He sat up straighter, aware that he was clutching at straws, yet unable to stop himself. Even if she had made the sudden decision to part from him, would she not have made reference to their appointed meeting at luncheon? Would she really have dragged Basil away from his football game?

  So little of the situation made sense that he felt more than justified in going in search of her. And if she wasn’t in her rooms, he would go to the meadow because he was damned sure Basil would still be there.

  Stuffing the note into his pocket, he sprang up and stalked out of his room and down to hers, where he rapped smartly on the door.

  Almost immediately, it was wrenched open by Flowers.

  “Dornan,” he growled.

  Stephen ducked beneath his blocking arm and entered the sitting room. Nearly all her servants were there—her maid, Ellen the nursery maid, and Dennis the footman. Even a burly coachman that he had never seen before. They all looked beside themselves with fear and anxiety, which brought Stephen to a sudden halt.

  “What?” he demanded ominously. “Where is the princess?”

  “Funnily enough,” Flowers said, with enough threat in his voice to scare an army, “we hoped you might be able to tell us.”

  “I?” Stephen frowned.

  “You appeared in her life from nowhere, all but took it over, and now she is abducted by people who were clearly aware of her habits and protection.”

  “Abducted? Dear God! And Basil?”

  “With her.”

  Stephen dragged the note from his pocket and slapped it on the arm of the nearest chair. “Is that her handwriting?” he demanded of Flowers.

  The tutor snatched it up. “Not remotely. So, you were being kept out of the way, too.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Stephen ordered.

  He listened carefully to every detail, his heart aching and his pride in her swelling, forcing himself to think beyond his fear for them both.

  “So, the carriage traveled away from London?” he said at last.

  “We don’t know which direction it took at the crossroads,” Dennis said. “William’s gone to see if he can discover. And John here had the horses put to the princess’s carriage, so we’re ready to go after them.”

  “But they have a coach and four and they’ve planned this…” Stephen was interrupted by William the footman all but falling through the door.

  “They’ve gone north,” he gasped, collapsing into the nearest chair.

  “Then we’d better get after them,” Flowers said grimly, striding for the door.

  “Wait,” Stephen said, his mind racing. “They’re traveling in a coach and four, so there will be faster ways to catch them up, to pre-empt…” He began to pace because it was the only way to think and not let himself be rushed into action. “From what you say, whoever took them was really after Basil. Who would do such a thing to a child and why?”

  “The ruffian I sat on said a Frenchman hired him,” Flowers said. “I didn’t believe him.”

  “Monteigne,” Stephen said softly. “This is what she feared, that the Monteignes would take Basil. In which case, they’re headed for France.”

  “Then why go north?” Flowers demanded.

  Stephen paused in his pacing. “North and east. Harwich. Or some other, smaller port on the Essex coast.”

  “Likely,” Flowers agreed, “but we cannot be sure.”

  “No…” His voice hardened. “Nor can we be sure they won’t harm her because she’s superfluous to them. It’s Basil they want.” He drew in his breath and regarded the coachman. “Take the carriage and follow the road to Harwich, keeping an eye out for her on the road and at the coaching inns. Dennis and William will go with you. While Mr. Flowers and I…”

  “Walk?” Flowers asked, impatiently sardonic.

  “No, ride. Friends of mine keep good riding horses not far from here, and at most of the posting inns. I’m sure one of them will have something up to your weight.”

  “Will they give the horses over to you?” Flowers asked dubiously.

  “Oh yes,” Stephen said. “If you’ve pistols or other weapons, bring them. Now, let’s go and fetch the princess.”

