Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Page 12

  “She is a reporter and a damned nosey one at that,” Guy explained. “I have heard she is investigating the disappearance of several society ladies and is asking around about them. I do not see why she would come upon you two, but we can take no risks.”

  “I doubt she would come to me,” said Russell.

  “You don’t think she would reveal us?” asked Nash. “I have little desire to put Grace in any danger.”

  Guy shook his head. “She has nothing. She’s just an over-ambitious little fool.” He put in his hat and paused again. “Curses, that reminds me. I spoke to several acquaintances of mine—after all, I’ve known Lady Rothmere’s family for some time—and the word is Albert Wood might have been in Bath recently. You would do well to search there.”

  Russell accepted the second drink from the barmaid and lifted it in salute. “With any luck, I’ll have found Albert within the week, and we can get back to normal.”

  “I’ll see you soon, gentlemen.”

  Russell watched Guy leave then took a sip of his drink. He met Nash’s amused gaze. “What is it?”

  “I pity you.”

  “What?”

  Nash’s lips curved. “You think you can go back to normal after Lady Rothmere.”

  Russell rolled his eyes and drained his drink. He did think that, and he would. Rosamunde would have no lasting effect on him, of that he was certain. None at all.

  “DO YOU THINK he knows?” Mabel put a little tea on a teaspoon and offered it out to Mr. Pompadour, who lapped at the liquid.

  Rosamunde shook her head. “How can he? Russell talked of being an orphan. Surely he would have said if he was the natural son of an earl?” She reached for a biscuit and stuck her tongue out at the dog as he eyed every movement of the shortbread. “Mr. Pompadour is going to get fat,” she said when Mabel offered him a nibble of her biscuit instead.

  “Never. He has excellent breeding. He simply isn’t capable of getting fat.” Mabel drew the dog close and kissed his nose. “Are you, Pompie? You are simply too handsome for your own good. Besides, mumsie will still love you, even if you do get a little chubby.”

  “It would be hard to tell under all the fur, but he is looking a little rounder.”

  Mabel put her hands over his ears. “Do not say that! He is a sensitive soul.”

  Rosamunde finished the biscuit and retrieved a napkin to wipe her fingers on and dab her mouth. She set it back down on the delicate walnut coffee table. She came here to confide in her cousin, not to discuss Mr. Pompadour’s greedy inclinations. She still had no idea what to do about this new information. Should she tell Russell? Keep it from him? After all, it was really none of her business.

  “Have you spoken to him since the dinner?” Mabel asked.

  “He bid me goodnight briefly but that is it. I received a letter this morning saying he had news and we are to meet in the park later today.”

  “I wonder what the news could be...”

  “Hopefully it is about Uncle Albert.”

  Mabel wrinkled her nose. “Uncle Albert might well be in the Outer Hebrides and what are you going to do? Chase him all the way there?”

  “If I get information that he is in the Outer Hebrides and is safe, I will not need to.”

  “So you could ask Mr. Russell about this earl business today,” Mabel mused. “I saw there was breeding there, you know.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “He has an air about him.”

  Rosamunde did not think that was anything to do with being the illegitimate son of an earl and more to do with his experiences in life.

  “I feel as though I am lying to him if I keep it from him.” Rosamunde sighed. “But how do we even know it is true? All we have is Grandmama’s assumption that he is the son because of his name.”

  “Grandmama is never wrong.”

  “True.”

  “And when it comes to her granddaughter she is infinitely protective. Surely she has dug up more information on Mr. Russell to confirm it?”

  “She didn’t say.” Rosamunde made a face. “And I did not think to ask more. I was so surprised by the revelation.”

  “You are certain he does not know?”

  Rosamunde shrugged. “He could know and be ashamed perhaps? Or simply keeping it quiet because that is the sort of man he is? He rarely speaks of himself.”

  Mabel sighed and tilted her head. “He is so mysterious. If it were not for my lovely Henry, I would be quite enamored with him.”

