Chapter 11

11

In the dimlight of early Sunday morning, Joanna crouched beside Spencer’s carriage in the quiet mews behind Sumhall. The weather was windy today, angry, dark clouds promising rain. With a small wrench clutched tightly in her hand, she reached for the wheel’s axle. Her plan was simple yet, she hoped, effective: to loosen the wheel just enough to cause a delay, but not enough to be dangerous.

As she worked the wrench on the nuts holding the wheel in place, she felt a mix of adrenaline and anxiety. The wrench clicked quietly with each turn, barely audible over the faint rustling of the jasmine-laden air. She glanced around, but the pristine white Sumhall, the stables, and the two neat household buildings across the mews from her were quiet. The servants’ door didn’t move; the shutters and curtains in all windows of the four-story house remained still. She glanced to the brick wall with the carriage gates at the other side of the mews. Her escape route with a barrel standing right next to the wall was still clear. On the other side of the wall, the horse she had hired from the stables several blocks away from her house stood waiting.

With each turn, she carefully calculated the extent of loosening, ensuring it would slow the carriage down without risking detachment. She didn’t want a real accident; her aim was merely to buy herself some time.

As she worked, she thanked the lack of corset, petticoats, and skirts but cursed the tightness of her brother’s coat around her bosom. Still, his pantaloons provided much freedom of movement, which had been helpful when climbing the wall, not to mention how convenient it was to ride the horse astride.

If no one looked too closely, and she could lower Gideon’s top hat over her face, she could pass as a small round gentleman. Riding a horse through Mayfair was less risky so early in the morning, when most wealthy inhabitants would have just come back from balls and soirées and gone to sleep. Once she finished with Spencer’s carriage, she’d be off to Whitechapel to catch the man and get the information she needed.

Of course, Spencer could still hire a hackney, but he’d lose time and give her an advantage in any case.

She’d finished her story for the newspaper before the deadline yesterday, at the expense of not having done anything for the investigation. But she still needed the income, now with all the additional expenses—such as hiring horses and hackneys and potentially bribing informants—more than ever. She had to win. She was quite desperate to have Spencer lose. Not just because of her virginity. And not just because of her sister’s honor and reputation.

But because Spencer had made it clear he wanted Ashton to be punished for whatever crime the man had committed. However, if Ashton got convicted, he’d be stripped of his title, his property, and his income.

And so would Gideon. She and her siblings would lose everything, including the family home they had grown up in, of which her uncle was still in possession.

Time was running out, and there was still no word from Mr. Linsby, who hadn’t proposed yet in any event.

Joanna paused, listening for any signs of activity from Sumhall’s servants, but all was silent. Satisfied with her work, she began to withdraw, but the wrench slipped from her sweaty grasp, clattering against the cobblestones with a noise that seemed deafening.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she quickly scooped up the wrench, her gaze darting to the house. The curtains remained motionless, the doors shut. Relief washed over her, but the thrill of her daring act lingered.

She turned to run for the fence.

Spencer stood before her like a wall, blocking her escape. “Do you need help with that, Miss Digby?”

Her stomach dropped. How could such a big man move so silently?

The sight of his massive chest under his navy blue dressing gown had her breath catching. Soft, dark hair covered the mighty muscles of his chest, leading to broad collarbones, and the thick neck of a fighter. She swallowed, meeting his gaze, her mouth dry.

“Good morning, Lord Seaton,” she said. “I was just making sure you get to Whitechapel on time.”

He clicked his tongue, his dark eyes perusing her from head to toe. “You could have fooled me. I thought I saw a man trying to sabotage the wheels of my carriage. And yet, it’s you, and you’re fixing it.”

She chuckled nervously, the wrench heavy and cold in her hand. “I should go. It seems your carriage is fine.”

She tried to duck past him, but he caught her by the hand, grabbed the wrench with his other hand, and dropped it on the ground, the sound of iron clanking against stones again hurting Joanna’s ears. But it was the feel of his hot fingers around her wrist that had a shudder of sensation like shooting stars run through her.

“What am I going to do with you, Miss Digby? You naughty girl. Playing dirty, aren’t you?”

His gaze dropped to her thighs and lingered there, darkening. In response, her skin tingled, and she felt like the fabric was shrinking around her legs.

“It’s you who plays dirty, sir,” she replied. “Putting my honor and my virginity at stake.”

He chuckled and pulled her to his chest, the feel of him like a warm and hard wall. “You are begging to be punished, my Persephone, aren’t you? You are begging to be in my bed, are you not? Let me oblige.”

Before she could reply, he bent his knees and threw her over his shoulder. She squealed and tried to wriggle out of his arms, but again, he was too strong.

“Help!” she yelled. “Let me go!”

But the ground flashed quickly before her eyes, and he held her thighs against him like an iron vise. She wasn’t a small woman. How could he toss her about so easily? They walked through the servants’ corridor, where astonished footmen, cooks, and maids watched them with open mouths.

“My lord, is everything—?” asked one of them, but Spencer interrupted.

“Everything’s fine,” he barked.

“Everything is not fine!” she yelled. “You must help me!”

“Do not listen to him,” said Spencer. “It’s a friend from the navy. We’re only jesting.”

Perhaps she was wrong about him being able to carry her so easily, or perhaps her wriggling and struggling and kicking and thumping against his back finally got to him, but by the time he climbed the stairs, he was limping and he walked slower. Grunts of pain came from his chest. She knew if only she’d kick harder now, she could get free of him, but before she could, he brought her into a bedroom and closed the door, turning a key in the lock.

