If asked, Giles would have preferred the comfort and silence of death to the pounding headache he experienced upon awakening the next morning. He had opened his eyes once and then shut them immediately, for the light made his head even worse. At first he thought he was lying in his own bed, suffering the morning-after effects of too much drink, although he was usually very abstemious.
Then he became conscious of the hardness of the mattress under him and the scratchiness of the rough wool blanket under his cheek. The sounds and smells from outside were foreign, too. Although, God knows, my breath is foul enough to have drunk myself into a stupor, he thought as he propped himself up on his elbow and opened his eyes again, determined to settle once and for all if he were in the middle of a nightmare.
The vertigo that assailed him was accompanied by an attack of nausea, and he hardly had time to get his head over the bed. After he retched up bile and what felt like all his internal organs as well, he fell back, exhausted. But a few minutes later he felt a little better, and pulling himself up into a sitting position, opened his eyes again.
He was on a straw-mattressed pallet in a small filthy, dirt-floored room. From the way the light poured down through the slatted window, he guessed he was in a cellar. But whose cellar and why? It only made the pounding worse when he tried to understand what had happened, so he sat there, breathing deeply to keep the nausea at bay and letting his senses take in all the information they could.
The noise of heavy footsteps above him seemed to indicate that he was right about being in a cellar. And his ears seemed to also be telling him that the cellar was in a very poor neighborhood from the absence of friendly and familiar street cries. Instead, there seemed to be some sort of brawling going on outside. If there had been anyone to wager with, he thought, after fifteen minutes of focusing on sounds and smells, I would wager that I am in the cellar of some rookery in Seven Dials or St. Giles. Make it St. Giles, he thought, with an appreciation of the irony. My patron saint. Maybe I have died and gone to hell for my sins. Although, I never thought I was that much of a sinner.
He heard someone, two someones, coming downstairs and was instantly alert. There was a sound of metal rasping metal, and then the door opened and two men entered the room.
These are no angels but Satan’s minions, he thought with an objective humor that surprised him given their threatening appearance.
One was short, squat, barrel-chested, and bald as an egg. The other was tall, with the cauliflower ears of a pugilist. Both reeked of unwashed bodies and clothes. Although, I am certainly adding to the aroma, admitted Giles.
“Ye’re awake I see, Mr. More,” said the erstwhile pugilist.
At first Giles thought he was speaking to his companion. Then it dawned on him that it was he who was being addressed. Mr. More? Surely his name was Whitton. God’s recording angel made a mistake and sent him to hell and Andrew to heaven in his place? Andrew’s name brought him out of his whimsical fog. For some strange reason these two thugs thought he was Andrew More. He closed his eyes and leaned back, willing himself to remember. Last night he had visited Andrew ... it was raining ... he had pulled Andrew’s coat around him ... the hansom cab ... that awful smell.
“Awake and cast up his accounts, hi see,” said the short man.
“Not feeling the thing this morning, are ye, sir?"
Giles groaned and shook his head. Acting helpless would give him some time to decide what course to take. Actually, considering how awful he felt, it was hardly acting.
“May I have some water,” he croaked.
“ ‘May I?’ Coo, we are being perlite now, aren’t we? Don’t worry, ye’ll be watered and fed, gov.”
“And I need a chamber pot. Soon.”
“George, will ye hinform the butler that Andrew More, Esquire needs a pot to piss in.”
George laughed and went upstairs for a pitcher of water and the aforesaid pot.
“Why am I here?” asked Giles in a quavering voice. “I don’t even know you. What possible quarrel could you have with me?”
“Don’t take this personal, gov. Hit ain’t. We are just to keep ye out of court for a while.”
Giles swung his legs over the side of the cot, and immediately his captor stood over him threateningly.
“Of course, hif ye give us any trouble, we ‘as permission to drop you.”
“At the moment,” whispered Giles, not acting at all, “I am in no condition to give trouble to anyone.”
“Hi can see that, gov. But by this hafternooon, ye moight be. Hi’m just warning ye for yere own good.”
The door scraped open, and short and squat entered with water in a dirty-looking pitcher and a chipped and uncovered receptacle.
“No food yet, gov. Ye’re stomach won’t take it, and hi don’t want to ask George ‘ere to clean up after ye again.”
George had already wiped away most of the signs of Giles’s sickness, and pushed the chamber pot under the pallet.
“Settle in and make yerself comfortable, gov,” said the tall man who as yet had no name. “George'll be back this evening.”
