Chapter Seventeen

Terror gripped Charity's spine with icy fingers as she laid haphazardly on a squabbed bench in a closed carriage. Fear clogged her throat to the point that she had difficulties breathing.

Someone had come into the modiste's shop where she'd been doing final fittings for a few of the gowns she'd ordered. The two men—dressed like any other gentleman in society—burst in and yanked her off the wooden block where she'd stood before a looking glass. Though the modiste and seamstresses had screamed for assistance, the men didn't care. They'd taken her away as if she'd had no more agency than a sack of grain, brazenly tossed her into a closed carriage right there on the street, bound her wrists with rope behind her back, and then slammed the door.

Seconds later, the vehicle had dipped as someone went onto the driver's box. After that, it had lurched into movement, and she was once more kidnapped by a stranger in London.

I refuse to let this happen again .

"Such a pretty gown, Lady Winteringham. The peacock-blue color suits your skin tone, and I'm sure it will reflect lovely in your eyes, especially beneath candlelight." The soft, feminine voice grated across Charity's nerves for all the saccharine sweetness therein, but those tones were familiar.

She huffed, determined not to show emotion before this woman, this bully. "The gown was intended for a midsummer ball my husband wished to attend next month." As she'd understood it a few days ago when Michael had told her, his friend Alexander Burgess who'd married a duchess and had once been with Bow Street, had decided to throw a ball. It was a way to celebrate gratitude for everything in his life, and a way to have his friends up to his home in the Lake District.

"Mmm, I'm afraid those plans are in jeopardy. It would be a shame if it's the last one you will ever wear." The singsong quality to her voice only added to the bizarre atmosphere. "Oh, but I do so enjoy being out in society, wearing gowns guaranteed to have all eyes on me. Attention and adoration are quite invigorating."

Of course she would take the opportunity to brag about herself. A wave of annoyance slammed through Charity's chest as she squirmed into a more or less upright position on the bench, only to face Lady Stover, who had the nose of a silver pistol trained on her chest. The thugs who'd taken her had done their work all too well, for the rope around her wrists was quite tight, which made sitting properly wildly uncomfortable.

"Ah, Lady Stover. I thought the squabs on this bench were far too fine for your accomplices to afford."

"Don't be so quick to judge. One of my associates, as you call them, is Lord Markleson. True, he is a low-level lord in the ton , but he has amassed a fortune by questionable means."

"Which makes him valuable to you, the woman who craves money above all things." Despite the fear crawling through her veins, she narrowed her gaze on the other woman. "I highly doubt you'll fire the shot that will kill me." People in charge, like the countess, rarely dirtied their hands with the details.

"You don't know me very well, so I will excuse your ignorance, but I find no disgust or remorse in using my pistol for personal gain." The pistol never wavered, and since the curtains had been drawn over the windows in the closed carriage, the countess' eyes glittered in the gloom. "And speaking of personal gain, I'm quite certain you will recognize Lord Markleson. He was the one who originally took you captive and botched the retrieval of the Egyptian tiara."

A shiver moved down Charity's spine. "That man deserves a stint in Newgate. "

"Oh, he is too clever for that, and right now, the only thing he wants is you." The sound of Lady Stover's laughter made her want to retch. "It seems you made an impression on him that day at your father's pawn shop, so I've told him that you are his reward for a job well done once I come into possession of the tiara."

Charity gritted her teeth, bit back the urge to either cry or scream. "It's not a tiara, actually. The diamond piece is a necklace, that could probably be turned into a tiara with a proper clasp. I have not been able to find one."

"That matters not; I only want the diamonds."

"Why?"

"That is none of your concern." As she shifted her grip on the carved ivory handle of the pistol, the countess frowned. "We are almost to our destination, Lady Winteringham. Where is the necklace?"

"I certainly don't have it. Why would I have carried a valuable piece like that out with me to call on shops?" Would it hurt exceedingly much to be shot?

"Tell me now or else I'll send another man to your house, and this time, he won't kidnap the viscount's son; he will kill the boy in order to force your compliance." The ugly threat wove through Lady Stover's words with the accuracy of a needle.