  *

  Despite Aline’s plans, the carriage made good time. Neither she nor Basil were allowed to leave the carriage when the horses were changed. Gaston even held a pistol beneath his cloak, pointed directly at her to discourage her from shouting about abduction. She thought seriously about screaming anyway, just to hold things up and embroil them in a mess with the authorities. But it struck her that Gaston might just shoot her anyway and bolt for a ship to France. She would be no use to Basil then. In fact, seeing his mother shot would damage him horribly…

  So, she bided her time, until darkness began to fall some distance beyond Brentwood. It had appalled her to guess they were making for Harwich, for Stephen and the others, if they discovered the Monteignes’ involvement, would surely look for her in the southern ports. Dover or Southampton…

  But what had Phillipe meant when he had said they’d clipped Stephen’s wings? Had they hurt him? Fear for him added to everything else, and she had to fight to remain focused on the present task.

  This time, when they turned into an inn yard, she made her position plain. Basil had been taken out once to relieve himself by the roadside, but he was wriggling again.

  “I insist you allow us refreshment and food,” she said. “If you don’t, I shan’t answer for the consequences. Trust me, it will not make the rest of your journey pleasant.”

  “And if we simply tip you out of the coach?” Gaston said.

  “Then I’ll have the hue and cry after you so fast you’ll never get as far as a port. Besides,” she added, holding Gaston’s angry gaze with her calm one, “you and André were friends once. Would you really be so cruel to his widow? And don’t imagine Basil would forget.”

  Gaston’s eyes fell.

  Philippe swore beneath his breath. “We’ll stop here for dinner. It’s off the beaten track, so we’d be safe enough staying the night. With an early start, we’ll still make Harwich for the afternoon crossing.”

  “You’ll sleep?” Gaston demanded. “With her in the house?”

  “Yes.” Philippe smiled. “Because Basil will be with me, and her door will be locked.”

  It was less than she had hoped but better than not stopping at all.

  Annoyingly, they did not untie her hands, but kept the cloak about her, while Gaston all but lifted her from the carriage and kept his arm about her, falsely solicitous. Philippe kept Basil’s hand through his arm, though the boy scowled so furiously, Aline felt rather proud of him.

  The party was shown at once into a private parlor, although the innkeeper explained, wringing his hands apologetically, that he only had two bedchambers available, rather than the three Philippe requested.

  Gaston looked speculatively at Aline.

  “No,” she said flatly. “After the day I have had, I insist on a chamber of my own. You gentlemen may all share the one room.”

  In fact, she didn’t much care, for she sincerely hoped she would have found a means of escape before then. But Philippe took it as a sign of her acceptance of the situation and relaxed slightly. More fool him.

  “They are both good-sized rooms, sirs, madam,” the innkeeper said anxiously. “I can easily put up a truckle bed for the young master here. And your baggage, sir”

  “Will follow with my man,” Philippe lied smoothly. “Hopefully before we retire.”

  “Of course.”

  “Are the rooms ready?” Aline inquired. “I would like to see mine now.”

  “Of course, madam. I’ll have my wife show you up immediately.”

  “She might as well show us all at the same time,” Philippe said. He was not a complete fool, and Aline had not truly expected to win so soon.

  But she would at least be granted a few minutes alone.

  The innkeeper’s cheery wife showed them their bedchambers on the floor above. Annoyingly, they were right beside each other. And at the front of the house, as Philippe discovered when he took it upon himself to inspect her room and peer out of the window. She already knew it was a sheer drop to the ground, although she could probably manage it if her hands were untied. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  In the few minutes of solitude she was granted behind the closed door, she used the chamber pot and the washbowl with great difficulty, and managed, by wriggling her back against the bed, to grasp the reticule and draw it open. She even managed to reposition the dagger within for easy access, but voices in the hall warned her she was about to be interrupted. She rose to her feet, scrunching the reticule closed, and positioned it where she could easily grasp it with her left hand. Then she shook her cloak back around her and sailed out of the room.

  Philippe had been quite right that she would not run without Basil.

  So, they all returned together to the private parlor, Gaston holding her arm in case her balance was upset. She thought quite seriously about upsetting his. A well-timed swipe at his ankles would send him tumbling downstairs and, in the confusion, it was possible she and Basil could escape, run to the stables and steal a horse. The trouble was, she needed her hands free to have a decent chance, and Gaston was as likely to tumble into Basil as into Philippe.

