Chapter Nine

Cassian had no idea what was going on, but it was terrifying.

Being confronted by large men in gathering darkness had been alarming, but he'd told himself Daizell would talk their way out of it. After all, they didn't have Miss Beaumont: they could prove it. He hadn't expected the sudden, frightening violence that doubled Daizell over, and he really hadn't expected what happened next.

As far as he could tell, someone had thrown a blanket over his head, because he'd found himself enveloped in scratchy, close, dusty darkness and hauled off with a brutal grip on his arm. He'd shouted and struggled, but someone had got a hard hand over his mouth, pushing the sacking against his lips, and then he'd been fighting an enemy he couldn't see, far stronger than himself, with no idea what they were doing or what had happened to Daizell.

And now he was sprawling on the floor of a coach, and it was moving.

A hand closed on his arm, hauling him up to the seat. ‘Sit there and shut up,' growled the man who'd hit Daizell. ‘Damned nuisance. Caught me on the bloody jaw.'

‘What are you—' Cassian began, high-pitched with fear and indignation, and was cut off by a hand grabbing at his throat.

‘I said, shut up,' the man growled. ‘Little bitch. Serve you right if we treated you like your sort deserves. Keep your mouth shut now or I'll take my belt to you.'

Cassian's jaw dropped under the sacking. He had never in his life been spoken to in such a way and the urge to demand Do you know who I am? could only be held back by the fear that the brute might find out. He didn't speak. After a couple of seconds, the hand at his throat released its grip, dragged roughly and deliberately down over his chest, and moved off.

Little bitch. Your sort. Cassian didn't like the sound of that at all, and the fear was unfamiliar and sickening. Had he and Daizell been seen holding hands, or caught in a betraying look?

He knew very well his predilections were dangerous. They got other men in bad, sometimes fatal trouble, brought them disgrace or shame even if the cruel law wasn't involved. He'd always been excruciatingly, soul-sappingly discreet himself. And yet, if the Duke were caught with a man, the consequences would all be to his self-esteem: humiliation, widespread gossip, his family's opinions. Those were bad enough, but nobody would assault him, gaol him, pillory him. He was safe from all that because he was Severn.

Right now, he was only Cassian, and he was terrified.

He made himself breathe and think. These were Vier's henchmen, out to retrieve Miss Beaumont. If they'd taken Cassian, it was surely because they thought he could lead them to the runaway heiress. The odds were that the insults were just casual ones, aimed at his unimposing physique. He hoped to God that was the case.

Why had they kidnapped him rather than Daizell, though? It made no sense. Unless, of course, someone had recognised him.

That was a grim thought. If Sir James intended to accuse the Duke of Severn of abducting an underage heiress, things might well become difficult. And if everything had gone wrong and the vengeful Vier found out about the Duke and Daizell . . .

There was no point frightening himself with possibilities. Probably he'd been taken as Daizell's companion and the easier target, and all would be resolved when he explained he had no idea where Miss Beaumont was. Until he had an opportunity to do so, he ought not to make bad worse by thinking. He was a duke even if disguised, and thus untouchable, he told himself, though the blanket over his head was rasping his skin and its dust made his throat tickle, and he was unpleasantly aware of the two large men sitting at his sides.

He'd find out what was going on soon enough; in the meantime, he would not attempt to struggle against a pair of bravos in a small space. Instead, he bent his mind to considering where they might be going. He had a good innate sense of direction, and had pored over Paterson's British Itinerary in his plod around the staging-posts outside Stratford. Between that and the reasonable road surface, he was fairly sure they were heading up the Warwick Road.

They weren't long on it, turning off to the east on to what was clearly a wretched track. The coach jolted and jerked as it rattled along, and Cassian pressed his lips together under the cover of the blanket, and clenched his fists against the consuming fear. He wished Daizell were here, with that casually kind hand pressed to his knee, offering comfort unsought and unquestioning. He set his mind to that touch, and then to the other touches of their glorious morning, which now felt a very long time ago, and managed to keep his feelings of alarm to a manageable level until the coach stopped.