Tears sprang to Charity's eyes. "It's not at the house any longer." At least that was the truth. "It used to be, but my husband took it this afternoon to his club." They had talked about it and decided it would be safe enough there while he and his friends discussed their next plan.

"Then I shall have to invite him to our little party."

"He won't bend, you know." Too bad her voice quaked a bit. "As long as his son is safe, there is nothing that will bring him into danger." Not even for her; it would be certain suicide, and he had far too much good in his life to live for than continually rescuing her.

"We shall see. Hell's bells but I detest the men of the Rogue's Arcade," the other woman said in a bitter whisper. She caressed the trigger of the pistol as if it were her lover's skin. "For whatever reason, those men have taken it upon themselves to play protectors of London. Like some demented forms of the Robin Hood characters, they steal from the rich and give to the poor."

"Ha." Charity snorted. "From the way I understand it, those men give back whatever criminals like you have stolen to their rightful owners. They right wrongs, and make sure innocent, deserving people aren't being taken advantage of by people who abuse power."

"We don't abuse power. In fact, we were given that power to us by the Crown. Why? Because people like me and my family are clearly better."

"So that gives you the right to treat everyone around you like excrement in the street?"

"How dare you!" The countess shot off her bench so quickly, Charity didn't have time to breathe. Seconds later, she was hit on the side of her head with the butt of the woman's pistol. "I wouldn't have to resort to such extreme measures if people would fall in line."

Pain throbbed through Charity's temple and cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment, darkness shimmered on the edge of her vision. "People in London—everywhere—have free will. Royalty and nobility have no right to rule with extreme measures. If there is no respect given, there will be no respect in return."

A mask of annoyance went over the countess' face. "Why should I have anything of the sort for those lesser than me? There are far too many useless people in London as it is, drawing on the resources, thinning the food supply, causing an increase in crime." She shook her head. "And they breed like rabbits, producing more and more indigent poor, which people like me are impressed upon to pay for."

"As if helping your fellow man is a bad thing." What happened in this woman's life to make her act this way?

"I worked for my coin."

She snorted. "I'll wager your husband does, but I'll also guess you came by some of it by nefarious means."

"My husband is weak. I married him due to his healthy coffers, but he doesn't share my thirst for power and control."

"Smart man." She had no idea what sort of man the earl was, neither did she care. "I have to wonder, though, what he thinks of your involvement in criminal activities."

"He doesn't care as long as I don't incriminate him or affect his standing in the House of Lords." She shrugged. "He works to control government while I work to control… everything else."

"People like you are why there is such a divide in England. My father showed me that on our travels around the world, pointed out the vast disparities and how the rich work to keep them that way as a way of beating down the masses so they won't revolt." Warming to her subject, Charity grinned, but that gesture hurt her cheek. "Perhaps the French peasants had the right of it when they rose up in revolution in the days of the Terror. The tiny percentage of people should never control most of the wealth of a nation."

"Ah, I can see you will work to be a problem." Lady Stover narrowed her eyes and once more leveled the nose of the pistol on Charity's heart. "I am doing what my cousins could not—taking back what is rightfully ours. The dirty wretches in this city do not deserve to caretake valuable things and neither do they deserve excess coin, for they would fritter both away." She tugged on the curtains as the carriage rocked to a halt. "Once I pick off and weaken each member of the Rogue's Arcade, there will be nothing blocking my way of reclaiming everything they have taken from me. Then I will be the most powerful female member of the beau monde . Nothing will happen in London without my agreement."

"The rogues will stop you. Of that I have no doubt."

The countess snorted. "You think your husband will ride off to rescue you? You, the nothing woman who is the daughter of a merchant? You, the inept woman who can't even defend herself, the woman he only married out of a sense of obligation or protection?" Her laughter quivered the hairs on Charity's nape. "The only reason dear Winteringham will come and give up the diamonds is to ensure his son remains untouched. He loves that boy beyond reason." One of her blonde eyebrows rose. "Has he ever said that to you?"

"Well, not in so many words, but—"

"Oh, you poor deluded woman. You're nearly over the moon for the man who probably is only using you as a convenient place to dip his wick." She tsked her tongue. " Trapped in a marriage in name only, knowing you can't contribute anything useful to society, wondering what will eventually become of you, for men like the viscount will take a mistress." Her trill of laughter was a horrible sound. "Then he'll pack you off to his country estate to care for his ailing mother, and that will be that. Another casualty of a titled man in the ton ."

