Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 7 - Diane Gaston, Ann Elizabeth Cree - Страница 22

Sloane’s horse was waiting for him when he tore back into the house. Elliot stood in the hall and the butler hovered in a doorway.

It was Elliot who handed him his hat and gloves. The look of compassion on the young man’s face nearly jolted him out of the towering rage that consumed him.

Morgana.

He grabbed his hat and gloves and thundered out the door, snatching the reins of his horse from the groom, and mounting in one easy motion. He fleetingly considered detouring into Hyde Park to ride off the storm inside him, but even a hell-for-leather gallop down Rotten Row would not suffice. He must simply wrest control back, push down the pain that kept shooting up through the anger.

Morgana.

He could not think straight. He felt as if she’d pushed him off a very high cliff. Hitting the ground, he had met with pain too intense to bear. She had refused him. Said she’d toyed with him. Accused him of being no gentleman.

His head told him not to believe a word of it. Morgana, a courtesan? Nonsense.

Did she concoct that story as an excuse to refuse his offer of marriage? She had wanted their lovemaking as much as he, but only when he’d mentioned marriage did she repeat her outrageous story. Sloane’s insides felt as if a dozen sabres had slashed him to ribbons and his head whirled with the suspicion that she wanted him to be the rake, not the gentleman. She craved the excitement, not the man. Sloane had gone through plenty of women like that, who’d made love to him so they could say they’d been seduced by the dark and dangerous Cyprian Sloane.

Sloane thought Morgana different. He could not have so thoroughly misjudged her when his skill at judging character had always been razor-sharp.

He turned a corner and, nearly colliding with a slow-moving coal wagon, reined in his steed and tried to pull himself together.

He had one thing clear is his head. If she carried his child, she would marry him, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it. No child of his would ever be burdened by questions of paternity.

Sloane kept his horse apace with the curricles, carriages and wagons in the streets while he tried to push Morgana out of his mind. The immediate task was to confront his father. Ironic that the job at hand was defending the good name of the woman who merely craved his bad one.

He finally turned down the Mayfair street where his father resided, not precisely calm but at least resolved. Sloane pulled his horse to a halt in front of his father’s townhouse. Calling for a footman to see to the horse, he waited in the hall while another servant fetched David. His nephew did not keep him waiting and quickly drew him aside.

‘I am glad you are here.’ David wrung his hands. ‘They have not yet sent the message to the papers. There is still time to change their minds, though I am not sure what you can do to convince them.’

Sloane frowned. ‘Do you know when the Earl and your father conceived this plan?’

‘I do not know when the idea first occurred to them.’ David gave him an earnest glance. ‘I think it was right after Lady Cowdlin’s dinner party—’

Where Rawley had seen them both, Sloane thought.

‘—but they discussed it last night after our evening meal. I looked for you at the musicale, but you were not there. So I sent the message first thing this morning.’

Last night? Before the masquerade. No spy saw Morgana enter his house. Sloane expelled a relieved breath.

David’s expression suddenly changed into one of ill-disguised pain. ‘My father heard your offer for Lady Hannah’s hand would be imminent. Grandfather had words with Lord Cowdlin yesterday. You must know the Cowdlin family and our own have been close for many years—years you were absent. Grandfather does not wish you to marry into the family—’

A muscle contracted in Sloane’s cheek. Sloane had been ready to ruin Hannah’s life, just as his father now aspired to ruin Morgana’s. The similarity between himself and the Earl of Dorton sickened him.

David paced back and forth. ‘Grandfather ought not stand in the way of your happiness. I… I cannot fathom it.’

Sloane gazed at his nephew, who suddenly looked as young as the much-beloved toddler he’d envied so many years ago. He had nearly forgotten David and Hannah’s tragic love affair.

‘David, I am not making Lady Hannah an offer. I will not marry her.’

Instead of looking joyous, David’s face flashed with panic. ‘You cannot mean.’ His face turned white. ‘But what will happen to her? I confess, I could at least rest easy knowing she would be under your protection. Who will Cowdlin try to sell her to next?’

Sloane put a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder to still these dramatics. ‘To you, nephew.’

