The Husband Plot Page 20

  Robert pulled out that easy, good-natured smile that made him so amiable. “First time in years, then. Cheers.”

  They clinked their tankards, and Adrian drained his in two greedy swallows. Might as well hang for the sheep as the lamb, as his grandmother was so fond of saying.

  But when he thudded his cup back to the tabletop, he discovered his cousin was watching him with bright, alert eyes. “This other matter. What does it have to do with Mary?”

  Adrian suppressed a groan. “It doesn’t. Except that if I help Mary, I can’t help…this other matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” But Adrian couldn’t find any good reason, no matter how vague. What reason was there? He was prioritizing ten people he had never met over his own sister. He knew he was right to value those ten people; he knew Mary had more hope than they did, even married to a man she couldn’t stand. Still, there was no way to explain it to Robert. There was no way to explain it to Lisbeth, and there was certainly no way to explain it to Mary.

  Either way one cut it, he was a heartless, hopeless bastard.

  “Is it Lisbeth?” Robert asked.

  They were interrupted before Adrian could respond. He saw the man angling for their table, and his brain flared with recognition, but it wasn’t until the man started speaking that Adrian recognized his silver hair and ruddy cheeks and careful vowels. It was his valet, Mr. Adkins. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but Miss Hathorne has been kidnapped.”

  At first, Adrian couldn’t tell whether he said Miss or Mrs, and he was so hung up on that detail that he missed the part about being kidnapped.

  Robert jumped to his feet first. “Kidnapped? When? Where? By whom?”

  Adkins glimmered with excitement. “An hour or so ago, my lord. We’ve been searching for Mr. Hathorne. I’d say it was Lord Brabourne who ordered it, if you ask my opinion, and he’ll be headed to Gretna Green. Rumblings are that he heard Miss Hathorne wasn’t keen to marry him, and he wants to make sure she doesn’t disappear.”

  Rage soared through Adrian’s veins. Lisbeth and Mary had been right. Lord Brabourne wasn’t fit to live, so much as touch Mary. Adrian would have to find some other way to save his slaves. For now, he would settle for saving his sister.

  Twenty Nine

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lisbeth couldn’t tell how much time had passed. She’d lost track of how many turns the carriage had taken. She couldn’t quite feel her fingers anymore.

  She did know the carriage was cold. There were two men inside with her, yet neither had offered her a cloak or blanket; they let her lie there in her thin night rail. At first, when the second man had lifted her ankles while the first man held her silent in Mary’s bedroom, Lisbeth had thought they would violate her. But so far, they had done nothing more than smuggle her out of the house and into a carriage that stank of manure.

  The gag in her mouth grew more suffocating every second. By the time she had stopped counting the carriages turns, she had started fearing that she would die from whatever cotton they’d stuffed in her mouth. She tried to still her spiking heart rate. She focused on breathing through her nose, no matter that it suddenly felt blocked to all air. To calm down, she shut her eyes against the darkness of the sack and pictured Adrian. She traced the sharp plane of his cheeks, touched the stubble shadowing his jawline, imagined those green eyes warm with a smile meant only for her.

  Her breathing grew a little easier, at least for the few moments when she could focus.

  It must have been hours before the horses slowed. The carriage humped over a bump, then rolled across rougher pitch than whatever road they had been on. Her two kidnappers exchanged words, and Lisbeth caught their accents, Cockney and something northern she couldn’t quite place. They opened the carriage door; cold morning air rushed in, raising goosepimples across Lisbeth’s skin.

  Outside, she could hear muffled voices. Her captors were both out of the carriage. If she could move her feet, she might be able to get herself out the other door and crawl away.

  But her ankles were still tied together, her wrists still bound behind her back, and when Lisbeth tried to heave herself into a sitting position, she only wriggled against the hard wooden bench.

  She refused to admit the despair flailing inside her. One way or another, she was going to escape.

  Lisbeth was the daughter of the Marquess of Ipswich. She was the granddaughter-in-law of the Duke of Berkwell. And her husband loved her. She would not allow herself to be felled by some common kidnappers.