  A slight prick of jealousy jabbed at her heart. Rosamunde straightened and shook the sensation away. She had no claim over the man and she very much doubted he wanted anyone to claim him, not even pretty Mabel.

  “I am not enamored with him.”

  “I did not say you were,” protested Mabel. “But it cannot be a hardship to spend time with him, Rosie.”

  “It is not terrible, no,” she admitted. “But it will be all the more difficult now I know this.” She paused and eyed the grandfather clock in the corner of the drawing room. “I will be meeting him in an hour. I need to decide what to do.”

  “You have a knack for investigation. Perhaps you should investigate this. Ask him some questions, ascertain what he knows and maybe how he would react if he found out.”

  Rosamunde shoved her glasses up her nose. If he did not know, she could not see him reacting well. He seemed to almost take pride in his lack of attachment to anyone. She had a suspicion that being an orphan was as much a part of his identity as her being over-imaginative.

  “I already tried to get an audience with the Earl of Henleigh, but he is in the country.” She pursed her lips. “I cannot think of anyone else I can speak to whilst being discrete. After all, it is hardly something many people would know of and I would so hate to cause any rumors or problems.”

  “Then you must keep this to yourself,” Mabel said firmly. “At least until you can either get him to admit he knows or speak with the earl.”

  Rosamunde blew out a breath. She did not much like the thought of keeping anything from Russell. Being dishonest always made her uncomfortable anyway but lying to Russell would be a hundred times worse, especially about something as important as family. But what other choice did she have? She could not reveal such a thing and risk scandal without at least confirming the truth behind it. Not to mention, she had little idea if the earl even wanted such a thing revealed.

  “What a rotten situation,” she muttered more to herself than anything.

  “Well, at least no one would ever be able to protest the two of you courting,” Mabel said, her smile wide. “He is wealthy and has noble blood in him.”

  Rosamunde looked to the ceiling. “We are not going to court,” she replied firmly.

  “We shall see,” Mabel said. “Shall we not, Mr. Pompadour?” She pressed several kisses to the dog’s head. “We shall see.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Something was wrong.

  No. Not wrong.

  Different.

  Rosamunde kept twitching in her seat. Or fiddling with the buttons on her gloves. Or toying with the latch on the carriage window.

  Russell didn’t usually mind different. In fact, he usually did well with it. He stayed in different places all the time, ate different meals. Hell, spending time with Rosamunde was about the most time he’d spent with anyone with the exception of The Kidnap Club.

  He was comfortable with different. Different meant no chance of attachment.

  At least until now.

  “Is something the matter?”

  Her head whipped around. “No. Of course not. Why would you ask?”

  He fixed her with a look. “That is the sixth time you have redone that button.” He nodded to her glove.

  She dropped her hand from the glove and offered a swift smile. It didn’t reach her eyes and that was different too. Rosamunde’s smile always reached her eyes, and Russell had to prevent himself from curling a fist when he considered the fact that someone might have done something to upset her and stop
those little crinkles around her eyes.

  “Nothing is wrong,” she said tightly.

  Nothing. Christ. Something really had to be wrong. His gut bunched at the words. He might not do entanglements with women but even he knew nothing was dangerous. Even worse than her being different.

  “Rosamunde...”

  “I am perfectly fine, Russell. I promise.” Her smile broadened slightly but he still didn’t see any eye crinkles.

  She turned her attention to the passing scenery. As soon as he’d contacted her with the information that her uncle might be in Bath, she’d demanded they depart. They would stay in the family townhouse, she had announced, though Russell rather hoped he’d be able to escape to a nearby inn. The last thing he needed was to be staying with her family. It wouldn’t do to get comfortable with them.

  With any luck, they’d find her Uncle Albert holed up in Bath somewhere and he’d never see Rosamunde or her family again. He most certainly did not want to find himself almost enjoying hers or their company.

  Because, oddly, he had almost enjoyed his dinner with her strange, noisy family.