‘Right. Get out. Mind those dainty feet.'

Cassian found himself half-lifted out. He stumbled along, pushed by unseen hands into a building. There were murmurs of speech, then sounds of appalled protest in a female voice, to which Cassian's captor growled, ‘Shut your mouth. I want the back room key.' He let go of Cassian's arm as he spoke.

‘But that's not—'

‘I know what I'm doing, jade! The key, I say.'

Now he was on his feet, out of the coach, and in the presence of a witness, Cassian felt able to act. He pulled the horrible blanket off, and blinked in what briefly seemed bright light.

He was in a rather mean house; if it was an inn, it wasn't much frequented. The ceilings were low and it was lit with tallow candles. He could see his captors, and a thin-faced woman in a drab dress, and a brutish-looking man behind her. They were all gaping at him.

He'd have liked to announce, This is an outrage! , but they already knew that. ‘What is this? Who are you people? What reason do you have for this abduction?' No answers. Everyone was still gaping. Cassian put his hands on his hips and Lord Hugo into his voice. ‘Well? I demand an explanation!'

The second bravo swallowed. ‘Jim. That ain't Miss Beaumont.'

‘I fucking know that,' said the leader in a voice that promised retribution. ‘I can see.'

‘Well, why did you—'

‘ Now I can see.'

‘Miss Beaumont?' Cassian repeated. It had taken him a moment to regain his breath. ‘Miss— You mistook me for a woman ?' Outrage warred with a wholly inappropriate desire to laugh. ‘Great God, are you mad?'

‘He's in breeches,' the woman observed, in a general, abstract sort of way. ‘Not skirts.'

The leader turned on her savagely. ‘They said she'd be dressed as a bloke, and with that fucker Charnage!'

Cassian took that in with some resentment. Granted he was on the shorter and slimmer side, and Miss Beaumont was a strapping young lady, and it had been dark, but even so. And, he now realised, that put the interaction in the coach in a new light. Serve you right if we treated you like your sort deserves. Keep your mouth shut now or I'll take my belt to you. And the hand that had dragged, he'd thought deliberately, over his chest, as padded by coat and blanket . . .

These were the men Sir James Vier had sent after a young woman, and righteous fury exploded through him.

‘If you cannot use your eyes, the more fool you,' he said crisply. ‘You have made a very bad mistake, and I will ensure Sir James hears of this. You will return me to Stratford right away, if you wish me to consider treating this as an error rather than a criminal act. At once!'

The guilty looks that shot between the Second Bravo and the woman made him think, for a second, that he'd have his way. Then the First Bravo shook his head. ‘No.'

‘Jim . . .'

‘No, I say. He was with Charnage. Charnage took out a marriage licence. He knows where she is.'

‘I know no such thing, and nor does Mr Charnage. Miss Beaumont left Stratford two days hence. You have lost her trail, and a good thing too, if this is how you treat a lady. Now get me back to Stratford!'

The First Bravo's jaw was grinding. ‘We'll get Charnage. They're at the White Swan. We'll go in the morning and make him tell us where she is. And we'll keep this one till then. Can't have you warn him.'

‘Take me back immediately!' Cassian said furiously. ‘How dare you detain me like this! This is kidnapping and I will have the law on you!'

‘Ah, shut up,' the First Bravo said, and dragged His Grace the Duke of Severn into a dirty, dark back room by the arm. He was shoved in, so that he stumbled and almost fell.

‘Keep your gob shut,' the First Bravo advised him. ‘Nobody round here to hear you, and you'll just rile me. Be a good boy and we'll bring you something to eat and a pot to piss in.' The door banged shut behind him, leaving Cassian in the dark.

He turned around, angry, astonished, and undeniably afraid. Vier's brutes were lawless to an alarming degree, and he had probably been foolish to make threats he was in no position to carry out. Once he was restored to his position he would bring the full might of his dukedom down on Sir James, he promised himself, but in the meantime . . .

In the meantime, he was locked in a room, and Daizell was probably back at the White Swan, where these bullies would arrive the next morning, determined to beat answers out of him that he wouldn't be able to give. Daizell's insistence that Miss Beaumont didn't say where she was going now seemed at once a wise precaution and a ghastly mistake.

