“What do you mean, Emma is not in her room and her bed was not slept in?” Thomas paced around the entry hall, trying to keep his wits about him.
“She dismissed her maid early in the evening, and no one has seen Emma since then.” Bella paced right beside her brother; she looked no better than he felt.
Thomas wanted to scream. He wanted to smash something. What he really wanted to do was fall down on his knees and pray. Deep inside his gut, he knew something was terribly wrong. He had sent for Myles, Amesbury, and the Bow Street Runner they had hired to discover the blackmailer.
Without a doubt Thomas knew, with certainty, that the same person was responsible for Emma’s disappearance. Every nerve ending in his body tingled with fear. His heart pained with the knowledge that she could be in grave danger. All he could think about was when she was kidnapped as a child. His heart sank to think she could be going through the same – or worse.
Dear Lord, please let her survive a second time. He would do anything to have her back. Give all her money back to her. Even let her go to America…anything as long as she escaped safe and unharmed.
“God, what is taking them so long? Giles,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “where are they?”
“Your Grace, I believe I hear them now.”
And sure enough, three men came bounding up the stairs and into his house.
“What happened? Where’s Emma?” Myles asked as he came through the door, his eyes wide and anxious.
“I don’t know. That is why I sent for you.” Thomas placed his hands on either side of his head and grimaced. “God damn it, I don’t know where she is. But I do know one thing. She is not in this house. We have searched every nook and cranny, and she is not to be found.”
Amesbury stepped forward, “Wentworth, this is Mr. Smythe, the runner you hired to find the person who penned the note.”
“Mr. Smythe,” Thomas acknowledged. “Did you find out anything?”
“Well, Your Grace, the man involved is no fool. I traced the note through several couriers. Right down to a dirty street urchin. And alas, that is where my search ended. Although I have a theory, if you would hear it.”
“Well, yes, please do tell.” Damn, but Thomas’s control was on a tenuous thread, ready to snap and implode.
Smythe glanced around at all the onlookers, including many of Thomas’s servants. “Could we go someplace more private?”
“Yes, of course.” Thomas had lost his mind. He certainly should have realized he could not discuss this in front of the whole staff of his house.
Once the four men were seated in his study and brandy had been passed around, Smythe began to explain his theory.
“After talking over the circumstances surrounding the card game you partook of with Mr. Hamilton, I believe the blackmailer, err, kidnapper came upon the knowledge some other way. I did some investigating of this barrister Mr. Hamilton hired, a James Webster.”
Smythe paused and took a sip of his drink. “He is heavily in debt. Made some bad investments and on top of that he likes to gamble. Webster owes several unsavory men. If I were to put my money on a suspect, he would be it. He knew about everything, has motive, and had the opportunity.
Smythe paused to let everyone digest the information before he continued. “He could have made contact with the duchess, made everything seem proper and innocent. Used the notion of showing her the will himself to get access to her. What we need to do now is figure out where Webster is keeping her. And I would presume a ransom note will be forthcoming.”
“When I get my hands on the bloody bastard…” Thomas’s eerily calm voice penetrated the room. “Where is he now? I will kill him. There will be nothing left of him to identify as remains.”
“No, Wentworth,” Myles broke in. “Do not go off half-cocked. When we find him and he is thrown in Newgate he will wish we had killed him. Leaving him there to suffer, starve, and rot to death is a much better punishment. But first we need to stay calm and rational. It won’t do Emma any good if we lose our heads.”
Thomas heard a commotion and then running feet before his study door was flung open and a breathless Bella, Amelia, and his mother piled inside. Bella waved a sealed note in her hand. “This just came and it is addressed to you.”
Wentworth reached across his desk and broke the anonymous seal. He studied it, then recited out loud:
Duke,
I have your duchess. Since you failed to meet my demands the first time, I have upped it to seventy-five thousand pounds for the duchess’s safe return. Since I know you would not want me to harm one hair on her pretty little head, or use her lusciously ripe body for my pleasure, I think you will meet my demands. As before, deposit the monies in the London Nation Bank in Account Number 00516. You have until this time tomorrow or I will thoroughly enjoy your young bride, and you will never see her again unless you can work miracles by draining the Thames.
During his life, Thomas had known anger, dealt with criminals, spent time with fools and men too stupid to live. But never in his life had he known such rage boiling up inside his body, threatening to overthrow his senses. On top of the rage was the fear. A fear so profound his body shook violently on the inside. He felt a need to kill, a need he’d never felt so close to the surface. Even he was frightened by his thoughts. And as Myles had pointed out, he needed to stay calm. More so now that they believed they knew what they were dealing with. And there was nothing he would not risk to save his Emma.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” came the voice of Smythe through his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Your family?”
My family, Oh, right. They were still in his study. Three wide-eyed female faces stared at him. “Mother, Amelia, and Bella, I think you should leave. You have heard enough shocking things already, and I wish to spare you more.”
“But––” Bella began, but Thomas put up his hand.
“Please. I can’t think straight with you three here.” He softened his voice. “I know what you are feeling. I feel it as well. But I promise you I will find Emma and bring her back unharmed. You have my solemn vow.”