"Michael isn't like that." But the damage was done. Doubts crept in to punch holes in the weak hope and fondness she carried for her husband since the first. Above all, she couldn't let this woman see how discomfited she was. Instead, she said, "I feel sorry for you, that you would abandon your own family in favor of chasing something that no doubt caused the fall of Rome." It was a reach, but it was a sure insult to this woman.

"I have never been an object of pity before, and I refuse to start now." When she smiled as the door swung open, fear twisted down Charity's spine, for it held no mirth. "Ah, Lord Markleson. Just the man I wanted to see." As soon as the steps were put down, Lady Stover accepted his hand and exited the vehicle. "Your prize awaits as soon as I get that necklace." Her laughter scraped across Charity's nerves. "But I won't begrudge you a little taste. I'd imagine it will take a good half hour for Lord Winteringham to arrive. Once you're finished, bring her out to the warehouse. "

Then the anemic sunshine that managed to break through the clouds was blocked as the large form of Lord Markleson came into the carriage—the same man who'd spirited her from her father's pawn shop.

"Oh, God." Charity tried her best to shrink away from him, to skitter over the bench and put distance between them, but with her skirting and her hands secured behind her back, it was an almost impossible endeavor. "Leave me alone."

"I don't think so, Miss Maitland."

"I am Lady Winteringham now."

"In name only." One of his large hands shot out. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright. "You escaped from me once; I won't let that happen again. After tonight, after Lady Stover puts a ball through your husband's heart, you are mine." Then he brought his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss that was meant to punish instead of woo. As she wrenched away, used her stocking-covered feet to kick against his stomach, his teeth scraped her bottom lip, drawing a tiny drop of blood.

"I will fight you with all the strength I have available." Though she hadn't agreed to a kiss, the intrusion felt like a betrayal of her marriage vows, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I hate everything you and the countess stand for."

"You'll change your mind once you see us dismantling the whole damned Rogue's Arcade." As he left the confines of the carriage, he tugged her from behind by her hair, not caring when she cried out in pain. They'd taken her from the modiste's shop and hadn't given her time to don her slippers, but the second her feet landed on the ground, she kicked out at the man again. It was essential that she free herself.

The escape attempt was short-lived, for Lord Markleson kept hold of her hair and easily yanked her close so that she crashed into his body.

"It is always more exciting when the women are spirited, because I enjoy taking the fight out of them." Shoving her back against the side of the carriage, he put his meaty hand on a breast, jammed a knee between her thighs, and then pinched her nipple, laughing when she whimpered in pain. "You'll prove more exciting than my last whore, I'll wager."

The urge to vomit grew strong, and knowing she needed to do something, Charity spat in his face, grinned when he reared backward to wipe at the moisture on his chin. When he slapped her in retribution, tears stung her eyes and rolled onto her cheeks, but she didn't care. There was only so much humiliation and pain a woman could take.

"You'd better hope Winteringham brings the diamonds else Lady Stover won't let me keep you," Lord Markleson said as he dragged her with him toward a tall, weathered-looking building set along one of the docks.

The slap of water against the wood put her in the moments when she'd left London on various ships to go on adventures with her father. Sparing a quick glance about, her heart sank. They were at the West India Dock, and the older one at that, which meant it wasn't one that was busy during both the day and night. "What will happen instead?" Since they were by the water, there was more of a breeze here than in Mayfair. There were ships in harbor, but all were far enough away that no one on those decks—if any—would be able to hear her call for help. Besides, cries would be swallowed by the sound of the water and breeze, to say nothing of the shouts of workers unloading cargo from the large ships.

Smaller vessels were moored at the dry docks, some in for repairs while some were there for offloading, but since it was just after teatime, no doubt the sailors on those ships as well as the dock workers were away from that repast. And if they weren't, no one would give notice to what was happening, for human cargo was sadly a lucrative business. Frankly, she didn't put it past Lady Stover to have paid off everyone in the vicinity to look the other way while she conducted her business.

