Chapter Twenty-Five
It took longer than expected for the ship to dock and unload its passengers onto the quay. Frankie stood by the railing on the upper deck, watching the other passengers stream down the gangway, and spotted Reynard below on the dock, already making arrangements for a four-person growler to carry them all the way to Suffolk. He intended to stay in London to check on his uncle and see if there was any gossip concerning their absence. He promised to join them later at Lady Evelyn’s house.
Before he left, he took a moment to say good-bye to Frankie privately. They stood close together on the empty upper deck, and he held her hands.
“I’ll keep an ear your way,” he promised. “If there are any whispers regarding Claire or you, I’ll squash them immediately.”
Frankie could hardly breathe, much less speak. She nodded and forced a smile, feeling like a part of her was being ripped away. He had said good-bye to her already—twice. Each time she found herself close to tears, wanting to hold him and to kiss away the strain and regret that had descended on him the minute London came into view. But he had family matters of his own to attend. She worried that while he was protecting her family’s interests, he might need some help himself.
He brushed off Red’s earnest offer of assistance anytime he should need it, and she realized her uncle was taking their parting harder than expected. The seriousness of what they planned became quite real. They would tread a fine line between truth and fiction that could blow up in their faces.
Still, the countess’s confidence was comforting, and Frankie prayed that it would see them through.
Before he left, she gave him one last, impulsive kiss, memorizing its warm and loving sensations to hold in her heart.
Then he was striding away to find them a cab and she picked up her leather hatbox, a parting gift from Isolde to hold the hats she had been given from the marquise’s extensive collection. In a haze of misery, she made her way down the steps to the main deck and joined the line waiting to disembark.
She knew where the cab was and turned in that direction as soon as she stepped from the gangway. Some rude persons behind her began to push and she quickened her step and hurried toward the side of the nearest building to get out of the way. Still, they pushed, and she turned to glare at them.
A large, muscular man, dressed more like a dock worker than a passenger, glared back with a nasty smirk. And the next thing she knew a beefy hand clamped over her mouth from behind and a steel band of an arm clamped around her waist. Her hatbox was ripped from her hands as she tried to scream and resist, but she was dragged forcibly into an alley, bound with rope, and gagged with a cloth. Seconds later she was hoisted up over a shoulder and after a few steps was tossed unceremoniously into the hard bed of a wagon or floor of a vehicle. A blanket descended, covering her entire form, and the vehicle lurched and began to move.
Frantic, she tried rolling and bucking, trying to free her face, but she was wedged between what felt and smelled like sacks of grain and soon had to devote all her energy to simply breathing. Panic set in as she worked to find air, and it seemed like an eternity before she was able to turn and raise her head enough to breathe.
* * *
On the dock, Red was busy helping Lady Evelyn and Claire into their hired coach. He mentioned with a wry glance at Evie that Frankie was still saying her good-byes. He climbed aboard and they waited several minutes before he scowled and exited again to find Frankie and speed her along.
He didn’t see her anywhere. The crowd from the passenger ship had mostly dispersed and he had a clear view up and down the wharf. It took another long, searching look for him to spot a round leather case lying at the edge of the street. He headed for it before realizing what about it alarmed him. It looked like—it was
Frankie’s hatbox. He rushed to pick it up and looked all around for her, calling her name. She was nowhere to be seen.
He hurried back up the gangway and grabbed the purser standing shipside at the end of it. No one had re-boarded the ship, the fellow said adamantly. He had been there on watch since they docked. Frantic, Red rushed back to the coach to deposit the hatbox and tell Evie and Claire that he couldn’t find Frankie, that he thought she was probably with Reynard. He sent them to the hotel he and Evie had stayed in that first night on the way to Paris, the Golden Tulip, saying he was going to stay and look for them.
He didn’t find Frankie, but he did find Grycel Manse, who recognized him and rushed up to grab his arm.
“Is th’ Fox with you?” Grycel demanded in a growl from between split lips. His face was bruised and swollen and blood was drying in streaks down his neck and in blotches on his shirt. He wore no coat, but his heavily muscled body fairly steamed with heat in the cold air.
“What th’ hell happened to you?” Red stared at him in dismay.
“Nothin’ that matters.” Manse glowered, though it clearly caused him pain. “Where’s the Fox? Is Miss Frances with you?”
“She’s gone missing. And I got no idea where to find Reynard—he left us a bit ago.”
Manse considered that for a moment. “I got an idea where he might be.”
* * *
The tavern was half full just past noon. Reynard sat at a table in a corner, nursing a drink he didn’t really want, waiting for Grycel. His friend had departed for London two days before him and had agreed to contact him here when he arrived. He had asked Grycel to keep his ear to the ground regarding Frankie’s family and to check on the duke’s movements. Last night at their hotel, an increasingly anxious Red had told him about the duke’s demand for Frankie as payment for Red’s debts. He hadn’t slept a wink after that.
