Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Read online

  STEALING THE HEIRESS

  SAMANTHA HOLT

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  A sound that could only be described as a loud raspberry ripped through the drawing room. Rosamunde winced and covered her eyes briefly with a hand. Well, she could describe the sound in worst ways, but she was a lady and she certainly did not talk about bodily noises in such a way. Aunt Petunia leapt from the chair, her cheeks pink, and picked up the offending windbag.

  “George Hampton, are you behind this?” she demanded.

  George, Rosamunde’s nine-year-old cousin, fought to keep a straight face. His cheeks bulged until he crumpled into laughter, clasping his stomach.

  His sister raced over, snatched the windbag from Aunt Petunia, and tossed it to George. “That was the best yet, George!”

  Aunt Petunia reached for the back of George’s jacket, but he dodged his aunt’s grasp and darted out of the drawing room, followed by his sister and the two other younger cousins. Aunt Petunia sank onto her chair but not before checking there was nothing else that would make such a rude noise.

  Rosamunde’s mother patted the back of Aunt Petunia’s hand. “They are in high spirits today.”

  As were they always. Rosamunde adored her younger cousins and could not even blame them for their behavior. She had been similar when she had visited her father’s house as a child. The grand rooms of Westham House always provided such a wonderful playground for children. Even now, she rather fancied sneaking off into the library and hiding on the upper balcony or tiptoeing through the servant’s hallway and hoping not to get caught. Anything other than sit around and listen to her four aunts and her mother talk of Rosamunde’s future marriage prospects.

  Goodness, she had married once already. Was that not enough?

  “What about Sir Bellmont?” her mother suggested.

  “Ohh.” Aunt Janey nodded. “He’s eligible.”

  “Not rich enough,” said another aunt.

  Rosamunde wrinkled her nose. His wealth wasn’t a problem. Sir Bellmont was almost as old as her late husband. If she married him, she’d likely be a widow for a second time and what sort of a reputation would she have then?

  She pursed her lips. People would call her The Black Widow. Or The Wicked Widow.

  No, The Killer Wife.

  She smiled to herself. Actually, that would not be so bad. It might even be exciting. Not that she had any desire to bury another husband, but it would be rather exciting to be known as something more than Lady Rosamunde Stanley, heir to her father’s fortune, widow to the Viscount Rothmere, and aunt to far too many naughty cousins.

  She glanced at her hands. She shouldn’t complain. There were many in much worst circumstances to her. Her arranged marriage had been acceptable, if incredibly dull. The Viscount always treated her respectfully, though she supposed visiting a mere two times a year left him with little chance to treat her any other way. His passing had been no shock. Only a year into their marriage, his health began to fail, and she gave up hope of conceiving any children from it. It was a miracle he lasted five years.

  Her cousins darted back into the room, followed by her young sister Ellie. George dashed past the delicate table next to Rosamunde and it wobbled precariously. She snatched the cup of tea from it before it could topple with a crash and watched George dart between the thick, damask curtains while the rest of the younger cousins followed.

  Aunts, uncles, sisters, and older cousins exclaimed their dismay as the children barged around everyone, racing about the room as though it were a horse track rather than the elegant drawing room of a most expensive London house. Several dogs in the room began barking.

  Rosamunde closed her eyes briefly. These gatherings at Westham happened at least every Saturday. It was rare the house was ever occupied by just her parents and her sister. And as much as she adored her family, sometimes she suspected it would be nice to have a little peace.

  Or would it?

  No. Maybe something, well, different. Something other than tea with her aunts and discussions of her future. Something more than watching her cousins knock over the Wedgewood vase every time they visited. Something different to eating shortbread and sipping tea.

  She glanced to the open doorway and silently waited. One day, it would happen, she was certain. That something different and exciting would occur. A pirate would charge through the door, thrust his finger at her, and say, yes, this is it. Yer coming on an adventure with me, lassie.

  She scowled. No, that wasn’t right. Pirates said me heartie. She had been thinking of the braw Scotsman who would demand she come to his castle in the Highlands immediately and help him see off a siege of thousands of Englishmen.

  Today, though, she rather fancied an adventure on the high seas. She could swab decks as well as the next man, she reckoned, and she was an excellent swimmer, not to mention she could handle a sword. Her pirate would be handsome, of course, with a full set of white teeth and smelling like fresh sea air and soap. His eyes would be blue like the tropical seas she had heard tale of and his hair a sort of sandy color, bleached by the sun. Not to mention, he would be terribly strong and able to sweep her up in his arms or hold her fast to the deck when a storm hit.

  Rosamunde sighed when the doorway remained empty and no handsome man with strong arms and sun-kissed hair stepped through.

  “Rosamunde, are you daydreaming again?” her mother asked, leaning over from the sofa.

  “No.”

  “You were.”

  “I was merely thinking, Mama.”

  Her mother tutted. “Daydreaming. You really should cease that. It is unbecoming of a lady, especially in good company.”