"She'll either kill you or order me to do it for her." The sound of her captor's voice brought her back to the moment. A muscle ticced in his cheek. Was it possible this particular minion didn't follow all Lady Stover's dictates?

I will not allow any of this to happen. And if I die while trying to save Michael, so be it.

"How many women has she stolen from you?" When he didn't answer, she tried again to find a connection. "How many family members of yours has she threatened in order to make you do her bidding?"

"Not your concern. Lady Stover knows how to motivate people," he bit off, but at least he removed his hand from her hair and transferred his hold to her upper arm.

Charity trotted to keep up with the man's longer strides. The reprieve from that type of pain left her reeling, but it also had cleared her mind so she could think. Shops, warehouses, and ramshackle residences lined the wharves as well as the network of docks. If anyone witnessed their passing, saw her bound hands, they wouldn't involve themselves. Such was life in the grimier sections of London, well away from the glittering places of Mayfair.

By the time they arrived at the warehouse on the nearest dock where Lady Stover stood chatting with the man who'd tried to kidnap Christopher as well as another man whom she didn't recognize. As of yet, Michael hadn't arrived, and she breathed a sigh of relief for that. This was her fight and her fault—he didn't need to have a part in it.

Why did I let him take the necklace?

"Ah, Lady Winteringham. I hope you had a good time being reacquainted with Lord Markleson. He does so admire you." The purr was back in the countess' voice as she gestured to the other man. "This is Mr. Stanton, the man you fought with the other night." With the nose of her pistol, she gestured to the third man—a thin man dressed in the first stare of fashion with golden hair. "And this is Mr. Denton. He is a vicar if that matters, and an essential part of my organization."

"Ah, because why wouldn't you include stolen coin, jewels, and religion in your criminal activities?" Though the man beside her snorted softly, he yanked on her arm, squeezed his gloved hand around her muscle enough to cause uncomfortable pain.

As the men exchanged glances, rain began to spit from the clouds. Lady Stover smiled, but it was the grin of a predator that showed far too many teeth. "You have no idea how far-reaching my connections go, my dear. It is always a good idea to cultivate varied interests and friends everywhere."

Did that mean she'd bedded the vicar or provided him with someone that would help him get his rocks off? Her father might have assumed she was na?ve and innocent, but he always forgot she was well read, that she'd made friends with many people during their travels, that she'd watched enough of human behavior and life to know there were many, many ways of finding pleasure. Above all, chasing that release—however a person wanted it—was a powerful motivator.

On the other side of dock, curtains moved at some of the windows, but there were no faces and she saw no people, but they were certainly watching. Help would not arrive from them, for they wouldn't put their own lives at risk.

"Mr. Stanton, perhaps you should ready the shipping crate," Lady Stover suggested, gesturing with her pistol at the hulking man.

At Charity's side, Lord Markleson frowned. "Why do we need that? Once we have the diamonds, the viscount will be dead. We'll dump him in the water."

The countess chuckled. "A secondary plan, if you will. On the chance Winteringham proves recalcitrant or he doesn't, in fact, come alone, our dear viscountess can easily be packed off and put on Captain Renfro's schooner. The man knows where to sell pretty, spirited Englishwomen for maximum coin."

Both she and her captor gasped.

Then a hail from the street had everyone looking in that direction.

"Michael!" After her exclamation, she was hauled nearer to the open door of the warehouse, and when she strained around her captor to see her husband, her heart dropped into her stomach, for he'd come alone. She didn't even know if he owned a pistol, but it wouldn't matter, for it would be four to one. No doubt every man on the dock was armed.

Slowly, or so it seemed to Charity, her husband approached their location, his shoulders hunched against the light rain, his top hat set at a rakish angle over one eye, but there was no mistaking the bright gleam of his red hair. When she would have run to meet him, Lord Markleson yanked her backward, propelled her closer to the gaping maw of the warehouse where a wooden packing crate waited, straw spilling out of it.

Had Lady Stover planned to sell her to that captain all along?

"Michael!" She put every ounce of the terror she felt into that cry and hoped with everything she was that he would stay out of harm's way. Somehow, she would find a way out of this mess and keep him safe in the process.

Because she loved him.