Now he looked up to find Grycel’s damaged visage and a furious Red Strait headed his way and sensed that his worst fear had been realized.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, rising to meet them.
“Frankie—she’s gone. I think somebody took her,” Red said. “Her hatbox was just layin’ in the street—by an alley. She was carryin’ it herself to make sure it didn’t get damaged.”
Reynard looked to Grycel and handed him a handkerchief. “You all right?” He watched as Grycel dipped the cloth in his unconsumed whiskey, and wiped cuts on his battered face, wincing at the burn of the alcohol.
“I’ve been worse,” Grycel said. “I think Ottenberg’s got her. Met up with two of his knuckle-bangers last night. They wanted to know where she was. He’s been scouring the docks, spreadin’ a bit of coin about for news of you or her. Somebody pointed me out to him and his boys took turns makin’ my acquaintance and askin’ after her.”
“What did you tell them,” Reynard demanded, coiling inside with tension.
“That they’re pulling their punches at the end and swingin’ their arms too much—wastin’ impact. They’re crap fighters.”
“About Frankie
!” Reynard was ready to do some punching himself.
Grycel gave him an indignant look. “Have you ever known me to give up information just because of a little tap on the chin?” He snorted. “I told them nothing. I closed my eyes for a few minutes—bored stiff—and they must’ve thought I passed out. I heard the Prussian come in and say he’d found her. She’d just come in on a passenger boat and he wanted her picked up and bundled for shipment.”
“Shipment?” Red looked to Reynard with alarm. “He’s takin’ her somewhere.”
“Yeah, but where?” Reynard started to pace, trying desperately to put himself into Ottenberg’s state of mind. “He’ll want to take her somewhere she can’t be found. Trains aren’t much of an option—too public. A coach or wagon of some kind, maybe. Where would he take her here in London? He owns a house, but he’d know we will look there.” The others stared at him, alarmed by the number of possibilities. “He knows as soon as we realize she’s missing, we’ll move Heaven and earth to find her. Then he may try to spirit her out of the country.” He clenched his fists, struggling for control. “They’re already on the docks—maybe he’s got a boat of some kind.” He took a deep breath and his gaze caught fire. “Somebody has to have seen something. These docks have eyes. And a lot of those eyes owe me favors.”
* * *
Dim light filtered through the coarse blanket they had thrown over her. She had arched her back and wriggled to the top of bags of grain she lay among. At least she was no longer in danger of being crushed with every jerk and jarring drop of what she guessed was a wagon. She could breathe easier now, but her heart was pounding loud enough in her ears to compete with the sound coming from outside. What she did hear seemed to be wheels turning on rough pavement, crates and containers moving and scraping, and shouts from voices some distance away. Her calls for help and thumps were muffled everywhere but in her own head. After a few frantic minutes, she realized they were a waste and sank back to breathe and wait for whatever came next.
Time alternately stretched and compressed—she couldn’t tell how long she’d been moving or where she might be. Eventually, the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. There were voices, deep and rough, and they hauled her, feetfirst, out of whatever had transported her, making certain to put their hands all over her. Her furious struggles only produced crude laughter and she could have sworn she heard them say something about a boat. They carried her down what sounded like a wooden walkway or bridge.
Water sloshed against something hard—a dock or pier—and she heard grunts and felt the men carrying her sway and correct their positions, as if unsure of their footing.
She was almost upside down for a moment and cried out, thinking she was falling. Then she was horizontal again and was soon dumped on something comparatively soft. They tore the blanket from her and she sucked a precious breath before snarling every furious epithet she knew into the cloth stuffed in her mouth.
Two of the biggest, ugliest men she had ever seen were looking her over with lustful intent. She braced for their attack, but a moment later, they heard and answered a voice from above in what sounded like German. Then, with a glower of disappointment, they thumped back up the stairs they had just brought her down. It was a hatch, she realized, and the high windows and subtle motion of the large, well-furnished room said she was on a boat or ship of some kind. She managed to sit up and wiped the part of the cloth sticking out of her mouth against the back of the sofa, pushing it with her tongue again and again. After numerous tries, it began to loosen and give.
When her mouth was finally free, she sagged with relief for a moment, then swallowed hard and tried to scream. No sound came out; her mouth and throat were dry as a desert. She needed water badly, but could do nothing about it; her hands and feet were tightly bound. They were also throbbing from lack of circulation. She had no hope of freeing them without help. She tried to summon some spit to free her voice, and her attempt to speak came out a raspy croak.
“Hel-lo? Is any-bod-y th-ere?”
There was no response at first, but she kept calling and trying to attract someone’s notice until she finally did. A pair of legs appeared on the steps and as they descended, elongated to include a broad chest, a pair of formidable shoulders, and a square, muscular face that all but stopped her heart.
