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“Oh, Patricia,” she gasped. “I have the most dreadful news, dearest. I rushed here as soon as I heard…”
Patricia gaped at her mother. “If you are talking about the scandal sheet, then I already know, Mama….”
Her mother shook her head vigorously. “No, it is not that to which I refer, as awful as it was.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I am quite resigned to that. We are the laughingstock of London. All our hard work ruined….”
Patricia pulled away, gazing at her mother with contempt. “I do not need to hear this, Mama. My husband left the house last night in a rage, and he has not returned. I am worried about him. I do not need to hear about how awful things are for you now that your financial woes are exposed to the world.”
Lady Hunter sobbed, reaching for her hand again. “I know you are angry with me, Patricia. And for good reason. But now is not the time to talk about it.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “I have just heard word that your husband has been kidnapped. It was reported to the Bow Street Runners this afternoon. Apparently, someone saw him being hit and dragged off a street…”
Patricia’s head spun violently. She didn’t even hear her mother’s cry of distress, as she slipped to the floor everything went black.
* * *
Jackson slowly opened his eyes. There was a sharp, stabbing pain in his head. It was so intense that he couldn’t lift up his head at all. His eyes fluttered closed again.
Where was he? What had happened?
He couldn’t remember a single thing.
With great effort, he hauled his eyelids open again. His vision was blurred; he had to blink rapidly to clear it. And still, after doing all that, nothing made sense to him.
He seemed to be in a dark room. It had a strong, overpowering musty smell. There were cobwebs hanging in thick translucent chains from the ceiling, and very little furniture from what he could see. A rickety chair in one corner. But then he couldn’t look very far. His neck pained considerably if he tried to turn his head at all.
“Where am I?” he croaked. “Is anyone here?”
But there was no answer. None at all. The silence within the room was deafening. He seemed to be entirely alone.
He closed his eyes and tried desperately to remember how he had gotten here. He knew he had been walking the streets after leaving his club. He knew that he had drunk far too much whiskey, and that probably the pain in his head had as much to do with that as anything else. But something else had happened to him as well. Something that had contributed to his head feeling as if it was about to explode at any second.
Abruptly, he remembered. He had been approaching an inn, to secure a room for the night, when he felt a presence behind him. He had turned around…and someone had punched him in the face; so hard that he had obviously been felled like a tree.
He reached up and rubbed his head ruefully. He must have hit it when he fell. There was no other explanation. He winced as he encountered a gash and some dried-up blood. Yes, that was what it was. He must have passed out from the force of it.
But that did not explain why he was in a decrepit, unfurnished room.
He tried to sit up. He should still be in that cobblestone laneway if it was a straightforward robbery. They would have fleeced him of his coin and ran. But this…this was odd. It meant that whoever had punched him had deliberately dragged him here while he was unconscious. But for what purpose?
“Hello,” he called out again, clearing his throat. “Is anyone here?”
There was still no answer.
He slumped against the wall. He was desperately thirsty, and his head was spinning. Quite suddenly, he fell to the side, retching violently. He didn’t know if he had ever felt quite so ill in his life than he did now. Fear swept through him in a fierce wave. He was far too sick to move an inch. Had he been kidnapped? And what were his captors intending to do with him?
* * *
Patricia gazed out upon Grosvenor Square. It looked different at night. Gas lanterns had been lit around the square, illuminating the trees and the benches. A few were burning sporadically in front of the tall townhouses. The Reynolds house was shrouded in almost total darkness, save for two small lanterns on either side of the grand front door.
She took a deep, ragged breath trying to calm herself. After hearing the awful news from her mother that Jackson had been kidnapped off the streets last night, she had fainted clean away. But when she had come to her senses, she had been filled with a fierce determination. It was her fault that this calamity had befallen him. And it was up to her to fix it.
She must find him. And Eleanor was the only person she could trust to help her.
Her heart thudded as the carriage slowly drew up. Eleanor wasn’t expecting her at all – she might be out for the evening or entertaining company inside. There simply had been no time to pen a hasty letter to tell her friend of her intention to call.
She rapped on the door sharply. It seemed an age before she heard footsteps approaching. The door swung open, and she was staring into the impassive face of the butler.
“Your Grace?” The man recognized her by now. He looked surprised.
She took a deep breath. “I am sorry to disturb the household. But I must speak to Lady Reynolds urgently if she is at home…”
