Taken by the Wicked Rake

Again, back to the man’s only true fear. ‘I will certainly not tell them, Veryan. And once Carlow’s involvement in my father’s death is uncovered, no one will care how it came about.’

‘And we will be heroes,’ Keddinton said.

‘Because justice will have been done.’ Stephano repeated it as he had, several times before, to buck up the spirits of the oily little man. It was the carrot to match the stick. Keddinton had gotten it into his head that catching a traitor and murderer, after all this time, would be the thing to propel him to greater heights in government and another title. Perhaps it would. Stephano had little interest in the details. But if they helped to keep the man in line, he could think what he liked.

Now that the headache was receding, he could feel the pain in his hand again. As he flexed his fingers, he was annoyed to see blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. He glared at Keddinton. ‘Deliver the package and my message. Tell Stanegate I accosted you in the street and was gone before you could follow. He will take this to his father. I will return in a week.’ And he turned and left the proud Viscount Keddinton shaking behind his desk.

When she could no longer hear the Gypsy taunting her from outside the vardo wagon, Verity shouted a brief tirade of curses and pleas into the silence on the other side of the door. Then she fell silent herself, as she suspected that further shouting served no purpose. No one had come to help her when Stephen Hebden had brought her into the camp. If anyone wished to help her now, there could be no doubt of her location, nor the fact that she was held against her will. And since she had seen none of the other Gypsies, she did not even know if she wanted their help. Perhaps the tribe was full of men even more brutal than her captor. If that was the case, she would gain nothing by calling attention to herself. She had no proof that the person that might come to her aid was any better than the one who had taken her.

She glanced around the little room that would be her prison for the day. There was a basin with fresh water, and a small mirror on the wall. She went to it, and looked at her reflection. It was as he had said. Her face was streaked with dirt, and mud was caked under her nails. Even her feet were dirty, for the muddy water of the roadway had soaked through her stockings. Carefully, she began to wash herself. Then she took down her hair, combing the leaves out of it with her fingers, then reaching hesitantly for the set of silver brushes that sat on the small shelf below the mirror. They were beautiful things, as was the silver handle of his razor, ornamented with a pattern of leaves and vines. The metal was smooth from use, but well cared for.

And the blade of the razor was sharp. He’d left her alone with access to a weapon. What did it say about the man, that he would do such a thing? He had not seemed foolish. But if he made such a blunder, then he was underestimating her. She glanced wildly around the room, looking for a place to conceal it. If she hid the thing, it should be where she could get to it, should she need to use it. He had seen to it that there was no way for her to secrete it on her person. Her only option might be to lie in wait for him, and strike quickly when he opened the door. But for now, she returned the razor to where she’d found it.

She looked in the mirror again. At least now, she felt clean, although still just as vulnerable as she had. But it was good that she was alone, she reminded herself. The last thing she needed, in her current state, was company. She glanced around the room. In another life, she’d have found it cheerful. The wood of the bed frame and the little table and chair were carved and painted with bright designs of flowers and birds. She wondered if her captor had done the work himself, or it had been decorated by another. The chest in the corner had the name ‘Magda’ carved carefully into the top. Was the woman a wife or a lover? It was impossible to tell.

She hesitated only a moment, before opening it. It was not locked. But if he’d wanted privacy, then he’d have been better to leave her where she was, and not to lock her up here. The trunk was full of neatly folded men’s clothes, just as she had expected. Here was the suit that she had admired on him in the civilized setting of the Keddinton ballroom. Her hand was resting on the fine linen of his shirt, and she imagined slipping it over herself.

Would it be more decent or less, she wondered, for a woman to cover her nakedness with men’s clothing? To go without stays and feel the cloth of the shirt rubbing against one’s breasts, the unfamiliar sensations of trousers, covering while they revealed. And to have the whole of the ensemble bearing the faint smell of the man she had danced with. Wood smoke and brandy with an underlay of exotic spice. It would be as intimate as a touch.

The thought made her dizzy. She hoped it was the strangeness of her surroundings and her helplessness in them that was making her feel so odd. But in some part, it was because of the way she’d felt about the false Lord Salterton, right up to the moment when he had ruined it all by taking her. Although she should be terrified of him, she was more angry than frightened. For to suddenly have the fluttery feelings towards a man that she had been waiting and hoping to have, only to have them for someone so villainous, so cruel, and so clearly unworthy. She was disappointed in herself, and in him, for not being the man she wished him to be.

She pressed her hands to her temples. She must be losing her mind. She thrust the clothing back into the chest. She did not want to get any closer to her kidnapper than was necessary. There had to be a better way to solve her predicament than to put on his shirt, even if it was the most sensible course of action.

