Page 26 of Hold Me Fast
But, from what Tammie had heard, Deidre Tempest was a much tougher female than Tamsyn had been. The shy country girl sent away against her wishes had few defenses against Guy’s persuasion and manipulations.
Only her love for Jowan had kept her from submitting to Guy for the two years it took to accept that Jowan was not going to even reply to her letters, let alone come looking for her. Later, of course, she realized Guy had kept their correspondence from reaching one another.
La Tempestwas a city child, born to a stage dancer, raised in London theaters, and orphaned since she was thirteen. She’d made her way doing odd jobs until she’d gained enough skill with the violin to join the theatre’s orchestra.
Unlike Tamsyn, who had been sold by her mother, Deidre had sold herself, placing herself in front of Guy, demanding an audition, and impressing Guy enough that he had signed a contract with her then and there, and brought her home. Who seduced whom was an open question.
Did Deidre mean to take Tammie’s place as Guy’s princess? She was welcome to it, but Tammie still felt she should warn the girl about the likely costs.
The company was turning in through the gates to Hyde Park, riding four abreast. They split into two columns to pass an open carriage, and Tammie nodded and smiled at the ladies and the gentleman in the carriage. One of the ladies waved, but the others looked as if they had swallowed something sour.
The procession was having the intended effect. People looked, even if they refused to acknowledge the riders. Gentlemen on their own hailed Guy and well-born members of his entourage, as did some ladies. A few gentlemen even waved at some of Guy’s musicians and singers.
But even those who pretended Guy and his people did not exist altered their course around the group of riders. And those of the lower sort had no hesitation in enjoying the display, waving and calling out. Several boys ran along beside the horses.
Tammie imagined Guy’s pleasure at the response, though he was too far ahead for her to see his face. Nonetheless, she felt her tension ease. Nobody in his household or his wider orbit could relax when Guy was out of sorts.
They did a complete circuit around the park’s main ride. Tammie wished they would hurry. The craving had started, reminding her it was time for another dose of laudanum—Guy continued to allow her enough to prevent the worst of the suffering of going without, and not enough to fully immerse herself in the dreams.
She shifted uncomfortably, glad they were once again approaching the gate on the way home. The craving had, as always, started as an itch at the back of her mind, but was now beginning to crawl over her body.
She looked around again, hoping for a distraction. A man stepped out from the shelter of several trees and removed his hat. Jowan! He was looking directly at Tammie, and she could not prevent her smile. A quick look around suggested that no one had noticed.
She turned her eyes back to Jowan. He was still watching. He nodded, his face still and his gaze intent. Had he received her message? Did he know she was a prisoner of the elf king? She returned the nod, then tore her attention away before someone in the company remarked on her interest.
She tried to tell herself that Jowan would rescue her, but hope was too precious, too pure for the likes of her. He had only to ask in theatrical circles and he would soon know that Tamsyn was lost beyond redemption, and Tammie was too corrupted, too broken to save.
Chapter Ten
Wakefield had areport for them the next morning on the missing solicitor. “The short version is that he died four years ago. His files were boxed up and sent to his only surviving cousin, a widow who lives in Devon, in Plymouth. It isn’t necessarily bad news. If you can find the paperwork that links your father to the investments he made on your father’s behalf, you will be able to claim the proceeds.”
He handed over the name and last known address of the widow.
He also had news about Thatcher, the man who had fled a couple of weeks ago before he could be apprehended. He had not outpaced his crimes, however. He had been arrested in Oxford after another cheated client recognized him. Since Jowan and Bran had left statements with the magistrate here in London, they would not be needed for any court case, and they’d found their own investors to put the new mine project back on track.
“So, we’ve succeeded in two of the tasks for which we came to London,” Jowan mused. “And I have a plan for the last.”
“You’ve been able to speak with Miss Lind?” Wakefield asked.
“Not precisely,” Jowan admitted. “She sent me a message.”
Wakefield shifted, a rare sign of unease in a man who was usually highly controlled. “I have not yet finished writing up my report on Miss Lind, or Miss Roskilly, as she was when you knew her. The information is… disturbing. She may well hope for rescue from Coombe—she has made previous attempts to escape. However, it is unlikely she will want to return to Cornwall. She certainly is not the girl you remember.”
Jowan fought down the urge to loudly refute Wakefield’s point. The man spoke the truth as he saw it, even if the medicine he administered was bitter. “Once she is out of Coombe’s hands, we can ask her what she wants.”
“She may not know, or she may change her mind,” Wakefield warned. “She is an opium user, Sir Jowan. Other things, too. Ether. Alcohol. An eastern drug called hashish. If you know anything about opium eaters, you will know it is a disease with them. It seizes the mind, until, deprived of the drug, the eater will do anything at all for a dose, whether it is immoral or not, illegal, dangerous, or improper. I have heard of rare cases where long-term users break free of the yearning for the drug, but through a long hard path that few can follow.”
Jowan swallowed. “She was my father’s responsibility,” he replied. “He brought Coombe to St Tetha and brokered what I can only call a sale between Coombe and Mrs. Roskilly. I owe Miss Lind a rescue, Wakefield, and whatever help she needs to regain her health, if she chooses to take that path.”
If she chose to leave Jowan again, then so be it. What he had just said to Wakefield was the truth, and his own hopes and dreams were none of Wakefield’s business nor any of Tamsyn’s responsibility.
“You have a plan, you say?” asked Wakefield.
“The beginnings of one,” Jowan admitted. “I think our best chance to take her is when Coombe and his acolytes and pet musicians ride in Hyde Park, which they do at least once every week. Miss Lind rides near the rear of the procession, and Coombe near the front. I propose to swoop in on a fast horse, scoop Miss Lind up, and ride away.”
He’d only thought as far as the escape. “We will have some kind of a shell game, swapping to another horse, or having several similar horses with riders and pillion passengers, but the real horse will be led out of sight once Miss Lind is in an anonymous carriage. After that—obviously, I will need a place to take her and a plan to prevent Coombe from finding her.”
Wakefield nodded. “That could work. And Miss Lind is in favor?”
