T was another damp November morning, and Reggie walked down to the lake with her sketch pad. Uncle Tony had spent the night, and she had seen him off early, promising again to think about coming home. She would think about it, or at least think about returning to London, where she would be closer to the family. She could keep up appearances by moving into Nicholas’ townhouse. That was an idea. And it would even give her something to do, now that she was restricted as to physical activities. She could redecorate his London house, spend some of his money.

Trouble was, she had come to enjoy the tranquility of Silverley. At least it was tranquil when Miriam wasn’t around. Reggie got along well with the servants, too. Even Mrs. Oates had unbent surprisingly the moment she learned Reggie was expecting a baby. It seemed Mrs. Oates loved babies. Who would have guessed?

Reggie looked at the gray mansion wistfully. She might have been truly happy there. She pictured her children running across the Silverley lawns, sailing little boats on the lake in summer, ice-skating in winter. She even pictured their father giving them their first ponies and showing them their paces. Somehow she knew Nicholas would have a gentle hand with children. She sighed, a deep, long sigh, pulling up the hood of her fur cloak and casting a look at the heavy bank of clouds above her. Meg was right. It was getting too cold to be sketching outdoors.

She tucked her sketchbook under her arm and turned to go back to the house. She would sketch the lake another time. It was then that she saw one of the servants hurrying toward her, coming not from the house but from the woods.

On the other side of those woods lay her own estate. She hadn’t gone there yet. The melancholy caused by thinking about that place where her parents had died was too much. She would go there eventually, she told herself. Eventually, yes. And someday she would show it to her child. The estate had belonged to his… her grandparents.

As he got closer she recognized the servant as one of the men she had sketched the other day. He was carrying an oversized sack used, she guessed, to gather dead leaves. He looked as strange as she remembered. A vague sense of danger rose in her.

Maybe it was the full, unkempt beard and long shaggy hair. Or maybe it was his bold demeanor. Whatever, she decided not to wait for him to reach her. She would run to the house.

She stopped, calling herself a ninny. She was letting her imagination run wild. Silly of her. He was only a gardener, after all.

Reggie had no sooner finished the thought than the man reached her, took a moment to catch his breath, then smoothly yanked the sack he carried over her head and shoulders. Her first impulse was to scream, but surprise overtook her until the sack was yanked all the way down her body, and her scream was only a tiny muffled sound.

Her assailant wasted no time shouldering his prize and rushing back into the woods. An expensive, well-sprung coach waited there, hidden, with two high-stepping grays straining to be off. A man was in the driver’s seat, ready to crack the whip at the first sign of pursuit. The man on the ground glared up at him.

“Ye could at least get your arse down ‘ere and open the bleedin’ door, ‘Onry. She might look like a light bit of fluff, but after that long trek she don’t feel light.”

Henri, or ‘Onry, as his English friends were wont to call him, chuckled at Artie’s surliness, a sure sign that he was no longer worried about their mission. “Then no one is giving chase?”

“Not as I saw. Now give us a ‘and. Ye know the cap’s orders about treatin’ ‘er real gentle.”

They laid Reggie on a thickly padded seat and quickly wrapped a rope around her knees to hold the sack in place. “This will sweeten his temper, yes? Never thought we would catch our fish this soon.”

“Give it up, Frenchy. Ye’ll never sound like an Englishman, so stop tryin‘. And I bet ye thought we’d be freezin out ’ere in these woods for weeks, eh?”

“Well, did you not?”

“Yeah, but I tol‘ ye it pays to be ready, and see if she didn’t come right out to us. A fine piece of luck! If this don’t please the cap’n, what will, I ask ye?”

“The little fish catching the bigger one.”

“Right ye are. Let’s just ‘ope that don’t take too long either.”

“You will ride back here with her to see she does not fall off the seat, or do you wish me—”

“Ye can ‘ave the pleasure. I don’t trust ye gettin’ this lumberin‘ land ship out o’ these woods in one piece. That’ll be my job.” He chuckled. “I take it ye fancy that arrangement?”

“As you please, Artie.” The young Frenchman flashed a grin at the Englishman.