  Still, she shrieked through her gag when one of the men hooked her beneath the shoulders. Her feet thudded against the carriage body as he dragged her out. Her heels landed on soft ground; even through her stockings, she felt chilled, dewy grass. Lisbeth vaulted herself one way and then the other, but the man didn’t lose his grip on her. Someone else grabbed her ankles, and suddenly she was hefted through the air.

  She landed on her side on a cushion that smelled vaguely of hay. A door shut with a wooden click. Then everything started moving again, and Lisbeth realized she was in another carriage.

  A better carriage.

  “Now, my dear, let us see what we can do to make you more comfortable. Why, they treated you no better than some common fishwife.”

  The voice was baritone, silky, and instantly sent a shudder down Lisbeth’s spine. A second later, she realized whose it was: Lord Brabourne.

  He leaned closer, the air filling with his prickly cologne, and gloved hands sat her upright. Lisbeth suddenly remembered that she wore nothing but her white muslin night rail over a chemise. Had he heard what she was planning with Mary? Did he mean to extract revenge by compromising Lisbeth?

  She had been afraid before. But now – now fear tasted like bad fish on her tongue.

  “It is most unfortunate that things have come to this, but you’ll see I protect my own. Do you promise to behave, if I remove a few of your bindings?”

  Lisbeth summoned a vigorous nod. The instant he untied her hands, she would claw his eyes out.

  He did not, unfortunately, loosen either the ropes at her wrists or at her ankles. Instead, he lifted the sack from her head and pulled the handkerchief from her mouth.

  She blinked against the sudden brightness; early morning sunshine filtered through the carriage curtains, and her eyes fizzled in pain for a moment before she could make out Lord Brabourne beside her.

  He stared at her with wide, horrified eyes. Lisbeth realized she wasn’t who he had expected.

  Despite herself, she smiled. “Your cronies kidnapped the wrong woman, didn’t they, Brabourne?”

  He launched himself to the opposite carriage bench, as if he couldn’t stand to be within inches of her.

  Triumph surged through her. “I’m glad. You don’t deserve to look at Mary, so much as touch her. What, did you think you would take her to Gretna Green?”

  Anger heated Lord Brabourne’s gaze. “It is my right. Her father signed the marriage contract. I was only looking after my interests, after I heard you were whispering in her ear about scarpering out of the marriage.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You didn’t truly think servants would be loyal to a half-breed master, did you?” Lord Brabourne sneered.

  Lisbeth stifled her natural flinch. Let him be hateful; he was clearly insane.

  “Hathorne’s valet is friendly with mine,” he added. “He told us your plans, and he let us into the house last night. Apparently, he described the wrong bedchamber.”

  Lisbeth didn’t see the need to explain that she was the one in the wrong bed. “You will never marry Mary now, you know. No matter what Mr. Hathorne promised you. The family would never marry her to a known kidnapper.”

  She caught her words just after they left her mouth. After all, the Hathorne fortune was built on kidnapping people from Africa. Her stomach twisted.

  Lord Brabourne didn’t notice her error. “You make an excellent point, Mrs. Hathorne. What am I to do wi
th you?” Reaching under his bench, he withdrew a wooden case, opened it, and lifted out a dueling pistol. “I could kill you and leave your body to rot in the woods.”

  She had to bite down on her lip to keep herself from reacting.

  “However, I am no murderer. A man must have his principles.” In spite of his words, Brabourne pointed the pistol with her as he talked. “You were so eager for my Mary to set sail. It seems to me you should take the journey in her stead.”

  With his free hand, he slammed on the ceiling of the carriage. “Driver, turn back to London. We’re going to the docks.”

  He sealed his words with a thin, pale smile that made Lisbeth shiver. “What do you think will happen to you when I leave you on a clipper to Bangkok?”

  The image settled between them for a moment. Then Lisbeth screamed as loud as she could, pistol be damned, and launched herself at him.

