Nineteen
Tessie was still bound, but her mouth remained ungagged, thanks to Tallows’s meaningful threat. Nevertheless, she said nothing, merely watched with observant eyes as Tallows stirred up his pot and muttered to himself about ransoms.
All the while, Tessie kept a close watch for any sign of Nick. She would have done anything to see him one last time, but not here, not like this! She hoped above all that Tallows had been lying, that Nick was safe and as happy as a grig somewhere, probably London.
Pride did not permit her to question Tallows, or to taste his wretched, ill-gotten stew that nevertheless smelled delightful in this cold, barren place. Yes, undoubtedly Tallows’s observance had paid off. He had discovered this little thatched place and overnight made it home.
Or home in the broadest possible sense, that is, for save for the cooking pot and the fire, there was no redeeming feature to this dark, spider-infested place. The thatch leaked great drips of rainwater, and the couple of old sketches upon the floor were long past redemption, the charcoals having smudged mercilessly across the pages. Tessie thought she spied the imprints of boots upon them—one more indication that her captor lacked all sensibility. She tried not to watch him as he slurped back his meal and fetched out of his pockets a chunk of sourdough to soak up the remains.
“Fetch a pretty penny, yer will.”
The first bit of satisfied comment Tallows had vouchsafed in over two hours.
Tessie, who had been working silently on her bonds, imperceptibly flexing her muscles to loosen them, looked up. Her hair, bonnetless, was all tangled again. She wanted to wipe the locks from her forehead, for they were sticking, but she could not.
“Beg pardon?”
Obligingly, Tallows’s voice came louder this time.
“Fetch a pretty penny ye will, reckon Lord High-and-Mighty will pay something to ’ave yer back!”
Tessie’s heart gave that sudden lurch she was becoming accustomed to. She decided to engage her captor in conversation. The more she could learn, the better. The more unguarded his tongue, the better.
“Which lord?”
“Lord bloomin’ Nelson! I dunno, you tell me which lord will be payin’ a pretty packet for your . . . wares.”
Tessie, revolted at the implication, said nothing. But her mind worked swiftly, for in danger she was all up to the rig.
If this Luddite—and he was obviously that—every—thing he said screamed of it—if this Luddite was talking of lords . . . Tessie swallowed hard. There was only one lord whom the Luddites had a personal grudge against. One lord, who . . . but no! Tessie would not think that the debonair Lord Nicholas Cathgar might harbor some feelings for her! Some stray, misguided sense of responsibility perhaps . . . Tallows could be talking only of Nick.
She breathed hard. If there was talk of ransom, then Tallows had lied. Nick was nowhere in these rooms, in these small chambers, hidden in the loft, prisoner in the woods . . . he was not!
He was alive, safe, striding through his residence, riding his stallions . . . about to receive a ransom note. There was none of the gang in evidence, and Tessie was inclined to think Tallows had lied there too.
So what had she gained? Nothing but the miserable knowledge that she should have screamed when she could have. She had been duped like the green goose in the pot. The thought made her furious rather than cowed.
By God! If she were not to be saving Nick’s life, then she was blessed well about to save her own! What was more, if this whey-faced mushroom thought he could cadge a ransom out of Nick, he was mistaken, very much mistaken!
Eyes flashing, she wondered what sort of ruse she could use to catch Tallows off his guard. Her wrists felt raw, but she believed that, if she needed to, she could free herself. But she had one chance, and she must not waste it.
Tallows peered at her.
“A right piece yer are, with all them pretty ringlets, like. Reckon if I were to cut off them curls, ’is lordship will send the ransom quick as a trivet.”
Tessie’s eyes blazed, then grew thoughtful. What, after all, were a few ringlets? They might prove useful. If she pleaded, doubtless the Luddite would be confirmed in his intentions.
“Oh, please, no! Not my hair! It has taken simply an age to grow and curl so!”
Tallows smiled grimly. “Well, it will take an age again! Let that be a lesson to the great Cathgar! Bless me if I don’t slap on the handsome price of a coachwheel a curl. And seven hundred sovereigns for your person—‘e should pay that easy, ’e should. Never say Tallows is greedy, like! But them curls . . . yes . . . them curls be a splendid idea!”
“Wicked, you mean!” Tessie tugged at her wrists again. Almost free, she was sure of it. And she would scream if she needed to. There was no longer the threat of Nick’s life gagging her. But it would be pointless here, in the woods, with no one but the odd poacher to hear her struggles. Here she must be silent, and pray that she could induce the witless Tallows to take her bait.
