Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,88
gloating image. She was terrified but knew she must master her terror if she was to have a chance to escape.
“Oh, Thomas, quit now. Mind your manners,” Ivy said, playfully batting at the grinning youth nuzzling her neck.
“It’s you I’d rather mind, in all manner,” he mumbled into her soft skin.
“To be sure, you rascal,” she said, pulling away and adopting a prim mien as she straightened her clothes.
Thomas sat back, laughing. “You’re a saucy miss. It would serve you right if I left you to those London wolves. ”
He stood up and stretched. “Speakin’ of London reminds me I’ve a harness to mend afore morning. Be a pet and walk me to the door.”
“Walk you to the door? Get on with you now,” she said pertly.
“’Tis a cold, cold night; I could use a kiss at the door to warm me,” he said glibly.
“You do tell a tale,” she protested. “Well, come on now if that’s your payment, let’s be about. My lady’s fired to patch things with my lord and would be mighty unhappy if we couldn’t be off first light. But let’s go quiet like, I don’t fancy runnin’ across Atheridge or that hatchet faced wife o’ his.”
He nodded his understanding as he grabbed his coat off the peg and opened the door to his room. They stood listening at the doorway then slowly stepped into the hall, grimacing as a floorboard creaked. They exchanged quick, warning glances. Thomas grabbed Ivy’s hand and led her stealthily toward the back stairs and down two flights to the butler’s pantry.
“What was that?” Ivy tugged on Thomas’s arm to halt him. “Listen!” she hissed. She crept toward the dining room then on through to peek out its open doors into the foyer hall.
She nearly gasped aloud, quickly clamping a hand across her lips to still any sound. She beckoned urgently for Thomas to come look.
Mrs. Atheridge stood by the front door, holding a small lantern while Atheridge and Mr. Tunning, hunched over, descended the stairs. They appeared to be carrying something between them. Thomas squeezed Ivy’s shoulder when they saw the dark bundle move.
Tunning laughed softly. “Your struggling just fires my blood. Think that fine husband of yours will take back soiled goods?”
“Sh-h—” hissed Mrs. Atheridge, glancing about the hall.
Thomas and Ivy ducked out of sight. Ivy, biting her lip, looked up at Thomas anxiously, silently asking him if they should intercede. Slowly he shook his head. The devil was in Tunning, right enough, and no telling what he was liable to do if they rushed to save the Viscountess. Tentatively he looked into the hall again, in time to see Tunning sling her over his shoulder while Atheridge opened the door and his wife held the lantern high to guide their steps.
In the wavering lantern light, the Viscountess’s face was ashen yet bore resolute courage. Thomas knew she would not submit easily to Tunning. Through the open door he saw the horse and carriage from the stable. A silent whistle passed his lips at the kidnappers’ audacity. He smiled suddenly when he remembered the worn harness. In the hands of a driver like Tunning, it wouldn’t last long.
He pulled Ivy back into the butler’s pantry and on into the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” wailed Ivy softly, clutching at his sleeve.
“You’re going to go to your room and stay there till I return,” he instructed, gently disengaging her grasp.
“I—I couldn’t!”
“Yes you can. I’m going to ride hell-for-leather to London for his lordship.”
“It will take too long!”
“Not if I ride cross-country, and remember, they’re driving with a bad harness. But standing here jawin’ ain’t helping. Watch out for hatchet face. I’m off.”
“Thomas, wait!”
He turned back to her, about to protest, when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
“That’s to ward off the cold and speed you on your way,” she said softly.
He grinned, swooping to pick her up and give her a hearty kiss, then he sped for the stable.
By the light of day, at a carriage trot, Larchside was situated two hours out of London. At night, with only a faint half moon to guide a horse by, it should have taken longer. Thomas reached London in little over an hour. He sent up a prayer of thanks to his maker as he made his way to the house on Upper Brook Street and added a request for the Viscount to be home. He wasn’t.
Thomas swore softly as he guided the tired horse to St. Ryne’s club. Somewhere