she said hurriedly. “I shouldn't have taken it off in the first place.”

But even as she said this, something nagged at her. Leannah did not believe for a moment Genny could be so careless with something so important. Could Jeremy have taken it as one of his pranks? Or had Genny perhaps entrusted it to Mrs. Falwell, only to have it go astray afterward. Was she perhaps trying to protect one or both of them from the blame?

The very next day, Leannah stopped by the house to see how the new staff was settling in. She'd meant to raise the subject again, but Genny had shut herself up in her room with, the new maid said, a sick headache. She did descend eventually, but she was pale and distracted.

At another time, Leannah would have dug down to the bottom of it, but there were so many other arrangements and claims on her attention. Besides, by her next visit, Genny's spirits rallied, so Leannah was able to believe it had all been as it appeared, a sick headache. The ring would be found. All other things would follow in their own time.

At least, this was what Leannah was able to believe until she received the letter from Geraldine inviting her and Harry to the opera.

“I'd love to go, Harry, but I really cannot risk meeting your parents or your sister for the first time in the round room,” she said, as she showed Harry the letter.

They had finished their supper and were now sitting together in front of the fire. Harry was reading the shipping news as he usually did, and making notes in the margin in pencil. Leannah was going over the lists in her new memorandum book, crossing off what had been completed and making additional notes next to those things that were not yet attended to. Geraldine's invitation was only one item among many.

Harry glanced at the letter she handed him and put it aside. “It might be better if you did meet Fi in a public place,” he said, picking up his newspaper again. “That way she can't start one of her ridiculous interrogations.”

Leannah closed her book slowly and contemplated her husband. She'd known something was wrong. She'd tried her best to ignore it because she'd grown to love the peace and private enjoyments of their life. But now, as he turned over the tightly folded paper, she could neither miss nor dismiss his bitter expression. Her heart twisted. He was afraid of his family. He was afraid that some part of his regard for them would prove stronger than the emotions that were growing in this marriage. Because like her, Harry really did care, or he would be made to care. Sooner or later, they both would.

“No, she wouldn't be able to interrogate me, as you put it, but she could cut me dead in front of the whole world, which will not do our plan to be accepted by society any good at all.”

Meredith had been giving Leannah regular updates on the progress of the whispering campaign surrounding their planned end-of-season party. So far, all things seemed to be going in their favor, but people were beginning to wonder why they weren't seen together about the town. Meredith warned her that fresh whispers might soon begin—ones that said Leannah and Harry weren't actually married.

“Have I asked to be accepted?” Harry snapped. “By anybody? The world can like us, or leave us alone.”

For a moment, Leannah's nerve failed her. She looked again at her left hand, where the diamond ring had glimmered for so brief a time.

Leannah looked down at her bare left hand. On the list of things that had not happened was one very important item. Harry had not offered to replace the ring. She had not mentioned it. She had held hard to the belief it would turn up again. Besides, she told herself, Harry was already laying out so much money on her and her family that it was unthinkable to ask for yet another gift. There was one other reason she kept mum on the subject that she kept hidden, even from herself.

She did not want to hear him refuse.

“We have to try, Harry,” she said.

“Why?” he shot back. “Why should it matter what anyone else thinks?”

“Because soon or late, we have to walk out of doors together. How can what we have be considered at all real if it only exists in a single set of rooms?”

Please,
she whispered inwardly.
It can't be over already. We haven't even lived in our own house yet. There's so much left to do.

“We are the ones who decide what we have together, Leannah,” said Harry and her heart ached to hear the affection and confidence that filled those words. “The world and its appearances and its reputations don't matter. Not to me.”

Tears pricked at the back of Leannah's eyes. She wanted so much to keep the doors to their private world closed. She wanted to move from the hotel to the new house in the dead of night, lock its freshly painted doors, close its new burgundy drapes, and never open them again. She wanted there to be only Harry and his arms and his passion and his smiles. Her fingers knotted together. She wanted to be selfish just a little bit longer.

But that was impossible and she knew it, just as she knew what she had to do. She had to make the first move.

