THE ABDUCTION OF ROSALIND THORNE

by

Darcie Wilde

READER SAMPLE

Prologue –Two Friends Out for a Stroll

      “What! Would I be turned back from doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may say? No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded.”

      Jane Austen, Persuasion

      Nathanial Spence stood idly at the edge of the market and watched a man in an immaculately cut green coat attempt to sell a brown mare to a fool.

      Normally he would have referred to such a horse as “chestnut” or “bay,” depending on the shade of its coat.  This horse, however, had been so thoroughly dyed–probably with a mix of goose grease and boot blacking on a curry comb–it was impossible to discern its true color.   Even the mane had been dyed.  The dealer should be thanking his stars that the rain had decided to hold off today, otherwise his purported thoroughbred would have more stripes than a zebra.

      “. . . sired from the line of Sir William Mulligan of County Kildare,” the dealer was saying.  “Being a gentleman of the turf, you’ll have heard of him, certainly?” 

      The fool–a lean, pockmarked man with bushy whiskers and a bulbous nose–nodded his head sagely. 

      The dealer smiled.  “Sir William’s horses have won more prizes across Ireland than any other breeder.  But he’s been reluctant to begin selling in England.  National prejudice, y’see.  Doesn’t believe the English know horseflesh.  It’s fallen to me to convince him otherwise.  So, I can only sell to the most discerning gentlemen.  That’s why I’ve made no announcements in the papers.  Now, our mutual friend assures me–”

      It was an old fraud, probably one of the oldest, and the dealer was playing it well.  Although Spence was absorbed in the patter, he still heard the man who came puffing up behind him. 

      “You’re late, Mr. Wallace,” Spence grumbled. 

      “My apologies, Mr. Spence.”  Wallace stepped up beside Spence.  The day was relatively cool, but Wallace’s face was still shiny with perspiration.  “I was talking with a client.  He wanted some additional reassurances, and I could not appear hurried.”

      The fool in front of them was pulling out his billfold.  The dealer was writing up a bill of sale. 

      “Friend of yours?” Spence jerked his chin toward the dealer.  “He’s got your patter down.”

      “And he’s welcome to it,” Wallace replied.  “It’s a good scheme in a pinch, but frankly, it’s exhausting, and far too dependent on the vagaries of the weather and the horse for my liking.  Shall we walk?”

      Spence nodded and strolled away.  The bustle of the market enveloped the two men.  Hawkers at their stalls and barrows bellowed to the shifting crowds.  Everything was for sale–from chickens to cheeses, guns to goats.  Summer had settled in and the warmth of the day was spreading, along with the miasma that came of so many people and animals packed together so closely.

      Wallace fell into step beside him, silent except for his usual puffing.  Wallace was tall, but stout.  The slightest bit of effort seemed to leave him short of breath and turned his pink face bright red.  This, however, was an asset to their mutual business.  People assumed a stout, red-faced man must either be jolly or slightly foolish.  Wallace could appear to be both at the drop of a hat. 

      Spence, on the other hand, would never fool anyone into thinking he was anything but what he was–someone who had spent his life working hard and living rough.  His face was craggy and burnt brown by the sun.  His shoulders were broad, and his hands were formed for hard labor, or fistfights.  His coat and shirt were plain stuff, and his breeches and boots were both work stained. 

      “Is there any news?” Spence kept his tone casual.  “Were you able to talk to Sylvia?”

      “I was,” answered Wallace.  “She says things are continuing smoothly with the family.  Oh, and I’ve got a missive from your lady love here.”  He pulled the sealed letter from his coat pocket and handed it over. 

      “Thanks.” Spencer tucked the note into his pocket.  He’d read it later, when Wallace wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

      “You’re looking a bit pale, Mr. Spence,” said Wallace.  “Are you troubled about something?”

      “As it happens, I am, Mr. Wallace,” Spence drawled. 

      “What could possibly be worrying you?  Mrs. Lynn assures me our principal remains fully invested and perfectly amenable to all our plans.  Your own diligent efforts have helped us secure some excellent investment—”

      Which was just about enough.  Spence stopped in his tracks and swung round to face Wallace. 

      “I’ll tell you what’s worrying me, Mr. Wallace.” He turned the name into a sneer and had the grim satisfaction of watching the stout man’s confident smile falter.  “What’s worrying me is that it’s my future you’re gambling with.”

      “But it’s not a gamble,” said Wallace.  “It never has been.  The plan—”

      “I know about the plan,” growled Spence.  “You’ve told me all about your almighty plan—”

      “Our plan, Mr. Spence,” said Wallace softly.  “It was you who sought me out.”

      Which was true, and Spence could not deny it, although he was starting to wish he could.

      “Never mind that,” he snapped.  “This time, I’m going to tell you something—” Spence emphasized this with a poke into the other man’s chest.  “And you’re going to listen!”

      “Of course, of course!” cried Wallace.  “When have I ever failed to listen?” He spread his hands.  “Only let us step to the side, Mr. Spence.”

            They’d moved past the market now, and the walk had cleared.  Passersby strolled along, enjoying the sunshine, most of them deeply involved in their own affairs.   But one or two were hesitating, taking a minute to glance toward the two men who looked like they might be starting to quarrel.

      Spence hauled hard on his temper.  On their left, a short alley led to a courtyard.  Mr. Wallace stepped into the shadows between the buildings and pretended to be fussing with his gloves.  Spencer came to stand beside him.

      “What we’re doing is depending on Sir Anthony to be a blind fool.” Spencer folded his arms behind his back, hiding the fact that he was clenching both fists.  “Well and good.  The man’s never been anything else.  But his girls are not fools, and neither is his nibs, the duke.  They know something’s up.”

      “Of course they do,” said Wallace breezily.  “How could they not?  As you say, they’re not fools.  But the daughters have all been raised to defer to their father, and his nibs, as you dub him, has to be careful not to offend the man he hopes will soon become his father-in-law.  We are not dependent on them not becoming suspicious.  But what do they suspect?” Wallace spread his hands.  “Nothing close to the truth.  We know that.  So, they worry and run in circles and in the meantime we proceed unhindered.”  He beamed.  “All that matters to us is what Sir Anthony thinks, and he thinks that in a fortnight he will be an extremely wealthy man.”

      “And what if he changes his mind?” Spence stared moodily at the street.  Carriages and vans rattled past.  Ladies dressed in their lightest muslin and carrying pastel-colored parasols walked by in twos and threes. 

      Wallace frowned.  “But why should he?  Who is going to change it for him?”

      Spence faced the stout man.  “Have you ever heard of a woman named Rosalind Thorne?”