“Oh, please! I implore you! You simply cannot cut off these curls!”
Tallows smiled grimly. “I can, me dear, and I surely will. Just as soon as I have me a knife!”
And that, Tessie thought in satisfaction, was precisely what she wanted.
Nicholas was nearly home. He kicked in his heels and sent his horse flying over the hedgerow, ever alert for any signs of Tessie. He would not put it past her, he thought, to be wandering alone across his estate. It was just the foolish sort of thing she would do.
The next thing, it was not the horse, but he, who was flying over the hedgerow. The horse had stumbled in a ditch! He could have sworn it was the one dug by the first Lord Cathgar, a trench for dueling it had been, and such an eyesore that it had been abandoned for years, with nothing but periwinkle and long grass to mark the site.
Of course, all the signposts pointed away from the spot, though the locals knew to be wary. So how the dickens had the signpost been turned? Surely not on purpose? Who would do such a thing? And what in tarnation was that . . . that . . . thing lying filthy in the soil? Nicholas whistled gently to his horse as he brushed himself off and kicked at the piece of material. He stubbed his toe. He cursed in a most ungentlemanlike fashion, but then, he hardly looked a gentleman with his knees stained in dirt and his neckerchief more brown than pristine white.
Curious, Nick’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar . . . he tugged at the reticule. Of a sudden, he knew why he had stubbed his toe. He was just thankful he had not shot it to pieces. He smiled rather ruefully. Tessie’s pistol, snug in its dirty haven, was primed. He should have guessed.
Miss Hampstead waited, as her captor cursed, to undo her bonds. If she did so, she could flee, but she was uncertain whether she could be any match for Tallows. He was long and lanky and very likely could outrun her, especially in her skirts.
From somewhere—probably the sentry’s box—Tallows had procured some writing equipment and old, crested paper. He wrote laboriously, tongue hanging out, occasionally asking for assistance, such as in the spelling of “ransom.” Tessie’s eyes would have danced with amusement had she not been concentrating so hard on her chances of escape.
When the task was done, Tallows sealed the missive with candle wax and looked very pleased with himself, obviously not doubting for a moment that Nicholas would be forthcoming with the blunt. He had brought with him a pail. His appeared to be filled with a variety of objects, not least of which was a plum pie. Tallows was obviously more adept at thieving than at kidnapping. For the first time, Tessie’s lips curved upward in amusement. Tallows was no Grange, she was certain of it.
“What the devil do you mean, you can’t find her?”
Lord Nicholas Cathgar, grimy, grim, and decidedly un-fetching in town garb that reeked of the stable—and which moreover splattered mud across his Axminster carpets—glared fiercely.
Lady Cathgar, his mother, dabbed back a tear with an enormous handkerchief sewn from spangled floss and shook her head.
“I tell you, Nick, she simply disappeared!”
“Ran away?”
“Not precisely, though I fear she was a trifle distrait.. . .”
“You shall be a trifle distrait if you don’t speak more plainly!”
Nicholas glared at his mother and four of his beloved sisters. Two of them giggled, but the other two looked distinctly uncomfortable, not to mention genuinely concerned.
“Nick, number one, she loves you though you are clearly undeserving, since you have been a total blockhead throughout and not once thought to tell her you love her. . . .”
“Mama . . .”
“Don’t mama me! I love Tessie dearly and I won’t have her hurt.”
“I! Hurt her! That is the outside of enough. . . .”
“Nonsense! You have hurt the poor child dreadfully with your high-handed ways! Did you woo her? Did you whisper soft nothings in her ear? Did you, while you were kissing her”—here Lady Cathgar stared at him balefully—“ did you ever once mention that you loved her?”
“I asked her to marry me, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, after you had ruined her! Not very romantic, Nick, you can do better if all the reports I hear are true.”
“Mama, you listen to too much scandal broth!”
“Not enough, by all accounts! No one told me, my dear, dear Nicholas, that you are still acting government agent!”
“Tessie obviously did.”
“I had to positively prize it out of her! Now, do be a good boy and find the chit, kiss her decisively, and don’t forget to tell her you love her!”
“Where is she that I may carry out this admirable advice?”
“I don’t know, I tell you! She sustained a severe shock today. It would have been fine, of course, had that idiotish Miss Hartleyvale not blathered out our names and titles before we could deny her entrance! If poor Tessie . . .”