  They were all mad, of course. Just like Rosamunde. They spoke when they wished to, talked over each other, laughed readily, and could be counted on to have some of the oddest ideas. Like the uncle who was convinced the world was to end in the year two thousand and twelve or the aunt who insisted on reading everyone’s fortune from their palm and could only tell them all that they were to meet a tall, dark stranger.

  In his case, he probably was the tall, dark stranger and if he let himself, he almost didn’t feel like a stranger. It made no sense really. Why should they welcome him, someone of no lineage and no obvious connections?

  He shook his head and eyed the back of Rosamunde’s hat. There was no sense in dwelling on her family. Especially when he had a woman who had spoken the dreaded nothing aloud in his presence.

  “Is it your uncle?” he ventured.

  She twisted around. “Pardon?”

  “Your uncle? Is that what is wrong? You are worried for him?”

  “Oh. Yes. That’s it. I’m terribly concerned for Uncle Albert.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt we will.”

  So if she thought that, what the devil was wrong? He blew out a lengthy breath. He never regretted not taking the time to understand women. Until now. He didn’t like the slightly concerned creases on her brow or the way her lips kept pinching. Not one jot. And he wished to hell he could figure out how to fix it.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “Rosamunde?”

  Rosamunde tilted her head slightly and peered at him. “When you say you are an orphan, did you mean you have no one at all? Not even any siblings?”

  Goddamn it. He thought she’d forgotten the whole sorry story. “Rosamunde,” he warned.

  “I have at least one more question,” she protested. “Consider that my final one if you must.” She sighed. “I do not see what the problem is with talking of our pasts between friends.”

  “You hardly speak of your husband,” he reminded her.

  “Well, there is nothing to say! He was acceptable, he did not treat me poorly—”

  “He neglected you and your needs. I’d say that was poor treatment. Hell, if I was your husband, I would—” He stilled. “Anyway, I am not the only one who does not speak of the past.”

  “Because my past means nothing.”

  There it was again. The dreaded nothing. “That simply is not true, Rosamunde. It shapes us into who we are now. I have no doubt your miserable marriage shaped you.”

  “It wasn’t miserable,” she protested. “Just a little dull.And if you think the past is so important, why will you not speak of yours?”

  Blast, she had him there. “There’s nothing to speak of.”

  “Nothing,” she repeated. “How can that possibly be true?”

  Nothing. He was really beginning to loathe that word. “Why should anyone want to hear the sorry story of an orphan?”

  An eyebrow arched, telling him that she really did want to hear the story.

  “I was an orphan, grew up on the streets, worked hard to get out of poverty, and now I am the man you see before you. The end.”

  “The end?” She pressed a palm to her face. “Russell, you skipped, oh, at least twenty years there.”

  “Is this what the problem is? That you do not know my story?”

  “Yes. No. Well, in a way.”

  He tightened his jaw. So, he could fix the nothing if he just told her it all. Spilled his guts to her. And, God, was he tempted, but that part of his life was behind him. He barely gave it a moment’s thought unless he had to. He’d rather not think about his aching belly, or the fights on the streets to survive, or even his time as a soldier. Why she should even want to hear such awful stories, he could not fathom.

  As much as he wanted to see her smiling properly again, he couldn’t do it.

  “Rosamunde,” he started, “I—” The carriage came to a sudden halt, cutting him off. “What the—” He looked out the window and cursed under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “Highwaymen,” he muttered.

  “HIGHWAYMEN?” ROSEMUNDE ECHOED.

  Russell’s mouth set into a grim line. “Yes.”

  She peered out of the window to spy two men on foot, one with a pistol pointed at the driver. She couldn’t make out the words being flung back and forth between the driver and the men through the closed window, but it did not sound like a pleasant exchange.

  She narrowed her gaze at Russell. “This is not to do with you, is it?”

  “Why the devil would I have something to do with this?” He bent over to look under the carriage seat. “No gun?” he said, rising. “Doesn’t your family learn?”