David’s mouth dropped open.

Sloane almost smiled. ‘But you and I must play a careful game, if we are to win this hand. We have little time to plan…’

A few minutes later Sloane and David were admitted to his father’s library, where both the Earl and Rawley gloated.

‘What brings you to this house, Cyprian?’ the Earl asked with a smirk.

Sloane advanced upon him as if a man possessed. ‘I will brook no interference from you in my plans, sir. You have no control over me or who I marry.’

The Earl tossed Rawley, the real son, a smug expression. ‘You, Cyprian, are nothing to me; therefore, you have no say in what I do.’

The barb, so predictable, did not even sting. Sloane shot back at him. ‘Come now. You have some lunatic plan to send lies to the newspapers, to spread gossip about me throughout the ton. I will stop you. I will not be deterred from marrying Lady Hannah. You have met your match in me, sir. I have money enough to destroy you, and the skill to succeed. Think what a public suit for defamation would cost you, both in reputation and in fortune.’

‘But I would ruin you first,’ cried his father, rising to his feet. ‘A clandestine affair will do the trick, I think. Rawley’s brilliant idea! Cowdlin would refuse you his daughter in a minute, if he thought you were rooting with his wife’s niece.’

Sloane’s fingers curled into fists at this coarse reference to Morgana.

David interceded. ‘Grandfather, you must think of Miss Hart. This would ruin her, too. And I think it unlikely that Cowdlin can refuse Uncle Cyprian, no matter what gossip prevails. He needs the money. He needs a rich husband for his daughter.’

The Earl swung around to his grandson. ‘Are you speaking to me, boy? Do you dare?’ He pointed his cane at David. ‘You brought this—this person here? You informed him of my plans? You betray your own flesh and blood. Do not think I will forget it.’

Rawley jumped to his feet. ‘Father, I beg you. David is my son—’

But David, Sloane noticed with pride, did not waver. He remained steadfast in the face of his grandfather’s anger. He addressed his grandfather in a low, calm tone. ‘Did you expect me to stand by and watch a lady’s reputation ruined? Honour prevents me from allowing you to use her so shabbily. It is very poorly done, Grandfather. You make me ashamed.’

‘Oh, bravo, nephew.’ Sloane made his voice drip with sarcasm, but in his heart he meant every word. ‘Gentlemanly sentiments, I am sure. Too bad you have no fortune or you might wed the Lady Hannah yourself. What chivalry that would be.’

David, still making Sloane proud, twisted around to him in admirable fury. ‘I would marry her, too, sir, if I could save her from being sold to you. Do not mistake me, I sent for you only to preserve Miss Hart’s reputation, to convince my father and grandfather that there is no affair between you and the lady.’

‘Ha!’ Sloane laughed. ‘The only sin she is guilty of is living in the house next to mine, but that is none of my concern. Oh, I could have her if I wanted, I am sure. Remember, I have enough wealth to get whatever I want.’ He turned back to his father. ‘What I most desire is to rub your nose in my success, dear Father. At every ton event, I will be there. When you stand in the House of Lords, I will be in the Commons. When you meet your cronies at White’s, I will be in the midst of them. You cannot ignore me, sir. I intend to be wherever you turn.’

The Earl’s face flushed with rage. The hand clutching the knob of his cane turned white and the man trembled all over.

‘Father?’ Rawley said worriedly.

David stood his ground bravely, still looking defiantly righteous.

Sloane took it all in and suddenly realised how little what his father did mattered to him.

At the gaming table, Sloane often threw in his cards when there was no other way to come out ahead. Now he mentally tossed in his cards. The wager he made with himself, to gain back respectability and throw it in his father’s face, no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but Morgana.

He dealt himself a new hand, one he would win at all costs. He would see Morgana safe—safe as his wife.

He turned his gaze on David, so young and valiant. David also wagered his future on a chance to win the woman he loved.

In a moment they both would win.

The Earl slowly eased his grip on his cane. His complexion returned to its normal sallow colour. A malevolent grin creased his wrinkled cheeks. He used his cane to point to Sloane.