“Well, well. There you are, my little American vixen.” The duke paused with his fists propped on his waist to assess her. “I hope that mindless ox and his witless brother weren’t too rough with you.”
“They were disgusting,” she rasped. “I can hardly feel my hands and feet. I insist that you release me immediately.”
“How adorable you are when you are angry,” he said with a smirk as he strolled toward her, running his gaze over her. “We will soon be underway and then you will be freed to enjoy the amenities of my lovely new yacht.” He gestured at the elegant teak-and-brass clad cabin around them. “She is beautiful, yes? She once belonged to a wealthy banker, but now she is mine. A beautiful boat to carry a beautiful woman.”
“You have abducted me, taken me against my will. That is a crime.”
“Is it a crime to steal some time with your intended wife?”
“I am not your intended wife. I’ve told you that.” She couldn’t believe this was happening. He believed, after her earlier refusals and after he had abducted
her, she would even consider marrying him? The man was mad!
“You are still the ‘hard to get’ one, I see.” He gave her a patronizing smile. “But this will change.”
“They will know I am missing and will search the docks top to bottom to find me,” she protested, though every word cost her parched throat.
“I doubt that, my dear. By the time they guess where you are and try to come after you—if
they come after you—we will be outside British territorial waters. ‘Freedom of the seas,’ an old tradition recognized by all civilized nations. Your inspectors, your police, your navy . . . they can do nothing there but wish us a delightful honeymoon.”
He strode closer and gripped her chin. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened to a painful pinch that—bound as she was—she couldn’t escape. “You see, your mother has agreed to our marriage—has promised me your cooperation
.”
“I am of age. My mother has no right to—”
“And your uncle has promised you to me.”
That staggered her for a moment.
“My uncle?” She could hardly believe her ears. “Red would never do such a thing. If you’re going to lie, Ottenberg, at least make it convincing.”
“Oh, meine Liebling
, this is no lie. Your uncle and I have an agreement.”
“That’s absurd. Red would never even consider handing me over to a man I despise.” She braced for a slap or worse, but he merely laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound that somehow reminded her of the bruises he had left on her shoulders a couple of weeks ago. A chill went through her.
“Nein, fräulein
.” He released her and crossed the cabin to a writing table where a number of documents lay weighted to the desktop. He picked up several papers and carried them to her, holding them up for her to see. “Do you know your uncle’s signature?” His smile twisted into a triumphant sneer. “Do you see the name of the witness who signed the marker?”
She stared in disbelief at Red’s signature on the papers . . . Ottenberg dragged one after another across her vision. They documented various sums that together would total thousands and thousands of pounds. The witness on most of them was Beulah MacNeal, proprietress of the Chancery, a known and respected entity in London’s gaming world. She felt her bones going soft, and an icy wave of fear stole strength from her limbs. How could this be true? Uncle Red had large gambling debts that Ottenberg had—she looked up into the duke’s satisfied expression and realized it was true. He had bought Red’s debts.
And with them he believed he had bought Frankie, body and soul.
A flush of horror went through her as she recalled Reynard’s warning and his revelation that Ottenberg bought not only debts, but the men who owed them . . . and their families. She had scoffed, she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
“You bought Uncle Red’s markers?” She scrambled to think what could be done. “We’ll buy them back,” she said frantically. “Let me send word to my mother, our bank—we’ll buy them back from you.”
“With what, pretty Frankie?” He looked almost reptilian as his lips curled away from his teeth . . . like a snake baring its fangs. “You have no money. Your family’s accounts are empty. The very house your mother sleeps in at night is soon to be sold to repay loans made to your uncle.”
“What loans?”
“These markers”—he held up that revolting fistful of papers—“are only part of his debt. I bought what I could, but there are more—many more. The bed you slept in, the horse you rode, the very clothes you wear today belong to London bankers. Your family is . . . how you Americans say . . . broken
. My delectable little fräulein
, you are now your family’s main asset.”
From above, someone yelled down that they were getting underway and the duke snapped a look at the hatch, torn between continuing this conversation and being on deck for the initial voyage of his new yacht. Making his decision, he tossed the markers on the broad sofa beside her.
“Think on this,” he ordered sharply. “And we will talk again.”
* * *
The afternoon was waning when Reynard returned to the tavern where they had agreed to rendezvous. He had sent dockside acquaintances to visit local taverns while he checked shipping companies and the harbormaster’s office, asking the same questions and hearing the same useless answers. He’d had no luck, and now had a burning weight in his stomach that felt like a white-hot an1vil. He sat at the table where they found him earlier, trying desperately not to think about what could be happening to her.
