CHAPTER twelve
“I hate travelling,” said Trix, shifting about on the seat.
Lord Ambrose glanced over at her. “Awake, are we?”
“It would be better if I could have slept,” she replied as tartly as she could manage. “I get dreadfully carriage-sick, you know. All the bouncing and jolting and rocking – ugh, I feel like casting up my accounts just thinking about it.”
“Then stop thinking about it at once,” he commanded, some of the authority lost by the way he pushed himself into the corner of the seat.
She leant toward him. “How can I? My only other choice is to think about the fact you’ve kidnapped me and plan to force my hand in marriage. That makes my stomach bounce and jump and jolt all by itself.”
Lord Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Good grief, Miss Manning. I’m hardly planning to ravish you.”
“No, just hold me against my will so that my reputation is compromised,” she replied, bitterness washing out with every word. “You will make an excellent villain in my next novel.”
“So long as it sells and brings us an income, I’ll live with it,” he said, and then turned to stare moodily out of the window.
“Who said I would publish it?”
“Felix would support us in that endeavour.”
Trix rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say if I could publish, I said if I would. As in, why should I? If you force me into marriage, then I shall do everything I can to thwart you at every turn.”
He turned to look at her, and something in her expression made her sink backwards, her well of bravado drying up.
“When you are my wife, woman, you will do as I say or face the consequences.” He turned away to stare back out of the window.
“Even if my books are published, I am not rich,” she told him as she decided to take a different approach. “My father is a vicar. Even if my uncle decided to lay money on me, a daresay at most I would have a hundred pounds a year – hardly enough to pay your tailor’s bills, I’m sure!”
He didn’t bother to turn and look at her.
“You’re of good breeding stock, which will please my father no doubt, and he will reinstate my inheritance. At worst, I’ll tell him I’m working with Felix in the publishing business. The more I think about it, the more I think you are a better option than your cousin for marriage, Miss Manning. I daresay we shall rub along tolerably well, given time.”
If this were a novel, thought Trix, I would have thought to tuck a butter knife into my shoe.
With no weapon to hand and no desire to ruin her shawl by strangling Lord Ambrose to death, it seemed that only her wits were going to be able to save her this time.
She started small. A tiny groan as the chaise bumped through a deep pothole. Curling into a tiny ball on the seat of the chaise. Holding the shawl to her mouth and shuddering.
Lord Ambrose began to eye her warily.
“Is something wrong?” he eventually asked.
She turned her watery eyes to him (an effect achieved by pulling at them when he wasn’t looking, until tears had begun to leak down her face).
“I will be fine, I am sure, but I am not the best of travellers.”
“Yes, you said,” he replied, looking her up and down with some distaste.
“I’ll be right as a trivet once we reach our destination, so long as it isn’t too far,” she told him, smiling briefly before pressing the shawl to her mouth again.
“Good grief, woman, it’ll be hours yet before we stop,” he replied.
“Hours?” she said, and sank back into the chair with closed eyes. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry, Lord Ambrose, but I cannot possibly go on for hours.”
“You’ll have to,” he said with no sympathy.
“I fear I am about to be sick,” she announced, once again leaning toward him.
“Steady on!” he said, pushing her back into her corner of the chaise. “We’ll be stopping to change the horses soon; how about we get out for a brief walk then?”
“Tea,” she whispered. “Tea would do wonders to settle my stomach.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a frown.
“It is the only thing I can think of that will prevent me from casting up my accounts.”
“We’ll stop for tea at the next posting-house,” he informed her, as though he was all consideration for her comfort.
“Thank you so much,” she replied weakly.
And continued to plot.
*
“We are relying on you to help us,” Abby said to her guests. “We are not precisely sure what has happened to Miss Manning, but she has been missing for just under an hour. We cannot hide this from you, but for the sake of the love we all have for her, I am asking that as far as the Ton may ever be concerned, she has not left this room.”
There was a moment of silence punctuated only by the quiet sobs of Lucille Manning.
Lord Standish clambered out of his chair first. “Personally, I’m finding her new story absolutely riveting.”
Miss Juneberry also rose to her feet. “An excellent, deeply entertaining read.”
“But what is she reading?” asked Mr Filey. “Best if we all know the story, don’t you think?”
Lady Cordelia left her aunt’s side and moved over to the pile of Miss Manning’s things. She picked up the manuscript, her hands betraying a slight tremor as she did so.