  Rosamunde did not mention that her family were well used to her flights of fancy and were far too preoccupied with discussing her future to care whether she was paying attention or not.

  “You are far too like Uncle Albert,” muttered Aunt Janey. “We are lucky she’s pretty or else she would still be a spinster with her nose always stuck in a book or her head in the clouds.”

  Rosamunde resisted rolling her eyes. Her aunts were not bad people but none of them were any good at holding their tongues. It was rather a family trait unfortunately. If one of them thought it, they usually said it aloud. Even she did it at times.

  “Has anyone heard from Uncle Albert?” asked her mother.

  Aunt Janey shook her head. “No, but you know what he is like. He is probably hiking up Scarfell or has made friends with some reclusive lord.”

  Rosamunde scowled. “No one has seen him this week?”

  Mama shrugged. “Albert often vanishes for a period of time, you know that.”

  “Ye
s, but it has been three months.” Rosamunde pushed her glasses up her nose. “That is a long absence, even for him.”

  Aunt Petunia waved a hand. “He has always been his own man.”

  And Rosamunde envied that. Of all her family members, Uncle Albert was the one she most understood. He didn’t always attend the weekly gatherings and more often than not, would be gallivanting about the country or frequenting his gentlemen’s club then bringing back tales of fistfights and daring wagers. She suspected he was the only one who understood her too. He had that same desire to see more, do more. He loved to travel around the country and always brought her back a little something.

  Last time it had been a sharp-shaped rock from Cumbria that he claimed was some ancient tool used by humans thousands of years ago. She had heard of such discoveries but could not figure out if hers was the genuine thing. But it didn’t matter. She treasured her collection of worldly belongings, regardless. After all, it was the story behind them that created the value rather than the objects themselves.

  “Do you think we should hire someone to find him?” Rosamunde suggested. “It has been quite a while since we saw him last.”

  Her mother shook her head. “He will return soon enough, with lots of grand tales no doubt.”

  “But he could be hurt,” Rosamunde protested. “Or in some sort of trouble. What if someone has—I don’t know—kidnapped him?”

  Mama laughed. “Why on Earth would someone want to kidnap Uncle Albert?” She tapped Rosamunde’s knee. “Rosie, you really must cease with your imaginings. We shall never find you another husband if you continue to behave like a child.”

  Rosamunde blew out a breath, not least because she loathed being called Rosie. It reminded her of being a child and getting told she could not do the things boys could do.

  Oh no, Rosie, little girls do not go swimming in the lake.

  No, Rosie, young ladies cannot learn to fence.

  Absolutely not, Rosie, women your age should not smoke or drink liquor.

  Pffft. She didn’t see why. She could fence with the best of them, having learned by copying her Uncle Frederick when he practiced. She could smoke too but actually it was not very pleasant and she had spent much of the night coughing after trying a cigar. She was a strong swimmer and she did not wrinkle her nose when she drank liquor like many young ladies. She could do all those things, and she did so with relish.

  At least she would, if her family would let her.

  But, no, it looked as though she would be sitting here for the rest of her days whilst married to another old man.

  She eyed the open doorway hopefully. If there was ever a time for Laird Macfarlane to come and rescue her, it was now. She would even accept Mr. Hunter, the intriguing archaeologist who just desperately needed her help in Egypt to decipher the hieroglyphs of a long lost, cursed tomb.

  Her younger cousins hastened out of the room in a long line, breaking her reverie. She sighed. No laird or adventurer was coming, which meant she would have to figure out a way of having an adventure herself. The trouble was, she hardly knew where to start. None of her friends had the same desires and most were married or having children. If only Uncle Albert were here. He could surely give some fine advice.

  “Oh, Rosamunde,” said Aunt Petunia, “will you come with me to Lady Lockwood’s tomorrow? I was meant to go with Mabel but as you know, she is too busy with wedding preparations and everyone wants to visit with her now that she is engaged.”

  Well, it was not an adventure, but she always liked visiting Lady Lockwood. The rather forthright woman had a lovely old house in the country and several dogs. Rosamunde somewhat envied her isolated state.

  There were no aunts nagging Lady Lockwood about remarrying or cousins racing around the hallway. It was just her and her dogs, and a house that surely housed several ghosts and secret corridors. Sometimes when Rosamunde visited, she pressed her fingers to the walls in the hopes of finding secret doorways, but she had yet to find any.

  “I’d be happy to accompany you, Aunt.”

  No great adventure would be occurring tomorrow but at least she would get to travel a little and escape the discussion of her next marriage.

  “I hear Lord Woolhurst will be visiting,” her mother said in an urgent whisper. “You should catch his eye. He would make you a fine husband.”

  Rosamunde suppressed a groan.

  Chapter Two

  Marcus Russell adjusted the scarf across his nose and clasped the pistol tight. His hand remained steady, his breaths slow and calm. He clasped the reins of his horse and peered down the lane.