Ottenberg was not a man who took “no” for an answer, and Frankie was not a woman who would submit to a man she found brutish and controlling. It was oil and water. God knew what would happen when a clash of wills ignited between them, but given their size and power differential, he couldn’t imagine Frankie coming out on top.
If only he had stayed with her, if only he had listened to her and quit dwelling on his damnable uncle and his cursed inheritance. Faced with losing the one woman in the world he wanted—he loved
—he had to finally stare the truth of his situation in the eye. He’d been wasting his time, his life, on the inexplicable anger of an old man and the forlorn hope that he might be absolved of a sin he had no part in, except for being born.
What an idiot he was, withholding what she meant to him, refusing to say he loved her as if his refusal to speak the words would somehow protect her—and him—from pain and disappointment. She honestly didn’t care about his inheritance. Was it just his own perverse sense of pride that made him decide he could only share a life with her when his rank and resources exceeded hers? He saw it so clearly now that it was slipping from his hands. Only a fool traded passion, companionship, and love for a life of hunger, loneliness, and regret.
Grycel returned, looking winded and dispirited as he fell into a chair across from Reynard. One look at each other and they knew where they stood.
“You heard from Red?” Grycel winced as Reynard shook his head.
Reynard didn’t trust himself to speak at that moment. He waved over the barman, who brought two glasses and a bottle. Neither had the heart to open the bottle and pour. They just stared at it, while trying to think of another way to find Frankie and bring her home.
“Where the hell is Red?” Reynard snarled.
* * *
“Mr. Strait! I thought that was you.” The pasty-faced fellow in the pinstripe suit, expensive bowler, and thick spectacles stopped in Red’s path outside the Daily Guardian
on Fleet Street. On a hunch, Red had run by the newspaper’s office to see one of his gambling pals—a fellow with his ear to the ground in the financial world—who might have a clue about Ottenberg’s plans, or recent acquisitions. The fellow wasn’t in and Red was just heading back to meet Reynard and Grycel when this fellow accosted him.
“How good to see you.” The man extended his hand and relieved the awkwardness by providing his name. “Lawrence Fielding. Martins Bank.”
“Ah.” Red shook the man’s hand, more than eager to get away. He owed Martins Bank money. “Fielding. Good to see you.”
“I was just talking with someone about you a few days ago,” Fielding continued as Red started around him.
“Really, I must be gettin’ back to—”
“Now, who—ohhh—the Duke of Ottenberg was in to sign papers to take possession of a boat. A shame, that. Smithfield having to sign it over. But the duke asked after you . . . if you had been in lately. Said he kept meaning to pay a call on your family, but heard you were traveling.”
It hit Red between the eyes. “A boat? Ottenberg’s got a new boat?”
Fielding nodded, then leaned in. “Seems a bit crass to call it a mere boat. A yacht, actually. A sixty-five-footer. Smithfield looked like he hated to give it up, but . . . needs must.” He gave a very banker-like smile. “The duke did ask me to let him know if we heard from you.”
“Won’t be necessary.” Red clapped the little banker on the back with genuine pleasure. “I’ll be seein’ him tonight.” He fixed the fellow with a look. “Say, where did old Smithfield keep that yacht? I’m thinking about doin’ a little sailing myself.”
* * *
Reynard and Grycel had given up on Red and were heading out for another round of searching when Red blew through the tavern door and nearly bowled them over.
“A boat!” he said, clutching his chest, breathless. “He’s got a boat!”
A quarter of an hour later the threesome stood on the wooden dock in a small, private marina upriver a bit, staring at a dark, empty berth.
Red’s heart sank.
“He’s gone. Took ’er right out from under our noses.”
Reynard looked around, his face grim. “From here there’s only one place to go in a seaworthy yacht. Down the Thames and into the channel.”
“From there . . . he could reach Amsterdam, Bergen, Hamburg . . . anywhere.”
“If I was him—I’d head straight to Germany,” Grycel said.
The ramifications of that sent a chill through the group.
“Then we can’t let him reach open water,” Reynard said. “We have to catch him before he reaches the channel.”
“In what?” Grycel looked around at the sloops and ketches bobbing nearby. “I ain’t a sailor, Fox.” He jerked a thumb at Red. “I doubt he is either.”
Red stared in dismay at the boats. “I never been on a boat that small.”
“He’s got a head start.” Reynard looked like his thoughts were racing. “They may have been under sail for three hours.” He turned his face to the river, studying conditions. “But there is little wind.
“I know someone with a Priestman—a boat that runs on a motor,” he said, coming alive. “He’s half mad and a machinery fiend. Tinkers with motors and brags that he can beat anything under sail. But if he’s had a pint or two, I can talk him into anything.” His long legs set a wicked pace as he struck off for the mad tinkerer’s location.
Red looked at Grycel as they set off after Reynard. “Is there anybody that boy don’t
know?”