“Where is she?” Nicholas’s firm control was slipping. Finding her reticule had worried him more than he liked to say. She was a dear little scapegrace, but she treasured that damned pistol of hers. It should not have been lying in the mud like that.
“We think she went to the fair. Cal—that is, one of the young grooms—I think you know him—said she dismissed him, wanting the air. More like she did not want to ride Bess for fear she would be more beholden. A proud puss, your Tess.”
“Then she was—is—unaccompanied?”
Lady Halgrove responded. “Yes, but it is only a mile or so to the fair, Nick! Surely she shan’t come to any harm? We used to sneak out often enough ourselves, remember?”
Nicholas did not bother to reply. He simply strode out with nothing whatsoever in his ungloved hands but Miss Hampstead’s famous reticule.
Out of the pail came a dram of red-brown liquid—no need to guess its identity—Tessie could smell it on Tallows’s breath—half a pigeon pie, a shovel—curious, could be useful, but really rather small for her needs—and then the piece de resistance, a knife. Miss Hampstead peered at it through the gloom. Yes, that would do. It was precisely what she’d been hoping for, in fact, with all this talk of curls.
It was growing darker and colder. Tessie hoped some candles would miraculously appear from the pail. They did not, but Tallows lit a taper from the fire. It was gloomy, grudgingly emitting a speck of half-light, but Tessie was grateful. That, too, could be handy. Time, she thought, to free her bonds, though she must sit with the ropes tied loosely upon her until her moment came. She counted on the moment, for it was all the hope she had.
It would be days before Nick received any ransom note in London. He probably never would, for she did not pin too much faith on Tallows’s literacy or ability to frank the mail. There was no doubt in her mind that Tallows was a novice to the business of kidnapping. Good in some respects, but she must not rest on her laurels. Sometimes the stupidest criminals were the most dangerous.
She jerked her arms viciously apart, loosening the bonds so fiercely that they fell to the floor. The pail was too far on the other side of the room for her to make a dash for it. Heart beating, for should Tallows notice she would be quite undone, she picked up the cords and bound them about her wrists again.
How fortunate that her tormentor, occupied outside with the call of nature, and generally rather pleased with himself, did not suspect a thing. He returned and bade Tessie, rather curtly, sit by the fire.
“For there I can see ya as I cut at them curls. One at a time, like. Souvenirs for his lord worship.”
Tessie said nothing, but did as she was told, taking care not to let the ropes fall from her wrists as she did so.
Fuming, she allowed Tallows to put his dry, mud-caked hands on her soft, tangled strands. They smelled of lemon and honeysuckle, but Tallows was too tipsy to really notice, or to appreciate this feminine nuance. He pulled at her hair—gently for such a large and lanky creature—and twisted a curl in his thumb.
Tessie did not move, her eyes focused almost entirely on the knife he’d removed from the pail. She thought of leaping up, taking him by surprise, pouncing on the knife, and making good her escape, then decided she was an addle-wit. Tallows would be at the knife in the twinkling of an eyelash, and all her hard work loosening her bonds would be for naught. No, she had one chance, really, and how she wished it was a gun and not a knife that she had to deal with! Still, beggars could not be choosers, and if she had to stab Tallows, she would, for undoubtedly he would not hesitate to do the same if he suspected trouble.
Nick would not just lie down calmly and pay the ransom. Even if he received the note, he would be concocting some cunning plan. If it failed, Tallows would not hesitate to kill her, or worse. He might seem a sorry sort of villain, but they were often the most dangerous. They worked on instinct rather than on calculation. Dangerous, dangerous.
Tallows let go of the curl. It twisted immediately into a little ringlet that framed her face. He pulled at it again, then watched it snap back into the same soft twist. Tessie did not say a word. Inwardly, she sighed, for she wondered how long her patience, never mind her famous temper, could stand this treatment.
“Quiet, aren’t ye?”
“I have not much to say.”
“That must be a first! You wimmenfolk blabber ten to the turrnpike, I always say! Bless me if them curls are not natural, like.”
“Well, of course they are natural!”
Tallows regarded her suspiciously. “None of them curlin’ papers, like?”
Tessie shook her head firmly, so the tangle of curls covered her face. She swept them back again with another swift shake. Nearly, nearly, she had used her hands. She must be careful. And she must incite him to make a move! The longer she dallied, the darker it got. She did not trust even a full moon to get her home.
“Please don’t cut these curls! Please! Lord Cathgar would hate it!”