The door behind her opened.

She slammed the chest shut and jumped away from it, grabbing a blanket from the bed to hide her body and the razor from the shelf, ready to strike at the first hand that touched her.

When she turned to confront the person who had entered, she was surprised to see an old woman holding a cloth bundle in her arms. Her visitor was eyeing her with disdain, although she gave a faint nod of approval at the sight of the bare blade in her hand.

The whole tribe was as mad as Stephano, if threatening a stranger with a makeshift weapon was seen as an acceptable greeting. God only knew what he had said to the people in his camp. Despite all her screaming, Verity could guess how it must look to the old woman, if she was hiding in the man’s wagon, without a stitch on. She put on her most innocent expression, set the razor aside, and held out a hand in supplication. ‘I am held against my will,’ she whispered. ‘Can you help me?’ The blanket slipped alarmingly, and she pulled her hand back to catch it.

The bundle that the old Gypsy had brought turned out to be an armload of women’s clothing, which she tossed down on the bed at Verity’s side. Then she spoke to her in a torrent of alien language, to which Verity could only shake her head in confusion. Whatever the crone had said, it sounded more disgusted than sympathetic. She finished with a nod that seemed to indicate this was all the help Verity was likely to receive, and perhaps more than she deserved. Then, she held out a hand.

Did the woman expect payment for the clothing? Because she must know it was quite impossible. Verity shook her head again, and said slowly, ‘I have nothing to give you. He took it all.’

The woman gave her another frustrated look that said she must be an idiot, and then responded in equally slow English. ‘Give me your palm.’

Timidly, Verity held out a hand.

The old Gypsy turned it palm up, then shifted it back and forth in the light, muttering and responding with a curse before pushing Verity’s hand away. Then, she left the wagon as suddenly as she had come, slamming the door behind her.

Verity stared at the pile of clothing on the bed, then picked up a dress and examined it. It was clearly used, but in good condition, and a bright green that would complement her eyes. Perhaps she was as foolish as the woman thought, if she was concerned with her appearance at a time like this. The accompanying petticoats were heavy, and the stays were light to allow easy movement. The stockings were thick, but well cared for, and the shoes sensible.

It was a suitable garment for life in a Gypsy camp, allowing for comfort, freedom and protection from the elements. Attractive, yet sensible. If she ever meant to escape and return to her old life, she would need such garments to travel in, and it would do her no good to baulk at wearing someone else’s hand-me-downs. She dressed hurriedly. And then she tried the door.

She had imagined she would find it locked, but it opened easily under her hand. Had her kidnapper left it unlocked, sure that her nakedness would hold her inside? Or had the old woman left it so when she had departed? And had she done it on purpose, or by accident? What might happen to her, should Verity decide to exit?

She took a deep breath, and turned the handle. It was like looking out into another world. The camp had been dark and quiet when she entered, and she had taken little note of it, other than to know that she did not wish to be there. But in daylight, it was very different indeed. All around were beech trees, and light filtered through the green and yellow leaves, making the sunlight seem soft and golden, and the sound of birds and the rustle of the wind in the trees made a constant background to the activity around her.

The camp itself was made mostly of willow bender tents. She counted six large canvas structures that looked almost as permanent as cottages, and several smaller tents, each with a cooking fire in front. There were only two or three of the wagons she had come to associate with Gypsies, and the one she had exited was by far the grandest. It was large and sturdy, and the green paint was fresh and clean. Something about it gave her the impression of power, as well as wealth. She was sure that the man who owned it was the leader of this tribe. If that was true, how much help could she expect from the people around her?

And there were many. Men sat on benches beside the fires, carving or mending shoes or pots; women bustled over the meals they were cooking; and several small children darted in and out amongst the tents, playing at tag or ball.

She went down the little wooden steps to the ground. She could feel a shifting of awareness, although few were brazen enough to stare directly back at her. To test her theory, she strode purposefully toward the edge of the camp to see how they would respond. There were ponies and carts behind some of the tents. If she borrowed one, she could find a road and leave. A road would lead her somewhere, eventually.

But before she could reach the trees, a man stepped into her path. He was shorter than Stephano, but no less intimidating. He smiled at her, showing a gold tooth, and crossed his arms over his chest. Then he took a menacing step toward her, and she scurried back into the clearing.

She could hear his laughter behind her and his call to another man, who responded with laughter of his own. She wondered had the threat been real or merely a test. If so, she had proven herself easily frightened, and for little reason.

She turned back to the camp, and looked across it at the old woman who had given her the clothing, who stood beside her fire, stirring something in a large cast-iron pot. If she had a friend here, this woman might be it. She was the only person who had shown her kindness. She stepped toward the woman’s tent and said, ‘Excuse me?’

