Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The escape…

N early half an hour later, Marina was seated in a darkened corner of a pub—a place she had never anticipated that she would be. She was certainly in the company of someone she had not expected. Beside her, Jacob Danvers drummed his fingers nervously on the scarred tabletop. The tempo was erratic and nerve-wracking to the point that she reached out and slapped her hand atop his. “Pull yourself together,” she instructed on a hiss.

“I’m fairly certain he won’t show,” the man admitted.

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it. How will we recognize this man when he arrives?”

“He wears a particularly bold top hat, accented with a dyed purple feather.”

Marina blinked. “You are making that up. This entire thing is a farce, isn’t it? Stanford Williams is going to walk through that door any minute. I’ve been lured to my untimely demise!”

“No, I am not making it up. I encountered two gentlemen near Caleb’s home—Ollie and Harry, who aided in Caleb’s abduction—and they provided those pertinent details and also what tavern the man frequented.”

It was too bizarre to be made up, she reasoned. Even as that thought was crossing her mind, the door to the pub opened and an aging gentleman in a frayed topcoat and elaborate hat entered the establishment. The garishness of his feather adornment was such that even the dim light could not fully camouflage it. “Oh, and there he is.”

“Wait here,” Jacob told her.

Marina had no intention of getting up. Her boys’ togs were far more convincing while she was seated in a darkened corner than parading about in breeches that fit in what could only be called an obscene manner. Still, she watched the exchange between the two men with rapt attention. When the driver’s gaze landed on her, she gave a nod. A moment later, the pair of them moved toward their private corner.

“Good evening… sir,” the driver said with an arched eyebrow, clearly having seen through or been informed of her disguise.

“And to you. I think you have some information we require… about a friend of ours whom you may have transported earlier today?” she asked.

“I might at that. But I like to be compensated for my time,” he answered.

“And what sort of compensation do you require?”

“Five pound,” he said.

“Two,” she countered. Marina wasn’t so foolish as to think just granting such an unreasonable sum without quibbling would not render her a target for heaven knew what.

He cocked his head to the side and eyed her with grudging respect. “Two pound… and you buy the ale.”

“Agreed,” Marina said, sliding the appropriate number of pound notes across the table to him, keeping them carefully concealed beneath her fingers. “Now, where did you take him?”

“Number eight on Greenwood Street,” the driver said. “Fetch and carry the lady from there quite a bit… and more than a few gentlemen. Never had to carry one there unconscious though. That were new to be sure.”

Marina slid a few coins across the table then to accompany the notes. “Then enjoy your ale until your heart and belly are content. Thank you, sir.”

Almost instantly, she and Jacob departed, heading back for the hansom cab that was waiting for them. Giving the driver the address, Marina prayed that whatever Lady Crowden might have had in store for Caleb, that they would arrive in time to put a stop to it. The alternative was unthinkable.

“You actually care for him, don’t you?”

She glanced up to see Mr. Danvers watching her curiously. “It would be very difficult not to care for Caleb. He’s kind, generous, intelligent, charming—and entirely himself. No matter who is around him or what setting he might find himself in, he is true to himself in a way that few people ever are.”

“I think perhaps you share that trait,” Jacob commented. “And perhaps that might be why I took an instant dislike to you, Miss Ashton. It is very difficult to look at someone who lacks the flaw you most despise in yourself.”

*

The clock tower struck eleven. Caleb still sat with the broken crockery concealed in his hand, waiting for an opportunity to escape. When at long last the door to the cellar opened, he remained where he was, slumped over, appearing either unconscious or dead.

“Is he dead?”

The voice belonged to Lady Crowden.

“I don’t know, m’lady.”

“Well check him, Watson!” she snapped. “He might simply be feigning his current state to lure me in there and do heaven knows what. There wasn’t that much laudanum in his food. It should have only made him agreeable. Not unconscious.”

There was some grumbling, and then the thump of heavy footfalls approaching. He waited until the man, Watson, was crouching over him, his weight on the balls of his feet, biding his time. When the man reached out to shake him, Caleb made his move. Taking the piece of broken pottery, he jammed it upward into the soft flesh beneath the man’s chin, pushing him backward as he did so. He followed that up by lifting the heavy pewter tray the maid had left behind and slammed it against the man’s head with as much force as he could muster.

Hands now sticky with blood, Caleb grabbed the pistol the man had tucked into his belt before jumping to his feet. He raced toward the door, leaving the man writhing in pain behind him. Lady Crowden had been too stunned to react initially, but as he neared the door, she tried to slam it closed—apparently having no concern at all for her loyal retainer. With one last surge of speed, he slammed his shoulder into the heavy wooden door, halting her from closing it entirely. When he shoved it open, she stumbled backward.

“Did you really think I would simply accept whatever fate you had planned for me?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, simply glared back at him in silence as he locked the cellar door behind him. Watson would simply have to wait until someone else came to free him. He wasn’t about to leave Lady Crowden behind to do so.

“Up the stairs,” he ordered her.

“Or what? You will shoot me?”

“If needs must,” he replied. “I’ll take no pleasure in it, but I will. Because I can’t leave you here to continue meddling in my life to soothe your wounded vanity. You, madam, have made yourself a significant liability.”

She looked at the gun in his hand. “What do you mean to do with me then?”

“I mean, Lady Crowden, to return you to your husband and share the whole sordid tale with him, come what may,” Caleb stated. “I’d have been content enough to live and let live—to never mention our unfortunate meeting or misunderstanding again, but you’ve left me without options as—unchecked—you will not cease to torment us.”

Her expression hardened into one of cold, deadly fury. “You are so smug. So self-righteous in your judgment and disapproval! I’ve been married to that impotent wretch for over two decades and had I not sought passion outside my marriage bed, my life would have been entirely devoid of it.”

“That is between you and your husband, madam,” he replied. “If you wanted passion then perhaps you should have married for love rather than wealth and position, as you once cautioned me to do.”

She scoffed, the sound of disdain followed up with a bitter laugh. “And how long does love last if one is impoverished? No, thank you, my lord. If given the option to choose again, I would still take the security of an old and wealthy husband while enjoying the pleasure of a young, virile lover.”

Caleb realized, not for the first time, that it was pointless to try and speak to her. The woman had such a sense of entitlement and such a puffed-up sense of her own importance and worth that she would never be reasonable. While he knew that in theory, seeing it an actual practice was always astounding. “That is a conversation that should be strictly between you and your husband, madam. Once I deliver you to him, I will be well out of it and glad of the fact… Now, please be so good as to precede me up the stairs. I won’t make the mistake of turning my back to you again.”

With great fanfare, her skirts swishing like the tail of an angry cat, she did just that. And through all of it, Caleb was wary. It had been too easy, and she was not to be trusted.