“Any problems, m’lord?”
The words came muffled through her cape to Maggie some few minutes after she found herself so abruptly abducted—minutes during which she had struggled uselessly against the iron arms of her assailant and attempted to scream through the wide, firm hand that covered the lower half of her face. Her struggles ended rather quickly, though. The hand covering her face was not just over her mouth, but also rested along the bottom of her nose, and though she didn’t think it was her abductor’s intention, she was very close to fainting from lack of oxygen. Her ears were ringing.
For a moment when she heard the voice, Maggie felt hope that the hand across her face would be released and she would again be able to suck into her deprived body some much-needed air. But rather than let go, the hand shifted, covering her more firmly as she was jostled and dragged into what could only be the dark interior of a closed carriage. In the next moment, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobbled London street, and a jolt as the conveyance started forward, told Maggie her guess was right.
Her ears ringing more loudly, she prayed that her suffocation would end before it was too late. The hand remained firmly in place. Glancing around wildly, Maggie realized that, rather than adjusting to the dimmer light, her sight seemed to be dimming further. She would not get air in time to prevent fainting; she could only hope that she would get it in time to stave off death. With that, she slipped into the dark, soft cushion of unconsciousness.
“She’s gone limp,” Johnstone announced, squinting through the dim light at the woman James held across his lap. “I think she’s faint—Damn, Lord Ramsey! You’ve got both her nose and mouth covered! She can’t breathe!”
James removed his hand at once. Turning the woman’s limp form slightly in his arms, he peered at her in dismay. The pallor of her skin was obvious even in the dim light, and he cursed as he tugged aside her heavy cape and lowered his head to listen to her heart. It was a great relief to him when he heard its slow, steady thud. Sitting up with a sigh, he peered down at the gown she wore as they rode under a streetlamp. The creation of sheer red material was not made to cover anything; her nipples showed right through it! The carriage moved past the light and its interior returned to darkness, leaving Ramsey’s captive nothing but a pale bundle of shadows on his lap. He hurriedly tugged her cape closed again and sank back on the seat.
“Is she all right?”
James frowned at the huskiness in the runner’s voice. Suspecting the sight they had just beheld was the cause, and unaccountably annoyed at the fact, he was a bit snappish when he answered. “Yes. She’s just fainted, and shall recover.”
“Good,” Johnstone answered.
They both fell silent as they rode beneath another streetlight. This time both men peered at their capture’s face, taking in the delicate features visible below her mask. James stared at that pale visage, so innocent in repose, and he felt bewilderment overtake him.
He had seen Margaret from a distance several times during the months since his return from war, and each time he had been struck by the delicacy of her features, the refined air about her. Even having discovered her in Madame Dubarry’s himself, masked and all, it was difficult to believe that the delicate creature he held was the notorious Lady X. The name had been bandied about his club for weeks, along with descriptions he could hardly forget. So lovely, what one could see of her. She had a figure more perfect than a doll’s, lips made for the licentious joys of the bedroom, a body that didn’t stop. . . . She was a tiger in bed, giving each patron his money’s worth—and with seeming relish. It was said that Lady X, nobility or not, was no lady.
Clearing his throat, James forced the thoughts away and glanced at Johnstone. The man was staring at their captive from the opposite seat of the carriage. “Well, do not just sit there,” he said. “Find something for us to tie her up with.”
The Bow Street runner’s eyebrows rose. “Do you really think that’s necessary, m’lord?”
“I intend to take her to my country estate and keep her there until we find an alternate career for her. Do you think she will come willingly?”
“No, I suppose not,” the runner admitted with a grimace; then he asked, “What of her household?”
James’s surprise showed in his voice as he asked, “What household?”
“Her servants. I realize she has no family left to be concerned about her disappearance, but her servants might raise a hue and cry when she doesn’t return. What do you intend to do to prevent that?”
“Damn, I had not thought of it.”
They were both silent for a moment; then the runner suggested, “Ye could write a letter. Tell them that you have invited Lady Margaret to the country to rusticate for a couple days and that she has taken you up on it.”
“Do you think they would believe such tripe?” James asked dubiously.
“They are servants, m’lord. Servants don’t question the word of the nobility—at least not out loud. Besides, you are a friend of the family. Well, at least you’re a friend of her dead brother’s. A letter should keep them quiet for a couple days at least, long enough for you to convince her to write something else to them, reassuring them she is fine.”