After his captors left, Giles took a drink from the pitcher, sloshing the water around in his mouth and spitting it out onto the dirt floor. The next mouthful he swallowed. He was thirsty enough to finish off the pitcher but stopped himself, realizing George the Toad would not be back before evening.
Immediately after drinking he needed to relieve himself, and he gingerly pulled out the chamber pot, which was surprisingly clean. He pushed it into the corner with his foot, not wanting to have it under his bed.
His legs were still shaky, but he decided a little exercise would do him good. He paced out the size of the room: eleven by thirteen, and while he paced he tried to work out a strategy.
Andrew More had been kidnapped to keep him out of court. Andrew’s case against the gambling hell owners was before the court later this week, so Giles was certain it was they who were behind this. They could make further attempts to bribe the young client, he supposed, but if that failed, they were hoping to insure that without expert counsel, the boy would lose.
What would happen if he told his captors they had got the wrong man: Lord Giles Whitton, not Andrew More, Esq. Would they let him go, just like that? Or would they kill him and drop him somewhere. If he told them who he really was, why should they believe him? Or release him, for that matter, so he could bring the law down upon them? They could kill him and leave his body in some alley where it might not be found for days. And when it was, all would suppose he had been a victim of footpads.
As long as they thought he was Andrew, Giles did not think he himself was in immediate danger. The proprietors would have known their mistake instantly, of course. But he doubted they would be stopping by for an official visit. They would have made sure that there were no obvious connections between them and their hirelings, so they could not be prosecuted for obstructing justice.
But surely Andrew would put two and two together and realize why his friend was missing. He’d have a Runner out looking for Giles, and there was every chance he’d be rescued in a day or two. If not, then he would fight his way out.
There was no real dilemma: if he sat tight for a few days, if he put up with some discomfort, Andrew would win his case and Giles would be free. It was the least he could do for a friend, he thought ironically.
* * * *
Andrew had left Sabrina and Clare to get what sleep they could and promised to return the next morning.
When he was ushered into the breakfast room the next day where Sabrina was finishing a light breakfast and Clare was merely pushing eggs around on her plate, his heart sank, and he realized he had been hoping against hope to see Giles in his usual place at the head of the table, full of apologies for causing them such worry.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said as cheerfully as he could.
Sabrina gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you for coming so early, Andrew.”
Clare merely put her fork down, placed her hand on Andrew’s and asked anxiously: “You haven’t heard anything, have you, Andrew?”
“No. And since you obviously haven’t, either, I think we may assume that Giles has either fallen victim to random foul play or was mistaken for me. Either way, we need to take some action.”
“We obviously need the help of a constable,” said Sabrina. “Giles must be reported missing this morning.”
“I have thought of that, of course,” Andrew replied slowly. “But I am not sure it is the best way to go.”
“Why not, Andrewp” Clare asked quietly.
“Suppose it is as I suspect. If the proprietors hear they have the wrong man ... well, perhaps they might do him harm in order to silence him.”
“But they must know already that Giles is not you,” protested Sabrina.
“Not necessarily. I don’t think they would have kidnapped Giles personally. They would have hired someone. Giles could have told them who he is, of course.”
“Or he is lying unconscious or dead,” whispered Clare.
“Truly, I do not think they would murder a peer of the realm,” Andrew reassured her.
“But you have just argued that they think he is you, Andrew,” Sabrina said tartly. “If Giles may be in danger, I say we need a constable. Unless you are more afraid for the outcome of your case? It will be quite a surprise for these men when you walk into the courtroom after all.”
“Sabrina, you are being unfair,” Clare exclaimed.
“Perhaps she is right,” said Andrew, stung by the disdain in Sabrina’s voice. “I confess, that were it not a good friend, I’d be happy to know they thought I was out of the way. But Giles is my oldest friend, Sabrina. And you of all people should know me better.”
Sabrina sat very still and then in a tightly controlled voice apologized. “My only excuse, Andrew, is that I am frantic with worry. I am sure Giles is still alive. I would know if he were dead, for a part of me would have died. But I am very sure that he is in pain and in danger.”
“I understand, Sabrina,” said Andrew gently. “Actually, I think the best course to follow is to hire a Runner to do some quick investigation. Someone near my chambers may have seen something. And if it were a random act, well, the Runners would have word of a well-dressed victim, I am sure.”
“Andrew is right,” agreed Clare. “Let us get a Runner here right away. And have him work quietly. We don’t want to alarm anyone after all.”
“We are all expected at the Bellinghams’ tonight,” said Sabrina. “If Giles is absent again, it will be all over town by morning that something is wrong.”