“Harry? Will you come home with me tomorrow?” she asked softly. “It's high time you met my father and my brother.”

The request clearly surprised him, and it was a long, painful moment before he answered her. “I'm not asking you to do this, Leannah.”

But you should have. Why didn't you? What are you hiding from, Harry?
“No. You are not asking me, I am asking you. Will you come?”

“Of course, if you want it.” He hesitated. “But not tomorrow. I've a meeting I cannot miss. The day after will do just as well, won't it?”

Their eyes met for a long moment, and Leannah felt her throat tighten. She could tell he wanted her to change her mind and leave the doors of their life closed. When she did not speak, he turned back to his shipping news and she opened her memorandum book, and if they talked, they talked of new purchases and planned purchases and the tradesmen and the weather.

That night, his lovemaking was fierce beyond measure and afterward Harry held her like he never meant to let her go. Leannah lay awake for a very long time, listening to him breathe, and hoping he would not open his eyes to see the tear that trickled down her cheek.

“W
ell now, Harry Rayburn.” The grizzled man in the checkered waistcoat held out his hand for Harry to shake. “I hear you've been having quite the time of it.”

Harry shrugged and took the chair the other man kicked out toward him. The Turkish and Mediterranean coffeehouse was filled to bursting around them and Harry had not even bothered trying to fight his way to the counter to get himself a cup.

“I've got married, Mr. Brooks.” Harry shouted to be heard over the din. “That'll bring changes in any man's life.”

Thomas Brooks was a short, stout man. The seams of his blue coat strained across his arms, and his waistcoat's silver buttons were on the verge of giving way. Combined with his gray hair, this might give him the appearance of being somebody's kindly uncle, but that impression would only last until a man looked into his glittering little eyes.

This wasn't any relatively genteel establishment, like St. Alban's. The Turkey and Mediterranean was as much a trading post as it was a coffeehouse, and just now it was getting ready for an auction. Men were crammed at the tables, watching the sacks of spice and bolts of cloth being brought in. The salesmen ran about waving papers, affixing seals to sacks, boxes, and bags, dodging in between those interested buyers who were prodding and fingering the merchandise. They skirted yet more men who stood around pursuing lists and bills and timetables that plastered the walls. All of these worthies seemed to be arguing with each other at the top of their lungs.

“Marriage ain't the beginning nor the end of your adventures from what I hear.” Mr. Brooks planted both elbows on the splintered tabletop. “I hear . . .”

“I'm not here to discuss my home life, Mr. Brooks,” said Harry quickly. “I'm on the lookout for new employment, and I heard you were in need of a new buyer.”

“That I am.” Mr. Brooks rubbed his double chin thoughtfully. “Some trouble with your father is it?”

“It's just time I struck out on my own,” replied Harry evenly. He'd spent most of the drive down here getting ready for this line of questioning. The haut ton didn't hold any kind of monopoly on gossip. Coffeehouses and alehouses could spread rumors with an efficiency that would put many a drawing room to shame. “But my capital won't yet stretch to setting up my own establishment.”

“Well, that'll come, that'll come.” As he spoke, Brooks narrowed his keen eyes at Harry. A massive river of goods flowed up the Thames to supply the needs and desires of London and its surrounding towns. All of it passed through the warehouses that filled the labyrinth of docks and quays. The men who ran those houses were a sharp crew. They could all of them smell a rat, or the inland revenue, a mile upwind in a freshening gale. They could smell trouble just as easily, and they were used to making quick judgments about the character of any man in front of them.

Mr. Brooks sighed and shook his head. “Well, I'd be sorry if I was helping keep up any kind of quarrel between you and your father, Harry.” He paused, and Harry held his breath. “But there's no denying I could use a man of your savvy and experience on my side. So, here's my hand on it.”

Brooks held out his meaty hand for Harry to clasp and shake. Harry hoped the noise around them covered the sound of the long, relieved breath that rushed out of him.

“You turn up at my place tomorrow morning bright and early, and we'll settle the details. Are you staying for the sale?” Brooks nodded toward the men who were clustered by the hearth, arguing over yet another set of papers.