James considered his suggestion for a minute, then sighed and nodded. “It will have to do. I will write a letter once we get back to my town house, and you can deliver it. In the meantime, we still need to tie her up.” His gaze slid around the carriage, then to the runner again. “Perhaps we could use your cravat. Do you think it is long enough?”
Johnstone glanced down with surprise. “I think so, but . . . Oh, what the hell,” he decided, setting to work on the garment, then he offered James a cheeky grin. “I’ll just bill it to ye.”
Maggie was slow to awaken. When she did, it was to find herself bundled in a darkened corner, her cape wrapped tightly around her—so tightly she couldn’t move, she realized with dismay. No, wait. It was not her cape that restricted her movements, but her hands were bound. Her feet appeared to be as well. What the devil was going on?
Blinking in an effort to adjust to the blackness, she peered around at her surroundings. While she saw nothing, she could deduce that she was still in the carriage—the rocking motion of the seat she sat on and the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves made that obvious. Oddly, though, the noise of hooves was the only sound she could hear. The normal hustle and bustle of London’s streets was missing. And she could still see nothing.
Then the darkness enveloping her was broken, the hood of her cape was tugged aside, revealing to her why it had been so dark. Without the material covering her face, Maggie could see the gray light of predawn creeping through the window.
Her gaze slid around the carriage, taking in the dark outline of a man seated across from her. He was the only other occupant of the conveyance. It was hard to see his features in the dim interior of the coach, but she could see his size, and that was enough to intimidate her.
“You are awake.”
She blinked in surprise. His diction was perfect, his speech cultured. This was no street ruffian, but a gentleman. She had been abducted by a gentleman?
Abducted? Swallowing, she dropped her eyes to her lap to hide her confusion. She, Maggie Wentworth, had been abducted: dragged from Madame Dubarry’s, suffocated to unconsciousness, and, apparently, carted off in a carriage. But why? For ransom? There was no money for which to ransom her, and even if there were, there certainly was no one from whom to demand it. Then, all at once, the answer seemed obvious. This was a mistake. She had been mistaken for someone else, one of Madame Dubarry’s girls, of course. Perhaps even the famed prostitute Lady X, she realized with dismay. She still wore the red mask Maisey had given her.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured somewhat faintly, drawing her abductor’s attention. Forcing a smile, though she wasn’t at all sure that the man could see it, Maggie sat up as straight as she could. Attempting an air of confidence, she explained, “There has been a dreadful mistake.”
“What mistake would that be, Lady Wentworth?”
His address managed to knock some of the wind out of her sails, and Maggie couldn’t hide her surprise. “You know my name?”
“Of course.”
Well, that blew her theory to kingdom come, Maggie realized with distress. Good Lord, he knew who she was. There was no mistake. She had been deliberately kidnapped. But why, for goodness’ sake? Before she could ask, her kidnapper, apparently noting her fear, tried to reassure her.
“There is no need to be alarmed, my lady. The secret of your exploits shall remain safe with me. I have no more desire to unmask you to the world than you yourself must have to be unmasked. In fact, if I have my way, there shall be no chance of anyone ever finding out the games you have been playing. But understand: your alter ego dies this night. You shall not be returning to your previous employ.”
Maggie bit her lip, holding back any protest she might have wished to make about her lucrative career as G. W. Clark. There was no sense in annoying her captor until she knew his identity and just how much of a threat he was.
“Now,” the man went on gently, apparently pleased that she had made no argument. “You should rest. We shall be traveling for several more hours.” Having given that order, he raised a cane to rap on the ceiling of the coach, which drew to an immediate halt. With a nod in her direction, he disembarked from the carriage. Seconds after the door closed, the carriage rocked slightly, as if he were mounting it to sit beside its driver; then the coach jolted back into motion.
Once the conveyance had settled back into its previous monotonous rhythm, Maggie let out a small moan. She had been kidnapped by some madman who knew of her secret doings as G. W. Clark! Of course, there had always been the chance that someone might discover those pursuits, but she had never considered that upon discovering them, that someone might wish to kidnap her and force her to stop! Her real fear had been that they would reveal her and destroy her reputation.
