Page 24 of Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown #2)

Martin and John’s trip back to Pentridge took less time than expected, owing to the horse the good captain loaned them. Martin sent John to tend the animal and arrange for its return, and to get some breakfast. Martin’s only thought was to find Kit.

Knocking the dried mud from his boots on a stone outside, he hurried into the White Horse Inn and up the stairs to their rooms, anxious to finally share with her all that had happened. He had told her he would be late but had not expected to be gone all night. By now she’d be worried.

Their rooms were empty. All his instincts were on alert as he gazed around the sitting room and saw no signs of his wife’s having been there that morning, no breakfast tray, newspaper, or teacup where she often left them. Striding to the bedchamber, he saw the bed still turned down for the night, not mussed from sleep as he would have expected. Dread crept up his spine like icy fingers. Something was terribly wrong.

Could she have left him? She’d been angry with him for refusing to tell her why they were here or what he’d been doing at the rebels’ meetings. It was for her own protection he hadn’t told her. If she knew he was working for the Crown, Kit would have been in the middle of it. She might even have tried to help. He wasn’t taking that chance with his kitten. She had finally given herself to him and told him she loved him.

For that reason, despite the state of the room, he knew she would not leave. Certainly not without talking to him or leaving a note. Not without taking her clothes .

There was no note, so he made a quick search of the bedchamber’s armoire and her trunk. His fear grew, a brooding omnipresence, as he realized not a thing was missing. Not her brush and comb, not even her reticule. Then he saw the sketchbook.

He picked it up and flipped to the last page she had drawn upon. It was his face as seen through the eyes of love, different from the first one of him she had drawn. No, she would not leave him, he felt certain. This image was proof. But had she followed him to Hunt’s barn? He had not seen her there.

He set the sketchbook down. She had been gone since at least last night and had not left on her own, of that he was now quite certain. Hastily descending the stairs, he spotted Nanny Weightman staring out the front window of the inn. Glancing through the glass, he saw nothing of note that she could be watching.

At the sound of his boots on the floor, the older woman turned to face him with an anxious look. “Oh, Mr. Donet. It is terrible, terrible! My sons have been arrested. Have ye heard? Were ye there? Did ye see what happened?”

He joined her in the entry. “I am afraid the rebellion was doomed from the start, Mrs. Weightman. The hussars have arrested many of the men and are searching for the others.”

She sank into a chair. “It was to have been so grand, a new government where the common people had something to say….”

Her words trailed off and she stared into space. Martin was tempted to express his opinion about a mother who would push her sons into joining an uprising against the Crown, but he could see she was hurting so he refrained. Likely her sons would go to prison, or worse. Based on what he knew of Sidmouth’s plans for quashing the stirrings of rebellion, he held little hope they would remain free .

“I am truly sorry your sons and you were involved,” he said. It was the only comfort he could give the woman. The weight of Kit’s disappearance was heavy on his heart as he asked, “Have you seen my wife, Mrs. Weightman? She is not in our rooms, and it does not appear she slept there last night.”

“What?” Nanny Weightman stared at him then shook her head as if coming out of a dream. “Oh. A gentleman called on her yesterday. He told me he was to bring her to ye.” She eyed Martin, a puzzled expression on her face.

“What gentleman, Mrs. Weightman? What was his name?”

“Didn’t give a name. But I could see he was a gentleman by his clothes. There was a man with him, a hired man I’m thinking, and they had a carriage. At least I saw a carriage waiting. I returned to the kitchen before they left.”

Speaking slowly, as if to a child, Martin commanded, “Describe the man for me. The gentleman.”

“He was tall, though not as tall as ye. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and he was well groomed and clean-shaven. His face was most stern, now that I recall, even when he smiled.”

That described half of London. “Was the man from these parts?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him afore. His speech was very proper. Such men as that are rare in this part of Derbyshire.”

“Think carefully, Mrs. Weightman. Was there anything unusual about him, a mark of any kind?”

“Why, yes. There was a scar on his left temple.”

A stern-faced gentleman with a scar on his left temple? Suddenly Martin knew who it was. But how could that be? How could Rutledge have found Kit this far from London? There were only two explanations that made any sense. Either he’d followed them, which Martin doubted. His instincts would have told him if that had been the case. More likely, Rutledge was somehow involved in Sidmouth’s plot in the Midlands and happened to see Kit. Either Sidmouth or Castlereagh might have asked Rutledge to do the dirty work of assuring there would be armed men to shatter the rebellion urged on by Oliver. Martin had always believed someone else in the peerage was involved.

Rutledge has Kit . Tightness seized his chest as he considered the possibility of what the evil earl might already have done to his beautiful bride.

John was just sitting down to breakfast when Martin found him. “John, Kit is missing and I believe her brother-in-law Rutledge has taken her.”

John dropped his bread and nearly choked on his egg. “The same Rutledge yer lady was running from in London?”

“Yes. The same. While you saddle the horses, I’ll check the other inns in Pentridge. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and he’ll have been staying in one of them. Otherwise, we’ll have to go to South Wingfield. The magistrates there will know if a peer has been involved in this business.”

