Page 39 of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover
The man who held her tied her hands together, and then her feet, before hoisting her over his shoulder. She caught a glimpse of two other men, also hard brutes. Four men to take out her and her escort. It was, of course, a trap, but what for? Ransom?
The thin-faced woman spoke for the first time. “Here, what about the man? You can’t leave him here. If he wakes up, he’ll tell them I gave her to you.”
“Your problem,” the first man said.
“There’s another one on the stairs.” That was one of the other men.
“Her problem,” the first man repeated. “We’ve got a delivery to make.” He glared at the silent seamstresses. “Keep your mouths shut or I’ll come back and kill the lot of you.”
* * *
The thin-faced woman followed them down to the flat on the floor below, wringing her hands and complaining. John lay unconscious just inside the door. Two of them stuffed Sarah into a large sack, ignoring John and the complaining woman as well. Through the stink of the gag, Sarah could smell wheat.
“You can’t leave ‘im ‘ere in my flat,” the woman shrieked, but Sarah’s kidnappers didn’t reply. Sarah was hoisted back onto a shoulder, and carried downstairs. Her carrier’s shoulder dug into her belly, and he bumped her head on a wall or doorway a couple of times as he turned corners. She tried to ignore the pain, block out the panic, and listen for any clue about what was happening.
Now they were outside. Perhaps her driver would see them, but no. All he would see was a man carrying a sack. In any case, as far as she could tell, they had turned the other way in the alley. Fifty paces, more or less, and she was dumped onto wood. A cart. She could hear someone clicking his tongue and telling a horse to gee up, and then she was being jostled around against the moving surface.
They drove for what seemed a long time. She couldn’t tell if all her kidnappers were still with her, because they didn’t speak; the only voices she heard were the driver’s occasional command to the horses, and people farther away, talking in the streets as they passed.
They wanted her, or rather Charlotte, alive. She kept reminding herself of that, shying away from the question of what they would do when they found they had the wrong twin. If they found out. She wasn’t going to tell them. Not unless it gave her an advantage.
At last, the cart stopped and someone hoisted her back onto a shoulder. She felt the change in the air, heard the difference in the footsteps, as they entered a building. “Got her,” someone said. The first man, she thought.
“Bring her through here.” That was a woman’s voice, and one of some refinement, though with a hint of the slums in some of the vowels.
Sarah was dropped to the floor with a thud. “Careful! Don’t bruise the merchandise!” the woman growled.
Merchandise? That couldn’t be good. The sack was opened, shaken, so that she slid out, feet first, and landed in a heap on the carpet in a small parlour. Sarah’s first impression was of gilt, red velvet, and too many mirrors. Her second was of cut-price workmanship.
She sat up and looked at the woman who had presumably ordered her kidnapping: a plump female in her middle years, heavily painted and in a dress that matched the room—gaudy and cheaply made.
The woman glared at her as one of the brutes fumbled at the knot of her gag. “You are not Lady Charlotte Winderfield,” the woman said. “Charley, this is not Charlotte Winderfield. This is her sister, Lady Sarah.”
The man addressed as Charley looked at Sarah as if it were her fault. “Maybe the gent won’t mind,” he suggested. “One skirt is much like another. Still a lady, isn’t she?”
The woman narrowed her eyes at Sarah in speculation. “Maybe. But it was Lady Charlotte we paid that silly bint Wilton for, and Lady Charlotte the gentleman ordered. What were you doing there, Lady Sarah?”
Sarah spat out the disgusting lump of sodden cloth. “Lady Bentham,” she said. It sounded ridiculous, insisting on her married name, but perhaps the fact she was a Viscountess and the daughter-in-law of an earl would add weight to her status as a duke’s niece and convince these idiots to let her go. If, as she supposed, a gentleman had hoped to pressure Charlotte into marrying him, the fact that she was here instead, and was married, would put a spoke in his wheel.
“Oo’s Lady Bentham?” Charley asked.
“I am. I am married to Viscount Bentham, heir to the Earl of Lechton. Your men kidnapped me while I was running a message for my sister.”
The woman cursed long and fluently. Sarah understood about half the words and all of the tone. When the woman ran down, she said to Charley, “’E won’t want her now. Get rid of ‘er.” She had lost her imitation of genteel speech in her agitation.
“Send ‘er back, you mean?” Charley asked.
The woman sneered. “Kill her, fat wit. She has seen me and you. We’ll hang if she gets free and she’s no use to ‘im married.”
“Seems a waste of a choice bit of skirt. We could put ‘er to work in the ‘ouse,” Charley suggested.
“And risk ‘er escaping? I wouldn’t ‘ave touched ‘er, even when the Beast set it all up, if the gentleman ‘adn’t been prepared to pay two thousand gold, and take ‘er out of the country. If he don’t want ‘er, we ‘ave to get rid of ‘er before ‘er family comes looking.”
Charley nodded, slowly, but one of the other men cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we ask the gennelman? ‘E could make ‘er a widow easy enough. And there’s ‘arf the fee still to come.”
Sarah saw the woman consider this suggestion and was relieved at the thoughtful nod. “Very well. Lock her upstairs, and I’ll get a message to him.”
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