‘You will not win this one, Cyprian. No respectable wife for you.’ He leaned on his stick again and turned to his grandson. ‘I will release your fortune, boy. I can do with it as I choose. Do you want your money?’

David inclined his head, as if reluctant to admit it.

The Earl grinned. ‘You may have it on one condition. Marry the Cowdlin chit and your fortune is yours.’

David levelled his grandfather a steely look. ‘No, sir. Another condition must prevail. Agree not to defame Miss Hart’s name, and I will do as you request.’

Well done, David. Sloane applauded inside.

The Earl gave a trifling wave of the hand. ‘As you wish. There is no need as long as Cyprian is cut out.’

Rawley finally caught up. ‘You’ll give David his fortune?’ He broke into a happy grin. ‘I cannot complain of that.’

Sloane could barely keep from laughing, but, instead, he pretended to protest. ‘See here, you cannot do this,’

His father bared his teeth. ‘I can and I will!’

Sloane swore at his father and made other protests and threats just to convince his father he’d been severely injured. For his exit, he picked up a decanter of brandy from one of the tables and sent it crashing into the cold fireplace, then he stalked out of the room.

When he reached the outside and was about to remount his horse, David caught up to him.

‘How can I thank you, Uncle?’ The young man extended his hand.

Fearing his father or brother might be watching from a window, Sloane did not accept the handshake. ‘It is I who must thank you, David. You prevented the dishonour of a lady I admire very much. I am proud to know you.’

‘And I you, sir,’ David said.

They stared at each other a long time before Sloane swung himself into the saddle and rode away.

Sloane felt as if he’d been navigating a ship in stormy seas. Rising high on the wave, only to plummet, only to rise again. He felt buoyant now, as if nothing could ever sink him again.

He planned to grab Morgana and drag her to some room with him—his bedchamber, preferably—and keep her there until he finally convinced her to marry him. Re-experiencing his father’s hatred gave an ironic contrast to his feelings towards Morgana. He loved her.

He returned his horse directly to the stables and crossed the mews into his garden, now a fairly respectable showcase of flowers and plants, thanks to Elliot and Lucy. But when he entered Morgana’s garden, flowerbeds were trampled and torn up. Her back door was wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he edged his way to the door.

As stealthily as a cat, Sloane slipped into Morgana’s house. He heard a woman crying in the library. He hurried to the doorway and peered through the crack of the door.

Elliot sat on a chair, Morgana’s butler holding a cloth against his head. Blood stained his face.

Sloane nearly leapt into the room. ‘Good God. What happened?’

On the sofa, Morgana’s maid shrieked. Miss Moore held the weeping girl in her arms. Other servants were scattered around the room.

Cripps looked up. ‘We have been attacked, sir.’

Elliot waved the butler away and held the cloth against his own head. ‘Ruffians broke into the house and abducted the women. I—I tried to stop them, but there were too many—’ He took a ragged breath.

Sloane advanced on him. ‘Who was taken?’ No one answered him at first. ‘Who was taken?’he demanded, his voice rising.

Cripps responded. ‘Miss Hart, and Misses Jenkins, O’Keefe and Green.’

‘Lucy,’ her sister cried. ‘Lucy and Rose and Katy and Miss Hart.’

Morgana. ‘Who took them?’ Good God, he must find her. ‘Who was it?’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Some ruffians. No one I know.’

Sloane ran a ragged hand through his hair. He swung around to the footmen. ‘Where the devil were you when this happened? Are you not supposed to protect them?’

One of the footmen met his challenge. ‘We were doin’ the work of the house, sir. None of us were around the drawing room. I chased after them, but they were too far ahead. I saw the carriage, but I could not catch up to it.’

Sloane said, ‘Would you recognise the vehicle?’

‘The type at least, sir. It were a landaulet I saw, sir. Shabby it was. Might have been a second one as well. I cannot say.’

‘Would you recognise the one you saw?’ Sloane asked.

The footman nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed I would, sir.’

‘Excellent,’ Sloane said. ‘I need you to change out of your livery into clothes that will not get you noticed. We are going to search for that landaulet.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The man hurried out.

Putting his hands on his hips, Sloane looked at the others in the room. ‘Who else knows anything?’