Where was he? Not in a town: it was entirely quiet out here. They'd turned left off the Warwick Road, and from the distance, Cassian decided they were somewhere in the depths of Warwickshire, perhaps in the region of Hampton Lucy. The irony was biting: he knew the Lucy family of Charlecote Park, which was probably within a couple of miles of here, and had even stayed in their grand Elizabethan home. If he could get out, he could seek assistance there.

That would, of course, mean turning up with a dirty face and dusty hair, saying he'd been kidnapped, and demanding their assistance to come to Daizell Charnage's rescue. He'd deal with that when he had to. For now, he could not simply stand here feeling outraged. He needed to think of something to do.

He hadn't got anywhere on that a few minutes later, when the door opened again. The First Bravo entered. The woman followed with a chamber pot and a blanket, then went out again and returned with a plate and a mug.

‘Food and drink,' the First Bravo said. ‘Keep behaving and you can go tomorrow morning, no harm done.'

‘Will you at least leave the candle?' Cassian said. ‘There are rats in here!'

‘No such thing,' the woman said with offence. ‘Mice, only mice. We can spare it, Jim.'

‘For a fee,' the bravo said. ‘Board, lodging, and light. Let's have you.'

He held Cassian efficiently while the woman slipped her hand into his inside pocket. They both gaped at what she pulled out.

‘Jim,' the woman said. ‘It's banknotes. He's got thirty pound . Jim, I don't like it. Who is he?'

‘He's the man who had thirty quid that's mine now. So shut up. See if he's got more.'

‘More?' Cassian demanded. ‘You have my money, damn you, do you want my fob-watch too?'

The First Bravo gave him a sardonic look, and reached for his fob-pocket, extracting the watch. The timepiece and its chain were the plainest the Duke possessed; as Jim took them out and the gold gleamed in the dim light, the woman gave a little gasp. ‘We could hang for this!' she said shrilly.

‘And for kidnapping,' Cassian said, and regretted it as they both looked at him. ‘Let me go and I won't tell anyone. You can keep the money for your trouble, hmm? Nobody needs to know anything.'

‘Jim . . .' the woman said, pleading.

The First Bravo hesitated, then shook his head. ‘In the morning. After we've had our word with Charnage and found the bitch, we'll let you go, and you can have your watch back too if you're a good boy. No more talk.' He put the candlestick on a high shelf, and they both left.

Cassian reflected sourly on that interaction as he ate excessively strong cheese and tough bread, washed down with sour ale. If he'd been a heroic Corinthian sort, he could have fought his way out. That was not an option, because he was a shrimp of a man who could be mistaken for a runaway lady, if only in bad light.

He thought about his lack of broad shoulders for a moment, then stood.

There was one small window, a single square pane of dirty glass. It was high up in the wall but the walls weren't that high, and he found a broken box to balance on. The window was far too narrow for anyone to worry about people climbing through, and it was just a pane of glass, with no opening mechanism. Cassian contemplated it for a few moments. Then he took a moment to utter a prayer, and put a hand in his coat pocket.

The watch had distracted them from checking his other pockets. So they hadn't taken his knife.

One of the most striking aspects of Daizell's heroics on the day of the crash had been the casually competent way he'd pulled out a clasp knife. The Duke of Severn had never carried such a thing on his person: he had servants for that. Cassian had bought himself a clasp knife in Stratford, indulging a fantasy of being the kind of man who might produce one in an emergency. He hadn't lost it in the evening's proceedings, and now here he was.

The window was secured with thick putty, brittle with age. It took a very little effort to work the blade around the edges, and after some moments of manipulation, the pane shifted. He eased it forward, because if it fell and smashed he'd be in trouble, and put it carefully on the ground. He was left with a very uninviting opening that most people would say a grown man, even a slender one, would have no hope of getting through.