“We will say that he was called back to Whitton for an emergency,” said Clare matter-of-factly. “Will you go to Bow Street, Andrew?”
“Immediately.”
* * * *
They were lucky, for there was a Runner available and Andrew outlined the situation for him. That first afternoon’s investigation yielded nothing, but the next morning, the Runner appeared at Andrew’s rooms, where he was, for the most part, keeping himself.
“Have you found anything at all, Ruthven?”
“Yes, sir. There was a young woman coming out of a house across the street. One of the maids. It was raining hard so she couldn’t see their faces, but she saw two men bundling a third into a hansom cab right about the time Lord Whitton would have been leaving your chambers.”
“Damn them to hell,” said Andrew. “Was he alive?”
“The young woman couldn’t tell.”
“He must have been,” said Andrew, trying to reassure himself. “Why else would they take the trouble to bundle him into a hansom?”
Neither man spoke the possible answer to that question: to drop the body elsewhere, like in the river.
“There isn’t very much for me to go on, Mr. More. My guess is that if Lord Whitton is alive, which we certainly hope, he is being held somewhere in one of the rookeries.”
“Well, you are the professional. What do we do now?”
“I could hang around 75 St. James Street and see if either or both of these villains shows up.”
“But we don’t even know what they look like.”
“The maid did say, sir, as they looked a bit like Jack Sprat and his wife. One tall and thin, and the other short and broad.” The Runner hesitated. “The problem is, sir, that these gaming hells, well, they have a nose for a constable or a Runner. I’ll never get inside, Mr. More. It could be a waste of your money to have me hanging around.”
“But if there is even the slightest chance they may contact Oldfield or one of the others, you must be there. Is there anything else we can do?”
“Short of getting someone into number 75 and choking the truth out of one of them, I can’t say there is, sir.”
“I’d be happy to do so, but I’d never make it past the first door, either! And I don’t want them to know they have the wrong man.”
* * * *
The first day in the cellar was not so bad, for Giles slept most of it away due to the aftereffects of the chloroform. He was shaken awake for supper by Mr. Toad, as he had come to think of him. Supper was a bowl of clear broth with a few vegetables floating around in it and one grisly piece of lamb. By that time, Giles’s stomach had settled, and he was hungry enough to find it edible. He was left with a small candle and a few matches, but shortly after supper he blew out the light and went to sleep.
The next morning all traces of his headache were gone, and he was beginning to feel restless. He was pacing the room when his breakfast arrived, this time delivered by his taller jailer.
“Ere ye go, gov. A bowl of porridge and a cup of coffee.”
The porridge was a gelatinous mess, burned on the bottom and with no sweetening, and the coffee had so much sugar in it that a spoon could have been stuck up in it. Giles was almost tempted to pour one upon the other, but resisted.
“How long do you intend to keep me here?" he demanded.
“Why, ye know the answer to that, Mr. More.”
“I suppose I do,” Giles admitted. He thought Andrew had said Oldfield was the name of one of the proprietors. He fervently hoped so. “Oldfield and the rest will never get away with this, you know. Nor will you.”
“Oh, hi should think they will,” the ex-pugilist said, tacitly confirming Giles’s suspicions. “And hif they don’t, we will. There ain’t nuffink to connect them to us.”
Just as the man was about to leave, Giles said: “My chamber pot needs to be emptied.”
“Why, as to that, gov, we ain’t got no downstairs maid,” replied the tall man with a wink and left.
Giles finished his breakfast and sat down on his cot. His captors did not seem to mean him harm, but this was obviously not going to be a pleasant few days.
* * * *
By the beginning of their third day of waiting for news, Sabrina and Clare were exhausted. They had decided to follow their regular schedule in order to prevent any gossip, and the effort of maintaining appearances was wearing them out. They were convinced it was worth the effort, nevertheless, since no one seemed to doubt their story about Giles’s emergency trip to Whitton.
At home, Sabrina was the one in the most obvious distress, and when Andrew visited that morning to keep them up on reports from the Runner, he was amazed at how calm Clare seemed and how distraught Sabrina was.
“Has Mr. Ruthven seen anyone ‘round St. James Street yet,” Clare asked calmly.
“No, but I think it important to keep him there.”
“Can we not do anything else, Andrew,?" demanded Sabrina. “I feel so helpless, sitting here in touch with Giles’s distress and unable to take action.”
“If you wish, I will go to St. James Street myself, Sabrina, and tell them they have got the wrong man. Maybe I should have done that immediately.” He hated watching Sabrina in this state.