She wearily leaned her head back against the cushioned seat. It seemed she had gotten into a true pickle this time. Not that such was strange for her; as a child her life had often seemed like one calamity after another. The fact had been something of a family joke. “Only you,” her family had said. “Only you, Maggie, could end up in such a fix. Only you, Maggie, could land yourself in such a mess.” And she had to agree. Just look at how she had ended up tucked into the armoire of a brothel. And how she’d been forced to climb out the window to escape an education she’d not been seeking. And now this kidnapping!
Maggie silently cursed herself for not allowing Banks to accompany her to Dubarry’s. The butler often served as a bodyguard of sorts during her adventures, accompanying her and staying as near as he could without ruining her disguises. Old, thin, and fragile, the man wasn’t really much of a deterrent to anyone wishing to do her serious harm, but his presence had always made her feel a little bit more secure—and she couldn’t help now but wish he had been there tonight.
The butler had wished to accompany her, but Maggie had explained that, as she was simply going to interview women, she had no need of his protection. Madame Dubarry was a friend, she’d added, and thus Maggie would be perfectly safe. She found it ironic now that it had taken her some amount of persuasion before she had convinced him to stay behind.
“Idiot,” she chided herself under her breath. Despite the fact that Banks probably would have been left to wait in the kitchens, and therefore would have been helpless to prevent her kidnapping, at least there would have been someone to notice her disappearance. Maggie wasn’t at all certain that Madame Dubarry would think twice when she did not return. Men had already started arriving in search of evening entertainment when the brothel owner had hustled her up the back stairs to Maisey’s room. The woman was likely now too busy tending to business to notice Maggie’s absence. And who knew how long Banks would wait at the house before deciding to come in search of her?
Yes, she thought resignedly, she was in a fix all right. Now she just had to figure a way out of it. Getting untied would be a good start.
A new thought made her sit up abruptly. Good Lord! Her hands had been tied under the cape. Her captors would have had to open the cape to get to her hands. Which meant that they had seen the indecent scrap of red silk she was wearing! And what must they have thought of that? she wondered with dismay.
She peered around the dark interior of the carriage. Maybe they hadn’t thought anything at all. Maybe it was dark enough here that they had not really seen what she was wearing. She had just started to nurture that hope when she realized that even if they had seen very little while binding her in the carriage, most likely they would get an eyeful when they arrived wherever they were going. With her luck, it would be bright as daylight when they decided to untie her, which would provide a lovely view of everything.
Damn Maisey, she thought irritably. If the girl hadn’t insisted on the switch . . . And damn Frances, too, for good measure, she added, feeling peevish. Heck, she decided while she was at it, damn Gerald as well!
Groaning inwardly, Maggie let her head drop back again. This situation just got better and better. She really had to escape. Giving up relaxing on the cushioned seat, she began to struggle with her bindings. They were extremely well tied and very tight. They resisted being undone no matter how she tried.
All Maggie managed to do with her struggles was to tire herself out and rub her wrists raw. She gave up long before the first creeping fingers of dawn spread across the sky.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a manor house. Sitting up, Maggie winced at the pain the action sent through her now sensitive wrists and peered out the window, frowning at the immense structure. It was large—huge—obviously the home of a wealthy man, but the stone building looked awkward. It crouched rather than rose into the sky, and it cast dark shadows on the surrounding estate.
Frowning at the sight, Maggie tensed as the carriage rocked; someone was alighting from the driver’s bench. She wasn’t terribly surprised when the door opened and revealed the caped and hatted man who had been in the carriage with her when she had first awoken—not that she could see much more of him now than she had while he was in the dark carriage. While the sky was beginning to lighten, the coach now stood in the shadow of the mansion. She did, however, recognize the man’s voice as he murmured an apology and leaned in toward her.
She understood the reason behind the polite apology as he quickly scooped her off the cushioned seat and out of the carriage. In the next moment she found herself hoisted like a sack of potatoes, the sudden impact of his shoulder in her stomach knocking the wind out of Maggie and effectively eliminating any possibility of her shrieking for help. Not that there appeared to be anyone about to offer that help, she saw with dismay. Turning her head to glance frantically one way, then the other, Maggie found there was no one in view but for the man presently carting her toward the estate’s front door. Well, there was the driver of the coach, too, but one glimpse of the man’s amused expression suggested that he would be of no assistance.
