Chapter Twenty-Three

C hapter T wenty - T hree

L ucy had never known empty days like this.

Three of them, all in a row, filled with nothing of significance or entertainment, nothing of substance, nothing of usefulness. Just nothing. She had seen her father twice in each of those days, one of which was supper, but there had been no show of affection or concern and no real care for her presence.

Why, then, had he wanted her home? She'd told him her story, and he'd only responded that hired carriage drivers could be so unpredictable, and it would all be better when he could afford to bring Cox back.

How he planned on affording that, he did not care to share. But the signs of his poor retrenchment were everywhere. The walls of the house were bare when their gallery had always been well stocked before. The furnishings of her room were no better than what she'd had at Ye Olde Wharf, and the bed was worse. The rooms where he might have visitors were furnished, but only with what could be considered the bare essentials for respectable people. Once the family rooms were looked at, there was almost nothing. One of the parlors did not have any furniture in it at all apart from a lopsided ottoman whose legs had been removed.

She imagined that had come with the house. There was no way her father would have kept such a thing from their former residence.

What he had chosen to keep was an interesting insight. She'd gone up into the attic yesterday and found all of her mother's remaining things in trunks. Most of her gowns had been given to Lucy when she'd gotten older and made over as a way of saving money, but there were one or two still salvageable, should she wish. Some of her watercolors were there, as well as sketches of Lucy as a child, none of which would have made any money, which was probably why they remained in the family's possession. There were also a few sets of jewels, which she distinctly remembered her mother wearing. These she took from the trunks to keep her father from ever selling them.

She had no idea if he'd ever stoop that far, but she was not willing to take the chance. Of course, they could be paste, given the way her father had always been and her mother's wisdom in that regard, but Lucy wanted these pieces for her own memories.

She recognized none of the furniture in the house, but there was a small writing desk in the attic that had once sat in her mother's parlor. So her father did have some tenderness towards the memory of her mother, it seemed. Why else would he keep a decent piece of furniture that could be sold?

As for her own belongings, Lucy had held no expectations, which had served her well. He'd kept almost nothing of her remaining clothing, which meant she only had the clothes at the school and Tilda's new creations to call her own. There had been no known recovery of her trunks, but since her father had never reported her missing, there had never been an investigation.

Perhaps Trace would one day find her trunks in his corner of London. Not that he would know they were hers. It was far more likely that someone would be wearing one of her dresses at some charity event that she would see, and then she would know that someone, at least, had profited off of the crime.

She could write to Tilda, she supposed, and let her know what had happened. But she could not call upon that woman's generosity again. She refused to become a charity case, and she was not so desperate as to beg. And besides, her father had not informed her of any social events for her to attend while she was here, so what need did she have for any other gowns?

She was curious as to why he was not pushing her out the door to events here in London. It was his favorite occupation for her, making him look good by whatever means necessary, and yet he had been going out without her every evening after supper. She did not mind it, as it allowed her time to read some of the few books in the house and to enjoy a small fire and pot of tea by herself, but the change was jarring, considering she had not been gone that many months.

Tonight, however, they would be attending a small supper and card party for someone she did not know. A lovely, respectable family, her father had said, and he'd be pleased if she would look her best. It was the nicest request he had made of her in years.

Which probably indicated they had an eligible son of decent prospects.

Everything was confusing for her at the moment, and her loneliness was only compounding it.

How could three days with Hunter feel like a lifetime? She had fallen in love with him after spending practically every moment of those three days with him, and now that he was gone, her life was a void. If she had been at the school, she would at least have something to fill her time and make her feel useful—a purpose and something to distract her from thoughts and emotions, memories and dreams—but here in her father's house?

There was nothing.

She had written Hunter so many letters that would never be sent. If he thought he was needed, if he thought she was in trouble, he would come, and she couldn't take him away from whatever it was that drove his life. She couldn't pretend that her loneliness was as important as someone else's protection, or whatever it was that he was involved in. Just because she wanted him with a depth and drive that showered her pillows with tears at night did not mean she had the power to bring him to her.

So she had her letters, all filling a blank diary she had found in the bottom of one of her childhood trunks in the attic. And to keep her brain active, she had written them in cipher, just as John had taught her. Her father was absolutely the sort of man to enter her room without permission and pry through her things, and if he knew that she had fallen in love with a man she'd met on the streets of the slums of London…

That would certainly give him reason to restrict her freedoms and fob her off on some eligible bachelor of means, with no consideration of age or taste.