“No, Andrew. We still have no evidence they are behind this,” said Clare.
“Oh, Clare,” Sabrina exclaimed, “Of course we know they are.”
“And if they are, what might they do to you and Giles if you confront them? We can’t risk it, at least not yet.” Clare put her arms around Sabrina. “We know through you that Giles is still alive, Brina. We will just have to assume that they will release him as soon as they realize their mistake.” Clare turned to Andrew. “Sabrina has been pacing the drawing room for an hour. A walk in the park is just what she needs, and I do not have the energy. Would you take her, Andrew?”
“Of course. Clare is right, Sabrina. You need to get out.”
Sabrina offered a token protest, and then allowed herself to be convinced.
After they had gone, Clare went up to her bedchamber and stood by the window. The small garden below was gray-green and brown. The crab apple tree in the corner had dropped all its leaves but not its fruit, and was heavy with small golden crabs. On another day, Clare might have appreciated the picture, but despite her calm appearance, she, too, was fearful for Giles’s safety.
She had spoken the truth to her sister-in-law: she did trust Sabrina’s feeling that Giles was not dead. But what did they know of these men after all? Did they really plan to release “Andrew More” after the trial? It would be dangerous for them not to, it was true. Yet they seemed to have covered themselves well. They seemed to have hired two ruffians with no direct connection to the gaming hell or themselves. What might these ruffians do to Giles?
Of course, if they knew they had Lord Whitton, the kidnappers at least might be more interested in collecting a ransom. But Clare knew Giles very well: he would surely have guessed why he had been taken, and would never dream of spoiling Andrew’s case by identifying himself. He was a dear, chivalrous idiot, thought Clare, her eyes filling up with tears.
She would not cry. She had not cried yet, although Sabrina had. But if any harm came to Giles, she did not know how she would survive.
She stood there for a while, lost in thought, and then rang for Martha. When her abigail arrived, Clare gave her a wintry smile. “I need you to accompany me to Bruton Street, Martha.”
“Bruton Street?”
“Yes. We are going to purchase a pistol.”
* * * *
The shop attendant was surprised to see a lady of quality at his counter. It was not the fact that she wanted to purchase a pistol; their gunsmiths had designed several lovely little guns that fit right in a lady’s reticule. But ladies of the ton usually sent their husbands or brothers. It was rarely that one actually stepped into the shop.
“I have a beautiful mother-of-pearl-handled pistol that would fit comfortably in your hand, my lady.”
Clare let him drop it in her palm and closed her hand around it. She shuddered as the movement brought back the evening of Justin’s death.
“It is very small,” she managed to whisper.
“Why, yes, just the right size for a lady’s reticule.”
“How effective is it?”
The clerk looked puzzled. “It will afford you protection, my lady, should anyone try to become too bold, shall we say.”
“Yes, I can see that it might discourage unwanted suitors. But I am looking for something a bit more substantial. Something that would be frightening to a criminal type.”
Martha and the clerk exchanged surprised glances.
“Hmmm.”
“You see, I am going on a journey alone to join my husband, and although I will have outriders, I would be grateful for a pistol I can keep with me in the coach. Against highwaymen, you understand.”
“Of course, of course. Well, in that case, here is something that may fit your needs. It will fit into a muff or a small basket next to you.”
Clare balanced the pistol in her hand. It was smaller than Justin’s pair, but looked lethal enough.
“And bullets?”
“Of course. I can show you how to load it.”
“There is no need for that,” Clare announced. “My ... uh ... brother can give me lessons before I leave. If you could just load it for me now, please.”
“Oh, I do not recommend that you walk around with a loaded gun, my lady,” the clerk said, rather horrified.
“Nevertheless, I wish to purchase it loaded,” Clare said insistently.
“Yes, my lady.”
* * * *
When they were out on the street again, Martha stepped in front of her mistress.
“Now just what is this all about, my lady? Whatever do you need a pistol for? And don’t try to give me that cock-and-bull story of a long journey to meet your husband. We all in the servants’ hall know that something has happened to Lord Whitton.” Martha had both hands on her hips, and Clare laughed naturally for the first time since Giles had disappeared.
“Oh, thank God for you, Martha,” she said.
Martha belatedly became conscious of how she sounded and how she was standing.
“I beg your pardon, my lady. But I am right, nevertheless.”
“I know you only want to protect me, Martha. But I cannot think of another way to do this, truly I cannot. Believe me, I had thought never to even look at a pistol again. I cannot tell you what I am planning to do, but you must trust that I can take care of myself. And, I hope, my husband.”