  Thirty

  Chapter Thirty

  It took too much time to get on the road north. Adrian and Robert had to trek to the duke’s stables and rouse a groom to get their horses. Mr. Adkins tagged along, offering this useless advice and then that, until Adrian realized the man was hanging on in hopes of a tip, as if the news that Mary had been kidnapped were the same as reporting a ship had come to dock.

  “To bed, Mr. Adkins,” he snapped. “I will need you when I return.”

  The man scampered away in the direction of Upper Norton Street, and Adrian allowed himself one moment of indecision on whether to follow him. Lisbeth would be awake, beside herself with worry; he pictured her pacing across the new carpet in the drawing room and knew she would prefer to see him before he raced off after Mary.

  But he had already lost so much time to Brabourne. He couldn’t risk the half hour it would take to check in at Upper Norton Street.

  Adrian spurred his horse in the direction of the highway. He would just have to earn Lisbeth’s forgiveness for this along with her forgiveness for all the other ways he had already failed her.

  Even pre-dawn, the London streets weren’t quiet, with lamplighters and watchmen and prostitutes and flower girls and fishermen and bakers all going about their days. The cold air pricked Adrian’s senses, sobering him up as he set his focus on saving Mary. He should never have gone along with his father’s wishes. All he had to do was pretend that letter never came. He should have thrown Brabourne out of his study, burned his father’s note, and let Mary carry on as she had been. Happy. Carefree. Unburdened.

  Or once the letter had been read, he should have put up a fight. Lisbeth had needed no convincing to shelter Mary in their home; she didn’t ask his permission to plot whatever she was planning. Adrian should have done that and more. He should have spoken for Mary to His Grace and their father and Lord Brabourne. He should have listened to his sister.

  He hoped it wasn’t too late to make it up to her.

  The sun rose in a spectacular show of pinks above farm fields as they cantered along the highway. Robert periodically let out bursts of speech, but for the most part, they rode in silence, contemplating what awaited them. They passed a black hackney cab heading back to London and a few farm wagons carrying wares towards a market town; other than that, they had the highway to themselves.

  It set Adrian’s nerves on edge.

  They spotted the carriage half a mile away. It was clearly a noble equipage, wide and painted a black polish that gleamed in the early morning light. When it followed the curve of the road, Adrian glimpsed the Brabourne family crest painted in gold and red on the side of its door.

  New, hot rage surged through Adrian. The man wasn’t even trying to hide. He and Robert wordlessly heeded their horses into gallops.

  Just as they approached the carriage, it rocked onto its right side. Its four horses startled; one reared onto its hind legs, and for a terrible moment, Adrian thought the whole coach was going to roll over. It righted itself, only for the door to swing open. A stockinged foot flexed out.

  Mary.

  “Let her go, Brabourne!” Adrian shouted. He pulled his horse to a stop beside the carriage and jumped off. He had gotten his hand on the door when Brabourne responded.

  “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot her.”

  Brabourne held her against his chest, one arm looped across her waist. The other held a silver pistol to her temple.

  And it wasn’t Mary.

  It was Lisbeth.

  Adrian’s heart stopped.

  “Adrian!” Of all things, Lisbeth smiled. She wore nothing but her night rail. Its hem and her stockings were muddy, and her hair frizzed out of its braid. And still, she found it appropriate to put on a smile.

  Adrian was going to kill Brabourne.

  “Let her go.”

  Brabourne only tightened his hold on her waist. “I don’t think so. You see, I have a gripe with this little tart. She has been plotting to keep me from my rightful wife. I must teach her a lesson.”

  Robert had stayed on his horse behind the carriage, out of Brabourne’s line of sight. He’d had the foresight to grab a hunting rifle from their grandfather’s stable, whereas Adrian only had his own fists.

  “Mary isn’t your rightful wife,” Adrian said, more to distract Brabourne while he strategized. If he could somehow pull Brabourne onto the road, then he and Robert would have the advantage. But he had to do it without risking Brabourne pulling the trigger against Lisbeth’s head.

  “What would you know about rightful?” Brabourne spat. “Your mother was a mulatto slut. Anything you have isn’t rightfully yours.”