Deciding she had best save her strength, Maggie remained still in her undignified position, silently promising herself she would throttle her captor at the first opportunity for this humiliating ride. Then her attention was taken up by the interior of the house they entered. A marble floor flashed by beneath her head, the legs of a narrow table, too, then steps.
Maggie held her breath and remained as still as she could; if the last thing she wanted was to throw off her captor’s balance as he ascended these stairs. She breathed a small sigh of relief once the steps were replaced by the flat floor of a wide hallway; then she was carted through a door and into and across a darkened room. The kidnapper’s stride slowed, his hands shifted, and he bent forward, dropping Maggie indelicately on a soft surface in the still-dark room before turning and exiting.
It took her a moment to realize that the soft surface was a bed. Once she did, though, Maggie quickly tried to scramble off of it—forgetting that her ankles were bound together. She ended up crashing to her knees on the floor just as light flooded in around her. Lifting her head, she watched warily as her captor reentered with a taper from the hallway, which he used to set a fire going in the room’s hearth. Then he carried the taper to the table on the opposite side of the bed from her, the one nearest the door. He set it down carefully, then turned to eye her where she knelt huddled against the bed.
She returned his inspection, but was quite startled by the look of him. Her kidnapper was tall, with long, muscular legs and broader-than-average shoulders. His hair was dark and feathered, with gray at the temples, giving him a distinguished air. His face was handsome and strong, yet looked slightly hard, as if he didn’t smile much.
The man gazed at her silently for a moment, taking in her wary state, then rubbed one hand wearily over the back of his neck and glanced fretfully around. “I am James Huttledon,” he announced abruptly. When Maggie stared back blankly, he added, “I was a friend of your brother’s. We fought side by side through most of the war.”
Maggie felt surprise at this news, and some of her wariness dissipated as she made the connection in her head. Gerald had written to her often, long letters detailing his comrades, the battles they fought, the camaraderie they shared. There had been one man he had mentioned a great deal, and from his letters Maggie knew Gerald had respected and looked up to him. He had called the paragon James once or twice, but had most often referred to him as—“Ramsey,” she said a bit breathlessly.
“Yes. I am Lord Ramsey. Your brother died saving my life, and his last request to me was that I see after you.”
Maggie was silent for a moment. She had known Gerald died bravely—his commanding officer had written the details of his leaping in front of a musket ball to save a comrade. However, she had never known whom he had died to save; the name had been left out. Now she stared at the man who had kidnapped her, the man her brother had saved, and felt only bitter disappointment. Gerald had died in this man’s place?
She couldn’t help her suddenly tight expression or the tone of her voice as she snapped, “I see. Well, forgive me for pointing out something you may not wish to hear, my lord, but I doubt very much if smothering, tying up, or kidnapping me is what Gerald had in mind.”
Lord Ramsey grimaced, but after a moment said sternly, “It was not what I expected to be doing when I agreed. However, I doubt your brother expected you to get up to the things you have done.”
Maggie stiffened at his tone, indignant. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
His gaze slid downward, drawing her attention to the fact that by half rising, she had revealed a good portion of the flimsy red attire she had on beneath her cape, as well as all the things it did not hide. Flushing bright pink at the view she was presenting, Maggie again hunched forward against the bed. Lord Ramsey’s gaze immediately returned to her face. Feeling the mask she wore cold against her hot blush, Maggie felt an instant need to explain. Clearing her throat, she said, “This is just a disguise. I could hardly move about in there without one, could I?”
“Dear God, no!” the man agreed with sharp horror. Becoming stern again, he added, “You should not have been there at all. A lady of your standing has no business being in such a place, or working at such a . . .” When he paused, obviously in search of a suitable description, Maggie interrupted.
“Yes, well . . . I do have to earn a living, my lord. Someone must pay for the upkeep of that mausoleum my brother left me, keep the servants paid and fed.” She pointed it out staunchly, but that only seemed to make the man’s lips tighten with further displeasure.
Turning away, Lord Ramsey moved toward the door. “I am sure you did not rest much in the carriage. As for myself, I have not slept at all. We shall discuss alternate sources of income after we have both rested and refreshed ourselves.”
