The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirty-Four

I

rene Elizabeth Ennis was terrified. When she was kidnapped the year before, she’d been drugged and hadn’t remembered being taken. Mr. Farcle sat across from her now in the foul-smelling hackney. She knew she’d never outrun him. He was much larger than Lord Griston. She glanced out the window, but she could detect no recognizable landmarks. So even if she escaped her fate, it might be worse. Wherever Mr. Farcle was taking her, there might be someone to whom she could appeal.

She forced her fingers to remain lightly clasped and willed her face blank.

“Middleton’s never gonna believe you a street urchin,” he muttered.

Her eyes dropped to her nightgown. He was right. It was too clean, she thought, remembering that young boy who’d tried stealing Celia’s locket. He’d likely never had a bath in the whole of his life. Thinking of the younger sister she was likely to never see again had her eyes welling with tears. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, willing back the tears. Mother was forever telling her to have faith. If anyone could find her, it was Lord Brockway. Hadn’t he saved Mama when Papa had hurt her so badly?

She prayed a silent plea for Lord Brockway to find her. Notably, her lack of reaction to these evildoers made her a conundrum to them. It might well be her only defense. If she were killed, she would die with dignity, she promised herself, stiffening her spine.

Mr. Farcle rapped on the ceiling, and the carriage drew to a halt. He took her chin between his fingers and pressed, forcing her eyes to his. “You stay here. If you make a run for it, I’ll leave you be. You won’t last long in this part of town.”

Irene nodded, unable to think of a suitable reply.

He slipped out, said something to the driver, and within minutes, jumped back in with his hand full of…

He dumped a handful of mud all over her white gown. “Spread it around,” he barked. “Or I’ll do it for you.” He rapped on the ceiling, and once more they set in motion.

Irene had never been one to play in the dirt, let alone this fetid muck he’d thrown on her. She didn’t quite know where to start.

Mr. Farcle huffed out his frustration and swiped the residual mud left on his hands down her arms. Then he dipped his fingers in the pile and scraped it in her hair, on her face. And she let him. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it with her fingers. Tears gathered and slid down her cheeks.

“That’s better,” he said. “The tears create another level of mess and authenticity.” He took more of the blob and splattered it over the front of her gown, then pulled her to her feet and spun her around and did so to the back. All the while never touching her inappropriately. For that she could be grateful. One last glob landed on her bare feet. How thorough he was.

The stench from the Thames grew stronger despite the hackney’s closed windows. “Where are we going?” she finally asked.

“The Woodlark.” His teeth gleamed an eerie sight. She shivered. “You’ll be sailing off to new adventures.”

She frowned. “New adventures?” She didn’t like the sound of that. She was a young woman who adhered to routine. Surprises and adventures did not work well in a world as tightly structured as the one she maintained.

After an interminable time, the hackney rolled to a stop, and real fear rippled through her. Everything Mama and Lord Brock crammed in her brain all at once. She opened her mouth and screamed bloody murder.

Farcle’s hand clamped over her mouth. “Shut up,” he growled, “or I’ll throw you in the river. Don’t matter none to me.” He tossed the blanket over her head, then her over his shoulder.

Mr. Farcle was a very strong man. Irene spit out mud, but otherwise kept her head, stilling herself like a statue. Not only did she not like surprises or adventures, but she most especially didn’t like swimming. Swimming meant getting in dirty water.

She felt Mr. Farcle’s steps angle up on what sounded like hollow planked wood, and water sloshed below. She shivered, wishing she had been drugged.

“Where’s Middleton?” Mr. Farcle’s muffled demand sounded. He was quite scary. But Irene would take him over this Mr. Middleton.

“Who’s asking? I’m his First Mate.”

“Got another miscreant.”

“Dump ’em in the hole. Down the galley and to the right. Figure we can fit one more with only the two down there.”

Mr. Farcle grunted.

Dread wound through and coiled Irene’s insides, squeezing into a sheet of pain that had her seeing white beneath her cover of black. She made herself as small as she could. Prayed for a miracle.

The only miracle was being dropped onto straw-covered ground. She huddled beneath the blanket, terror overwhelming her. The latching of the door sent her body into a shock of tremors that refused to abate. Her teeth chattered and wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t breathe. Her tears came in earnest now, sobs wracking her body.

Her blanket was ripped away by a boy barely bigger than Celia. “Blimey.”

Shaking, Irene swiped her arm across her face, smearing the now dried mud. “I-I know you. You tried to steal my sister’s locket,” she stuttered out.

“That man that brung ye, he tossed me in ’ere a week ago.”

She surveyed her surroundings, thankful for a low-lit lantern hanging from a hook. There was no window. “What is your name?”

“James.”

“My name is Irene,” she told him. In the corner she saw a grown man in tattered clothes. “Who’s he?”

“Don’t rightly know. Bloke says he’s a nobleman.”

She crawled near him. Took in his matted hair and the bruises that blackened his skin. “Is he?”

“Talks like a nob. Wouldn’t get so close, iffin I was ye. He been casting up his accounts since they throwed him in a few days ago.”

Sure enough, the man’s stomach contracted, and he heaved, but nothing came up. “Has he eaten anything?”

“Nah. Tried giv’n him water, but ’e’s too fer gone, iffin ye ask me.”

“Let me try.” Irene moved toward his head and lifted it onto her lap. “Sir?” Irene took the vessel that James handed over and put it to the man’s cracked lips. “You must drink something.” She brushed the hair from his forehead where she saw a knot.

Her mother had had a few of those from her father. Irene knew from experience that he should not have been allowed to sleep after hitting his head. She poured a little of the water over her fingers and dampened his mouth. His lips parted, and she tipped the tankard. Water trickled into his mouth and spilled over the sides.

He coughed, then made another attempt to vomit. “Quickly, James. Help me.” They heaved the man to sitting. He was weak. He blinked, as if trying to focus on her. “What is your name, sir?”

“Brandon Radcliff. Viscount Harlowe,” he rasped.