  Her best hope was during dinner.

  In the parlor, the table had been set and a bottle of wine was placed on the sideboard along with a mug of small beer. Philippe sniffed the beer, then passed it with some distaste to Basil before he poured wine into two glasses and cocked an eye at Aline.

  “Wine, ma fille?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” She watched him pour a third glass and sat down at one end of the table. “My hands?” she pointed out.

  Philippe considered her. “That is a problem,” he said, placing the glass in front of her. After which, he sat down to her left.

  Swine.

  Basil set down his small beer after one swallow and stalked up to her. Lifting the glass, he held it to her lips and let her drink. Over the rim, she held his gaze and closed one eye. Basil’s face lightened, and he set down the glass, taking the seat on her other side.

  If the inn staff thought it odd she still wore the traveling cloak when they brought in the dinner, they said nothing. After all, to them, this party was foreign and therefore strange and probably heathen.

  “Just leave the dishes,” Philippe commanded. “We shall serve ourselves.”

  They bowed themselves out, no doubt shaking their heads on the other side of the door. Gaston served everyone soup.

  “One free hand would be helpful,” Aline pointed out. “I wouldn’t like to upset your digestion by slurping from the bowl like a dog.”

  “I cannot imagine you sacrificing your dignity,” Philippe replied, raising his spoon to his mouth. “But your hands will remain as they are.”

  Beside her, Basil let out an exclamation of outrage, glaring at his great uncle who, however, held Aline’s gaze blandly and carried on eating, as did Gaston.

  “You never used to be cruel, Philippe,” she observed. “I wonder what André would think of you now?”

  “André!” Philippe all but dropped his spoon in his sudden irritation. “André lost all sense when he married you! You took him away from us, turned him against his family, his country—”

  “You misjudge him if you think I could influence him to that degree. He was against neither his family nor his country, only Bonaparte when he named himself emperor. And he never ever lost his human decency. A lesson there, I think, gentlemen.”

  “Basil, feed your mother,” Philippe said. “At least it might stop her talking.”

  “Saying things you don’t wish to hear.” Gracefully, Aline accepted a spoonful of soup from her son. The role reversal was meant to humiliate her, but she made the most of it, reminding Basil how she had used to feed him by pretending the spoon was a bird flying across the sky to deposit food in his mouth. He even smiled, doing the same for her, and thus it was a game.

  It was also a distraction. While Basil fed her morsels of food in between his own mouthfuls, she loosened her hold of the reticule dangling from her left wrist and once more inserted the fingers of her right hand and managed to grasp the dagger. It took some time, but she eventually got it out of the reticule and maneuvered the blade against the rope.

  She actually had to hold the dagger by the blade with the fingers of her right hand, which was both dangerous and painful. And still, she had to eat and focus overtly on Basil, who played the silly feeding game like a younger child, as though he knew she was up to something and was joining in to help.

  Her heart swelled as she worked and planned and played. And among all that concentration on so many activities, something else slipped into her mind, half recognition, half pure emotion.

  Stephen Dornan was worth fighting for. She had known he was different from the first time she had met him, and that difference was love. Lasting, powerful, overwhelming love. It did not fight her maternal love. It absorbed it, shared it. And so, she cared nothing for the cuts on her fingers or the raw chafing of the ropes, because she would do anything to save Basil and return to Stephen.

  He might never love her the same way. But she would try, and she would do her best to win him and make him happy… She could have a proper family, safety, security for herself and Basil…

  But first, she had to get out of here.

  A piece of apple tart was pushed in front of her. Again, Basil fed her a forkful before beginning his own. The Monteignes were looking sour, as if annoyed that she had defeated humiliation. And with one last minute saw of the blade, the rope was cut.

  It was such a relief she had to fight to keep her hands in place, to keep hold of the blade that become slick with blood. Her fingers shook as she changed position, holding the dagger by it its hilt and waiting for the trembling to stop.