Lucy smiled to herself as she recalled Hunter telling her on their first day that he was in line to be a viscount. His uncle held the title, or some such. She had no idea if that was in any way true, and she did not particularly care. Without knowing Hunter's surname, she couldn't look it up in Debrett's. She also didn't know Hal's surname, though she knew her real name was Henrietta, and she was married to John, but there was no surname given for John. He worked at Bow Street, but the idea of looking through every John who worked for or was associated with Bow Street? It was laughable.

She might have a chance of marrying Hunter if she knew his exact connection to the viscountcy, should it exist, but that would only matter to her father. She didn't know Hunter the future viscount. She knew Hunter the street wanderer. She knew Hunter the virtue defender. She knew Hunter the secret-opera-box companion. She knew Hunter the cèilidh dancer.

She knew Hunter the delicious kisser.

Lucy sat forward in her chair with a moan, putting her face into her hands. She could not continue to torture herself like this. Day in and day out, she relived her London street adventures because she had nothing else to do with herself. She needed to get out of this darkness she was content to wrap herself in, this agony and ecstasy of her memories, and do something with herself instead of simply exist.

Christmas was in two days, and then she would ask to return to the school. Surely her father could not argue that with her. She had come home for the holidays, as he had requested, and he had not done anything that had resembled familial connection or festive celebration. Perhaps she could make the decision and inform him of it instead of asking for his thoughts.

Taking charge of her own life might be the next step to improving things. Perhaps that was what her time with Hunter could teach her and would help her to improve the quality of her life going forward. He was a man, and therefore his life was his own to control, but he associated with such independent women and respected them so highly. He did not expect them to fit into specific little boxes that had been designated for them by others.

He saw them for the women they were and the skills and talents they held. He valued them for these things and for their particular and peculiar natures. They took their lives by the reins and drove them in the direction they wished, not the other way around. There was no other driver in their lives but themselves, and Lucy hadn't tried to do anything of the sort.

Except for the one time she had taken someone else's advice and tried for the open position at Miss Masters's School for Fine Young Ladies.

She did have this power within her. She'd already tested it once with great success. All she had to do was continue to pursue this bolder, more determined version of herself. This woman who had loved every moment of the unexpected, risk-infused life in corners of London she'd never seen. This woman who had run from an opera's staff chasing her for the theatre fee. This woman who had danced all night with strangers and kissed a man for the first time in her life in their midst. This woman who had fallen asleep in his arms without fear or shame, without regret or remorse, who had asked him what she should do if she did not need him but wanted him.

There was an independent woman in Lucy. She had simply never allowed her the breathing room to do much. She hadn't known that she could allow her that sort of breathing room. Her entire life had been conformity into a particular role or figure or form, whatever her father dictated. But now her father was not invested in her or her life, and still she was allowing him to dictate how she viewed herself.

"No more," she murmured to herself as she straightened, lowering her hands to her lap and shaking her head. "No more."

She looked at the clock on the mantle, which was the only properly working item in her room and sighed. It was time to begin getting ready for their evening plans. With only Betsy in the house for a maid, it was hardly worth the effort to have her hair finely dressed. Betsy was trying to keep up with all of the household chores aside from what Cook had agreed to do in the kitchens and what Pond could do as butler, valet, and footman. There was no time for her to dress Lucy or her hair.

Besides, Lucy was more than capable of doing both fairly well.

There was a faint scratching at her door, and she turned to look at it with a hint of amusement. No one in this house usually scratched at doors. "Come in?"

The door fairly burst open on its hinges and two men entered, kerchiefs tied over their faces, gloves covering their hands. And they came directly for Lucy.

"No!" she screamed, hastily backing up, slamming into the desk chair and tumbling over. "No, please!"

But they seized her arms and legs, one of them large enough to hold her wrists with one hand while covering her mouth with another. She thrashed in his hold and attempted to bite down on his hand, but the gloves were made of a thick leather, and her teeth had no impact on them. Her legs and wrists were bound with cloth while another length was tied around her mouth before she was lifted from her place on the floor and chair. Then she was bodily flung over the shoulder of the large one and carried from her room.

Lucy screamed with all her might against her gag, but only muffled sounds came free. The house was not large, but with so few people within, there were fewer people to hear.

Instead of using the main stairs to escape, the men carried her down the servants' stairs. Far out of earshot of anyone working among the house, and given the lack of staff, they were unlikely to encounter anyone. How did they know their way around the house? The staff here had come with Lucy's father to retrench, and they had all known her for several years. They treated her with kindness and care, even with the abuses of her father upon each of them with their minimal wages and maximum workload.

But perhaps someone had been driven to this because of her father. Perhaps that was what had happened upon her arrival in London from Kent. Perhaps all of this was to try and teach her father a lesson, and she was simply the weapon that had been chosen to do so.

Unfortunately for whomever was scheming in such a way, she was not an effective weapon to use upon the man.