“No, not today. I've got some shopping to do.” Harry got to his feet and reclaimed his hat and stick.

“Ah yes. Heavy is the lot of married men.” Mr. Brooks winked. “Good luck to you, Harry. But if you don't mind a word of advice . . .”

“Depends entirely what it is, Mr. Brooks.”

Brooks chuckled, but when he spoke, he was perfectly serious. “Mend this thing with your father. Won't do you nor your new missus any good to start out on the wrong foot.”

Harry made no answer. Any reply he could muster would be an angry one, and this man was his new employer. He just raised his hat, and shouldered his way through the milling crowd.

*   *   *

Mend this thing with your father.
Harry stepped out into the street and took as deep a breath as he could stand of the thick, dockside air. It took two to mend a quarrel, just as it did to make one. Since his disastrous stop home, all he'd had from his father—from any of his family—was silence. The message in that silence seemed to Harry perfectly clear. Unless and until he could return in the character of the son they wanted, he would be left to go his own way, alone and unacknowledged.

Very well. If they didn't want to know him, he didn't want to know them. He and Leannah would manage perfectly well on their own. He had plenty of money to take care of what was necessary to get them started, and now he had employment. He could look forward to making a clean start for them both. He didn't need his family's prevarications or any attempt to explain away his life.

Harry glanced at his watch. He'd stroll up to the carriage house and hire a hack to take him over to Bond Street. He'd finally settled on a gift for Leannah and it was promised to be ready for today.

Harry felt a smile form, and he was able to shake off the last of Brooks's remarks. Let Brooks or the world make as many remarks as they chose. They didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that he and Leannah were together.

He told himself this several more times, with improvements and elaborations. He let his thoughts linger particularly over the feeling of Leannah's body in his arms, especially when they were in bed together and she turned toward him, her face flushed with heat and desire.

These pleasant thoughts so occupied Harry, he didn't notice the carriage pulling up beside him.

“Hullo, Harry. Thought I might find you down here.”

It was Penrose. Nathaniel leaned out of an enclosed and thoroughly anonymous carriage. He also looked like he hadn't been sleeping well lately. His chin was stubbled and his deep blue eyes had rings around them. A twinge of concern at his friend's appearance touched Harry, but he did his best to ignore it. After their last conversation, he was in no mood to look with sympathy on any of Penrose's troubles.

“On your own today?” Harry peered into the carriage. “Montcalm too fastidious to come down this way?”

Nathaniel declined to acknowledge this barb. Instead, he unlatched the carriage door. “Get in, Harry. We've got business.”

“I've got no business with you.”

“Yes, actually, you do,” replied Nathaniel evenly and he pushed the door open a little farther. “Because it concerns Mrs. Rayburn.”

Anger rose instantly in him and Harry took a tighter grip on his stick. “Penrose, I'm warning you—”

“You may warn me all you like,” Nathaniel cut Harry off with weary impatience. “Get in, Rayburn. This is important.”

Harry opened his mouth, intending to growl his dismissal at the other man. He had no need of any friend whose goal was to end his marriage, or any other part of his life. But the years of friendship proved too strong for that, especially when coupled with the serious expression on Nathaniel's face. This wasn't Nathaniel in search of a quarrel. Harry looked again at his unshaved chin and rumpled coat. Something really had happened.

Frowning, Harry climbed into the carriage and closed the door. Nathaniel rapped his knuckles on the roof to signal the driver to start.

“So, what is it?” Harry planted his stick in front of himself and folded his hands across the top.

Nathaniel contemplated him for a long moment, but what he was looking for Harry could not tell.

“How have you been, Harry?” he asked, as if he'd turned up during some pleasant little outing in the park rather than trolling the Cornhill district in search of him.

“Perfectly well, thank you.”

“Your family's worried about you.”

“Then they can ask after me themselves.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “And Mrs. Rayburn? Is she well?”

Whatever momentary patience Harry might have mustered for his friend's small talk snapped abruptly. “What's this about, Nathaniel? You didn't come to take me on a buggy ride so you could pry into my personal business.”

