Page 7 of Much Ado about a Widow

“I noticed that a few moments ago. Is that troubling to you?” Perhaps the scent was making Clara ill. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“Oh, no, my lady. But I thought if they’ve brought us to the water they may plan to make away with us, over the ocean, to sell us as slaves in some heathen country.” Clara burst into tears. “I’ve read about such horrible things happening to good Christian women.” A high keening filled the carriage.

“Hush, Clara.” Good Lord. Of all the times for her maid to have hysterics. “Of course they won’t do that. They’re going to ransom us is all, just like you said.”

“But Lady Georgina, what if that’s not this master’s plan at all? He may want the money, but knows your father won’t pay.” Clara dug into her reticule, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her streaming eyes. “He could send us somewhere horrible, like Turkey, and sell us to a Pasha for his harem!”

“What?” Georgie’s mouth dropped open. What could have given Clara such a fanciful idea as that? “Whatever gave you such a wicked idea, Clara? And where did you even hear the word ‘harem’?”

“Did you never read any of Lord Byron’s poems, my lady?” The maid’s indignant tone almost surprised a laugh out of Georgie. “I’ve read many of his tales, and learned a thing or two about those awful heathens. The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos both tell of these harems where the Pasha has many, many women held there just to”—Clara’s cheeks turned apple red—“serve his needs.”

“Well, no, I cannot say I have read many of Lord Byron’s works.” Perhaps she should have done. “The Corsair, of course, but nothing else. I have, however, heard of harems, and wondered what the women did with all their time.”

Clara blinked. “You wondered what they did, my lady?” She sounded scandalized. “You were married once. I’d think you’d know what they did.”

“I don’t mean that. Of course, I know what they did with the Pasha.” Or Georgie suspected she did. “But that would only be one at a time, unless he was a truly depraved man. And he wouldn’t likely be with his . . . wives all of the time every day.” Georgie shrugged. “So I wondered what they did all the rest of the time. I don’t think they are allowed to go out, so no shopping, or visiting, or going for ices. And I daresay they have their own servants, so they wouldn’t cook or clean. They would be waited on, I suspect.” She frowned, still perplexed by the question. “So I do wonder what they do.”

Clara’s face had gone from white and stretched to red and puckered. “Well, if my guess is correct, you may have cause to find out, my lady. And soon.”

“If my plan works, neither of us will ever know.” Georgie peered out the window. The carriage had slowed a bit, but was still moving forward. Another few minutes and more houses had appeared along the road.

“Be ready and follow my lead.”

“Yes, my lady.” Tensed, Clara glanced from window to window, clutching the edge of the leather seat.

“Lulu.” The little dog woke with a yip and jumped to the floor, tail waving like a battle flag. “Get ready. I’ll let you know when to bite them.” Georgie turned her attention to the street outside. They were closer to the town’s center to judge by the traffic and the busy nature of the street. Closer to the water too, from the all-but-overpowering smell of fish.

At last the carriage rocked to a halt.

* * *

Walter Endicott, Lord Travers, glanced at his pocket watch for what must have been the fortieth time that day. Had blasted time stopped altogether? The hands read a quarter past two o’clock, just five minutes since the last time he’d looked. The watch must be running slow. Perhaps he’d forgotten to wind it. He grasped the stem between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a vicious twist, although winding it now would do no good if the time was already wrong.

His grip was so tight the stem popped off and went flying across the table, skittering between his glass and the bottle of brandy he’d ordered at noon, and rolled off the edge and out of sight. Disgusted, Travers slammed the watch onto the table. Worthless piece of metal. He grabbed his glass again. Nothing had gone right with this venture, but he’d be damned if he’d give up yet. He trusted his men. They’d be here soon. With Lady Georgina.

Abandoning the broken watch, Travers raised his glass and downed the two fingers worth of spirits left in it. He shouldn’t drink any more at present. His fuzzy head and blurry sight told him he was dangerously close to passing out, and he wanted to be quite clearheaded when his men arrived with his future wife. Lady Georgina. Despite his prodigious consumption of brandy, his shaft hardened at the mere thought of her name. After five long years of lust and longing, she was almost his.

He still didn’t know what it was about the red-haired little wench that had captivated him for so long, but he had craved the sight of her ever since he’d first been introduced to her, the year after she’d come out. He’d tried to initiate a marriage arrangement with the Marquess of Blackham immediately after that initial meeting, but the man had quashed his suit, citing other arrangements he was making with the eldest son of the Duke of Carford.

For once, Travers had been prudent and bided his time, and, when those negotiations had fallen through, he’d quietly renewed his suit. And that time, for whatever reason, Blackham had agreed. Travers had walked around his London townhouse in a perpetual state of arousal for weeks, thinking about nothing but the sight of Georgina, nude and beneath him on their wedding night. He’d had to visit his favorite brothel almost daily, so intense had been his lust for the woman. Then, somehow, it had all fallen apart when the lady in question had married a nobody—a vicar’s son—the day after her twenty-first birthday and two weeks before their wedding would have taken place.

Abruptly, Travers seized the bottle and upended it into his glass. The day he’d learned the news had been the blackest of his life. He’d raged about London, drinking and whoring until time ceased to exist. He’d awakened on the fourth day in a stall behind his townhouse, his clothing stinking of spirits and his own essence, his tongue so thick he could barely swallow, and his head exploding with pain every time he moved an inch.

His valet had suggested a change of scenery and had removed them to the continent, to Brussels, where Travers had spent the year drinking and whoring, but in moderation. Then, with the Battle of Waterloo looming, he’d sobered quickly and set out for London. In the days after his return, he’d learned of the death of Georgina’s husband and immediately had applied again to Lord Blackham, vowing she’d not slip through his fingers again.

Which was why he’d sent his men to kidnap her today.

He glanced at the shattered watch. Why hadn’t they arrived yet?

“Crawford.” He bellowed, and his valet, a tall, lanky man with nervous hands, appeared at a trot. “Fetch me another bottle, and see if Cole has arrived.”

“Very good, my lord.” The valet hurried out.

Travers rose and tottered over to the window, although the trip was totally in vain. When he’d demanded the best rooms in the inn he hadn’t been thinking that meant he’d be lodged at the back of the establishment to spare him the noise of the courtyard. Had he been taken to a front-facing room, he could have seen for himself when Georgina arrived. When he’d finally realized his mistake, the other rooms had already been occupied. Damned nuisance. He peered out the window anyway at the cold, gray Channel. Of course, the back-facing rooms would be to his advantage if the lady put up a struggle. Fewer people to hear her cries, and Travers fully expected she’d not submit to him willingly before the wedding. But he had to ensure that this time there would indeed be a wedding. His entire future depended on it.

“Where the hell is Crawford with that bottle?” he growled to no one. Perhaps he shouldn’t drink any more until after Georgina was brought to him. He needed to be sober enough to explain to her that they must anticipate their wedding night because he couldn’t be left at the altar again. Quite apart from his raging lust, there simply were bills to pay and no money with which to pay them. At least, not until he had control of his wife’s money. And, although the betrothal was signed, he’d heard her brother was actively seeking to break that agreement. Oh, yes, he’d heard that Brack was advocating to Blackham that he allow Georgina to go to London for the Season and let her choose her own husband.

Ludicrous to think Blackham, of all people, would do such a thing. When the marquess gave his word, it was as good as a sacred oath. However, Travers had also heard that Blackham was so delighted that Brack’s wife was increasing with what could be his heir, that the man would do anything for his son, including allow the dissolution of the betrothal between him and Georgina.