Whomever it was, whatever it was, this abduction was not about to be foiled, unless someone else was planning on meeting a contact in the corners of Camden Town. Evening had fallen, but surely someone would notice if she were being put into a coach against her will. She had to hope for someone to step in, just as Hunter had done. She had to keep hoping that someone would see this and help her.

To her surprise, once the men opened the servants' entrance door, they did not go towards Greenland Street, where the front door was. They moved towards the back of the house and into a small mews that barely seemed to fit them all. Lucy tried to look around her captor to see where they were heading, only to be turned and tossed roughly into the back of a wagon, her elbow and head whacking against the wood sharply.

Stars flickered in front of her eyes just as a canvas was tied down across the top of the wagon, hiding her from view. She yelled and screamed against her gag, thrust her bound hands against the canvas, and kicked her ankles mightily, but all to no avail. The canvas was strapped down so tightly that it did not give at all when she pressed against it, and she could not even push up on her hands and knees. She tried inching towards the back of the wagon, hoping there might be an opening wide enough for her to slip through in spite of the canvas, but the wagon lurched forward then, slamming her against the backboard with a sickening thud, even to her own ears.

The wagon wheels creaked, but the horses moved at a decent pace even out of the mews, and within moments they were out on a main street. The poor light made it impossible to even guess in which direction they were heading, and Lucy knew almost nothing about Camden Town to be able to guess or note any familiar sights, even if she could see them.

Weakly, she nudged her feet against the backboard of the wagon, closing her eyes in a faint prayer that it might give a little, but she could hear the telltale sounds of metal bolts and chains. She turned on her side and pressed up into the canvas again, reaching over the backboard, but only her smallest finger could get through. Everything was fastened and secured, and there was no escape for her.

Which meant she would have to wait for her absence to be noted, and for someone to do something about it. Or she would have to take matters into her own hands once she was delivered to her destination. She had no particular skills when it came to criminal activity, and she was not physically imposing or talented, but she did have a quick mind, according to John. Surely, she could find a way out of this once she was there.

She had nothing to offer anyone for herself, which meant she was not likely to come to danger. Her father had no money to raise for a ransom, but he was good at making profitable connections. There was hope to be found there, she supposed. After all, no respectable man would want it to be known that his daughter was missing, even if he was not especially fond of her.

Lucy curled into a ball in her wagon bed as it thumped and rattled along the streets of London, knowing bruises were going to form all along her body from the excursion. She needed to save her strength as much as possible if she was going to attempt an escape. Wherever they were going, whatever the plan for her was, she couldn't do anything about it now.

Tears leaked from her eyes all the same, and she clung to the image of Hunter dancing with her at the cèilidh , looking at her as though the stars of the heavens were dancing in her eyes.

I love you.

She hadn't imagined him saying those words as she'd fallen asleep. She couldn't have. She'd heard them, felt them against her hair, experienced the way his arms tightened around her as he'd whispered them. He loved her and had told her when he thought she wouldn't hear. She wasn't meant to know his feelings, and she knew why.

Duty was his guiding light—Hal had told her as much—and his life was dangerous. He wouldn't want to put Lucy in danger or give her reason to cling to him when it would be dangerous to do so. He had pretended at distance when they'd parted for her sake, loving her all the while. She'd known she had to return to her father's house. She'd always known that. Somehow, there had been hope in her reprieve from that life, and in dreaming that they could make something together in spite of everything.

But they had both known better, so the parting had come.

Yet he loved her. And she knew full well that she loved him. He might not know her feelings, but she knew them well. The opportunity to tell him might never come, but he deserved to know, did he not? Or would that affect his sense of duty and disrupt what made him the man he was?

None of that mattered now, she supposed. Being tossed to and fro in the back of a wagon, bound and gagged, and taken to locations unknown tended to put things into a particular perspective. She could worry about Hunter knowing of her love another time, perhaps when her safety was once more in place. She could wrap his love around her like a protective shield or a comforting quilt during this time of fear and would do so freely.

The rest of it would have to work itself out later.

The wagon continued to turn, rattle, and bounce over cobblestone, making her head ache along with the rest of her body. There was nothing in here to make her in any way comfortable, so she tried to lay her face against her arms to keep from additional injury in her neck or head. With her eyes closed, she might be able to imagine herself stretched out in a carriage, poorly sprung and in need of better cushions, but a carriage nonetheless, and the opportunity to rest within could be upon her. The waning light of evening was made even less by the tight canvas above her, so she might imagine herself better able to sleep in this darkness.

She would know more when she woke, and nothing could be done until she did. With all that in mind, surely sleep ought to come to her.

Sleep, of course, had other ideas.