It didn’t take Martin long to end up at the Dog Inn. As he entered, he recognized the obviously distraught woman who approached. He’d seen her before. He was loath to press her for information, but there was no choice. “Madam—?”

“Mrs. Onion, sir,” she said anxiously.

No wonder she was upset. If she was married to John Onion, her husband might not have come home. “Mrs. Onion, I am looking for a man. Lord Rutledge. Might he have been a recent guest of the inn?”

“Aye,” she said. “We don’t get many gentlemen like that. I’d not be forgettin’ him. His lordship stayed with us several weeks, though he was gone much of the time. He left a few days ago. ”

“This is very important, Mrs. Onion. Do you know where he went when he left?”

“I did ask him,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest and drawing her brows together as if pondering. “I recall only that he said he’d taken a house nearby.”

“He didn’t say where?”

“Nay. At least, I cannot recall if he did.”

Martin started to thank her for her time, but another thought occurred. “Would you by chance know from whom he rented the house?”

“Why, there be only one man ye can rent from in these parts, sir. That would be His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire hisself. He’s landlord to us all.”

Of course! Hadn’t Ormond said the duke owned the lands of Pentridge?

Martin returned to the White Horse and hastily explained to John what he’d learned, then sent him to South Wingfield to get a report from the magistrates. Martin hurriedly changed from his muddy clothes, donning those more appropriate for the road north to Chatsworth and an urgent call on Ormond’s friend.

After twelve miles of hard riding, Martin was relieved to finally cross the stone bridge spanning the Derwent River to Chatsworth House. His raw anxiety for the terror Kit might be experiencing was the only thing keeping him in the saddle. His fear was a stark contrast to the calm picture of sheep grazing on the grass-covered grounds in front of the majestic stone estate the young Duke of Devonshire called home.

He could feel some of the tension ease from his body when the duke’s butler told him His Grace was in residence and could be found in one of the gardens undergoing expansion. Martin was not surprised, as Ormond had told him the duke had a reputation as an accomplished horticulturist.

Martin wasted no time in bringing his desperate errand to the fore when he found the duke. “Your Grace, I am Sir Martin Powell, a friend of the Marquess of Ormond. I believe he sent word I might call without notice.”

The duke held out his hand to shake Martin’s. “Ah, yes. I recall the mysterious message. I must get to London soon to visit him and his lady. In the meantime, would you like to see the latest additions to the gardens and then stay for luncheon? We can dine on the terrace.”

“On another day I would gladly accept your invitation, Your Grace, but I’ve come on a desperate errand and must return immediately if I am to prevent disaster. A man to whom your agent leased one of your houses in Derbyshire has abducted my wife, and I believe he is keeping her there to evil purpose. I do not know which house, and that is why I’ve sought you out. When it comes to my lady, the man is obsessed and has previously threatened her with violence.”

The duke’s face twisted in puzzlement. “Obsessed? I daresay. Who is this man?”

“The Earl of Rutledge.”

“Rutledge…?” The duke drew his brows together as he considered the name. “I cannot recall the man’s face. But I do know the name. Seems I recall he has a bad reputation.” He looked up and, as if catching the energy rolling off of Martin, gave him a quick glance and began to stride back toward the estate indicating Martin should follow.

“Let us return to my study where I keep the estate books. My agent can tell us what property he rented to the earl and when. ”

The duke spoke briefly with his agent, who handed him a ledger. He turned to Martin and said, “The house Rutledge leased is one of several I reserve for visiting members of the nobility and gentry.” He pulled a map from a file and spread it on his desk. “It’s near the village of Cromford, south of Chatsworth and about eight miles north of Pentridge. It was vacant only a short time before Rutledge arranged with my agent to take it.”

“I thank you, Your Grace. I must leave immediately.”

“Seeing how the man may have sequestered your wife in one of my properties, it seems only fitting I should accompany you, Sir Martin.” The duke looked again at the map. “I know the house well, and since Prinny is a good friend and you’re on his business, it is the least I can do.”

“Are you certain, Your Grace? The task will be dangerous. He has stooped to violence more than once.” In fact, he had already attempted rape, but Martin wouldn’t mention that. Kit would be thought less of in the eyes of some if others knew she’d been subject to Rutledge’s barbarity. It was one reason he’d been glad she didn’t have to face a trial for the man’s death. Today he would have to risk that the duke could be trusted.

“I’ll not let you go alone,” said the duke. “Oh, and do call me Hart. I prefer it. Ormond knows the name well and uses it most freely.” The duke was already striding out the door and toward the stables when he shouted over his shoulder, “We can take one of my footmen with us. I’ve had the usual training with pistols myself, of course.”

Martin caught up and, on the way to the stables, explained the uprising that had delayed his learning of his wife’s abduction, so he was half-expecting the duke’s next statement.

“The people of Pentridge are my responsibility, and if there have been crimes against the Crown I must know which of my tenants has been involved. These are difficult times for the people of the Midlands but I cannot tolerate those who would rise in revolution.”

“I doubt if they would have done so without prodding,” Martin said as they reached their goal. “They were urged on by Sidmouth’s spy, and his protégé Brandreth.”