Surprisingly gently, he put her on the floor and panted, his face wrinkled in genuine pain and covered in droplets of sweat. He was rubbing his thigh. Joanna shouldn’t feel sorry for him, or concerned—he certainly didn’t feel concerned for her comfort, carrying her over his shoulder like that.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “It’s me. I’m so heavy—”

What was she doing? He’d just kidnapped her, and she was apologizing about her weight inconveniencing his efforts.

“Miss Digby,” he grumbled, straightening up. “You are just deliciously heavy enough for me.”

Her mouth went dry again, and it finally came to her awareness that she was alone with him in his bedroom. There was a large, beautifully carved bed that felt like it occupied the whole room despite plenty more space between it and a fireplace with a coal grate, a desk standing by the windows and several chairs and a small, round table. It was masculine, set in the tones of the sea, with dark blues and teals and the colors of ochre and sand in patterns of vines and flowers in the fabrics of upholstery, bedspreads, and curtains.

“It is not you that causes me discomfort. It’s my leg…” he murmured, limping around the room and stopping to flex and straighten his knee, as though to relieve stiffness. “It’s my damned wound.”

She had an inconvenient urge to ask him to show it to her, and to try to help him, to take care of him, even though she had no idea how.

“You never told me what happened…”

His face darkened for a moment, his eyes haunted. She thought he’d tell her, as he opened his mouth, but his face grew cold, and he took three large steps towards her and grabbed her by both wrists.

“You never told me what was in that letter.” He tugged her towards the armchair, and pressed down on her shoulders so that she sat in it.

She gasped in indignation. “Lord Seaton!”

She jumped to her feet, but before she could rise, he sat on top of her, straddling her, the weight of him both too much and not enough. She inhaled sharply again, trapped between his powerful thighs. His chest and hard stomach were so close to her, she was bathing in his masculine scent. She was so shocked by the assault of his presence that she didn’t give any meaning to it when he unwrapped the belt of his dressing gown from around his waist. He reached behind her, the skin of his chest brushing against her nose and lips…so warm…surprisingly soft…a little salty…and smelling so delicious, she ached to lick it.

“Wait a little, Miss Digby,” he murmured. “And you can enjoy me all night long. Hopefully this night.”

Distracted by his proximity, she realized what he was doing too late. He was tying her hands behind the chair’s back! She gasped in indignation and tried to wriggle her arms to free herself, but he held her too strongly, his swift hands tying the belt around her.

“You will pay for this,” she growled. “I will not let you get away with this!”

Chuckling, he leaned over her again to retrieve something from the desk behind the chair. Without standing up, he then leaned to the side and proceeded to tie her ankle to the chair with his cravat. She jerked and thrust against him, but he was too strong, and he let out a groan that sounded more of pleasure than pain.

“Pray, Miss Digby,” he said rather breathlessly, “do endeavor to find ease while you wait for me here.” He stroked a hand along her other calf before tying that leg to the chair, as well. “After I have interviewed the man in Whitechapel, I’ll come back to collect your wager.”

“You monster,” she grated out as he stood up, looking her over with a satisfied smirk. “You have no idea what you’re doing to my family!”

He took in a deep breath and released it. “I warned you, do you remember? Do not expect honorable acts from me. But if you tell me what was in that letter in Ashton’s study, I will consider releasing you now.”

Joanna groaned. What should she do? If he knew what those words meant, he would have a much bigger advantage than her. In combination with him getting a head start to Petticoat Street, that would mean Joanna’s complete defeat.

“And you’d take me with you, then?” she asked.

“Of course not. But it would be amusing to see how you try and get there before me without your horse.”

She scowled. Even if she gave him the information, she’d still lose. He was a scoundrel through and through.

“Go to hell.”

He came to her and leaned down, planting a kiss on her mouth, and she hated how her body filled with need and ache just from a simple touch of his lips against hers.

He picked up some clothes and his shoes, then walked into the dressing room that was connected to his bedchamber. He emerged, all confident, calm, and collected.

His gaze slowly trailed down her body to settle between her parted legs, and her whole body began heating.

“This is the perfect position to get started,” he said, his voice hoarse and rumbling. “I’m almost sorry to be leaving you like this.”

Muttering curses under her breath like never before, Joanna watched him leave the room. The arrogant man didn’t even bother to lock the door again now that she was so securely bound!

As the sound of his footsteps faded, Joanna frantically surveyed the room for any means of escape. God, how she despised him! Equally she berated herself. She had practically walked into his trap, ensnaring herself in his clutches with her own actions. Had she not come to sabotage his carriage, she wouldn’t be here. She could already be in Whitechapel and be the first one to find the man.

Joanna fumed, glaring at the opulent room. She was annoyed at how masculine and comfortable everything was. How it smelled just like him—juniper and cedarwood. There was even a punching bag. And how incredibly alluring it had been when he tied her up like that!

She let out a sharp, long sigh. She needed to stay calm and collected and actually do something about getting out of here. Her gaze dropped to the poker next to the fireplace. Not sharp enough. She needed a knife or something similar. A letter opener perhaps? There was nothing on his desk.

She looked towards the dressing room door. Perhaps something there… With difficulty, she began making jerking movements, the chair barely moving against the thick, plush rug. But she was slowly shifting forward! She panted, her stomach like pins and needles, her breath heavy. Twenty minutes later, she finally reached the open door of the dressing room, sweaty and breathless.

But when she saw a razor on the vanity table, she knew she had found her escape.

The table was higher than her bound hands. Joanna resumed her jerky forward thrusts, inching the chair closer. She would have to knock the razor off the table, then somehow tip the chair over to retrieve it from the ground.

With every inch closer, exhilaration surged through her body.

Lord Spencer Seaton had the upper hand, but he hadn’t won yet.