“Just don’t get a mind to sample the goods, mate. Cap’n wouldn’t like that a’tall,” the man said seriously before climbing into the driver’s seat again. The coach rocked forward.

Reggie’s mind was racing. This had to be a simple kidnapping. A demand for money would be met, and then she would be returned home. Nothing to worry about.

She wished her body would see it that way. She was trembling violently. They were taking her to a captain who didn’t want her roughed up. Yes, a kidnapping. And he was a sea captain, she surmised, because there was a large harbor in Southampton. Why, Nicholas’ own shipping firm was located there.

She forced herself to recall every word they’d spoken. What was that about the little fish catching the bigger one? She strained all her senses, alert to every sound, every movement.

It wasn’t more than half an hour before their pace slowed and she knew they were in Southampton.

“A few more minutes, cherie, and we will have you inside and more comfortable,” her captor assured her.

“Inside?” Not “on board?” Well, he was French, after all, so maybe that had been a language problem. Oh dear. The tight sack around her cloak was beginning to make her itch and sweat. And to think she’d believed there would be no more adventures once she was grown!

The coach stopped and she was carefully lifted out, the Englishman carrying her this time. There were no sounds of a waterfront, no waves lapping against a ship, no creak of nearby timber at anchor. Where were they? There was no gangplank to maneuver across, either, but steps were mounted. Then a door was opened.

“Hell’s bells, Artie, you got her already?”

“Well, this ain’t ballast I’m totin‘, lad. Where do I put ’er?”

“There’s a room ready for her upstairs. Why don’t you let me carry her?”

“I can box yer ears and not drop ‘er, lad. Want to test me?”

There was a deep chuckle. “You’re too touchy by half, Artie. Come on, I’ll show you where the room is.”

“Where’s the cap’n?”

“He’s not expected back until tonight. I guess that means I get to take care of her, don’t it?”

“Will ye listen to this young cockerel, ‘Onry?” Artie demanded. “Not on yer life, lado, will we be leavin’ ye alone with the likes o‘ ’er. Yer the only one round ‘ere who might think ’e can get away with a little hanky-panky ‘cause the cap’s yer old man. Don’t ye be thinkin’ about it while I’m around.”

“I said take care of her—not take care of her,” the boy shot back.

“Is the lad blushin‘, ’Onry? Is that a real blush I see?”

“Run along, mon ami,” Henri said to the boy. “You questioned his strength, and he will not let up on you today.”

“Well, at least let me see what she looks like.”

“Oh, she’s a pretty one, lado.” Artie grinned. “In fact, when the cap sets eyes on ‘er, ’e’s likely to forget what ‘e wanted ’er brought ‘ere for. Might just keep ’er for ‘imself. Might just indeed.”

They carried her to her upstairs room, and then she was set down on her feet. She swayed and nearly fell. The rope at her knees was removed, and the sack lifted off. But the little room was so dark, its windows boarded up, that she had trouble seeing for a moment.

A deep breath of air was her first order of business. Then she focused on the three men, her captors and the boy, moving toward the door. The younger one was looking at her over his shoulder, his mouth hanging open.

“Just a minute, if you please,” she called to the departing men. “I demand to know why I was brought here.”

“The cap’n will be tellin‘ ye that when ’e gets ‘ere, m’lady.”

“And who is the captain?”

“No need for names,” the brawnier of the two answered, offering a placating tone in response to her haughty one.

“Yet I know your name, Artie. And I know your name, Henri. I even—” She stopped before telling them she had sketched both of them. “I wish to know why I am here.”

“Ye’ll ‘ave to wait and talk to the cap’n. Now, there’s a lamp there on the table, and ye’ll be fed shortly. Just settle down and make yourself comfy-like.”

She swung around, furious, her back to them. The door closed and a key was turned in the lock. She let out a sigh. Where had she gotten the nerve to act so hoity-toity? They were sinister-looking characters despite their bantering manner and placating voices. Well, at least she hadn’t shown them any fear. They wouldn’t see a Malory cringe. That was a huge satisfaction.

She sat down warily on a rickety chair, wondering forlornly if that might just be her last moment of satisfaction for a long while.