Chapter Thirty-One
A woman’s terrified scream shattered the quiet repose of the smoking room. Bracebridge dropped the newspaper he’d been reading, and Gopal, who had his legs stretched out to the fire, sat up straight and turned toward the windows. The cry had come from outside, on the Margaret Street side of Cavendish Square.
“Cease and desist!”
Alarm streaked through Bracebridge because that was Pond’s voice.
Outside, another woman loudly sobbed, “No! Oh no, oh no!” Her moans turned to a shout. “They’ve taken her!”
Bracebridge shot to his feet as the front door slammed and at least two people raced up the stairs. Gopal had left the window and was now heading for the door. More voices joined the commotion. His heart slammed against his chest; he did not hear Emily’s voice in the tumult.
Mrs. Elliot burst into the room, sobbing, “My lord, they’ve taken her, and she’s gone after them! They’re making away with her now!”
He grabbed the woman’s shoulders, terrified to the point of panic. Emily. Lord above, Emily. He could not lose her. Not now. Not now. Not ever. “What’s happened? Where is Lady Bracebridge?”
Pond stumbled into the room, half his head crimson. His coat was torn at the shoulder, and blood dripped down his cheek and from his nose. He brushed at his face and spread blood across his cheek and into his hair. “Milord. Milord—”
Gopal leaped for Pond, guiding the man to a chair and pressing his handkerchief to Pond’s bloody head even though that dab of silk was inadequate to the task of stanching the wound. “Were you set upon by thieves?” Gopal asked.
Still holding Mrs. Elliot’s shoulders, Bracebridge looked into the corridor. He did not see Emily. She had to be here. Downstairs, still, perhaps dealing with Frieda. He roared, “Emily!”
There was no answer.
“Lift your head.” Gopal pushed Pond’s chin up and pinched the bridge of the butler’s nose between two fingers.
Pond batted away Gopal’s hand, but Gopal was not deterred. He continued to press the wadded-up handkerchief to the back of Pond’s head. “My lord.” Pond raised his voice. “Her ladyship’s father—”
“What about him?”
Mrs. Elliot wrung her hands. “She went after them, my lord.”
“What the devil do you mean?” His heart stopped beating. “Do you mean to say she’s pursuing thieves?”
One of the footmen who’d dashed in answered between gasps. “Lady Bracebridge was returning home when just outside the house someone snatched Frieda, milord.”
“Madam,” Gopal said to Mrs. Elliot, “we require a basin, water, and some cloths. If you would be so kind as to fetch those items for us.”
Emily had yet to appear, and amid the chaos, Bracebridge boomed out, “Where is Lady Bracebridge?”
Pond twisted toward him, his hair wild and soaked brilliant red from the bleeding cut on his head. “My lord, she raced off in pursuit of the blackguard who took her dog.”
That fairly stopped Bracebridge’s heart again. She’d not been snatched from the streets, and that was a bone-shaking relief. They would find her, then, but how bloody like her to do something so reckless. He pointed at the footman in the doorway. “Have Keller fetch my pistols.”
Pond said, “Her ladyship’s father is responsible for this outrage. I saw him in the carriage as it drove away.”
“What carriage?” He was hurled once again into the possibility that Emily might be taken away. A carriage? If she got into a carriage, she might travel too far and too fast for him to find her. He could not lose her. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought.
Mrs. Elliot burst into tears, and it was clear the woman was hearing this news for the first time and was having the same panicked reaction as he was. “I knew in my heart he’d do something like this. Just to spite her. Oh, that poor, dear dog!”
His butler took a shuddering breath. “When her ladyship arrived home, there was a carriage nearby. Two men jumped from the vehicle as she came up the stairs. One pushed Maggie to the ground and shoved her ladyship away while the other took Frieda.”
The more disheveled of the footmen took up the narrative. “We ran to their aid, and there was a set-to.” He nodded at Pond. “The man who took the dog raced away, and her ladyship followed and Maggie with her, and then the man who bashed Pond in the head got away and the carriage took off, and we came to fetch you.”
Three more footmen came in, dressed to go out. Bracebridge made a point of hiring former prizefighters whenever he could, and these three were impressive specimens. Thank God, they’d understood they’d be needed. “What did they look like?” They needed to be after her, but haring off without sufficient information about who and what to look for might doom them to failure. “Keller! Where the devil are you?”
Behind him, the footman said, “The one who stole away with Frieda was almost as tall as you. Brown coat and a green felt hat. Dark hair. They headed down Harley Street toward Queen Anne Street.”
Keller hurried in, coattails flying, with Bracebridge’s greatcoat, hat, and the box that held his pistols. Bracebridge took the box from the servant and shoved his arms into his coat. “What was Lady Bracebridge wearing, did anyone notice?”
“A dark cloak, milord,” the footman said. “Green frock, I think.” He motioned putting a hood over his head. “Maggie had a hood.”
Bracebridge handed the first loaded pistol to Gopal.