Miss Moore released the maid. ‘I was in the room. Five men rushed in and just grabbed them. They were looking for four girls. “Four, she said”, I heard one of them say.’

‘She?’ Sloane repeated.

‘Yes, I am sure he said “she”.’ Miss Moore gave a vague shake of her head. ‘I wonder if it was Mary they wanted. Not Morgana.’

‘Where is Mary?’ Sloane looked around the room.

‘Mary eloped with Mr Duprey,’ Miss Moore explained, a hint of a smile flashing across her worried face.

With Duprey? Sloane thought. Bravo for her, but who would have guessed Robert Duprey capable of such a thing?

Sloane pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘It must be the glove maker.’

‘Oh, yes, new gloves. Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ said Morgana’s grandmother, rocking in her chair and smiling.

Sloane frowned. ‘We must plan carefully.’

It was a cellar room, a room to store Mrs Rice’s wine—cool, dark, and with walls so thick no one above them could hear a thing. It also had a door with a very big lock on the outside. They had been imprisoned there for hours.

Rose rubbed her arms against the chill. ‘Where are Lucy and Katy, do you suppose?’

Morgana paced the small area back and forth. ‘In the upper rooms, I imagine. I suspect Mrs Rice will be putting them to work tonight. If she put enough fear into both of them, that is.’

Rose wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It sounded like they got a beating.’

Before they’d been locked in the cellar, they’d heard Lucy’s cries and Katy’s string of obscenities. Morgana’s stomach clenched with the memory and with hunger. She and Rose had not been given any food since being dragged through a nearly hidden door underneath the glove shop.

‘Why did they not make us do the work, too?’ asked Rose. ‘I do not understand it.’

‘I convinced them you are a virgin.’ Morgana kept pacing. ‘They knew better of Lucy and Katy.’

Rose looked over at her. ‘But why should that matter? They don’t want me to stay a virgin, not if I am to be made to do what Lucy and Katy are going to do.’

‘There are gentlemen who would pay much to bed a virgin, especially one as pretty as you. I suspect Mrs Rice will be taking bids for you.’

‘Bids?’ Rose shivered. ‘It is too awful.’

Morgana ignored the pain from the bruises on her legs and arms. She touched her cheek. One of the men had hit her hard before Mrs Rice yelled at him for spoiling the merchandise. The spot still stung when she touched it. The pain would not prevent her from putting up another fight. She would not quietly do Mrs Rice’s bidding.

‘I am, you know,’ Rose said.

‘You are what?’ Morgana continued pacing.

‘A virgin.’

She stopped. ‘You are?’ Morgana had always thought Rose came to the courtesan school already ruined, like the others.

Rose nodded.

Morgana was mystified. ‘But why desire to be a courtesan unless you…?’

‘I didn’t,’ Rose said. ‘I never desired to be one of those types of ladies.’

Morgana gaped at her. ‘Why did you come to me, then?’

Rose gave a wan smile. ‘I overheard Katy and Mary talking in the street. I knew they were talking about lessons from a lady, as you are a lady, to be sure. So I thought you would teach me some pretty behaviour, like ladies have, and that is what you have done.’

Morgana still stared. ‘But pretty behaviour for what? Why did you want to learn such things?’

‘Some of the things I did not wish t’learn.’ Rose shook her head. Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘More than anything, I want to be a songstress. The kind who has posters all over town to advertise her singing. The kind Vauxhall or Covent Garden or some such place will pay a lot of money and the newspapers will write pretty things about.’

‘A songstress?’

A tear trickled down her flawlessly perfect cheek. ‘I—I would have had employment, too. I met Mr Hook at Vauxhall and again at the masquerade. He wanted to hire me.’

Morgana was too taken aback to address the girl’s tears. ‘Who is Mr Hook?’

Rose gave a loud sniffle. ‘He is the composer of songs and organist at Vauxhall. Surely everyone knows of Mr Hook.’

Morgana almost smiled. Everyone who had a musician for a father and an aspiration to sing, perhaps. ‘Was he the balding man who attended you at the masquerade?’

Rose nodded again and swiped at her eyes with her fingers.

