“My name?” She didn’t sound like herself. A frog. She sounded like a big, croaky frog.
“That’s it. Open your eyes now.”
Rebecca tried fighting the sound of him, but he kept talking. “Enough. Please,” she begged. The stench of the river reached her, and the hammering from inside her head increased.
“Apologies, my lady. You must wake. What is your name?”
“Rebecca. Lady Rebecca. Thatch. Er.” Her words came out in broken, breathless puffs. She pried her eyes open and squinted against light streaming in through long, narrow windows that edged a high ceiling.
“Ah.” It sounded as if he tried to laugh. A rusty, discordant rasp. “I’ve heard you were a force to be reckoned with, and the rumors appear to be true.”
Slowly, Rebecca rose to sitting. She ran a palm over the back of her skull, wincing at a protruding bump. “Who might you be? You have the sound of the peerage.”
“The Earl of Huntley at your service. I would rise, but as you can see, I’m trussed up like a calf for slaughter.”
Rebecca’s eyes snapped to him. The move sent another stab of pain shooting through her head. “Gabby’s husband?” Oddly, they’d never met. The wedding had been held in London at St. George’s a few months ago and Papa had been unable to travel at the time.
For the first time she took in his appearance. His clothes were wrinkled and torn and he was indeed bound. His ankles were secured with rope, his hands hidden from view. His face was swollen and bruised from a multitude of beatings. “Huntley,” she breathed. “How did you come to be here?” Anger swept through her. “Gabriella has been beside herself with worry, my lord.”
Her gaze swept the sparse room and landed on her reticule. She picked it up, hugged it to her chest, and settled her eyes back on him. There were no other weapons in the room. Just piles of straw here and there. “You deserted your wife the morning after your wedding.”
“Gabriella has every right to her anger.” His head fell back against the wall. “I did my wife a horrible disservice.”
“Yes. You did,” she told him ruthlessly, turning her arm over to see how bad the damage was. “She blames herself.” Rebecca lifted her skirt and jerked at a seam of her stays. It took a moment to garner enough strength to rip. The strip was huge, but it would have to do. She wrapped it around her arm.
“So, you’ve seen her?” The tenderness in his voice brought her head up with another sharp pang.
The sting blurred her vision with a tear. She inhaled through her nose and went back to attempting to wrap her arm. “Yes.” By the third twist, it was clear that her makeshift bandage was useless. “Do you have a knife?”
“I’m afraid not. Otherwise, I would not be in this situation,” he said as if speaking to a toddler.
Pieces of the situation began to prick at Rebecca. Slowly, she looked at him, considering him fully for the first time. “How did you happen here, in Finch Cromwell’s clutches?”
“I received word of a transaction that threatened the crown. ’Twas the only thing that could have dragged me from my wedding bed, I assure you.”
Heat infused Rebecca’s face and she turned casually away. His words penetrated and she spun to face him, suffering another sharp pain behind her eyes. “You… work for the crown?”
“At the risk of arrest, I will answer your questions. But I would beg your indulgence that you keep this conversation between the two of us.”
“So, Gabriella is not aware of your… occupation?”
“No, she is not. I felt it would distress her. Also, my beloved wife is possessed somewhat of an impulsive nature and I worried she might say the wrong thing in front of the wrong person.”
Huntley had the right of that, Rebecca allowed, as one image after another of their childhood escapades flitted through her mind: their midnight swim, the sneaking of the spirits from the locked cabinet, and, lastly, and most disastrously, the stable boy incident. She look down at the scar on her wrist, exposed by her torn glove. She rubbed at the tingling sensation, carefully avoiding the long slice that would doubtless leave her another reminder of her own antics. A sound reminder that Gabriella was not the only impetuous one. She and her friend were equally matched, she silently admitted. “You haven’t answered my question, my lord. How did you end up in Finch Cromwell’s clutches?”
“I was summoned to Vauxhall and arrived just after Cromwell’s attack on Baron Welton. As it turned out, Welton was only attempting to undercut Cromwell of his winnings from a race at Ascot, not pass information as I was originally led to believe.”
She dragged her gaze from the blood on her arm back to him. “So… not really an act against the Crown.”
“I was on my way. I happened to intercept Cromwell advancing on a young boy whom, I believe, witnessed his attack on Welton. The boy escaped.”
“Owen,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry?”
“The boy. His name is Owen. Cromwell chasing him. I took he and his twin home.” She gave him a wry smile. “Gabby sent me a note asking me to visit her in Dorchester. And, as it turned out, the boys are her cousin’s children.” She studied him from lowered lashes. “Gabby left Dorchester and the duke and I set out after her. I was… er, ah, concerned.”
Huntley let out a pursed stream of air through a tightened jaw. “She left me?”