She might not have existed, for all the attention that was returned to her.

She tried again. ‘I wished to thank you for the clothing. It was very kind of you, and I appreciate it.’

The woman looked up at her with a barely raised eyebrow. She paused for a moment, as though thinking. Then she removed a scarf from her pocket, and spread it over a nearby bench. ‘Sit.’ It was more a command than a request.

All the same, Verity said, ‘Thank you,’ as she took the seat. She wondered if the woman spoke enough English for her to be understood. Or was it only her stubbornness that made her silent? Just in case, she said, ‘This is a most unexpected turn of events. Last night, I was attending a ball at the house of my godfather. And this morning finds me in a Gypsy camp, surrounded by strangers. The man who brought me here is not friend to me, nor my family.’

She paused, hoping that the woman might supply some opinion on this, but none was forthcoming.

She continued. ‘I am afraid that he might mean me harm. He brought me here against my will. But it will not matter for long, I am sure. I am the Earl of Narborough’s daughter. My family will be looking for me, and they will be most angry with whoever has taken me, and will see that justice is done.’

She said it loud enough so that all around might hear, and left another gap in the conversation, hoping that any eavesdroppers would consider the possibility of retribution. Counting the hours since her abduction, there had been barely enough time for Uncle Robert to notice her absence and send for her brothers. But if she could keep safe for another day, or maybe two, they would find her and bring her home.

It would not even take that long, if she could persuade someone in the camp to bring them a message. ‘They will also be most grateful to whoever might help me return to them. And most generous. My family is very wealthy.’ And that should influence anyone who might be bribable.

Then she stated her greatest fear, more softly, so that only the old woman could hear. ‘I am concerned for what will happen to me, when my captor returns. I doubt that his plans for me are those of a gentleman. If you should hear any noises coming from the wagon … If I should be forced to scream for help …’

The woman turned to her and gave her another cold stare, which caused her to fall silent. Then the old Gypsy went to the fire and removed the kettle, pulled a chipped mug from the table beside the fire, filled it and handed it to Verity. She went to a basket beside the tent, cut a thick crust from a loaf of bread, and handed her that, as well.

‘Thank you,’ Verity said loudly. And then she whispered, ‘Does this mean you will help me?’

The woman said back in English, ‘It means that, if your mouth is full, you will not talk so much.’ And she walked away, returning to her tent and pulling the flap closed behind her.

Verity sat alone by the fire, chewing upon the crust of bread, waiting to see what would happen next. Whatever she had expected of a Gypsy camp, it was not what she was seeing. After the half-hearted threat when she had tried to leave, the people were showing her no interest, too caught up in the work of the day to care about a stranger in their midst. There was the regular clink, clink of someone hammering a patch onto a pot, and another man worked the bellows over a small, portable forge.

A few men worked together over a lathe, turning what appeared to be chair legs, or spindles for a banister. While they worked, they chatted in the strange language that the old woman spoke, sometimes resorting to a phrase or two of English before someone nodded in her direction and put a stop to it. Women tended fires and children, hung washing or swept debris from the floors of their tents. Everywhere she looked, people seemed busy.

All except her.

And she could not help the creeping feeling that she got on the back of her neck sometimes, that she was meant to be doing something, or being something, or going somewhere. Last night, Stephen Hebden had called her useless. She feared it was true. If the future had plans for her, she must hope that it would require nothing more taxing than watercolour drawing and excellent table manners. And playing the harp, of course.

Uncle Robert had insisted that she continue her lessons during her visit with him. As she played, the ethereal sound of the instrument made her feel even less content than before. When people heard her practice, they made what they thought were flattering comments about her angelic nature. But from the way their attention seemed to drift as they talked to her, she suspected that, while they might claim to like angels very much, the company of them was sought in moderation and tempered with that of much more earthly women.

She watched the angle of the light passing through the leaves, changing as the sun moved through the sky. And she wondered again at her location. Perhaps now that the people around her were too busy to notice, she should try again to slip away. But if she did escape, where would she go?

Home, of course. She would find someone to escort her back to London. But of late, with Father sick and everyone else grown busy with their new lives, home did not really feel like home to her.

She glanced around the camp again. But neither did this place, with its distant inhabitants and glowing sunlight. She had not slept since the Gypsy had kidnapped her, and now that she had opportunity, she was too tired to run away. Thanks to the old woman, she was neither as hungry nor as cold as she had been. Perhaps, after a nap, she would be better able to think of a way out of this dilemma. She closed her eyes and let her head loll.

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