Gopal nodded and held the pistol muzzle to the ceiling. Bracebridge headed out, Gopal and the three footmen at his heels. Once outside, they set off along the edge of Cavendish Square, then took a right onto Harley Street.
Bracebridge’s fear was that Emily had caught up with Sinclair’s henchmen and been met with violence. If the fellow was his size, he could easily overpower Emily. A thousand horrible outcomes flew at him. There was no time to lose.
At the next corner, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Frieda! Frieda, come!”
They listened intently, but all Bracebridge heard was the usual sounds of this part of the city. They continued down Harley Street until Gopal came to a halt and said, “A moment of silence, please?”
Again they heard nothing, but Gopal held him back. “That. A dog barking, yes?”
Nothing. He heard nothing. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Frieda! Emily!”
There was no reply. They raced along the street with the footmen taking side streets and returning, having found nothing. There was too much bloody damn noise to hear even Frieda’s distinctive bark. Once, his heart fairly jumped out of his throat at the sight of a woman Emily’s size, but when he caught up with the startled woman, she wasn’t his wife at all.
A mile from Cavendish Square, and there was no sign of Emily, her maid, or a man with a dog.
“There it is again.” Gopal cocked his head. “Barking. Most peculiar.”
This time, he heard the sound too, and they set off at a dead run, pushing through the increasingly crowded walkway. He did not see any women who could be Emily or Maggie, nor anyone with Frieda. Then Bracebridge heard, much louder now, that half bay, half bark that was undeniably Frieda.
They rounded another corner and in a split second took in the scene. At the other end of the street, a man in a green hat was attempting to heave a large dog into a waiting carriage. A woman sprawled on the walkway scrambled to her feet while another woman yanked on the carriage door. The man struggling with the dog shoved the woman now on her feet hard enough to send her stumbling back.
Bracebridge put on a burst of speed. “You there! Halt!”
The man in the hat looked over his shoulder as he pushed the dog into the carriage. The other woman was Emily. Bracebridge had only the time to think, Oh, thank God, thank God.
She slammed a folded pink parasol into the side of the man’s face while she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Help, help! Frieda!”
Gopal and one of the footmen split off down the street, aiming for the front of the carriage to prevent an escape. The green hat flew into the air, and the carriage door swung open.
Maggie grabbed the now hatless man by the coattails and pulled hard. Just as Bracebridge came even with the rear of the vehicle, Emily leaped inside the carriage. The vehicle rocked and shook, and the door slammed shut. Maggie grabbed hold of the door.
One of the footmen grabbed the bridle of the lead horse. Gopal leaped into the driver’s seat, pistol drawn, and pointed at the driver. “On your life, do not move!”
The man who’d shoved Maggie was back on his feet. Bracebridge brought his clenched fist straight up from his waist and slammed into the bottom of the man’s chin with all the strength he had. The man’s head snapped back. As his legs buckled, Bracebridge followed with a punch to the ribs.
Maggie moved away from the carriage door when the man hit the pavement, and Bracebridge whirled. With a shout of inchoate rage, he yanked open the carriage door and reached in, half his torso inside. He grabbed Emily’s arm and pulled her toward the door.
“Not without Frieda!” His wife, too fierce to be frightened, looked furious.
With his other arm, he grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged her out. One of the footmen snatched the trailing leash. Only then did Emily jump to the street, her broken parasol clutched in one hand.
“Maggie,” Bracebridge called over his shoulder, “see to your mistress.”
He reached into the carriage again and hauled Thomas Sinclair onto the street. With two fistfuls of the other man’s coat, Bracebridge slammed Sinclair against the side of the carriage. The stink of alcohol was overpowering.
“Help!” Sinclair got one arm up and into the air. “Murder!”
Bracebridge dragged Sinclair upward until he was on the tips of his toes. “If ever you come near Cavendish Square again, I shall have the law after you so fast, your head will spin.”
Sinclair threw up his hands in a mockery of surrender and snarled, “I’m taking back what’s mine. Emily got that dog before she was married. The dog is mine. Not hers, and never yours.”
Bracebridge maintained his grip on her father. Careful, he told himself. Careful. Sinclair was much, much older, and he was angry enough to do unintentional harm. “My forbearance with you is at an end. I own your house. I own your debts. Anything you kept from my wife out of spite or for any other reason belongs to me. If you sold them, the money is mine, and I expect you to remit it immediately.” He slapped his palm on the side of the carriage near Sinclair’s ear. He spoke slowly, ignoring the crowd gathering on the walkway. “I want it back. All of it. I own this vehicle and the horses drawing it. The clothes on your back belong to me. Whatever income the Cooperage produces belongs to me. Including the damned dog.”
Sinclair sneered. “I’ll soon have your marriage annulled. See if I don’t. You won’t be so high and mighty then.”
“Emily is my wife, and she will remain so.”