  Two, three more pieces of apple tart, carefully taken and chewed and swallowed, and then she pushed back her chair, as though finally impatient.

  “I’ve had enough, Basil. Eat your own,” she said.

  She pushed to her feet. “Am I to sleep like this as well?” she demanded.

  Philippe smiled, the moron, as she paced behind him. “Sadly, yes.”

  “Wrong,” she said and shrugged off the cloak. In almost the same movement, her arm snaked around Philippe’s neck and the dagger pricked at his throat. “Not one move, uncle, or I shall be forced to upset my son further.”

  Basil had dropped his fork, staring at her hand. “B-blood, Mama!”

  “My fingers will heal,” she said soothingly, while the dagger pricked more significantly at Philippe’s skin, saying the unspoken words for her. Your throat will not heal.

  As though released from paralysis, Gaston leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair. “Papa!”

  He lunged toward his father, who yelped, “Be still, you fool!” Just as the parlor door burst open, and Stephen Dornan walked in, Mr. Flowers close at his heels.

  “Stand and deliver,” Stephen said cheerfully into the sudden silence. He held a pistol that swung to aim straight at Gaston’s heart.

  Aline wanted to laugh and cry and scream all the same time. Instead, she said shakily, “What kept you?”

  He smiled directly into her eyes, a quick, dazzling glance before his gaze returned to Gaston. “What kept us? Finding a horse large enough to carry Flowers. And then we misjudged how far you would travel. We meant to catch you on the road, hence Stand and deliver, which I’ve always wanted to say and refused to give up.”

  Was he babbling? Stephen Dornan? He really had been worried for her. Warmth spread through her like a gently glowing fire. But they were not yet out of the woods.

  “He has a pistol,” she said. “Gaston. It’s in his pocket, I think. That is Gaston, my first husband’s cousin. This is his uncle, Philippe.”

  “Hands slowly in the air, Cousin Gaston,” Stephen said.

  She had never heard his voice so cold, so implacable. Yet another side of the man she would never tire of discovering. Gaston, far more nervous than his father, obeyed at once.

  “Mr. Flowers?” Stephen suggested, and the tutor, without further instruction, marched up to Gaston, keeping well clear of Stephen’s line of fire at all times. The pistol was located without trouble and withdrawn. Mr. Flowers pocketed it and strolled away.

  “Basil,” Stephen said steadily. “Would you be so good as to go to Mr. Flowers?”

  Basil stood but hesitated, his wide gaze on Aline. “Mama,” he uttered uncertainly, clearly unhappy to leave her anywhere near Philippe.

  “I’m coming,” she assured him. “The instant after I assure Uncle Philippe that I can throw the dagger, too.”

  Encouraged, Basil walked slowly and reluctantly away from Aline to the tutor, who put his arm around the boy in a quick, hard hug.

  Aline removed the dagger from Philippe’s throat and stepped back.

  “How badly are you hurt?” Stephen asked conversationally, without taking his eyes off Gaston.

  “Barely at all. A few minor cuts to my fingers.”

  “I’d call him out, but he doesn’t appear to be a gentleman,” Stephen remarked.

  “Oh, please!” Philippe said in apparent amusement. Without the knife to his throat, he had recovered his urbanity with remarkable speed. “I believe you English have a saying about pots and kettles. Aline, you have wasted your time in the last five minutes and would do well to sit down again. And to deliver Basil to Gaston, for this…man, this Dornan, will be holding the pistol on my instructions at any moment. He is a man prone to change sides.”

  Aline laughed. “How long have you been having these delusions, Philippe?” She had joined Basil and Mr. Flowers, and now they moved toward Stephen between the Monteignes and the door.

  “Since I spoke to Dornan senior,” Philippe said, smiling. “Did you know your knight in shining armor here is a traitor and a one-time Bonapartist? I’m sure it is also news to his ally, the tutor.”

  Whatever she had expected to come out of Philippe’s mouth, it was not that.

 

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