“I think that we should read The Pirate King,” she said as she settled down into a chair. “Shall I begin?”
“Brave girl,” murmured Felix as the group circled about her to listen.
“Lady Gloucester, may I beg that my wife intrudes upon your hospitality a little while longer?” said Mr Manning. “I don’t know who this man is who has taken my daughter, but I cannot simply sit here and wait to receive bad news. I intend to hire a carriage myself and follow them.”
Abby nodded. “Anything to help.”
“Benjamin, your heart,” said Mrs Manning, reaching out toward her husband. “You cannot go chasing about after that fiend, no matter how much you may wish to.”
“I cannot leave our daughter in his hands,” said Mr Manning, looking resolute, but sick, as he approached his wife. “You cannot talk me out of this, Lucy.”
Felix watched the two of them, noting the way that Mr Manning clung to his wife’s hand as though he were afraid she might collapse without it.
He cleared his throat.
“May I suggest that you proceed to Lord Delby’s residence as soon as possible?” he said. “I am sure he can provide you with a vehicle more suitable for the purpose.”
Mr Manning nodded. “Excellent suggestion, Mr Drake.”
“I will naturally accompany you,” said Felix, but here the older man held up a hand.
“No. This is my responsibility,” said Mr Manning, not entirely polite in his response. His wife, however, was looking at him with interest.
“You love my daughter, don’t you,” she said. It was not a question.
Felix felt the blood rush to his face. “She is quite extraordinary,” was all he could say in response.
It seemed to be enough, for Trix’s mother nodded in response.
“Be that as it may, there is no formal declaration between you, not to mention that the man who has abducted my daughter is your flesh and blood. We have much business to discuss, Mr Drake, but it is to wait until after my daughter is safely home.”
“I understand,” said Felix, not because he agreed, but because Abby was gesticulating from behind the Mannings in an unsubtle attempt to communicate with him.
“I will stay here with Cordelia,” announced Mrs Manning suddenly. Her husband looked surprised, but her weak smile seemed to mollify him. “I cannot protect Trix right now my darling, but I can protect my niece at least.”
“Very well, but I must go,” said Mr Manning. He paused only to give his wife a kiss on her cheek before disappearing from the room.
Mrs Manning turned her sharp eyes onto Felix.
“You have perhaps half an hour before my husband and brother in law being their pursuit,” she said. “I suggest you set out at once.”
“Felix, my carriage is ready, and one of the footmen has brought back some news,” said Abby. She guided him out of the room without wasting a word on anyone else, and hurried him down the stairs toward the front door before he had a chance to object.
“The Great North Road?” he asked when he recovered his voice.
“It seems that way,” she replied, her expression grim. “However, I am not convinced that he intends to dash all the way to Scotland with a reluctant bride. A single night would be enough to force Trix to that altar. Ambrose might be a fool, but he isn’t a complete idiot. Compromising her would be sufficient.”
“It won’t come to that,” said Felix with more confidence than he felt. “He cannot be more than an hour ahead of me.”
“Not even that,” said Abby, looking disgusted. “Do you know that throttle-penny hired only a chaise and pair?”
Despite himself, Felix felt his lip quiver at his friend’s disgust. “Forgive me, Abby, but I am rather pleased that he chose not to hire four horses since I intend to catch him before he causes irreparable harm.”
“He could have hired a chaise-and-six for all that it would matter,” she replied. “I’m lending you my chestnuts, so I trust that you appreciate the affection I have for that dear girl. You have improved your driving since we were children, yes?”
Felix, who had just finished swinging his cape about his shoulders, eyed her warily.
“How much do I need to have improved?”
She didn’t look happy with his response and motioned for him to walk outside.
He swore colourfully.
“A high perch, Abby? Did it have to be a high-perch phaeton?”
“I assumed that speed would be of the essence, so anything of Gloucester’s was out of the question,” she snapped at him.
Felix swore again as he rubbed at his temples with his right hand. “I would rather not cause further delay by requesting Lord Delby lend me his curricle, although I suppose that perhaps Lord Standish or Mr Filey drove here?”
“Sadly not,” she replied.
“I hate to admit this, Abby, but I’m not as capital a whip as you.”
A polite cough from the doorway made them both turn around.
“Luckily for you, my boy, I am,” replied his father. “Now do hurry up, Felix. We have your future wife to rescue.”
*
“My stomach,” cried Trix as the chaise finally trundled to a stop. “I’m so very sorry, Lord Ambrose, but I think I may be about to be sick.”
