If Bottomley had been tired when he got to Westonbirt, he was utterly exhausted by the time he reached Alex’s London townhouse three hours later. He had never been to Alex’s bachelor’s lodgings before, but he had grown up in London, so he located it easily from the address that Norwood had given him.
With desperation-filled eyes, he ascended the front steps and pounded on the door. Smithers answered almost immediately. “Deliveries,” he said imperiously, “are made in the rear.”
Before Smithers could shut the door, Bottomley wedged himself into the doorway, gasping, “That’s not why I’m here. I—”
“As are inquiries for employment.” Smithers’s glare turned even frostier.
“Will you shut yer mouth for a second!” Bottomley burst out. “I work for his grace at Westonbirt. Drive his carriage.” He paused, still breathing heavily. “It’s her grace. She’s in danger. Her cousin’s been kidnapped. I’ve got to find his grace right away.” Bottomley sagged against the doorframe, barely able to stand.
“He isn’t here,” Smithers said anxiously.
“What? They told me he was comin’ to London an’ I—”
“No, no, he’s here. He’s just not here. He went to White’s. You’d best get to him immediately. Let me give you the address.”
Thirty seconds later, Bottomley was back on his horse, feeling even more tired after his brief rest than he had before it. He soon reached White’s but the man at the front door refused him entrance.
“You don’t understand,” Bottomley pleaded. “It’s an emergency. I’ve got to see his grace right away.”
“I’m sorry, but only members are allowed to enter.” The doorman sniffed disdainfully. “And you are obviously not a member.”
Bottomley grabbed the man by the lapels, his eyes wild with exhaustion and panic. “I need to see the Duke of Ashbourne now!”
The doorman paled at Bottomley’s unbalanced demeanor. “I can send for him if you wait just a—”
“That ain’t good enough. Aw, hell.” Bottomley pulled his arm back, punched the doorman in the face, stepped over his body, and rushed into the sacrosanct halls of the club. “Yer grace! Yer grace!” he called. And then realizing that there may very well be several yer graces present, he started hollering, “The Duke of Ashbourne! I need him right away!”
Twenty elegantly groomed heads swiveled in his direction. “Thank the Lord, there you are, yer grace,” Bottomley breathed, collapsing against the wall.
Alex stood up, terror slowly building in his heart. “Bottomley, what on earth?”
Bottomley fought for great big gulps of air. “Emergency, yer grace. It’s yer wife. She—”
Alex ran across the room and shook Bottomley by his shoulders. “What happened? Is she all right?”
Bottomley nodded. “Aye, she is, yer grace.” He paused, trying to catch his balance. “But maybe not for long!”
For the fourth time that day, Bottomley found himself back in the saddle, and this time, it was all he could do to hang on to the horse’s neck.
The village of Harewood rarely saw members of the aristocracy strolling along its narrow streets and, had all of its inhabitants not descended upon The Hare and Hounds to take Ames up on his generous offer, they would have been rather surprised to have seen the elegant figure of Lord Anthony Woodside, Viscount Benton, alighting from his carriage. Emma’s appearance had already caused quite a stir, but a fine lord was something else altogether.
He was, all in all, rather pleased with himself. Kidnapping the fair Lady Arabella had been a stroke of genius. In one fell swoop he had solved all of his problems. He had his revenge against her brother, he had the woman he desired, and, in less than an hour, he’d have access to the Blydon fortune.
He headed over to the local church to finalize his deal with the vicar who had agreed to perform the hasty wedding and overlook such trivialities as the consent of the bride. But he never quite reached the clergyman, for as he turned the corner into the churchyard he saw an elegant carriage, even more elegant than his own. And as he was well aware, elegant carriages were not the norm in Harewood. That was, after all, precisely the reason he’d decided to bring Arabella here. Quickening his stride, he approached the offending vehicle and studied the crest.
Ashbourne.
As in the Duke and Duchess of Ashbourne.
As in Arabella’s first cousins and very close friends.
Woodside turned on his heel and made his way toward The Hare and Hounds. Something had gone very much awry.
He arrived at the inn a couple of minutes later and found it a mass of confusion. The entire town seemed to be packed into the tavern, and from the looks of it, most of them had taken more than the first few steps toward drunken oblivion. At the center of the crowd was an animated man dressed in servant’s livery who was pontificating loudly on the plight of the working man. Woodside took a step closer. The servant’s attire was really quite distinguished. Far more so than one would expect in this out-of-the-way burg. In fact, Woodside thought ruefully, it was the type of livery one might find in the home of a viscount if the viscount weren’t perilously short of funds.
Or it might be the type of livery one might find in the home of a duke.
Woodside felt his insides clench in panic-edged rage. His disposition did not improve when he realized that the two thugs he had hired to snatch Arabella were down here drinking instead of guarding the lady. Someone had interfered with his plans, and he’d bet his life it was that meddling cousin of hers, the new Duchess of Ashbourne.