Most people hadn't grown up in a castle. Staplow was exceedingly well provided with narrow windows, and the Duke and his cousins – Leo, Matthew, and their sister Louisa – had spent a lot of time experimenting. You could get through most apertures, they had found, if your head and one arm fit.

He went to the door and listened, but heard nothing. He finished the sour ale and made use of the chamber pot. He put the knife securely in his pocket, and then he balanced on the broken box, and jumped.

He caught the window sill with his elbow first time. That was good, but getting the rest of himself up there was harder. He hadn't done this in some years, and there wasn't space to get both hands in place and heave. He had to scrabble against the wall with his feet in a frantic, undignified way, trying to make as little noise as possible. He slipped back to the ground, and glared at the wall.

He could do this. He had to.

The window aperture was not wide. He took off his coat, bundled it up, and threw it through the window, both to narrow his width and to force himself to persist. Then he jumped and scrabbled again, and got the edge of his ribs up, and then it was a matter of twisting sideways, thrashing like a landed salmon to propel himself, working his leading arm out and pulling his other arm through in angular sections, clamped against his chest. It was damned tight. If they caught him like this, arse hanging out of the window and feet fruitlessly waving, wouldn't they laugh.

That thought gave him the push he needed. He gave one more tight squirm, arm wedged against his chest, and then his second arm was through.

Now he just needed to get down to the ground without falling on his head. He pulled himself through sideways, getting his backside on the sill, folding a leg to get his foot up, and managed to hold on to a beam and work his way out to the point he could jump down.

He hit the ground with a thump that sounded very loud in the quiet of the night and stood a second holding his breath, ears straining. Nothing.

He was out. What now?

He could run, or more likely walk, but they'd come several miles. The moon was up now and three-quarters full, which helped but it would still be a nightmarish journey through dark fields and woods with no idea where he was going or what he was stepping in. Or he could stick to the road back, but then a man on a horse would catch him easily.

Of course, if he were the man on the horse . . .

He contemplated that a moment, then he retrieved his coat and crept silently round the outside of the house, looking for where the horses were stabled.

They were in an outbuilding. Cassian groped at shoulder height and found, as he'd hoped, a tinder box and lamp. He lit the lamp, hands shaking a little from nerves.

The building looked as though it had been used as a stables before, but not recently. It was dirty and dusty, and the straw for the two carriage horses looked sadly in need of refreshing. They both looked up at him, and one whickered.

‘Shhh now. Quiet, beauty,' he murmured, approaching with slow confidence. ‘Come now, my lovelies . . .'

They were the usual hired beasts, weary job-horses without spirit, but at least they weren't inclined to make a fuss, and Cassian invested a couple of minutes he didn't want to spare in making friends. The tack hanging up was old and stiff but it would do. He saddled the horse that seemed more amenable, keeping his movements calming and his voice soothing. He put the second on a leading rein, using a length of rope that hung on a hook. Then he poked his head out of the door.

Nothing. Nobody.

‘Come on, beauties,' he told the horses softly. ‘We're going to find Daize.'

He led them out, praying they wouldn't neigh, wishing he could muffle the hoofs as he'd read smugglers did. The shutters of the building were all closed. His heart was thundering. If they caught him now . . .

He got the horses to the road. Walked them a little way, both to avoid noise and because he had no idea how his chosen steed would react to a rider, trying not to let his tension show in his movements. Then he whispered a few endearments, and swung himself up onto the carriage horse's back.

The beast took it placidly: it seemed he'd been ridden before. Cassian clapped his heels to the horse's sides, and they jogged off into the night, leaving his prison behind.

He'd have liked to gallop, but that would be insanity on such a bad road, in the dark, on an unfamiliar beast, and with a second horse in tow to boot. He did, however, urge the horses to a trot, because his back was prickling and his ears straining for pursuit. None came, and as the slow minutes passed and he got further away, he was able to believe it wouldn't come.

He'd done it. He had actually escaped, from kidnappers , all by himself. Leo was going to choke. Cassian rode on, skin tingling with the sheer magnificence of this exploit, wanting to whoop at the moon. He had looked after himself in the teeth of some thoroughly alarming opposition, and he had not needed Lord Hugo or his valet or Daizell or anybody. He—

There was someone coming. A horse, approaching him, along the road.