She lost track of time while she hovered between sleep and waking, stopped considering the directions of turns and the implication of large bumps in the road. She ignored the sounds around her of other horses and carriages, of voices attending parties or theatres or clubs, of shouts and calls and the unmistakable sounds of the river slapping against the boats and ships in port. All of these were there, all of them meant something, and yet all of it meant nothing to her.

The sounds of the river increased, yet the wheels were bouncing and creaking over stones at the same time. A different, hollow-sounding creaking.

The bridge. They were crossing the Thames into the southern part of the city.

Lucy groaned and turned her face into her arm, exhaling without tears. She knew absolutely nothing about this side of London. Her escape would be all the more difficult, as she would now need to attempt to find one of the bridges to cross over, unless she could find a decent ferryman who would not take advantage of her. And also would not require payment, as she had no money.

At least she was wearing one of Tilda's simpler gowns at the moment. She would not appear as a fine lady to anyone, which would only work in her favor. Unless it made her an easier target for those who wished to take certain liberties.

The dangers were weighing on her; the reality of her present situation something that could not be ignored. This was the situation she would have been in last week if not for Hunter. This completely helpless feeling of being devoid of resources and help, of having to rely on one's own abilities, knowing they were limited at best for what must be faced.

"What would Tilda do?" Lucy whispered to herself.

She began to giggle at the thought. Tilda would be profoundly outraged at being strapped into the back of a wagon. She would be full of indignities about being trussed at hand and foot—such an inelegant state for a lady—and would probably have a weapon hidden somewhere on her body.

Lucy had no such weapons, she was quite certain, and even if she had, she would have no idea how to use them. Even the fan with a hidden blade Tilda had given her sat neatly on her bedside table, serving absolutely no purpose whatsoever.

Utterly useless. That was what she was at the moment. Useless as a hostage and useless as a potential escapee.

This was not going to end well.

Hope, that weak, flickering flame she had been determined to have, was wavering even more than before, winking in and out within her.

It felt as though the wagon had driven the entire night, though she knew that was not the case, when it finally pulled to a stop. Lucy lay as still as possible, making the decision to feign sleep for her captors. Perhaps they would speak more freely if they thought she could not hear them, just as Hunter had done the other night.

She heard the ropes being loosened across the top of the wagon and felt the rush of air as the canvas was thrown back. The bolts of the wagon backboard were unhooked, and she felt arms reaching under her and dragging her body towards the back of the wagon.

"Is she dead?" one of them asked, not sounding particularly concerned.

"Don't think so, she's still warm." She was hefted into arms, thankfully not thrown over a shoulder this time, and carried away from the wagon. "She don't weigh nothing, you know. Like a leaf."

"Well, she'd better be worth it. You know what happened to them that botched the first time." There was no laughter after his statement, but she thought the one who held her stiffened at the mention.

That wasn't good.

"We've got her, though. That was our task," the one carrying her pointed out. "We got her here, and no one followed."

"She's nothing," the other pointed out. "I heard Key, mate. He wants her father to pay for not arranging the first better, and she's just going to be off to the plan once the payment comes through."

They weren't holding their tongues, that was for certain, but there was some sort of code here that she wasn't following. Her father was involved, that was easy enough to pick apart, but arranging the first? Did that mean the first kidnapping? Had her father had something to do with her abduction attempt? Could that explain why he hadn't looked for her? And what did they mean that she would be "off to the plan" when payment came through? What plan? Where was it?

How could she be nothing and still be part of some plan?

And if her father was supposed to pay for something, those expecting it would be waiting a very long time, unless she was mistaken. Unless things had changed, or he had developed better skills at his gaming.

Whatever plan she was going to be forced into, it would seem that her being returned to her father was not part of it. How much did he know about this present abduction? How involved was he in the plan they were talking about?

They entered a building, and Lucy immediately caught the stench of fish, of sawdust, of alcohol, and of citrus. The only thing she could guess was that it must be some building on a wharf or dock on the river, but there were hundreds of those, and they all looked exactly the same.

Lucy forced her body to be entirely relaxed as she was laid down on a rough wooden floor with surprisingly gentle hands, and a blanket was laid over her. Footsteps faded away from her, but she could still hear the voices. Until she knew more, until she understood what part she was meant to play, and what part her father did play, she needed to remain here and take in as much as she could. And if she could appear as innocent as possible, she might not be so carefully watched.

Perhaps she could begin to adjust the linen binding her ankles and wrists, if she moved slowly enough. She cracked her eyes open just a touch to see if she was obstructed from view, and snapped them shut when she saw that, to her disappointment, she was very much out in the open, apart from one barrel near her head.

Well. How was she going to get out of this?