“No need, no need!” said her kidnapper, looking rather green himself. “See we are here now, Miss Manning. No need to cast up your accounts!”
“Some tea,” she said weakly. “Please, you promised me some tea!”
For a horrible moment she thought that he was going to argue with her, but he thought better of it and rapped on the roof of the chaise. His servant appeared to open the door, looking confused.
“A change of plan,” said Lord Ambrose loudly, as though wanting the curious ostlers to hear every word. “My sister has taken sick already, the silly thing, and requires some tea.”
“And a lie-down,” said Trix, deciding to push the matter as far as she could. “Perhaps if I could lie down for half an hour I would feel better.”
This, however, proved to be too much. Lord Ambrose, ignoring her pitiful requests, turned to his servant.
“Help her inside and order her some tea,” he said. “We shall not be staying above fifteen minutes.”
It was better than nothing, but Trix still dragged her feet as much as she dared, considering the firm grip on her arm. She briefly considered kicking up a fuss once inside on the chance that the innkeeper might loan her his support, but dismissed it with the consideration that she was a nobody, while Lord Ambrose was the son of a Marquis.
No, the only thing for it was to buy time.
“Please can you show me to the private parlour?” she asked the innkeeper before Lord Ambrose’s servant had a chance to object. “I’d like some tea and some biscuits if you have them. Anything to help my weak stomach! My brother, Lord Ambrose, will be through in just a moment.”
The innkeeper perked up at the mention of a title, even as her kidnapper’s servant make a choking noise when she casually named him.
It was exactly what she would have a heroine do in her novels. Slow them down as much as possible. Leave clues so that she could be followed.
“Please come this way,” said the innkeeper, leading her through to a pleasant little room furnished with a dining set, an overstuffed sofa, and a few chairs.
“What a lovely room! I am sure I will feel better in no time at all,” she said.
“Make yourself comfortable on that sofa there, Miss,” said the innkeeper with a kindly smile. “Your servant can come with me to the kitchens, and he’ll be back in a moment with some nice tea for you. Why don’t you tuck your feet up there, my dear, and see if you can’t have a little nap?”
“How wonderful,” said Trix, doing as she was bid. She saw Lord Ambrose’s man roll his eyes, but make no comment.
She counted to thirty as soon as they had left the room, and then sprang up to her feet as soon as she was sure she was alone. She quickly looked around the chamber, searching for paper and a quill, or anything that she could use to send a message back to her aunt and uncle.
“Dash it all to pieces,” she muttered as her search proved fruitless. She looked about the room, looking for an alternative. She walked across to the fireplace, wondering if there might be some twists of newspaper or even thin pieces of kindling that might serve the purpose. Nothing.
If this were a novel, then there would be a priest hole or a secret tunnel I could use to escape, she thought, and then laughed at her foolishness.
“I’m glad someone is amused,” said Lord Ambrose.
Trix let out a yelp of surprise, spinning around to face him.
“My Lord! I did not hear you come in!”
“You do not appear to be sick,” he said.
She backed up a little, her heels clicking against the hearth. “I… I did say I would be right as a trivet as soon as we stopped.”
“How fortunate,” he replied. “Now we can get back in the carriage and be on our way.”
He stalked toward her slowly as he spoke, and for the first time, Trix found herself truly afraid of him. He did not look like an overdressed idiot at this moment, but rather more like a man used to taking whatever he wanted, consequences be damned.
“But the tea will be here in a moment; I daresay it will do you some good to swallow a few sips as well.”
There was nowhere else for her to back up to, but still he approached. She stumbled around the edge of the fire hearth until her back made contact with the wainscoting and her skirts pulled the fireplace tools crashing over.
“I am tired of your games, Miss Manning. You will come with me. Now.”
“I don’t think I will,” she replied, her bravado undermined by the tremor in her voice.
Lord Ambrose cursed. He reached out and took a firm hold on her arm before tugging her toward him.
Trix acted on instinct rather than thought. She grabbed at the nearest of the fireplace tools still tangled in her skirt and then thrust it forwards with all of her might.
It was only when Lord Ambrose staggered backwards that she realised she was clutching the poker.
“I’m so sorry!” she whispered, her eyes going wide as they focussed on his side.
Lord Ambrose pressed a hand to his side, then pulled it away to reveal his fingers slick with fresh blood.
“Good God,” he said.
And fainted.