Stephanie Laurens: Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

She glanced at the woman beside her.

As if sensing the question in her mind, Wiry explained, “Martha here”-with his head he indicated the woman-“is, of course, the maid Sir Humphrey sent to lend you countenance on the journey.” Wiry’s lips curved. “Martha will remain with you at all times. Especially all the times it would be inappropriate for one of us-me or Cobbins here-to be by your side.”

Deciding that at the moment it behooved her to, as Wiry had put it, behave, Heather inclined her head, first to the woman alongside her, “ Martha,” then to the barrel-chested man, shorter than Wiry but of heavier build, who’d remained quietly seated in the far corner of the coach. “Cobbins.”

She turned her gaze on Wiry. “And you are?”

He smiled. “You may call me Fletcher, Miss Wallace.”

Heather thought of a few other epithets she might call him, but she merely inclined her head. Settling on the seat, she leaned her head back against the squabs and ventured nothing more. She sensed that Fletcher expected her to protest, perhaps beg for mercy, or try to subvert him and the others from their goal, but she saw no point in lowering herself to that.

No point at all.

The more she thought of all Fletcher had let fall, the more she felt certain of that. This had to be the strangest abduction she’d ever heard of… well, she hadn’t heard the details of any abduction attempts, but it seemed distinctly odd that they were treating her so considerately, so… sensibly. So terribly calmly and confidently.

They-Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha-did not fit the prescription for run-of-the-mill kidnappers. They might not be genteel, yet they were not of the lowest orders, either. They were neatly and unobtrusively dressed. Although rather large and solid, Martha could indeed pass for a lady’s maid, certainly a lady who lived mostly in the country. Cobbins appeared reserved, and in his drab clothes seemed to fade into the background, but he, too, did not seem the sort one would find in a seedy hedge-tavern. Both he and Fletcher looked precisely like the sort of men they were claiming to be-the sort some wealthy country squire might hire to act as his agents.

Whoever had sent them to London had prepared them well. Their plan was both simple and, in the situation in which she now found herself, well nigh impossible to counter. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t escape-she would somehow-but before she did, she needed to learn more about the most puzzling aspect of this strange kidnapping.

They’d been sent to abduct not her specifically but one of the Cynster sisters-her, Eliza, or Angelica, and possibly her cousins, Henrietta and Mary, also “Cynster sisters.”

She couldn’t imagine what reason anyone would have for doing so other than a simple demand for ransom, but if that were the case, why take her out of London? Why take her off to some other man? She thought back, reassessed, but couldn’t shake the impression that all Fletcher had revealed was true-the trio were fetching her for some employer.

Hiring three people of the trio’s ilk, and a coachman and coach-and-four, and they’d been watching her and the others for over a week… none of that sounded like a straightforward, opportunistic kidnapping for ransom.

But if not ransom, what was behind this? And if she escaped without learning the answer, would she and the others still remain under threat?

They’d had fresh horses put to in High Barnet, and so rattled on past Welham Green and through Welwyn.

Eventually, the carriage slowed, and they entered a small town. Fletcher leaned forward and looked out of the window. “Knebworth.” Sitting back, he studied Heather. “We’re going to stop here for the night. Are you going to be sensible and keep your mouth shut, or do we need to restrain you and tell the landlord our tale?”

If they did… if her family came searching for her, as she knew they would-Henry, their old coachman, would have alerted the household by now-then having heard she was a Miss Wallace, the landlord and his staff might not mention her.

Eyes on Fletcher, she lifted her chin. “I’ll behave.”

He smiled, but encouragingly rather than victoriously. “That’s the ticket.”

Heather inwardly sighed. Fletcher’s lack of smugness proved he was intelligent. Despite his story, if she’d been prepared to throw a screaming tantrum she might have been able to have the local constable summoned-might have been able to convince him to hold her while he checked her story against her captors’. Unfortunately, her reputation wouldn’t easily withstand being so publicly found in kidnappers’ hands, Martha notwithstanding. Especially after she had that very evening made the unspoken declaration implied by stepping into the racy world of Lady Herford’s salon.

But above and beyond all else, while she remained quiet and played the role they’d planned for her, she wasn’t, as far as she could see, under any real threat, and wouldn’t be until they reached their employer. Until then, she would put her mind to ferreting out what lay behind this very strange kidnapping.

And then she’d use her wits and escape.

Three hours later, Heather lay on her back in a not-so-comfortable bed in a room on the second floor of the Red Garter Inn at Knebworth and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the moon had finally sailed free of the clouds; the shaft of silvery light beaming in through the uncurtained window allowed her to see the ceiling well enough, not that she was actually studying it.

“What the devil am I to do?” She sent the whispered question floating upward, but no answer came.

She’d been right in rejecting the notion of making a scene and trying to bend the innkeeper and his patrons to her cause. Once she’d observed her captors in lamplight, she’d realized her earlier estimation of their competence hadn’t done them justice. Fletcher in particular appeared personable enough to raise questions as to whether she’d left London with him willingly or not. Meeting his eyes with light enough to see into them had confirmed beyond doubt that he was not only intelligent but quick-witted and cunning as well. If she tried to persuade others to help her against him, he would use every possible argument to counter hers. And he knew what “every possible argument” encompassed. If she pushed him hard enough, her reputation would be shredded, and she still might not win free.

Bad enough, but any consequent idea that it might perhaps be wiser to escape now, while she was still within reach of London and the protection of her family, even without learning more about the reasons behind her abduction, had been slain shortly after birth.

They’d taken her clothes.

In the carriage, long before they’d untied her, Martha had produced a dark wool cloak and solicitously wrapped it about her. That, indeed, had been the first sign that they intended to take reasonable care of her; she’d been grateful for the warmth as the night had progressed. At Fletcher’s instruction, she’d kept the cloak close about her when they’d entered the inn. Once she and Martha had repaired to this room and shut the door, however, Martha had reclaimed the cloak. She’d then suggested Heather remove her gown before getting into bed; Heather had complied without really thinking-she wasn’t in the habit of wearing evening gowns to bed.

She was, however, accustomed to wearing something more substantial than a silk chemise, which, barring her even sheerer silk stockings, was all she presently had on.

And there were no other clothes, hers or Martha’s, available to her if she took it into her head to pick the lock on the door-Martha had the key in the pocket of the voluminous undergown in which she’d elected to sleep-and sneak downstairs to raise some alarm. In her chemise and silk stockings? Heather inwardly snorted. And glanced again across the room at the other single bed on which Martha lay snoring.