a moment, Blair was disappointed, but soon realized that curtain would give her some privacy as well. She took a few bites of her soup while she considered the steps she would take to get behind the curtain. Then she took a few sips of the wine to bolster her courage.
Anything for Martin.
Satisfied the shadows would hide her absence as well as it hid her presence, she slipped around the table once again. No patrons were facing her direction as she glided silently across the aisle. She did pause for a peek behind the material, however, to see that her heroes were still sleeping.
They were.
So she slipped around the curtain and paused again. Though she was fair to certain her heart could be heard by all and sundry, none of the men stirred. The conversations of other patrons went on without interruption. Footsteps neared, then passed without pause.
Blair looked down and realized her skirts might be seen below the hem of the curtain, so she stepped around Harcourt’s chair, deeper into the alcove. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d also stepped away from a quick escape.
For Martin , she reminded herself, and reached for the note. It hadn’t been sealed, so there was no fuss and no noise made when she opened it. Unfortunately, it was too dark to read it. She closed her eyes for a wee moment and listened to the heavy breathing around her. The fumes from their drinks swirled against her nose and she coughed.
Stanley’s snoring stopped, as did her loud heart. She opened her eyes but found no one looking back at her, but the fact she could see them so well meant her eyes had already adjusted, praise be. She peered at the note once more. The letters were barely visible, but she managed by deciphering them one at a time. The hand was legible.
The message was brief.
Gentlemen,
10,000 English pounds.
27th day of June
The abandoned monastery south of Charleville.
Or an unspeakable death for your friend.
Waste no time.
Finally! Dear God, finally!
She hugged the note to her and silently wept. But before the first tear fell to the floor, she realized, though this was a miracle, it wasn’t hers at all.
She knew where Northwick’s kidnappers were. Not Martin’s. It was possible these villains would not bother with any but wealthy officers. After all, what profit could be gained from kidnapping soldiers for whom they see no ransom?
She refused to continue the thought. This was her only, last, and best hope of finding her brother. She must assume there was only one band of kidnappers in the area, only one place her brother could be, since she’d fairly turned the district topsy-turvy with her searching and found no trace of him. Givet Faux truly had been the last stone to turn. And if Northwick and Martin were not inside when the others had searched, then it was likely they were being held nearby.
Her problem now? If these blackhearts did have Martin, this note still meant little hope for him.
These Englishmen had another two weeks to either gather the ransom or rescue their friend. And the former might be the simplest. Divided between the three of them, it was not such an impossible number. A little over three thousand pounds each. Easy enough for a future duke, an earl, and a Marquis, not to mention Northwick’s own money.
Easier, say, than fighting their way into Givet Faux.
In fact, they might believe paying the ransom would be the safest way to get their friend back unharmed.
But Martin? Martin’s ransom had not been paid, would never be paid. Even if the kidnappers realized she was unlikely to afford the ransom and had, instead, sent a ransom demand to their father, there was no telling whether or not her father received a ransom note, let alone read it. But if they were waiting for a payment from Scotland, it would at least have bought Martin more time.
Villains would surely not feed a hostage indefinitely. If Martin was still alive, it wouldn’t be for long. Not long at all. And his only hope
Anything for Martin.
Satisfied the shadows would hide her absence as well as it hid her presence, she slipped around the table once again. No patrons were facing her direction as she glided silently across the aisle. She did pause for a peek behind the material, however, to see that her heroes were still sleeping.
They were.
So she slipped around the curtain and paused again. Though she was fair to certain her heart could be heard by all and sundry, none of the men stirred. The conversations of other patrons went on without interruption. Footsteps neared, then passed without pause.
Blair looked down and realized her skirts might be seen below the hem of the curtain, so she stepped around Harcourt’s chair, deeper into the alcove. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d also stepped away from a quick escape.
For Martin , she reminded herself, and reached for the note. It hadn’t been sealed, so there was no fuss and no noise made when she opened it. Unfortunately, it was too dark to read it. She closed her eyes for a wee moment and listened to the heavy breathing around her. The fumes from their drinks swirled against her nose and she coughed.
Stanley’s snoring stopped, as did her loud heart. She opened her eyes but found no one looking back at her, but the fact she could see them so well meant her eyes had already adjusted, praise be. She peered at the note once more. The letters were barely visible, but she managed by deciphering them one at a time. The hand was legible.
The message was brief.
Gentlemen,
10,000 English pounds.
27th day of June
The abandoned monastery south of Charleville.
Or an unspeakable death for your friend.
Waste no time.
Finally! Dear God, finally!
She hugged the note to her and silently wept. But before the first tear fell to the floor, she realized, though this was a miracle, it wasn’t hers at all.
She knew where Northwick’s kidnappers were. Not Martin’s. It was possible these villains would not bother with any but wealthy officers. After all, what profit could be gained from kidnapping soldiers for whom they see no ransom?
She refused to continue the thought. This was her only, last, and best hope of finding her brother. She must assume there was only one band of kidnappers in the area, only one place her brother could be, since she’d fairly turned the district topsy-turvy with her searching and found no trace of him. Givet Faux truly had been the last stone to turn. And if Northwick and Martin were not inside when the others had searched, then it was likely they were being held nearby.
Her problem now? If these blackhearts did have Martin, this note still meant little hope for him.
These Englishmen had another two weeks to either gather the ransom or rescue their friend. And the former might be the simplest. Divided between the three of them, it was not such an impossible number. A little over three thousand pounds each. Easy enough for a future duke, an earl, and a Marquis, not to mention Northwick’s own money.
Easier, say, than fighting their way into Givet Faux.
In fact, they might believe paying the ransom would be the safest way to get their friend back unharmed.
But Martin? Martin’s ransom had not been paid, would never be paid. Even if the kidnappers realized she was unlikely to afford the ransom and had, instead, sent a ransom demand to their father, there was no telling whether or not her father received a ransom note, let alone read it. But if they were waiting for a payment from Scotland, it would at least have bought Martin more time.
Villains would surely not feed a hostage indefinitely. If Martin was still alive, it wouldn’t be for long. Not long at all. And his only hope
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