Stamina and speed were all that mattered now.
Bulging saddlebags were tied behind him. They held a small fortune—every bit of gold he could find in the house, as well as his mother’s jewelry. He’d stuck a pistol in each coat pocket before he’d ridden out of London, though it was mainly his speed that deterred robbers.
The horse’s gait jarred him with each leap of his great legs, but Reynaud no longer cared. His arms and legs and arse ached, his hands had gone numb, his fingers were stiff with cold, and still he urged the beast on. He rode through black night, hell-for-leather, not caring of potential holes or unseen barriers in the road, endangering both the horse’s neck and his own.
quo;d seen the knowledge in Hartley’s eyes when he’d mentioned Thomas. Poor, poor Thomas. His brother had never been cut out for greatness. Why should Thomas have the title when it would serve him so much better? But now that old decision had come back to haunt him. Vale, Blanchard, Hartley, and Munroe. All in London at once, all putting their heads together. Hasselthorpe could read the writing on the wall. It was only a matter of time before they had him arrested.
All because St. Aubyn had returned home. He glared across the carriage at his enemy’s wife. Beatrice St. Aubyn, Countess of Blanchard now, née Corning. Little Beatrice Corning sat across from him bound and gagged. Her eyes were closed over the cloth tied across her mouth. Perhaps she slept, but he doubted it.
He’d never really paid much attention to her before, besides noting that she made a good hostess for her uncle’s political parties. She was pleasant enough to look at, he supposed, but she was no immortal beauty. Hardly the type a man might choose to die for.
He grunted and glanced out the window. The night was black with barely any moonlight, and he couldn’t make out where they might be. He let the curtain fall. However, he knew by the number of hours they’d traveled that they must be nearing his estate in Hampshire. He’d told Blanchard that he’d wait until dawn and he would; the boat he’d arranged to pick him up at Portsmouth wouldn’t come until eight. He could wait until dawn and no longer before fleeing to the prearranged rendezvous spot. First to France and then perhaps Prussia or even the East Indies. A man could change his name and start a new life in the more remote corners of the world. And with enough capital, he might even make his fortune again.
If he had enough capital. Damnably stupid—he could see that now—tying up most of his monies in investments. Oh, they were good investments, solid investments that would yield a healthy return, but that wasn’t much good to him at the moment, was it? He had a little cash, and he’d taken what jewelry Adriana had in the town house, but they weren’t all that much.
Not enough to start again as he meant to.
He eyed the girl across from him, measuring her worth. She was his last gamble, his last chance to take with him a small fortune. Of course he’d never risk his life, his fortune, for any woman, let alone this pale child, but that really wasn’t the gamble was it?
The real question was whether Blanchard had enough regard for his bride to ransom her for a small fortune… and lose his life as well.
IT WAS WELL after midnight by the time Reynaud returned home to Blanchard House. The celebration with Vale, Munroe, and Hartley had gone on for hours more and ended in a disreputable tavern that Vale swore brewed the best ale in London. So it was rather commendable that he saw the man lurking in the shadows by the stairs at all.
“What’re you doing there?” Reynaud put his hand on his knife, ready to draw it if need be.
The shadow moved and coalesced into a boy, not more than twelve. “’E said you’d give me a shilling.”
Reynaud looked up and down the street in case the lad was a diversion. “Who did?”
“A toff, same as you.” The boy held out a sealed letter.
Reynaud fished in his pocket and tossed the boy a shilling. The lad scampered off without another word. Reynaud held the letter up. The light was too dim to see much, but he did notice there was no inscription on the outside of the letter. He mounted the steps and went inside, nodding at the yawning footman in the hall. Beatrice was probably abed by now, and he yearned to lie beside her warm softness, but the oddity of the strange missive intrigued him. He went to the sitting room, lit a few candles from the fire, and tore open the letter.
The handwriting inside was scrawling and partially smeared as if sealed in haste:
I won’t be hung.
Bring me the Blanchard jewels. Come alone to my country estate. Tell no one. Be here by the dawn’s first light. If you come after light, if you come with friends, or if you come without the jewels, you’ll find your wife dead.
I have her.
Richard Hasselthorpe
* * *
Reynaud had hardly gotten to the last line when he was running to the sitting room door. “You!” he shouted at the startled footman. “Where is your mistress?”
“My lady hasn’t returned yet this evening.”
But Reynaud was already leaping up the stairs. This thing was impossible. She must be here. Perhaps she’d slipped past the footman. The note was a joke. He reached her bedchamber and flung open the door.
Quick jumped to her feet from a chair by the fireplace. “Oh, my lord, what is it?”
“Is Lady Blanchard here?” he demanded, though he could see the bed was still made and empty.
“I’m sorry, my lord. She went out this afternoon, to visit parliament, and she hasn’t returned.”
Dear God. Reynaud stared down at the letter in his hand. I have her. Hasselthorpe’s country estate was hours away, and the dawn would be coming soon.