thought that she was Amelia—if so, the reason why they would want to kidnap her was plain. Amelia Western was a noted heiress and it would not be the first time that a man wanting money had carried off an heiress and married her. It was a risky business since the penalty for such an act was death or transportation if the parents or guardians of the girl pursued the matter. Some did not, preferring to accept the forced marriage, if the man were reasonably respectable, rather than have the girl’s reputation destroyed.
Equally plainly they had mistaken her for Amelia—and how they had come to do so was a mystery. A further mystery was who could Amelia have possibly met in the recent past who was capable of carrying out such a criminal act? None of the men who had surrounded her since her entrance into society seemed likely candidates—or had Amelia been privately meeting an unknown lover and they had arranged this between them?
If so, why had she been snatched off the street? For, if Amelia had been conspiring with someone, it would have been simpler for her to have manufactured some excuse to meet him in secret to save him from risking exposure by kidnapping her in broad daylight.
Not that any of this speculation was of the slightest use when each yard the chaise travelled was carrying her further away from Oxford Street, Piccadilly and her temporary home there, and into the unknown.
And what in the world would be awaiting her at her journey’s end?
She was not to know for some time. They changed horses at a posthouse on the edge of London where Number One put a hand over her mouth to prevent her from calling for help while Number Two made all the necessary arrangements at their stop—which included taking on board a hamper of food.
Number One unpacked the hamper and offered her a cooked chicken leg, which she refused indignantly.
‘Don’t like chicken, eh? How about this, then?’ and he held out a ham sandwich. She shook her head so he gifted Number Two with the chicken and the sandwich before rummaging around in the hamper and fishing out of it a roll filled with cold roast beef, saying, ‘Beef, perhaps?’
She waved it away with as much hauteur as she could summon, announcing rebelliously, ‘I don’t want to eat. Under the circumstances it would choke me.’
‘Suit yourself, my dear. No skin off my nose. More for us, eh, Tozzy? My employer will be most disappointed. He particularly wanted you to be properly fed on the way home.’
‘How very gracious of him,’ Susanna snapped back. ‘Even more gracious of you if you turned the chaise round and took me back to Oxford Street.’
‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ said Number One indistinctly since his mouth was full of the beef sandwich which she had rejected. ‘How about some pound cake? No?’
It might be childish of her, but Susanna found that the only way to demonstrate her displeasure at what was happening to her was to turn her back on him and sniff loudly, like the cook in the Westerns’ kitchen when something had happened to cause her aggravation—an event which occurred at least five times a day.
Eating over, silence fell.
Susanna resumed a more normal position, folded her arms, leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She felt as exhausted as though she were a child again and had been running and jumping all afternoon with her cousin William—and whatever had happened to him? He had disappeared from her life when her mother had married again. And what a time to think of him!
The lack of light and the swaying of the chaise lulled her so that she was on the verge of dozing.
Number Two said softly to Number One, ‘She’s a good plucked ’un and no mistake. She’ll be a match for ’im, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ yawned Number One. ‘Never met anyone who was a match for him in all the years I’ve been with him. Pass a bottle of wine over, Tozzy, kidnapping’s thirsty work.’
Even through her half-sleep Susanna heard what he said and was fired with indignation. Just let this journey be over so that she could tell their employer—whoever he might be—exactly what she thought of him for arranging a kidnapping at all, let alone one in which the wrong woman had been carried off!
Ben Wolfe was looking out of the window in the library of his great house in Buckinghamshire which had been known as The Den ever since six generations of Wolfes had lived there. Before that it had simply been called the Hall. It had been left derelict when his father had died and he had gone to India, but since his return he had spared no expense in returning it to its former glory.
He looked at his fob watch. If everything had gone as he had ordered—and he assumed that it had since Jess Fitzroy had never botched a job for him yet—it should not be long before the chaise turned into the sweep before the front of the house. He could then begin to take his revenge for the wrongs which had destroyed not only his family’s wealth, but had driven his father into an early grave.
It was a pity that the girl was not particularly beautiful, but then, one could not have everything. He smiled as he thought of Babbacombe’s anger when the splendid match for his son fell through and he was left penniless, ruin staring him in the face. He was absolutely sure that, even though he had carried their daughter off in order to marry her, the Westerns would find him an even more suitable husband for her than Darlington—once they had discovered the astonishing extent of his wealth and the Wychwood family’s lack of it, that was, for he would take good care to let them know of it.
Even acquiring an Earl’s title would not make up for that lack. Especially since someone as rich as Ben was—and with an old name into the bargain—would almost certainly be a candidate for a title of his own before very long.
Not that Ben cared about titles and all that flimflam, but the Westerns did.
He had just reached this point in his musings when the chaise turned into the sweep. As he had hoped, Jess had successfully carried out yet another task for him—and would be suitably rewarded. He had given orders for Miss Western, soon to be Mrs Ben Wolfe, to be taken initially to her suite of rooms on the first floor so that she might refresh herself after the journey.
After that she would be conducted to the Turkish drawing room—a salon designed and furnished by a seventeenth-century Wolfe who had been an Ambassador to that country—where the teaboard would be ready and where he would at last introduce himself to her.
As was his usual habit, he had planned everything carefully to the last detail so that nothing would go wrong and all would go right. Even the clothes he was wearing had been chosen with great care to give off the right aura of effortless self-command and good taste. They were neither careless nor were they dandified, but somewhere in between. His boots, whilst black and shiny, bore no gold tassels. His clothes had been cut for him by a tailor whose taste was impeccable—there were to be no wasp-waisted jackets or garish waistcoats for Mr Ben Wolfe.
He sat himself down to wait for Jess to report to him, after which he would visit the drawing room where Miss Western would be waiting for him.
Susanna stared numbly at the beautiful façade of The Den when a footman opened the chaise door and Number One helped her out. When she had first been kidnapped she had supposed that she might be taken off to some low nighthouse either in the Haymarket or London’s East End. When, instead, they had obviously been driving into the country, she could form no idea of what her ultimate destination might be like.
Such splendour as Susanna saw all about her in the house and gardens awed
