The Marquis and I (The Worthingtons #4)(77)

Charlotte wanted to tell him that he’d be dead or in prison as soon as her betrothed found her. But there was no point in putting him on his guard. Instead she kept her mouth shut, straightened her shoulders, and gave him her best Lady Bellamny you-are-dirt-under-my-feet look.

“Ye won’t be so high and mighty when that gent comes for ye.” He sneered.

Bile threatened to choke her, but she refused to allow him to see her fear. Constantine was right. It was not revenge. Someone had paid to have her abducted. But who?

She gave herself an inner shake, not difficult at all considering she was being dragged by a brute into an inn that was sure to have all sorts of vermin in it.

Still, she had the strong feeling that he was not far behind. Maybe if she dug her feet into the ground and made it hard to manhandle her she could gain some time.

She studied her surroundings. They were only about four miles from the Dove. The Richmond Road was visible through the trees. A sign hanging crookedly off the building proclaimed it to be the Dirty Duck. Well, it certainly lived up to its name. The tavern was painted a dingy white. The roof tilted to one side, as if part of the building was sinking.

“Come on.” Burt jerked her arm.

Charlotte grabbed her skirts, lifting them to keep them out of the mud puddles that covered the yard. He led her around to the side of the building, drew out a key, opened a door, and pulled her through.

The room was surprisingly well appointed and clean. Almost as if it was part of a different building. A desk stood at one end of the room just off-center of a window. Irrationally, Charlotte wanted to move the furniture so it sat in the center of the wall. There was a square table with four chairs. A sideboard held decanters. One of which had to be brandy, she was sure. There were several sash windows: three were on the same side as the door and two overlooked the yard. Another door looked to be an entrance to the tavern, and a third was at the back of the room.

If he left her alone here, it would not be at all hard to escape. Provided the windows opened, that is.

He yanked her arm again and towed her to the back of the room, shoving her into a small chamber. Complete with a bed. The only window had iron bars on it. This was not good at all.

She whirled around in time to see the door slam shut and hear the lock click.

Well, at least she was alone. Going to the door, she pressed her ear to it. There was no sound at all. Did that mean the blackguard wasn’t in the room? She did the same to the wall with the tavern, and faint voices filtered through.

There was only one thing to do: try to open the door. Charlotte drew two pins from her hair, and began to work on the lock. After a few moments, it was clear that the lock hadn’t been attended to in a while, and her oil can was in the basket. She would have to think of another means of escape, but what?

A bed took up most of the small space. Pristine linen sheets covered the mattress. Satisfied there were no vermin, she began to sit, but stopped. The sheets were too clean for her comfort. She could not quite put her finger on why that bothered her, yet it did.

She and Constantine had wondered where Miss Betsy delivered her victims. This must be one of the places. Charlotte wiped her suddenly damp hands down her skirts. No matter what happened, she would not allow herself to be frightened.

That blackguard Burt had said a gentleman was coming for her. Did Miss Betsy encourage the men to rape their captives before they left? Did she make sure the sheets were clean because of the gentlemen? Charlotte glanced at the bed again and shivered. It was the only reason she could think of for the presence of a bed. She tried not to shudder again or think about the horrors this room had seen.

As she paced the room—refusing to sit on the bed—she tripped and almost fell over a small wooden stool. It had four legs with wood spokes, or whatever they were called, between the legs. Charlotte lifted it up to get a feel for the balance. Although not large, it was well made and sturdy. She practiced swinging it side to side, then down and back up again. After a few moments, she smiled to herself. The stool would do nicely. No matter how she hit whoever entered the room, she was sure to do some damage. The only question now was who to use it on.

The sound of a pair of horses coming to a halt could be heard from the front. A door opened and banged shut. She clung to the stool, glad she had found a weapon.

A woman’s voice floated through the air, yet Charlotte could not understand what the female had said.

“Ma’am,” a man answered.

“That is Burt,” she murmured to herself. The woman had to be Miss Betsy.

Charlotte put the stool down and stood in front of it, hoping her skirts would hide it.

A door near her, probably to the parlor, opened and closed. “Well done,” Miss Betsy said as she opened the door to the bedchamber. “Go to the Dove and collect the other package. Our first customer should be here soon.”

“Package? Customer?” Rage coursed through Charlotte as she thought of all the lives this villain had destroyed. “Is that all people are to you? Do you not care who you harm?”

“I provide a service,” Miss Betsy replied in a composed voice, then shrugged. “What goes on afterward is none of my concern.”

Before Charlotte could grab the stool and bash the miscreant over the head, Miss Betsy closed the door. Soon the jangle of a harness interrupted the silence.

There was the sound of metal clinking, most likely the payment being made, and the door to the bedchamber opened a crack. “When you’re done, leave through the side door. No one will see you.”