“No,” Penrose admitted. “At least, not entirely. Your family is worried and they have asked me how you've been. But that's not my mission today.” He glanced out the window, and was apparently satisfied with what he saw, because he turned his gaze back to Harry. “Has Mrs. Rayburn ever mentioned a man named Terrance Valloy?”

“Not in my hearing,” answered Harry at once. “Why should she?”

“It was widely expected the pair of them would become engaged, up until the moment she married you, that is.”

“What of it?” Harry shrugged, irritated. If this was Penrose's new attack against Leannah, it was pretty weak stuff. “It was widely expected I was to become engaged to Agnes Featherington, up until the moment she turned me down.”

“‘Widely' is perhaps coming a bit strong, but never mind that. Terrance Valloy, like old Octavian Morehouse, is a speculator. Unlike Morehouse, Valloy is actually good at it.” Nathaniel paused again, and perused the passing street again. “What do you know about the markets, Harry?”

“If you've a lecture to give me, get on with it, Penrose. Unlike you, I've got business to attend to.”

Penrose sighed and rubbed his eyes, which once more emphasized their dark rings. Harry bit his tongue and tried to rein in his temper. Despite all, Nathaniel was his friend. He was wrong about Leannah and her character, but whatever “mission” brought him here, it was not mere gossip or vague suspicion. It took much more than that to rattle a man like Penrose.

“All right. Here's the long and the short of it. The financial markets are mostly illusion. That illusion is that anybody with a bit of money can get stinking rich if he's a little smart and a little lucky. But the truth is the ones who make money are the ones who already have it; they're the ones who know each other and who pass information along to each other from inside the exchanges and the clubs. Everyone else is just scrambling after their crumbs. Some of those men are more or less honest. Some of them, though, rig the game. They make sure of their outcomes by bribing public officials or the members of corporate boards to get the results they want. Others just pay for secrets, and get together to make sure they can play those secrets to their best advantage.” He lifted his head. “Has Mrs. Rayburn mentioned any recent contact between her family and Mr. Dickenson?”

“What's Dickenson to do with it? I thought you were talking about this Valloy.”

“I have it on very good authority that Dickenson has been meeting with, and writing to, Terrance Valloy.” Nathaniel paused again. “He also recently had a meeting with the young Miss Morehouse. That meeting ended in a quarrel, and Dickenson raised his hand to her.”

Harry felt himself go quite still. It was a long moment before he could speak again. He should have taken care of Dickenson when he had the chance. A man who would even threaten to lay a hand on a girl was no man at all.

When he regained control of his voice, he asked, “What did they quarrel about?”

“My source didn't hear the whole of it, but it seems she was supposed to bring something to him, and that something had gone missing. Afterward, he got angry with her, and threatened her.”

Leannah had said nothing of this, and Harry knew she was in Genny's company almost every day. Worry rose in him, dark and restless. He kicked it angrily away. He needed to concentrate on essentials, and not let Penrose's innuendo and suspicion distract him. “Was Leannah at this supposed meeting with Dickenson?”

“She was not seen.”

Bloody spy. Can't talk straight even when it's important. I'll bet you're your own “source.”
“Then she probably didn't even know the thing happened.” If her sister was the victim of such an outrage and Leannah knew of it, she would tell him. They already had ample proof, however, that Genevieve could keep her secrets. After all, it was her elopement that had started this whole business.

Her elopement with Anthony Dickenson.

“It is not a supposed meeting. It did happen,” said Penrose. How could a man speak so softly and yet remain so impossible to ignore? “I've told you, Dickenson is bent, and Valloy has been known to wander from the straight and narrow himself, when he thinks it will be to his advantage.” Nathaniel leaned forward. “Harry, please believe me. I am here because I am your friend. There is an investigation happening. It's not public yet, but it will be soon. The Dickenson clan have all been very busy of late, and money is changing hands. They're covering their tracks well, so no one quite knows what their aim is yet. But the one straight line anybody's got so far goes from Anthony Dickenson to Terrance Valloy, and now it's headed for the Morehouse family.”