Sinclair grinned. “She’ll leave you soon enough. You know it as well as I. You aren’t worthy of one of my girls. You never have been, and you never shall be.”
“Go to hell, Sinclair.” Bracebridge picked him up by the front of his coat and shoved him into the carriage. He slammed the door with such violence, the vehicle rocked.
He looked up at the driver. The man was ashen and staring at Gopal’s pistol trained on the center of his forehead. “You,” he said. “Driver. If you value your life, get down.”
Gopal grabbed the reins as the driver scrambled to comply. Bracebridge pointed to the footman holding the lead horse and dug in his pocket to give the man enough to cover tolls and expenses that might arise. “Drive the blackguard back to Bartley Green and return here with the carriage.”
“Milord.” The servant climbed up and took the driver’s place. Gopal engaged the safety on his pistol and descended. Moments later, the carriage was on its way out of London.
Without Sinclair or the carriage to engage him, Frieda wriggled her way to Bracebridge, whining, hanging her head, and lowering her body. He crouched, put his arms around the dog, and buried his face against her massive shoulder. She pressed against him, wagging her tail and half her body.
He held the dog tight, overcome with panic and dismay and a thousand other emotions warring in him. What if something had happened to Emily? What if, what if, what if? He shook hard enough he didn’t dare release the dog. “You are safe now,” he whispered, still shaking. “You’re safe, you bloody great beast. Praise God, we’ve got you back.”
Gopal put a hand on his shoulder the way he had in his fighting days, and Bracebridge immediately regained his calm. He shook himself, stood, and handed Frieda’s leash to Gopal. His gaze locked with Emily’s, and everything disappeared but her and the spreading ache in his heart. Without conscious thought, he pulled her into his arms. He held her close, breathing in the scent of her. “Are you all right?”
“Thank God we got her back,” she said.
He held her tight, afraid to let her go, afraid of what was happening to him—had already happened. Nothing less than the utter transformation of his life, and one he’d fought for years. Years.
Before long, though, Emily pushed him back.
“Are you safe, Em? Did he hurt you?” He looked her over for scrapes or bruises and saw no obvious injuries. “He pushed you. I saw you fall.”
She lifted her parasol with a regretful gaze at its condition. “This is the harm. I fear it’s destroyed.”
He looked to Maggie. One of his footmen had an arm around the young woman’s waist. “And you? He shoved you, too.”
Maggie burst out with, “I knew you’d come, milord. I knew you’d hear the ruckus and come to our aid.”
“Lady Bracebridge seems to have had things well in hand,” he replied. “You’re certain you’re not injured?”
“No, milord.”
“My dear,” he said to Emily, “I assume you are armed. Why the devil didn’t you shoot the fellow?”
Gopal handed him a small pistol, disassembled. “I found it there.” He pointed several feet distant.
“I was prepared to.” She spoke in a cool voice. He knew she would have. His wife had nerves of steel. “But I did not have a clear shot. I was afraid I’d miss and hurt a bystander.”
“My lord,” Gopal said, “I’ve hailed a cab for you and the ladies. I’ll walk back with the men while you see to your wife.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you.” He held out a hand for Frieda’s leash. Emily would worry if they didn’t take the dog with them, and he had no desire to let either of them out of his sight. He got Emily, Maggie, and the dog into the hansom cab and got in himself. Maggie, bless her, had already left room for him next to Emily. Frieda lay her head on Emily’s lap, who kept a tight grip on her collar while she stroked the dog’s head.
He kept his arms around Emily for the entire return to Cavendish Square. At one point, he pulled out his handkerchief and brushed away flecks of dirt clinging to Emily’s cheek. Too many words jammed in his throat, too many emotions.
Back at Margaret Street, Mrs. Elliot met them at the door, and Emily let go of his hand to run straight into the housekeeper’s arms. “He found us, he found us in time. Oh, I thought we’d lost her.”
“Hush, my love,” Mrs. Elliot said. “Hush, now.”
“You should have seen Bracebridge. He saved her. Mr. Rachagorla, too. Oh, Mrs. Elliot!” Emily dissolved into tears.
Mrs. Elliot looked at Bracebridge over Emily’s shoulder. “Thank you, my lord. Bless you.”
He gripped Frieda’s leash hard and found his throat was too tight with emotion to reply. He’d fallen in love with the damned dog.
Emily released the housekeeper and bent down to hug Frieda. Her shoulders heaved. “You trust too much, you silly dog,” she said in a damp voice. She wiped her eyes with one hand. “No more running off and assuming everyone loves you.”
Bracebridge hunkered down beside them. He slipped an arm around Emily’s shoulders and drew her close. “We got her back, Em.”
“You did. You did.”
“With the help of your parasol attack.”
She looked at him, eyes open wide, then she half laughed and half cried and threw her arms around him. He brought them to their feet, and she took a step back and went up on her toes to put her hands on either side of his face. “Thank you. From the depths of my soul, thank you.”
She made him feel like a bloody damned hero.