“But…” Once more Bella tried to speak.
“No.” Jesus, his voice sounded horrible. “Can’t you see I’m on the precipice of hell here? I need you three to leave this to us.”
Thomas’s eyes followed the women until the door closed behind them.
Once the men were alone they plotted and planned their strategy. If things went according to plan, Mr. Webster would not know what hit him.
Emma didn’t expect to wake up tied to a bed, her mouth stuffed with a foul-tasting rag, her head aching from whatever the attacker drugged her with. What had gone wrong? She pushed her mind through the fog and tried to remember what had happened.
The note from her papa’s barrister… Surely he would not have done this? But who else could it be? Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the small room. Unfortunately, seeing better did not provide any clues other than she was alone.
Oh, God, please, please help her. This time her abductor did not take an innocent child. She was a grown women and she knew what could be done to her.
Thomas, please save me.
Emma pulled against her bonds, but both hands and legs were tied to bedposts with rope. The unnatural position of being spread like this had her heart pounding in panic. She was utterly defenseless. Her skirts were up over her knees. One side of her dress was pulled down exposing one of her breasts. Bile threatened to rise up her throat and she fought it down. Indeed, if she vomited she would die by choking to death because of the rag stuffed in her mouth.
She tried to concentrate to see if she was sore between her legs.
Had her abductor violated her body? Emma didn’t believe he had. She said a quick prayer of thanks to God for that.
Even so, what would become of her? What did the man want? As much as she needed these answers she did not want to come face to face with her abductor. Not yet anyway. Not until she’d come up with a plan.
Emma tried to be optimistic. A plan of attack… How could she come up with a plan of attack tied to bedposts? Her body twisted and turned as she yanked against her bonds, managing to do nothing but make the knots tighter and the ropes bite into her flesh more.
No, no, no, not again. Her desperate mind screamed her denial as she tossed her head from side to side, causing the bedsprings to creak. Oh, dear God. The door squeaked open and a thin, middle-aged man carrying a candelabrum swayed into the room.
“I see we have awoken,” he said in a drunken slur. “Your duke should have paid the monies the first time around, then you would not be here as my prisoner.” Now he stood beside her.
His liquor-laden breath nearly made her vomit, and her skin chilled with dread.
“If I take this rag out of your mouth, do you promise not to scream?” His mouth curled into a sadistic grin. “But even if you do, there is no one around to hear you.”
The horrible man pulled the rag out of Emma’s mouth, and she coughed to clear the horrendous taste. “May I please have some water?”
It killed her to beg for water. She cringed when he removed a flask from his coat pocket and brought it to her lips to pour the fiery liquid down her throat.
Emma tried not to gag. But between the taste of cheap brandy and knowing his mouth had touched it, her reflexes had her spitting the stuff out into his face.
Emma never saw it coming until the slap numbed her cheek and lip and the cracking sound split her ears.
Blood. She tasted her own blood. Then the numbness ended and pain set in. Never in her life had anyone hit her. Not even when she was kidnapped as a child. They had actually treated her well.
If the look in her captor’s eyes were any indication, she would have to tread very carefully, because this man looked as though he could and would commit murder.
Ignoring the pounding in her head and her breathlessness, she choked out, “I am sorry. I did not mean to do that.” Would her apology appease the man standing beside her?
“See if I give you another drink.” His hand snaked out and he ran it down her uninjured cheek, down her throat, and across the exposed breast. No, no, no. But his filthy hand curled around her breast and squeezed painfully. Lice would be more welcome then his vile touch. Emma shrank from him, her body vibrating with disgust as sweat broke out on her skin.
“What a lovely piece you are. It is too bad you are already married and no longer a virgin. I really prefer the innocent ones. But maybe in your case I will make an exception.” The dreadful man backed away toward the door. “Let us hope, for your sake, your duke comes through for you.”
Never in all her life had Emma thought one could die of fright. After what she’d just experienced, she realized anything was possible. “Oh, dear Lord in Heaven,” she whispered. The man had touched her intimately. And he had hit her.
Her insides trembled as well as her outsides as she remembered the look of pure evil she glimpsed in his black soulless eyes. Eyes she believed belonged to the devil himself.
And then it hit Emma, and her heart sank to the back of her chest. Would her husband think she ran away to America and not even look for her? No, that was not right; hadn’t she heard the vile man say he expected to be paid for her? Yes, that was what he’d said. Surely her beloved Thomas would do and pay anything to get her back. She fought back the sob rising up her chest.
What if Thomas decided he’d had enough of her?
What if he decided she was too much trouble and not worth the money?
No matter what scenario Emma’s mind conjured up, in her heart she knew Thomas would do anything for her. He loved her. Surely he would not have married her if he didn’t love her. Hadn’t he insisted his siblings marry for love and not for convenience?
Surely that went for him as well?
Thomas was beside himself. He wanted nothing more than to pay the ransom to free Emma. Smythe, however, advised against it. His exact words were, “He will probably kill her anyway and run away with the funds. The only thing we can do to ensure the duchess’s safe return is find them.”