Cassian's mood of infallible competence evaporated on the instant. It could be just a late traveller, but that person would be able to tell his captors he'd seen a rider with two horses, and if it was a third bravo, or even Sir James Vier himself—

It would not be Sir James. But in the unlikely event it was, Cassian was going to make him regret he'd ever been born, somehow. He would, however, feel a lot more confident doing that in a drawing room or a lawyer's office than on an empty country lane in the darkness.

It was too late for him to dive off the road behind a tree or some such: the lane was straight and the other rider could surely see him, and he'd only attract more attention by trying to hide now. He'd just have to urge the tired horses to speed if need be, although riding ventre à terre in the moonlight seemed a terrible idea.

Cassian squared his shoulders, trying to look unmemorable, though he was aware he'd lost his hat at some point. The other rider seemed to be hatless as well, he noticed, and as his horse plodded closer, the moon glinted silver off curls that looked, somehow, as though they might be copper and gold.

‘Daize?' he yelped.

Daizell glanced at him, looked away, swung back around, and almost fell off his horse. ‘ Cass? Cass!'

‘Daize.' Cassian was gaping like a fish. He rode up as Daizell pulled his horse, a big rawboned brute, to a halt. ‘What the devil? How are you here?'

‘I came after you. How are you here?'

‘I escaped. They shut me in a room, the swine, and I forced the window and got out, and stole their horses—'

‘I stole this horse!'

Daizell stared at Cassian. Cassian stared at Daizell. They both started laughing, incredulous and bubbly with relief. ‘Mother of God, Cass. Are you all right? What on earth did those brutes want with you?'

‘I'll tell you on the way. I haven't come very far and they might be after me.'

‘Hell. Then you should go without me. This damned slug is barely moving.'

‘He looks tired,' Cassian said rebukingly. ‘Poor old boy. And I don't think they're on my tail precisely, since I have both their horses. These two are in better condition: do you want to change?'

‘Very much,' Daizell said. ‘This is about the worst horse I could have stolen, but there wasn't a choice.'

‘You stole a horse,' Cassian repeated as they both dismounted, the meaning of that belatedly sinking in. ‘Really stole? From the owner?'

‘Well, he'd put the reins over a post while he stopped for a piss, and I didn't have time to ask for the loan, so, yes. Just at the start of the Warwick Road. It was that or run after you, and I don't think my legs are up to that.'

‘We'd better bring it back then,' Cassian said a little dizzily.

‘I dare say. Cass?'

Cassian had gone to take the bridle off the stolen horse, to put it on the other stolen horse, because he was a horse thief now. ‘Mmm?'

Daizell slid a hand over his shoulder, up to the back of his head. He leaned in, and Cassian looked up in wonder, and then they were kissing, on the open road, under the moon. Daizell's mouth hot on his, Daizell's fingers digging into his hip.

He hadn't gone back to the inn. He'd come after him, and actually stolen an actual horse to do it, and for all that was a remarkably irresponsible act, it made Cassian's insides melt like honey in the sun. Kissing, open-mouthed and desperate and gleeful, under the night sky, while escaping kidnap. Cassian had never felt less like a duke, or more like himself.

Daizell pulled him close with a grunt, and Cassian buried his face in the sturdy shoulder. ‘Lord, Cass. I was quite alarmed.'

‘So was I,' Cassian said, muffled. ‘They weren't pleasant. And I need to tell you about it, but, Daize, they know where we're staying.'

‘In Stratford? Hell's teeth. Right, let's get moving. We'll work something out on the way back.'

They rode back to Stratford – it was only another three miles – with the extra stolen horse plodding alongside more happily for not bearing its burden. For its sake, and because Cassian didn't trust the road, they kept to a gentle trot, and were approaching Stratford within half an hour. Cassian heard the church clock chime, and realised he'd quite lost track.

‘What time is it, do you have any idea?'

‘Half past nine, I think,' Daizell said. ‘We should still be—'

‘You!' It was an enraged bellow. ‘You, sir! That's my damned horse!'

