Page 17 of The Hidden Lord
The vehicle rocked as Gabriel took his place on the driver’s box and guided them away from Danbury’s estate, the sound of wheels on frozen ground marking their departure into an uncertain future.
The agents imprisoned in France had been kept from their families for years. They might never get another chance at freedom if Gabriel’s absence from Calais became known. But thinking about Miss Bigsby, Gabriel knew there was only one solution that could preserve her honor and his mission’s secrecy.
If he had to endure the hardship of his choice to come to England during the negotiations, if he had to make the ultimate sacrifice he had spent years avoiding, then so be it. Marriage it would be. A union would shield Miss Bigsby’s reputation and ensure her continued security, even if it meant the end of the meticulously controlled existence Gabriel had built as insurance against further loss.
The thought of binding himself to another person, of opening himself to the kind of devastating grief he had felt when his parents died and when Horace was murdered, filled Gabriel with a cold dread. But what choice did he have? He could not leaveher to talk about his presence, but because he had taken her, he could not abandon Miss Bigsby to face the consequences of vanishing. He would have to find a way to suppress his emotions and do his duty.
CHAPTER 5
“Alas, that ever I should be alive to be a traitor unto the most noble king that ever was.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
The blanket Lord Trenwith had placed over her provided little comfort against the bitter cold seeping through the carriage walls. Henri sat bound in the gloom of the curtained interior, her wrists secured behind her back with silk cords that refused to yield no matter how she twisted and pulled. The gag in her mouth made every breath feel labored, and panic clawed at her chest as the full enormity of her situation settled upon her.
This was Lord Gabriel Strathmore. Viscount Trenwith. A man she had known for some time through Uncle Reggie’s political circles, someone she had thought honorable despite his reputation for being somewhat aloof. How could she have read his character so completely wrong?
And yet, for all the outrageous nature of her situation, Henri found herself strangely unafraid of him. He had, after all, rescued her from that terrifying man with the pistol. Whatever his motives for this kidnapping, she could not forget the way he had moved to save her, the careful control he had demonstrated in subduing her attacker without permanent harm. There had been something almost protective in the way he had wrapped the manuscript and sketch, in how gently he had secured her bonds to avoid causing pain. Even his promise to set her free suggested this was not the act of a madman but of someone operating under constraints she did not yet understand.
“I shall explain everything when I can,” he had promised before they departed Danbury’s estate. “This is the best solution for both of us, Miss Bigsby.”
The best solution? Henri worked frantically at her bonds, trying to find some weakness in the knots, but Lord Trenwith had clearly known what he was about. The silk was smooth and strong, giving her no purchase to work herself free.
Her reputation was ruined. Utterly and completely destroyed. A young unmarried woman traveling alone with a man, bound and gagged in his carriage like some sort of criminal? When this became known, and it would become known, she would be finished in society. Her position with Uncle Reggie would be forfeit. Her family would be scandalized. Everything she had worked to build for herself would crumble to ash.
The carriage lurched over a particularly deep rut, and Henri had to bite down on the gag to keep from crying out as she was thrown against the hard seat. Lord Trenwith had removed anything from the interior that might serve as a weapon—the brass fittings, the small tools kept for emergencies, even the metal clasps and buckles that might be used to fray rope. He wasruthless in ensuring her captivity, which made his betrayal all the more shocking.
What could possibly drive a viscount to kidnap Reginald Wells’s secretary? She tried to think of reasons, turning over their previous conversations in her mind, searching for some clue she had missed. He had always been charming in their interactions, if somewhat distant. She had thought him merely reserved, perhaps even a bit lonely beneath that aristocratic coolness. Clearly, she had been a fool.
The carriage slowed, and Henri heard voices outside. Lord Trenwith was speaking to what sounded like an ostler about changing horses. She tried to make noise, to bang against the walls with her feet, but the sounds were muffled and pathetic. No one would hear her over the bustle of a coaching inn, and even if they did, they would likely assume it was merely luggage shifting about.
This was exactly why she had never married, Henri thought bitterly as the fresh horses were hitched and they resumed their journey. The very idea of being at the mercy of a man, of having no control over her own fate, had always appalled her. She valued her independence, her career with Uncle Reggie, the satisfaction of being useful and needed for her mind rather than merely ornamental. No husband would allow her to continue such work. Most would consider it unseemly for their wives to be so involved in political matters.
Unfortunately, she had never foreseen being kidnapped and, therefore, had no plan for such a contingency. All her careful arrangements for maintaining her independence were useless when faced with superior physical strength that left women vulnerable to men’s whims.
The weather began to worsen as the afternoon wore on. Henri could hear the wind picking up outside and see snowflakes settling on the carriage windows. Their progress slowed to acrawl, and eventually, they stopped altogether. She heard Lord Trenwith speaking to someone, another traveler perhaps or a local, who had warned him about road conditions ahead.
The door opened, bringing a blast of frigid air that made Henri shiver violently beneath her inadequate blanket. Lord Trenwith climbed inside, stamping snow from his boots and pulling off his gloves with stiff fingers.
“Miss Bigsby,” he said quietly, settling onto the opposite seat. “I have brought you some food from the last inn. You must be hungry.”
He produced a wrapped bundle and gently removed her gag, though he made no move to untie her hands. Henri worked her jaw, wincing at the stiffness, before fixing him with the most withering glare she could manage.
“How dare you,” she said, hoarse from hours of enforced silence. “How dare you treat me like some common criminal? I demand you release me immediately and return me to Sir Alpheus’s estate.”
“I cannot do that,” Lord Trenwith replied, unwrapping what appeared to be bread and cheese. “The roads ahead are impassable in this weather. We shall have to wait here until the storm passes.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Henri snapped. “I demand an explanation for this outrageous behavior. What could possibly justify kidnapping me?”
Lord Trenwith was quiet for a long moment, studying her face in the dim light filtering through the snow-covered windows. “There are forces at work that you do not understand, Miss Bigsby. Your safety, and the safety of others, depends upon your discretion.”
“My safety?” Henri laughed bitterly. “You are the one threatening my safety! My reputation is destroyed, my position ruined. What safety is there in that?”
“Your reputation can be protected,” he said quietly, “or restored, at least.” He leaned forward and released her bindings, tenderly caressing her wrists with his thumbs to ease the accumulated stiffness as if with genuine concern for her well-being.
Henri stared at him, trying to read the meaning behind his cryptic words. “How?”
But Lord Trenwith had already shifted back, moving to peer out the window at the swirling snow. “Eat,” he said, placing the food within her reach. “We may be here for some time.”
