A gentleman, tall and broad-shouldered, crept across the small garden of a country house under the moonlit sky. He let himself in through the wooden gate, which he closed carefully behind him, and stole up to the shadowed side entrance. He produced a key from his pocket, which he had obtained from one of the servants last week. With a faint click of the lock the door was opened, and he silently passed inside, removing his fine hat as he did.
He knew the location of the bedroom he sought, and silently made his passage through the dark corridors, up the rear stairs, to the small front bedroom overlooking the garden. This door was unlocked, as he had expected it to be. From what he remembered of her, she was far to trusting to lock her door at night. Inside, he made his way to the bed, where she slept in a disarray of limbs and sheets and satin.
Constance Blake.
It had been at least two years since he had last laid eyes on her. He had not thought her any great beauty then, and it brought him some satisfaction to see that she was not the least bit improved since. Her mouth was rather pleasant, he admitted, though the fullness of her lips was rather ill-suited to current fashion. Her hair he knew to be of a subdued copper shade, though the moonlight did not do it justice. Her skin was a brilliant white by contrast, which made her look like a cold marble statue.
He debated for a moment what to do. For all his planning and deliberation, he had never resolved himself on how he might finally achieve his end. What if she were to wake the household? Her brother, obviously, was absent, but the servants might hear, and as much as they trusted him, they would undoubtedly oppose his abduction of their young mistress. Should he try to restrain her in some way? Bind her, gag her? But that might disturb her slumber, and she reposed so peacefully, he almost wanted to believe that he could carry her to the waiting carriage without waking her. He calculated the distance, and decided to remove her forthwith.
Leaning over her, he watched her steady breathing swell the sheets above her bosom. Unable to help himself, he felt his groin begin to tighten at the sight of her, which he knew must be in anticipation of his intentions for her, rather than due to any real feeling she might stir in him. She was nothing to him, after all, but the instrument of his revenge.
He pried his hands under her sleeping form, under her back, and where her knees must be. She had the same strength of limb as her brother, and was by no means a slight girl, but he lifted her from the bed easily, blankets and all. It was then but a short walk down the corridor, the stairs, and out the side entrance, across the lawn and into the waiting carriage. His butler, Richards, was driving. He would be paid well for his compliance and his secrecy.
Just as the carriage pulled out of the lane onto the country road, the young lady began to stir.
* * *
Constance had been disturbed in her sleep. She wished to slip back into the pleasant dream she had been having, but found that she could not make herself comfortable. There was a steady thumping in the distance, and she felt a cold draught over her skin.
She opened her eyes.
"Good evening, Miss Blake."
She was very confused for a moment. This was a carriage. They were riding quickly over a gravel road. Outside it was dark, though from the slanting, changeful light of the moon she could distinguish the features of her companion.
"Mr. Whitham!" Her thoughts began to flow together. She blinked the drowsiness from her eyes. Her mouth opened and shut, but no words would come. She sat up, drawing the blankets around her. Clearing her throat, she managed to speak. "What is the meaning of this? What has happened?"
He laughed at her indignation. "Surely you must know. What has your brother told you?"
A cold dread spread through Constance's body. "I haven't seen my brother these last three months. He has been away with his regiment in the North. What has befallen him? Are you taking me to see him?"
"No," Whitham replied, with a hard expression on his face.
Constance fought to keep her voice steady. "If there is some awful news you must deliver, Mr. Whitham, I pray you communicate it to me directly so that I might better bear the shock of it." She bit her lip.
"When I last saw your brother he was in good health, I assure you, Miss Blake."
These words caused her only slight relief, for there was still a dangerous foreboding in Whitham's voice.
"Then what is all this?" she asked with some alarm, wondering why a man she had trusted since childhood would need to abduct her from her bed in the middle of the night if only to tell her that her brother was in good health. She thought back to her brother's correspondence of late. He had written little, being extremely occupied with his regimental duties, though she recalled, in his most recent missive, a short line, warning her to be on her guard against his friend James Whitham, though he had not detailed his reasons. It seemed that her brother's fears were not unfounded. "Why don't you bring me home, Mr. Whitham, and we can discuss this matter together?"
"I think not."
They rode on for some moments in silence. Constance couldn't help but dwell on her darkest fears.
He spoke suddenly. "Your brother owes me a great debt, Miss Blake, and I intend to use you to pay for it." She couldn't mistake the meaning of his look.
"Where are we going?"
"Away."
"Where?"
"I shall not tell you."
It was that response that really unnerved poor Constance. She rose to look out the window, but could discern nothing of the countryside. She caught his eye. They weren't moving very quickly. Could she jump?
"I wouldn't if I were you," he warned, apparently reading her mind. "Even if you survived the fall, we are at least ten miles gone by now, and think of what a damage to your reputation it would be to be seen walking about the countryside in your nightclothes." His glance travelled up and down the curves of her body, which was only partially concealed by the fabric.
"My reputation would be better served by flight than by remaining in this carriage with you," she retorted.
"Ah, very true, your reputation, and indeed your virtue, I must confess are in danger tonight. But there is no sense in running. I will easily find you again." His voice was certain, and his manners were all arrogance. He leaned back in the carriage seat, calmly waiting for her to sit down again. She did, unwillingly, unable to think of an alternative.
"Whatever it is that you hope to achieve by—by meddling with my virtue, I am certain another way can be found," she said with some disgust.
"Meddling with your virtue, indeed! That is well put. I did not notice that you had become so clever, Miss Blake. So like your brother, you are."
"Mr. Whitham, whatever my brother might have done, whatever disagreement might have befallen you, please, do not make me pay for his transgressions."
"You would do better to be silent about that of which you are ignorant." He said dangerously.