  “We hardly expected yet another kidnapping attempt!” She gripped her skirts and began to lift them. “You are certain these are not part of your kidnapping club?”

  “The Kidnap Club,” he corrected. “That’s what we call ourselves.”

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “This is nothing to do with me.” He tossed off his hat and pushed a hand through his hair. “I should have brought my pistol,” he muttered.

  Hoisting her skirts to her thighs, she slipped the pretty, jeweled penknife from her garter. “Will this help?”

  He shook his head and shoved down her skirts with one hand. “Likely not but it’s better than nothing.”

  Rosamunde’s heart picked up speed when the men walked over to the carriage.

  “Just do as they say,” Russell said through gritted teeth. “Do not give them a reason to harm you.”

  “Are we not going to fight back?”

  “You are going to do nothing,” he ordered.

  The carriage door swung open and Rosamunde found herself staring at the end of a pistol. She swallowed hard. It had been instinctual to fight Russell off when he’d grabbed her but this time, she remained frozen, her limbs unmoving. Why would they not work? Why could she not spring into action? Had Russell’s presence turned her into some helpless female?

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” The man with the pistol peered into the carriage. “Well, lady and gentleman,” he corrected. “All your finest goods, please. Jewelry, coin, and the like.” He gave a gap-toothed grin.

  Rosamunde touched the ruby necklace she wore. It had been her great-grandmother’s and she wasn’t certain she wished to part with it.

  “Now!” the man snapped whilst his companion lingered back, a wary eye on the driver.

  “Rosie,” Russell urged. “Give the man what he wants.” He flicked a glance at the knife concealed in her hand. “Give him everything, yes?”

  “I do like a man who can take orders,” the highwayman quipped.

  She nodded slowly and gave a shaky smile. He had something planned, she just was not certain what. “Yes. Of course. Everything.” She opened her palm on the penknif
e, revealing the jewels. The man’s eyes lit upon it, his grin widening.

  “That will make a good start.”

  As he went to grab it, she flicked it open and thrust it forward. The knife rammed into his outstretched palm and he released a howl of pain and snatched his hand back, ripping the handle of the knife from her grip.

  Russell rose and flung himself from the carriage, landing on top of the man. The pistol flew from the outlaw’s hand and skittered across the dry road. Rosamunde rose from the chair and thrust her head out of the carriage. She eyed the brawl occurring on the ground. The second man had joined in, thrusting a fist into Russell’s side in an attempt to get him off his friend. What should she do? The driver clambered down but Mr. Wimpole was old, and she did not think he could do much in the tussle that was currently occurring.

  “Stay there, Mr. Wimpole,” she ordered, jumping from the carriage. She dashed over to the gun, but the second man snatched her ankle, flinging her hard against the floor.

  “Oof.” Her chin met ground, sending sparks behind her eyes. She rolled over and pressed her stinging palms together whilst trying to focus through the slight haze. Where had that pistol gone now?

  But she didn’t need it. Like a beast rising from the mist, Russell stood, shoving off the second man and throwing a punch. It connected with his jaw and he staggered back, landing on his rear. A swift kick to the first man had him flopping around like a fish. The other outlaw rose once more but Russell turned, meeting his face with another punch that knocked him to the ground, prone and senseless.

  Rosamunde gaped. She’d known Russell was strong and capable, but she had never seen anything like this.

  “Let’s go before anyone else gets here,” he ordered the driver, giving the first man one last kick then turning to Rosamunde.

  He offered her a hand and she slipped her fingers into his, feeling the rough warmth seep through her gloves. Before she could take a step, he swept her up into his arms and carried her into the carriage.

  “They might have friends,” she heard him say to the driver. “Move fast.”

  Her skirts awry, her glasses halfway down her nose, and her white gloves filthy, she gaped at Russell as he climbed in and slammed the door shut. The carriage moved off swiftly, leaving behind the injured men.