“Just a moment!” Maggie cried in alarm. Her kidnapper stopped and looked back at her wearily, one brow arched in question. “My hands.” She held them above the bed as if to show him the bindings. He hesitated, his eyes shifting warily to her face; then he shrugged and started back toward her.
“I suppose it will not hurt to untie you. There is nowhere for you to run, anyway. My servants are quite loyal to me.” Moving around the side of the bed, Lord Ramsey dropped onto his haunches beside her and waited for her to turn so that he could reach her hands. When she hesitated, remaining positioned the way she was, the bed hiding her sheer gown, a crooked smile quirked his lips. “Suddenly shy? Is that not a bit like stirring the pot after the stew is burnt?”
Maggie felt her face flush but held her pose. He may well have seen all while she was unconscious in the carriage, but she was not offering any exhibitions now. Appearing to realize that, Lord Ramsey shifted to kneel closer to her and reached for her hands. Biting her lip, Maggie tried to ignore the way his shoulder and hip rubbed against hers as he worked on her bonds, and the musky scent of him as it wafted up to her nose. He smelled of fine brandy and expensive cigars—a scent she had always found pleasantly drifting around her father and brother when they had just returned from the clubs. She idly wondered if that had been where he was before kidnapping her.
“There we are,” he said. “Now your ankles.” He turned slightly, shifting back a bit so that she could turn and slide her legs out for him, but Maggie remained as she was, unwilling to risk giving him an indecent view.
“I-I can manage those, I think,” she murmured huskily, avoiding his gaze. She sensed his hesitation, but after a moment he stood and moved away.
“Ring the bell by the bed when you wake, and a maid shall bring you something more comfortable to wear.” The bedroom door closed behind him on Lord Ramsey’s last word, and Maggie slowly relaxed, realizing only then how tense she had been. His close proximity had caused her to tighten up like a snail retreating into its shell.
Shaking her head at her behavior, she shifted her position and reached for her ankles, untying them much slower than he had done. But then, her hands were somewhat numb from their confinement, and they gave her some trouble with the task.
Sighing in relief as the rope finally fell away, Maggie rose carefully and perched on the edge of the bed, then took stock of her prison. While the exterior of this estate had appeared stark and imposing, there was nothing of that inside. This bedroom was a cheerful light blue, its furnishings and coverings all nearly new, and expensive. Hardly reflective of its owner at all.
Grimacing to herself at the thought, Maggie glanced toward the door, briefly considering trying to leave, but just as quickly changed her mind. She could already hear the house stirring. There would be servants everywhere in no time. Besides, she had no way to return to town, or really even any idea which way London was from here. Nay, there was little sense in rushing off into the wilds of the country, especially dressed as she was.
Then, too, it didn’t appear as if she were under any real threat here. If anything, it sounded as if Lord Ramsey were seriously trying to live up to his promise to her brother to keep her from harm. And apparently he felt her escapades under the name of G. W. Clark were too risky. Which they were, she had to admit. In fact, the whole situation had grown more and more precarious of late, for her readers were demanding more and more titillating articles. That was the reason she had risked entering the brothel—something she never would have considered ere circumstances had become so desperate, even with the heavy veil she had worn to hide her face.
Where was that veil now? Probably still sitting on the settee in Madame Dubarry’s private drawing room. Maggie had taken it off after interviewing the last of Agatha’s girls so that she and the madam might relax over tea. Both of them had quite forgotten it in the rush to Maisey’s room. Which, in itself, showed the dangers of rushing about without planning. Nay, Maggie was best off sticking it out until she could convince Lord Ramsey to return her to her home, or think of a safe way to escape there on her own.
No doubt Lord Ramsey would offer her some sort of agreement when they met for their discussion later—a position as nanny to his children or some such thing. Yes, he looked the sort to be married with children. He was certainly old enough. Of course, she would have to refuse. Even if she dismissed the ignominy of being known to work for a living, no position as governess could pay as much as the Daily Express. No, when Lord Ramsey made the offer, she would be forced to regretfully refuse—then somehow had to convince him to return her to town.
Having settled the matter in her mind, Maggie stood and removed her cape and mask. She would have liked to remove her gown as well; it was terribly itchy. She didn’t know if it was the material or a lack of cleanliness on Maisey’s part, but the garment was insufferable. Unfortunately she had nothing to change into at the moment, and as indecent as the gown was, it was unthinkable to sleep in the nude.