The two men mounted horses made ready for them. A footman joined them and, as the duke settled himself in his saddle, he asked, “Sidmouth’s spy?”

“With your permission, Your—Hart, I’ll explain as we ride.” Martin wanted to tarry not a moment longer.

“You will need to speak up, then, as I’m not likely to hear all you say with the pounding of the horses’ hooves. My hearing sometimes fails me!”

The travel south was fast and hard. Martin and the duke rode abreast, followed by the duke’s footman, a burly servant who carried himself like a former soldier. The duke had graciously granted Martin a fresh mount, one of his own grand Thoroughbreds. By now, only his fear for Kit kept Martin awake, as every muscle in his exhausted body protested the grueling pace.

He had a foreboding that he might be too late and the dread of it drove him onward. Pictures of his smiling auburn-haired kitten flashed into his mind. When had she become all to him? His chest ached with the thought that he could lose her. He knew well that in one tragic moment she could be gone. If Rutledge had been involved in Sidmouth’s business in Derbyshire, with the rebellion quashed, he might be leaving and taking Kit with him. She would fight as she had once before. What would that fight lead to this time? The thought tore at Martin. Losing her would destroy his world, and he desperately wanted that world.

As they covered the miles, Martin had to shout at times for the duke to hear him over the pounding of the horses’ hooves, just as the man warned. He responded to questions pertaining to all that had happened. The duke grew angry when Martin told him of Oliver the spy, retained by the government to stir unrest in the duke’s own lands.

“It is not just the harsh winters, crop losses and machines that have replaced workers,” Martin explained, “they are unhappy at having no direct say in government.” Having listened to all the speeches and complaints, he had a good feeling for what had led the people to join the ill-conceived rebellion.

“I myself favor the vote for the populace,” the duke offered, his voice rising to be heard over the galloping horses, “but it cannot come about this way.”

“They are poor and ill educated. When the spy Oliver told them all of England was ready to rise and demand change, they believed him.”

The duke seemed to consider this as he shouted back, “Perhaps if the people had been better educated they might have known a ridiculous claim when it was presented. They might have come to me. I shall look into it.”

Martin vaguely nodded in agreement, his thoughts having long ago left the matter of interest to the duke. All his energy was focused on reclaiming the object of his heart’s desire. He must reach her before Rutledge could harm her.

“But there must be a Frenchman among the rebels arrested!” Rutledge demanded of the cowering magistrate behind the desk. He had to shout to be heard over the din of the waiting room behind him where prisoners were being questioned.

The rotund magistrate peered up at him, speech faltering. “But m-m’lord—”

“Look again, you idiot! You must have missed a name. He’s one of them! ”

The room behind them suddenly stilled. Feeling eyes boring into his back, Rutledge grew impatient. He was weary of the ineptitude of the local populace.

The magistrate returned his attention to the paper he held in trembling hands, but Rutledge cared not a whit if he disturbed this incompetent man’s day; these country bumpkins were getting on his nerves. He pounded his fist on the desk to warn the magistrate he was serious. “Look again!”

“I’m s-sorry m’lord,” the man stammered, “but the list the hussar captain gave me of the men he arrested this morning contains no Donet, nor any French name at all.”

“I waited all night and all morning for this paltry result? Surely your men can do better.”

“There are still dragoons in the field rounding up rebels, m’lord. I think they may find him today,” the magistrate offered, sounding hopeful.

Rutledge doubted the man thought of anything save his next meal. Grabbing the list, he studied the column of names. “‘Brassington, Hill, Hunt, Ludlam, Moore, Onion, Swaine, Turner, Weightman,’” he recited under his breath as he ran his finger down the list. Raising his head from the paper to peer down at the magistrate he repeated, “No Donet?”

“No, m’lord.”

The noise of the waiting room behind him resumed its former hum as the soldiers went about the business of dealing with the aftermath of the rebellion that had ended only a few hours before. Rutledge glanced again at the list he held. A name at the bottom of the page, set apart from the others, drew his interest: Sir Martin Powell, Crown’s Agent.

“Who is this?” he asked, wrinkling his brow in consternation and shoving the paper in front of the magistrate’s nose, finger pointing to the name. “I am not aware of any representative of the Prince’s government here save me.”

“Apparently he was dispatched by the Prince Regent himself, m’lord. Captain Philips assured me he is a most agreeable fellow. Stayed with the rebels all night trying to talk the local men out of following that rascal Brandreth. It seems he turned many back.”

“Odd that Castlereagh never mentioned him,” Rutledge murmured to himself. “Ahem… well,” he spoke up, returning to his original subject that was of more interest. “Please inform me should the Frenchman Donet be apprehended. You can reach me through my man who will check with you daily while I am in Derbyshire.”

“The prisoners will be taken to the Derby gaol once we’re through with them,” the magistrate called to his departing back.

Still fuming as his boot heels hit the steps leading down from the office, Rutledge pondered his next move. Katherine was now his. He could take his time marrying the girl, but he first wanted the Frenchman arrested. No, he wanted him dead. A hanging would take too long.

Ah, yes. Much too long.

Katherine . Pleased he had her hidden away good and proper, he decided the Frenchman could wait. Katherine, however, could not.