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Eloise’s name was never spoken in Keddon Hall again. As though her disgrace formed the only blot on the Challoner record, she was erased from family history.
Even confined to Keddon Hall, Ranelaw continued his battle to find her. Eventually he discovered a letter from the convent, but by then, Eloise had transferred to the mother house in France. For the next seven years, war raged in Europe. During the brief, uncertain periods of peace, Ranelaw had no luck contacting his sister.
Then a year after Waterloo, a water-stained letter arrived at Ranelaw’s London lodgings. Through the chaos on the Continent, Eloise had survived, converted, and taken her vows back in Ireland.
Under duress, Ranelaw was sure.
He’d immediately written to her, promising to bring her home, but she’d responded with a stubborn insistence that she was better off where she was. He’d written once more, pleading with her to leave the convent, but this time she’d refused in such strong terms he’d never asked again. He guessed shame made her believe she deserved incarceration, just as shame that he’d failed to avenge her kept him from traveling to Ireland and dragging her free.
Her weekly letters since then had been full of the daily minutiae of convent life, tales of the other sisters. Memories of their childhood, always concentrating on the years before Demarest’s visit. All with the warm generosity of spirit Ranelaw remembered.
Every letter split another crack in his heart. Every letter reminded him he’d sworn vengeance on Demarest yet never lifted a finger to achieve it. What a disappointment he’d proven to the one woman who had ever loved him steadfastly and unselfishly.
And now, damn, damn, damn, he was about to turn out a disappointment again.
He bit back a heavy sigh and slowed the horses. Cassie, who had been silent for miles, stiffened and glanced at him with a mixture of dislike and trepidation. “What are you doing?”
His voice was expressionless as he faced the carriage toward London. They hadn’t come far. He’d have her back before dark.
“I’m taking you home.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Antonia bent low over her horse’s neck and urged him to greater speed. As if Achilles knew how desperate her mission was, he didn’t trouble her with his usual tricks.
Her belly churned with sick guilt. She should have realized Ranelaw would pull some chicanery. He’d even warned her he seduced her to get to her cousin.
Oh, he was fiendishly clever.
And infected with a depth of wickedness she still scarcely credited.
As she raced toward the highway, Antonia was vaguely aware of eyes turning in her direction. A woman riding headlong through London was bound to arouse curiosity. She’d eschewed her disguise. Spectacles distorted her vision and what did she care if people saw her face? She was retreating to Somerset once she’d recovered Cassie.
Ranelaw wouldn’t slow his pace until he reached safe haven. If she was right, that was his estate in Hampshire. She’d sent Bella and Thomas, the head groom, together on the road north to Scotland. Just in case Ranelaw intended marriage.
Her deepest instincts told her Ranelaw meant only seduction.
She prayed one of her guesses of route was correct. If she caught up with Ranelaw before nightfall, she might still prevent disaster.
Common sense insisted Ranelaw could take Cassie anywhere. She might be locked away somewhere in the capital. He might plan to whisk her across to the Continent, beyond reach of family and friends.
At least Antonia was certain that Cassie wasn’t in Ranelaw’s London house. She’d called there before leaving Town, wasting precious minutes while a supercilious butler insisted His Lordship wasn’t home. When she finally gave up, she waited in the street and caught a maid on her way out. After a shilling changed hands, the girl was happy to confirm Ranelaw hadn’t been home all afternoon.
As she galloped for the coast, clouds of dust clogged Antonia’s nose and mouth, irritated her eyes. She ignored the discomfort and urged Achilles to greater speed.
She hoped Ranelaw didn’t steal a willing captive. His tawdry attentions had dazzled Cassie, but surely the girl would resist elopement. Once she’d have been certain, but Cassie had changed so much during this London season, Antonia couldn’t be sure she wasn’t Ranelaw’s coconspirator.
Antonia’s lips firmed with determination. It didn’t matter whether Cassie went willingly or not. If she had to haul her cousin back to London screaming, she’d do it. Ranelaw’s vile scheme wouldn’t prevail.
He’d taken her for such a fool. As a crippl
ing tide of personal betrayal rose, she fisted her hands on the reins. Furiously she stifled hurt and outrage. Later she’d berate herself for her part in this disaster. Now she needed to be ice, ready to wrest Cassie from her kidnapper without hesitation.
She’d passed the occasional vehicle, mainly lumbering farm carts or speeding stagecoaches. It was the dead time of the afternoon. In an hour or so, traffic would thicken.
When a light gig approached from the opposite direction, she hardly paid attention, apart from automatically acknowledging the horseflesh. She was her father’s daughter that far. Traffic heading for London was of no interest. Her only concern was carriages traveling toward the Hampshire coast.
Only when she was almost upon them did she realize she’d intercepted her quarry. Shock made her rein Achilles in so roughly that he curveted and neighed his displeasure.