Making a face, she crawled under the covers and settled herself in the center of the bed, unsurprised as she was overtaken by a yawn. Now that she believed she wasn’t in any real danger, exhaustion was beginning to set in. This had been an incredibly eventful night, what with one thing after another. All she really wanted to do was rest.
Stifling yet another yawn, she glanced toward the bedroom door and frowned. It was all well and good that Lord Ramsey claimed a desire to honor her brother’s last wishes, but really, she realized, she had no guarantee that such was the case. Actually, she had no guarantee he was even who he claimed. It was rather trusting of her to take the man’s word for it like that. Naive and stupid, even.
“Oh, bother!” she muttered. Pushing the covers aside, she crawled out of bed once more.
“Here you are, milord.”
James turned from a contemplation of the fire in his library hearth and smiled a vague thank-you at an unusually rumpled Webster. His butler at Ramsey came forward with a tray bearing warmed milk with whiskey—James’s own personal remedy for an inability to sleep. It was something James had not thought he would need as he rode here; he had nearly fallen asleep several times on the hard bench during the journey. Crowch, his driver, had actually nudged him a time or two to wake him before he could tumble right off.
But that had been before he had carried Margaret Wentworth to the blue room and dropped her on the bed. That was before he had seen her in the candlelight, on her knees, her golden hair tumbled about her heartshaped face, her soft green eyes glinting out from behind that damned red mask that lent such a seductive air of mystery to her and seemed to emphasize how sweet and soft were her lips. All that had been enough to give a man ideas. It had put images in his head: images of Margaret kneeling at his feet, her cape open to reveal all that blasted gown she wore revealed . . . her hands untied, reaching for the waist of his trousers, her glossy lips twisting as she pulled those trousers slowly down and . . .
Dear God! What was the matter with him? James gave his head a shake, relieved when the erotic imaginings dissolved. He could hardly believe he had been standing there fantasizing such things about a woman he was supposed to be helping. Hell, he could hardly believe he had been fantasizing at all. He just wasn’t the sort to waste time on carnal pursuits. He prided himself on being a more intellectual sort. Oh, he had kept a mistress or two through the years, but it had always been more as a physical outlet—a sort of exercise, if you will—rather than from any real passion. In fact, James had always regarded the task as not dissimilar to boxing: Good for keeping the heart fit and the body in shape and a skill every man should have. And as with boxing, he had always considered the movements rather mechanical. In boxing it was jab, feint, uppercut as opposed to kiss, strip, fondle, and so on. Both were a step-by-step process leading to the final round and the ringing of the bell . . . so to speak.
Gerald and Robert had once claimed he was a bloodless sod when he’d revealed that philosophy. They had discussed many things while seated around the fire at night, and the subject of mistresses had invariably come up. Neither of his friends had understood, but James simply was not hampered by the carnal nature most men seemed led by. Or so he had thought. Yet here he was, lusting after the woman presently installed in a room upstairs, his mental processes as muddled as those of any brainless dog after a bitch in heat.
“Parliament canceled?”
James gave up berating himself as the last two words of Webster’s question broke through his thoughts. Frowning, he glanced at his servant. “What was that?”
“I said you have quite taken us by surprise with this visit, milord. I did not expect you until the day after next at the least, after Parliament met. Was the meeting canceled?”
James stared blankly at the man for a moment, his brain slow to digest what he was saying, and slower still to accept that he had been so stupid. “Damn,” he breathed at last, hardly able to believe that he had forgotten. He had long been a member of the House of Lords, and had made a concerted effort to attend each meeting. He had missed one or two, of course—illness, emergencies, life itself sometimes intervened—but just now there was a matter of some importance on the table and he really had wanted to be there. How could he have forgotten? Dear Lord, he had made a muff up this time.
Cursing, he set his untouched glass of warm milk and whiskey down with a clink and rose from his seat. “Tell Crowch to harness fresh horses to the carriage. We must head back at once. Then come to my room. I have to change, and I will give you instructions regarding Lady Wentworth while I do. Damn!” he added again.
“Lady Wentworth?” his butler asked in confusion as he followed James out of the library.
“She is in the blue room. A . . . guest. You are to be sure she remains one while I am gone.”