  Adrian had long since stopped hearing such slurs. They weren’t worth listening to, much less responding to.

  But Lisbeth – lovely, ferocious Lisbeth – hadn’t heard it before. With a cry of outrage, she slammed her elbow directly into Brabourne’s gut. He cowered, the pistol leaving her temple, and Adrian grabbed her legs, pulling her from Brabourne’s grasp.

  Swearing, Brabourne jumped from the carriage directly onto Adrian. His weight hit Adrian’s shoulders, and Adrian fell to his knees before he could land a punch against Brabourne’s arm. Robert leapt into the fray, wresting away the pistol. Adrian levered his feet to flip Brabourne onto his back. Dust erupted, clouding Adrian’s eyes and mouth for a moment. Brabourne flailed forward, trying to land hits against them. Adrian pummeled him, one punch in the face and the rest at his midsection.

  No hit was enough for Adrian’s fury. He jabbed at Brabourne’s stomach over and over, as if each punch could leach away the earl’s sins against Adrian. Manhandling Lisbeth. Daring to look at Mary. Weaseling his way into Hathorne Shipping. Trying to steal ten of the 219 souls from Inglewilde Plantation. Treating Adrian like a lackey. Over and over and over again.

  Until suddenly, his energy disappeared. Brabourne lay limp, blood pooling in the dust beneath him. Robert kicked his gut, and the man’s whole body shook like a bag of cotton.

  Adrian didn’t have the stomach to do anything more. And he suddenly remembered Lisbeth, lying in the dirt where she had fallen from the carriage.

  Adrian rushed to her. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  Her hands and ankles were still tied. His fingers – numb and sore from punches – fumbled over the ropes.

  “He was about to before you arrived. They were supposed to kidnap Mary, but they took me accidentally. He had just decided he needed to dispose of me one way or another.” Lisbeth’s arms fell forward once he released her bindings, and she wrapped herself around him.

  Even after everything, her hair smelled of cinnamon. “Lisbeth.” He couldn’t find any other words.

  She kissed just below his ear, where her lips landed naturally. “I am fine. Mary is fine. You are fine.”

  He wanted them to be more than fine. He wanted them to have never been threatened in the first place.

  Lisbeth handed him the ropes he had just untied. “Here, truss him up.”

  Robert helped bind Brabourne’s feet and hands together. Then – huffing – Adrian and
Robert carried Brabourne into the ditch. They ordered his driver into the ditch, too. Adrian’s heart stammered again when he turned and saw Lisbeth standing by the carriage, exhaustion lacing her whole body.

  She was his everything. How could he ever leave her behind?

  Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty One

  Somehow, Lisbeth slept the whole ride back to London. She didn’t think she would, alone on the carriage bench swaddled in Adrian’s cloak while he and Robert drove the carriage and two horses, but almost as soon as the coach rolled into motion, she fell into a dreamless sleep. When she awoke, they were turning the corner onto Upper Norton Street.

  Adrian opened the carriage door himself. She flashed back to the moment only hours earlier, when Brabourne had dangled her before Adrian like some sort of doll he could toss away at any moment. Lisbeth wasn’t sure Brabourne would truly have shot her, but she had worried he would turn the gun on Adrian.

  It was all behind them now, she reminded herself, and instead of terror, there was relief on Adrian’s face. He smiled at her. “Did you rest?”

  “As if we had done nothing more exciting than attend a ball.” Lisbeth put her hand – bare – in Adrian’s gloved palm to step down. She had hardly landed on the cobblestones when he scooped her into his arms. “I can walk!” she protested, but without much conviction. Even though he stank of sweaty horses, she felt better wrapped against him.

  Robert followed them up the stairs with amusement wreathed about his face.

  Ford opened the front door in his usual, serene manner. It was only when he saw Lisbeth in Adrian’s arms that he blanched. “Should I call for a doctor?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Adrian placed Lisbeth on her feet in the parlor. The household didn’t feel any different than any other day. For the first time since Adrian and Robert had left Brabourne in the ditch, her skin crawled again with unease.