‘You did not wish to become a courtesan,’ Morgana said it again.

‘No.’ She looked at Morgana with her huge, glistening green eyes. ‘Miss Hart, what will happen to me now?’

Nothing, Morgana thought. ‘We must escape this place.’

‘I—I hoped Mr Sloane or Mr Elliot would come save us,’ Rose said with a shuddering breath.

Sloane. Would he even discover they were taken until it was too late—too late for Rose, and until Lucy and Katy were forced to degrade themselves? And Mr Elliot had been hit so hard. Was he even alive? Sloane would come for them when he could, she believed with all her heart. He would charge in like a one-man avenging army and wipe out all these horrible people, but Morgana could not wait for him. They needed to escape now.

Morgana began pacing again.

She grabbed one of the wine bottles and sat next to Rose on the barrel that lay on its side. ‘I have an idea…’

A few minutes later the sound of crashing glass reached the ears of the man sitting outside the locked door, and screams of ‘Oh, help! Help! Stop her. You must stop her!’

When the locked door opened, Rose was huddled in the corner surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine. She scraped at her wrist with a jagged piece and blood covered her arms.

‘You must stop her!’ Morgana begged the man. ‘Hurry.’

He rushed over to the beautiful girl, squatting down to both reach her and try to pull her up. Morgana followed him. Rose struggled and moaned that she would rather be dead. Such a lovely creature in so much distress would be difficult for any man to resist.

He was no different. While he was distracted by Rose, Morgana came up behind him and hit him hard on the head with one of the bottles of wine.

He fumbled, but did not fall. Instead, he came at her. She swung the bottle as hard as she could and hit him in the stomach, as Sloane had done to the man in the park so long ago. This man doubled over and staggered backwards.

‘I have the key,’ shouted Rose, holding it up in the air.

Morgana grabbed her and pulled her towards the door. She slammed the door shut and leaned on it while Rose turned the key in the lock.

A roar of outrage came from the inside of their cellar prison. Their captor banged loudly on the door, but would not be heard any better than they had been.

‘Are you all right, Morgana?’ Rose asked. She caught Morgana’s hand and looked at the cut Morgana had made to smear blood on Rose’s arms.

Morgana’s hand throbbed, but she said, ‘It is nothing. We must hurry.’

They made their way down the cellar corridor until they came to a staircase. Creeping up each step as softly as they could, they heard the sounds of voices above them.

‘Let us try the other way.’

Morgana led Rose past the wine cellar door where their captor still pounded and swore at the top of his lungs. At the other end they discovered the wooden door leading to the outside. It had a heavy metal bolt. Morgana’s cut hand shot with pain as she forced the bolt sideways and pushed on the door.

They were met by a crisp breeze and freedom. It was night, but the new gas lamps on nearby St James’s Street gave a faint illumination. Rose turned to her.

‘Go,’ Morgana said. ‘Return home. Find Sloane. Tell him to come.’

‘What about you?’ Rose asked.

‘I must go after Lucy and Katy. Please, Rose. Hurry. Bring Sloane.’

Rose gave her a quick hug and, after a look to see if anyone was watching, slipped out of the door into the night.

Morgana hurried back through the cellar to the stairway they’d found before. She heard voices, but she crept up the stairs and into a dark room. A sliver of light shone from under its door. Morgana groped around the room, making her way to the door. She felt something soft on a shelf against the wall.

Gloves.

She picked one up and put it on the hand she had cut with the piece of glass. It helped relieve the sting and the soft kid kept her hand supple. Shrugging, Morgana put on the glove’s mate.

Morgana inched her way to the door. She hoped to find a way to the upper floors where she supposed Lucy and Katy were kept. She opened the door a crack and peered through it. It led to a hallway at the end of which was the stairway to the upper floors. To the left was another room separated by a curtain. Morgana took a deep breath and started to cross towards the stairs.

She heard Mrs Rice’s voice coming from behind the curtain.

‘I do not care how you do it. Dispose of her. She is trouble. Have her put on a ship or something—that would serve her right—or toss her in the Thames. It is of no consequence to me as long as I am rid of her.’