An elderly man, bewigged and of portly habit, was waving an angry stick in their direction. Daizell said, ‘Uh-oh.'

‘Surely we need only apologise?' Cassian murmured, hoping that was true. Was it still theft if you gave the loot back? ‘And compensate him, of course. I'm happy to—'

Daizell was already leaning down to speak to the man as he approached, along with someone who looked very like a town constable. ‘The grey? Is that yours? Can you prove it?'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘We found it wandering on the Warwick Road,' Daizell informed him, apparently without shame. ‘We thought it would be best to bring the beast back with us. If it's yours, that saves us the effort of finding the owner.'

‘That's Mr Bezant's grey all right,' the constable put in, in a heavy Warwickshire accent.

‘Then all is well,' Daizell said. ‘Good evening.'

‘What? Wait! You're the fellow who took him!' It was hard to say with only the light of the constable's lantern, but Mr Bezant's rubicund face seemed to be getting redder.

‘I certainly am not, sir. I have ridden with my friend back from . . .' Daizell waved vaguely to indicate the road.

‘Hampton Lucy,' said someone in possession of Cassian's voice, albeit a somewhat strangled version. ‘Just now. Visiting friends,' he added, since one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Or a horse. ‘I'm delighted we can restore your property to you, sir.'

‘I say that this fellow stole my horse,' Mr Bezant repeated obstinately. ‘And where's his bridle?'

‘I really could not say,' Daizell told him, in a witheringly superior tone. ‘You have your beast; pray do not trouble to thank us for the effort involved in catching and returning him. We are quite at your service for any other small duties your convenience may require, but I really cannot be blamed for your carelessness in losing him in the first place. Good evening to you.' He set his heels to the horse as he spoke, and Cassian urged his own steed to catch up.

‘Is that going to work?' he asked as they rode down the High Street.

‘Doesn't matter. We'll be out of this town first thing tomorrow, and not before time. You go in and settle up – and pack, too. I'll find us somewhere to stay. If I take the horses—'

Cassian was not going to ride out of Stratford on a stolen horse, no matter how justified the theft had been at the time. ‘I'll have them stabled here,' he said firmly.

He otherwise followed instructions, explaining to the landlord of the White Swan that they intended to leave very early in the morning, and paying their shot accordingly. He also paid for the horses to be stabled and fed for two days, saying that Sir James Vier's men would collect them. He'd have preferred to leave Sir James with the reckoning, but the animals' welfare was more important: they had done him good service.

That done, he packed his things and, feeling a little intrusive, Daizell's. Daizell didn't have much. A few changes of linen, another suit of clothing, the third volume of The Antiquary . A satchel which contained his cutting things: paper, card, paste, scissors.

Was that really everything? Did he not have a home somewhere, more possessions, more evidence of his life in the world?

Daizell came in as Cassian was checking the cupboards. ‘We have a room at the Bull and Mouth, which is the coaching inn for Birmingham. I suggest we take the back way out of here so nobody knows we've left.'

‘Is there a back way?'

‘There's always a back way,' Daizell said, with the confidence of a man who used them frequently.

Cassian nodded. ‘I think I have everything of yours?'

Daizell gave the bag a cursory glance. ‘Looks about right.'

‘Is that everything you have?'

Daizell shrugged and took his bag. Cassian followed, uncomfortably aware of Staplow, with its rooms full of furniture and wardrobes full of clothes, and a family who lived there, all of it waiting for when he chose to come home.

Daizell was a hanger-on, eternally a guest at someone else's table; Cassian owned the table. They usually had half a dozen people living off Staplow at any given time: impecunious artists, amusing younger sons, spinster friends of Aunt Hilda, aspiring scientific minds, foreign travellers, temporarily embarrassed politicians. They'd once had a poet stay for three months, reciting his verse every evening, and only when Lord Hugo insisted they get shot of the blasted man before he resorted to violence did the Crosses discover that none of them had actually invited the fellow: he'd simply turned up.

He wondered what might happen if Daizell turned up at Staplow.