Tallows’s eyes narrowed, and he stopped, to Tessie’s relief, fingering her mass of silken locks. He stood up instead, galvanized into action. Yes, Tessie had been shrewd enough to realize that he bore Nick a deep grudge. Grudge enough to do something out of sheer spite. Tessie did not think of her curls—they would grow back—she thought of the knife. The long, lovely pearl-handled knife that Tallows caressed slowly.
He ran his finger down the blade and smiled. It was not a wicked smile, precisely, for “wicked” is left for more heroic, romantic villains—but it was mean and calculating. Tessie did not allow herself to shiver or take fright. If she failed, there would be plenty of time for such displays of misery. The knife was being sharpened now in front of the flames from the small hearth. Tallows had not forgotten a grinding stone.
Cal had nothing further to add to Nick’s sisters’ garbled story. Nick had to restrain himself from shaking the poor lad, for had he accompanied Tessie, she might, at least, be safe. Cal was near tears, trying to explain. Nick did not shake him, as he wished to, but pulled out a pristine handkerchief and muttered that no real harm was done. After all, Tessie was as stubborn as a cart horse. Cal would not have been able to resist her wheedling.
Now for no real reason other than the reticule, he had a distinctly dire feeling in the pit of his stomach. He prayed he spoke the truth when he said no real harm was done. The fair was full of unsavory characters—tinkers, peddlers—but somehow he did not think these were the problem. He was acting on instinct, but the instinct was strong.
He saddled Bess—for his own horse needed to be rested—and set off, with Cal, in the direction of the ditch again. The sign was still pointing the wrong way. He slid down from the horse and examined it. There were small pebbles around it, and the mud on the post was fresh. Someone had deliberately turned the sign. A strong breeze, or even a horse cart brushing against the post, could not have caused those markings. Then there was the reticule . . . always, his mind dwelt unpleasantly upon it.
God, if something had happened to Tessie, he would never forgive himself. He should have followed her directly to Chiswick rather than allowing her to become a slave to his mother’s whims! All those gowns—yes, even in his anxious state he could see how many bolts of material and half-finished garments were scattered about the drawing room—it was scandalous! He should have claimed her weeks before rather than meddling at Hampstead Oaks. He could have done that later, when matters were settled between them.
Nicholas’s thoughts were bleak. Joseph was right. He was nothing but a cow-handed, rag-mannered, self-righteous rascal! Tessie should have been wed already, without the nosy Miss Hartleyvales of the world staring at her askance.
Well, if he could but find her, he would stick to his resolve. What was more, he was dashed if he would take no for an answer again! If Tessie proved troublesome—which undoubtedly she would, for that was her sweet, adorable, stubborn little nature—he would simply overpower her with his manliness.
Oh, yes, he would indeed. Nick’s eyes were grim and mirthful at the same moment. Then they became merely grim as he noticed her bonnet and a tangle of ribbons close to an almost completely overgrown path. How he knew it was her bonnet, one could not say. Perhaps it was the gay feathers, all sticky and murky, or perhaps, simply, because the bonnet was squashed flat. Tessie’s bonnets always, somehow, ended up looking like that! Whatever the reason, Nick decided it was Tessie’s.
The path, however, was facing away from the fair, so he had to make a decision quickly.
“Cal, you go on to the fair. Search every stall for Miss Hampstead. Not the dancing bears—she would not be interested in that, I think. If you do not find her within an hour, return to this path and follow my tracks quietly. There might be danger.”
“Aye, sir!” Cal’s eyes shone. For him, it was an adventure. Nicholas found, when it came to his intended, he tired of adventure. But he nodded approvingly to Cal, hoping against all hope that Miss Hampstead would be found procuring pink sugar mice at the sweetmeat stalls. He would probably throttle her, then, of course, but Cal need know nothing of the matter!
He hardly stopped to watch Cal step off the overgrown path. He trotted down it silently, Bess sensing his need for caution. It took him a full ten minutes to remember the disused huntsman’s cottage. This after finding a single grass-stained glove not far from the path. She was throwing out a trail, he was certain of it. Nothing more was found, for the second glove had been taken by the wind and was even now lying hidden beneath an elderberry bush. It did not matter. Nicholas, knowing the land as he did, no longer hesitated.
The only possible place for a villain—down this path at any rate—was the huntsman’s cottage. Five minutes before he arrived, he tethered Bess to a tree. It was better, he thought, to arrive on foot. Tessie’s pistol, though grimy, was still primed.