Indeed, but how exactly did they find them?
Smythe assured Thomas he and his men were on it. Not to worry, they would have her returned to him by nightfall. Not bloody likely. Thomas wouldn’t let them go without him. So when the Bow Street Runner and three of his trusted men left his home, he, Myles, and Amesbury followed behind them.
Thomas was stupid to think the three of them would not be found out. Any Runner worth his weight in salt would know they were being followed. But he did not care.
Thomas needed to see Emma for himself. Needed to reassure himself that she was unharmed. Needed to know the vilest creature on earth had not touched one hair on her head.
Because if he had, the pistol he carried would put a bullet right between the man’s eyes.
“Wentworth.” Amesbury’s voice startled him.
“What?”
“You are not going to do something stupid, are you?”
The sick laughter that bubbled out of Thomas’s mouth surely did not come from him. “I certainly hope not. But if I do, can I count on you two to have my back. The last thing I want is to be hanged for murder.”
“You would never be found guilty of murdering such a bastard as one who abducted your wife. They would hail you as a hero,” Myles added.
“Yes, well, I certainly hope so, because I plan to do just that,” Thomas replied.
“Be reasonable. We had this discussion already and decided life in Newgate would be a fate worse than death,” Amesbury reminded him.
“Yes, I realize that, but my mind does not totally agree with it. I want revenge.”
Myles and Amesbury said nothing else as they followed the Runners to the warehouse district bordering the Thames. No sooner had they arrived at the most dilapidated building than Smythe turned around and glared at them.
“If you think I did not know you were following us,” he growled, “you hired the wrong man.”
“I knew you would,” Thomas answered. “But I do not care. If you think I could stay in the safety of my home while my wife’s life is in danger, you do not know me at all.”
“You are right. I do not know you, except by reputation as a hard but fair gentleman. Truthfully, had you stayed home you would have lost my respect, and since you and your cohorts have come, let us develop a plan of action,” Smythe said.
And so it was decided that Webster was a very stupid man. A little digging helped them discover an empty warehouse owned by none other than Mr. Webster’s in-laws. Thomas found it hard to imagine any woman would ever wish to have married the man.
After scurrying around the perimeter of the building, they found two unsavory, burly men guarding what appeared to be the only entrance other than the boarded-up loading doors that faced the river.
Smythe’s associates rendered the guards unconscious, tied them up, gagged them, and dragged them into an alleyway.
Thomas paused before entering the building. He needed to calm down. His heart literally beat a staccato inside his chest. Indeed, he was petrified to enter the building. His feet would not move as his brain considered what he might find there.
What if Emma had been hurt? What if she were dead? What if they were wrong and she was not even here?
And what, Dear God, will I do if she still did not want me?
“Are you coming?” questioned Smythe.
Thomas cleared his sore, dry throat. “Yes.”
They entered the dark, dank, and musty building with one candle between them. If possible, they wanted to surprise Webster.
Rats scurried away from their quiet footsteps. Thomas wanted to cry at the thought that Emma, his Emma, was being held in such a pigsty. He concentrated on saving her and believing she was unharmed and safe––waiting for him.
They found nothing on the first floor. As they ascended the rickety wooden staircase they heard footsteps shuffling around above, the creak of a door opening and closing, and the sound of a bolt sliding into place.
Thomas took a second to say a silent prayer to God for leading him here.
Smythe banged his fist against the recently locked door. “We know you are in there, Webster. And we know you have Her Grace, the Duchess of Wentworth with you. If you give yourself up, you will be unharmed and you will get a fair trial. If you refuse to cooperate, you will be shot dead where you stand.”
“Help me!” screamed Emma. Thomas fought to remain still. The sound of a slap resonated through the door and he thought he would explode with rage. How dare the bastard hit his wife? Pulling his revolver from his pocket, he stepped to the door and shouted.
“I will kill you. You’re a bastard for touching her.”
Laughter, sick, deranged laughter, filled the room.
Every man’s eyes looked toward the doorway. Each knew the man inside was crazy and liable to do anything. One of Smythe’s men produced an axe and chopped away at the wooden door. No sooner had they cleared the way than they heard one single gunshot.
The sound ricocheted around the room, deafening Thomas’s ears. His heart stopped as his feet moved toward the lone bed in the room and the figure lying still upon it. He spared one look at the dead barrister lying on the floor, blood pooling around his grisly face.
Once Thomas arrived at the bedside of his beloved wife, he collapsed to his knees. His Emma lay unconscious on a filthy mattress. Her dress exposed her lovely breast to all eyes in the room, and her skirts were hiked up around her waist. He heard a bloodcurdling shout and did not realize it came from him.
After he straightened his wife’s clothing, Thomas sat on the edge of the cot, cradled his wife in his arms, and rocked back and forth, weeping with relief that she was alive, although her face was battered, bloody, and bruised. She was not conscious, but still relief washed through his veins knowing she would survive. They would survive. And never, ever, as long as he lived, would he let her out of his sight.
Thomas would shower Emma with love and affection so she would forget this ordeal and never want to leave him. He would prove to her he was a man worthy of her love. He would do anything . . .