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“Well, if you hadn’t kidnapped me in the first place, I wouldn’t have done it,” she whispered, horribly hurt by his callousness.
Joe stood beside the open doorway and motioned to the interior. “Get in.”
“Go to Hell,” she snapped.
While she stood there, she cursed herself for being a fool for having believed, even for a little while, that this man was someone she could rely on. He had saved her from the Count’s ruthless determination, but in doing so had thrust her cruelly into a world of subterfuge and lies she just couldn’t understand. The wild accusations he kept levelling at her were just too surreal to be considered realistic. While she had once, stupidly and naively, believed him to be her handsome hero, she knew now he was nothing but a cad, and a liar who was as much of a fraudster as the Count, whoever the hell he was.
“Everything alright?” Marcus called with a frown.
“Fine,” Joe replied with a sigh.
He studied the road behind him. Although he could hear the clatter of hooves on the cobbles, he had yet to see their pursuant but knew it wouldn’t be long before they made an appearance. “Let’s-”
Marguerite took the opportunity he gifted her when he turned his back. While both men had their attention focused on something further down the narrow street, she whirled around and raced away. Panic left her struggling to work out what to do, which way to go. The only avenue of escape nearby was a narrow mews beside them. It was barely more than a narrow alley between two houses really, but it was too small for the carriage to follow, and led through to another road that would take her away from here; far, far, away. It was enough.
Although curvy, she wasn’t as large as the men and raced around the various boxes and debris littering the confined space without issue. She stopped only briefly to knock over a tower of crates to prevent either man from following her. With her heart pounding in her ears, she raced for freedom. She had no idea where she was, or where she should go, or what she was running into, but she daren’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She suspected that her life was in danger, and she most probably wouldn’t see daylight again if either Jeremy, or whatever he truly called himself, or the Count, managed to catch her again. What either of them wanted with her was anyone’s guess, but she couldn’t worry that now. She needed to go home so she could speak to her father and find out once and for all what was truly going on. She would then have to face whatever he told her.
Tears were on her lashes when she eventually raced out of the alley and out onto what appeared to be a market square. All was quiet and still in the darkness of the night. The only sound that could be heard was the tapping of her feet on the cobbles, but she daren’t stop. Instead, she stuck to the shadows and tried to stay hidden as much as she could while she ran toward the only main road she could see, and help. She had no idea where it would take her, but it was the only place she could go.
Joe cursed as he threw boxes out of his way so he could forge a path through the wood and follow her. He had Marcus at his back, but the alley wasn’t big enough for Marcus to squeeze round him. Both men knew that with each minute that passed, the woman was getting away.
“Keep after her,” Marcus snapped, once they were clear of the mess. “I’ll get the carriage and try to find a way around to cut her off up ahead.”
While Marcus raced for the carriage, Joe left the alley but had to stop. He paused to listen. The faint echo of the footsteps rang hollowly around the empty square of buildings, warning him that he was far too late to catch her up. Marcus wasn’t going to be able to reach the area in time to forestall her somewhere up ahead either.
“Damn it,” Joe snarled. “I’ve lost her.”
Suddenly, a brief flicker of movement to his right captured his attention. His gaze sharpened as he studied the slight figure scurrying away. He knew immediately who it was. With his gaze locked firmly on her defiant backside, Joe took off after her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dawn started to creep over the horizon, but it brought Marguerite little solace. Over the course of the night, the horribly notorious London fog had descended leaving everything encased in a thick gloom which made seeing anything virtually impossible. In her haste to get home, she had gotten lost. As a result, finding a route back to the house she shared with her father had taken her far out of her way. So much so that she had started to doubt she would ever manage to find her way back.
Now, she was beyond cold. She was frozen. Her toes had long since gone numb. Her fingers were painful, and her arms, bared to the cold night air, were rippled with goose bumps. She was tired, exhausted even. But all of that was of little consequence right now. What worried her more than anything was what might have happened to her father.
Throughout the night, the closer she had become to finding her house, the more she realised that the house she had once considered a refuge of safety and sanctuary, was actually none of those things now. Instead, it was a harbinger of bad tidings she had yet to learn. If her father had reached an agreement with the Count, or Sayers, or whatever he called himself, she had no idea what she was going to do. What could she do? Where could she go?
A deep sense of betrayal had grown with each hour that had passed, especially when she thought about how her father had just abandoned her. She sternly reminded herself that she mustn’t condemn her father until she learned from him why he had left, and heard from him what agreement he had reached with Sayers, if there was one. However, while she tried not to worry, she knew it was wise to consider the actions she could take if the Count’s declaration last night turned out to be true.
“I cannot ever marry him,” she whispered as she thought over her conversation with her father when he had insisted on them attending the recital in the first place.
Was that why he had wanted them to go? It wasn’t because he wanted me to meet the Count, it was because of this agreement he had entered me into. He hadn’t even bothered to tell me about it so decided to let the Count do it for him.
“At least it explains his rather odd behaviour of late. He was the one who insisted we go to the ridiculous recital in the first place,” she added.
She shivered when a cold blast of icy air swept over her. It was difficult not to cry as she contemplated the cross-roads up ahead. It rather felt like a parody of her life because she rather suspected that after today, her life was going to take a completely different direction, and it wouldn’t altogether completely be of her choosing. She took a moment to look around. She had no idea if she had managed to lose the men who had tried to kidnap her, or whether they were following in the fog somewhere waiting to pounce on her the first time she took a wrong turn. Right now, she was too tired to care. She was exhausted beyond belief, soaking wet, and frozen. Sometime during the night, an age-old weariness had settled over her that threatened to overshadow her fight for survival. Right now, she didn’t care if she had to crawl into a corner of the garden somewhere just to get some sleep. As long as she just had to lay her head down and close her eyes so she could block everything out for a while.
If only I could, she thought dolefully.
The small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end the closer she got to the house. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but a rather heavy, expectant feeling settled over her as she drew closer to the driveway. She had no idea why she felt the way she did, but she knew instinctively that something was not right. It was almost as though the hous
e, indeed the entire area, was too still, too quiet.
Sensing danger, rather than cross the garden to the back door she paused beneath the long branches of a willow tree and studied the house. The tall, colonnade house stood like a huge beast waiting to devour anyone who ventured near it. All was still and silent-just as it should be for a cold and dank morning. But it was almost too quiet, even on a foggy morning when sounds were muted, anyway.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Marguerite,” she whispered but then glanced furtively around when she realised how foolish she had been by talking to herself aloud. If anybody was nearby, they would know where she was.
When a cool blast of air swept over her shoulders, she shivered and wished, not for the first time, that she had kept her shawl on at the recital last night. As it was she had left it with the doorman, and hadn’t had the time, or opportunity, to go back to fetch it. Her gown, while beautiful, was not designed for the inclement weather and had provided very little protection from the elements that had battered her all night.