  “Any time soon,” he murmured to the horse.

  So long as there were no animals this time, the kidnapping should go smoothly.

  So long as there were no damn cats. That last ugly, horrible thing had clawed the inside of the carriage and left little pulls in the fabric. He was hardly carriage-proud—the vehicle was used to carry women to and from their hideout and it showed plenty of wear and tear, but he didn’t need anymore blasted animals clawing up the inside of it.

  He snorted to himself. Miss Beaumont had been the first and only woman to bring a cat, and he doubted any other woman would think to bring their ugly pet with them on a ‘kidnapping’.

  Of course, she wasn’t Miss Beaumont anymore and Russell found it rather amusing to see Nash head-over-boots in love with the interesting woman, even if she did have the most hideous cat in the world.

  The rattle of carriage wheels on the dry road made his heart give a little jump. He took a breath and glanced down the road. A closed carriage, shining glossy black under the summer sun with gold trim. Most certainly his prey.

  “Come on, Junior,” he urged the horse forward into the middle of the road. “Time for action.”

  Holding the pistol straight out, he kept his stance firm. Junior had enacted plenty of these kidnappings before and remained perfectly still. The carriage drew to a halt and the driver scrambled to climb from the seat, but Russell focused his weapon upon him.

  “Stay where you are or I shall shoot,” he ordered firmly.

  The driver nodded, his hands trembling around his loose grip on the reins. Russell moved around the carriage and glanced through the window to find two women clutched together. He eyed the younger one. Dark-haired and attractive, just as Guy had described.

  Very attractive. Russell clenched his jaw. Miss Heston looked a little older than the one and twenty-year-old he had expected but Guy had certainly downplayed her looks. She peered at him with wide eyes then murmured something to her older companion.

  Before he pulled open the door, the woman shoved it and pushed her head out, meeting his gaze head on. Without the hazy glass between them, he had a full view of generous lips, a slightly stubborn chin, and wire-framed spectacles that emphasized a warm, nutty gaze. However, there was nothing warm about the way she looked at him.

  He let a brow rise. The woman was an excellent actress.

  “Come with me.” He kept his voice low, just in case her companion did not know of their arrangement.

  “Like hell!”

  He blinked at the blasphemy. As far as he knew, the woman they were kidnapping was gently bred and trying to escape the persistent overtures of a gentleman. Still, perhaps she was trying to play the role of helpless victim for her companion’s benefit.

  Very well. She wasn’t the only one who could act. He had not read every one of Shakespeare’s plays for no reason. “Come with me or I shall shoot,” he warned her, keeping his tones low and aggressive.

  Miss Heston scanned the length of him and lifted her chin. “If it is money you want, I am quite wealthy.” She put her hand to a broach at the neckline of her crimson gown.

  Russell’s gaze tracked the movement, unintentionally. He only realized her cleavage had caught his attention when she began to undo the gold and ruby broach. He swiftly looked away and blinked, feeling as though the image of soft skin, dark shadows, and generous curves might well be burned into
his mind. Every time he blinked from now on, he suspected he would see the image there again.

  Fool. He’d seen many a cleavage in his lifetime. A little glimpse of what appeared to be a most excellent cleavage wouldn’t be the undoing of him. If he could survive on the streets and forge a life for himself from nothing, he could most certainly rid himself of the image of the faintest glimpse of not even a third of a breast.

  Or two.

  Damn it. He blinked a few more times then scowled when she handed over the broach.

  “Here, this is worth far more than you could get for me from ransom.”

  He ignored it, letting his frown deepen. Why the devil was she dragging this out? Much longer and the driver might get the courage to fight him or someone would happen along and Russell could end up getting shot.

  “If that isn’t enough...” She hitched up her skirt, revealing pale stocking that encased a shapely leg.

  Well, the cleavage image no longer bothered him so that was something. He swallowed hard and frowned as she revealed the lacy edge of her stocking and the garter holding them up. Her hand moved slowly to the band, and she tugged out a bank note.

  Why the hell did this woman keep banknotes in her stockings?

  She reached for the note then curled her fingers around something else—a jeweled handle.

  A bloody penknife.

  She grabbed it swiftly and thrust it outward. Russell dodged back, the blade skimming past his stomach and catching briefly on the fabric.

  “Bloody hell, woman.” He grabbed her wrist. This play-acting was becoming far too dangerous. This needed to end now.

  She squealed and the blade dropped from her grip. He used the hold on her wrist to pull her toward him then latched an arm about her waist. The woman inside the carriage screamed and grabbed for Miss Heston’s skirts but Russell tore his captive away easily and hauled her over the saddle, her legs kicking against frothy skirts and petticoats, her fists bashing against his thigh. He glanced down at the woman sprawled across his lap and shook his head.

  No cats this time. Instead he had a she-beast who seemed likely to shred him to ribbons with her claws.