Page 1 of Kidnapping Cordelia

Chapter 1

Da,

I find I’m in a bit of trouble. You’ll have heard by now, I’m sure, but I wished to assure you I did not kill Lord Richmond, no matter how richly the bastard may have deserved it. He tried to kill Ash and stabbed his sister instead when she got between them. I pray she is recovering well. The wound did not appear deep, but I had not the time to look closely.

Richmond ran off when he saw I meant to teach him a lesson and he led me a merry dance. I finally tracked him down, hiding in the marshes close to Millbank Prison. A sorry sight he was too, weeping and begging for forgiveness for having murdered his own sister. Before I could speak a word to him, however, some villain clouted me good. I ought to have known better, for it was a vile place and perfect for an ambush, but the next I knew I woke up in the marshes at daybreak, filthy and sodden and relieved of my valuables. Richmond was nowhere in sight.

I felt a right numpty I can tell you, and I can hear your rebukes ringing in my ears now. Believe me, you cannot berate me any more than I have done myself. Now, however, there is a hue and cry for me, and I would be more than grateful if you could use your influence to put things to rights. The last I saw of Lord Richmond, he was very much alive. I’m afraid he must have seen what happened to me and who did it, which meant he got tougher treatment than I did when they stripped him of his goods. I can’t pretend I’m sorry, but he did not die at my hands. I swear it.

―Excerpt of a letter to the Right Hon’ble Gordon Anderson, The Earl of Morven, from his son, The Hon’ble Muir Anderson.

24th March 1850, somewhere near Alconbury, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, England.

Upon reflection, Delia had to admit that being kidnapped was not half so thrilling as it had appeared to be in the scandalous novels she so adored. Indeed, so far had been disorientating and uncomfortable, but most of all, a great bore. Of course, that was entirely the fault of her kidnapper. In the romantic stories she favoured, the villain was always a charismatic devil for all his vile ways and nefarious intentions. Delia’s reality was something of a disappointment.

Sourly, she glared at the man on the opposite side of the carriage. Mr Enoch Goodfellow, the son of her father’s steward, had been a playmate of hers since they were children. They had been brought together by proximity, though her father would have had a fit if he’d known the extent to which Enoch had sought her out. The temptation to tell him had been strong at times, but the duke was a cruel man and Delia could never bring herself to do it.

When they had been small children they had rubbed along quite nicely, with Enoch ready enough to join in her imaginary games, of which she had a wealth to choose from. Pretending to be explorers or cats, highwaymen or pirates, had not seemed to trouble him at all, and they’d had a good deal of fun. Little by little, however, he had changed, much to her dismay. As he had grown older, however, he had appeared to model his behaviour upon that of her father. A worse example of what a man was ought to be was hard to fathom, but Enoch seemed to think that by parroting her father’s words and ways, he might gain the man’s respect. She could have told him it would never work – she had told him, but Enoch seemed not to believe that the duke despised him, not only for his toadying ways, but simply for being from another class. It was a class he longed to belong to, and it seemed he would stop at nothing to gain admission.

Any affection she had felt for Enoch had long ago worn off. Delia did not appreciate his attempts to reprimand her or speak to her as someone who had the right to comment on her behaviour. It had not taken her long to discover that he seemed to take pleasure in being cruel enough to make her cry, for the pleasure of comforting her afterwards and pretending he was sorry. He always told her he had done it only because he cared for her so very much. Enduring her father’s sermons had been bad enough, from Enoch it was intolerable. Thankfully, since her brother Wrexham had taken over her guardianship, she had no longer to endure either of their lectures, and it had been over a year since she had seen Enoch at all. This, she supposed, accounted for her stupidity in not being on her guard when he had presented himself to her so unexpectedly. She had even managed to pretend some pleasure in seeing him again after so long, enough to be polite, at least. More fool her.

That her childhood playmate could behave so despicably, was still something she was struggling to come to terms with. When she had first come around from the deep sleep induced by the vile drug she had been given to knock her out, she had been certain she could talk him around, but that belief had died over the last couple of hours. Indeed, though she tried hard to remind herself that she had known the man all her life, and that he could not possibly be a real danger to her, her composure was beginning to slip, and the first insidious tendrils of fear slithered beneath her skin.

Enoch was a tall man, though painfully thin. With his greasy black hair, long nose and spindly limbs, he had always put her in mind of a mournful stick insect. She watched him carefully paring the skin from a small apple with his penknife. With equal care, he cut it into four neat pieces, removed the core which he threw out the window, and then put the knife back in the leather bag he carried everywhere. Delia eyed it as it slipped out of sight, wishing she might get her hands upon the knife and sink it into his cold, black heart, or at the very least somewhere exceedingly painful, if not fatal. She could still not fathom how he could treat her so abominably.

He offered her a piece of apple and whilst she was desperately hungry, the idea of eating it made her want to retch. Instead, she glared at him, gather the tattered remains of her courage.

“I see I badly miscast you in all those games we played when I pretended to be the villain,” she told him, a little surprised herself by the hurt behind the words. “You ought to have played Blackbeard, and the wicked baron, and the cannibal, and the feral cat, and—”

“That’s enough,” he said sharply, colour rising to his cheeks. “I prefer to forget all the nonsense you talked me into when we were children. It does neither of us any credit.”

“It was fun,” Delia told him, finally giving into the desire to tell him what she thought of him. “It was fun, and you enjoyed it, until you decided you wanted to be a duke. If that isn’t the biggest piece of make believe you’ve ever played at, I don’t know what is. You can’t become a duke by marrying me, Enoch. I do hope you know that.”

His colour heightened further, followed by a flash of anger in his eyes that made her subside into silence for a little while. Silence was not going to free her from this unbelievable situation, however, and as it appeared she was not dreaming as she had at first hoped, she had better persevere.

“I shan’t marry you, Enoch, so you might as well turn this carriage around this minute,” she said, and not for the first time.

Enoch made a show of gathering his dignity, toying with the gold signet on his finger, a habit he had adopted upon seeing the duke do likewise. It was similar in style to one her father wore, except her father’s was solid gold which Enoch’s plainly was not. He sighed, pushing his spectacles up his nose before sending her a reproachful look and attempting to mimic the clipped tones the duke used. “Delia, do not, I beg you, start this all over again. I’ve told you there’s no choice now. You’ve been travelling in a closed carriage with me since yesterday. You’re quite ruined, my dear.”

“Don’t you ‘my dear’ me, you horrid little sneak. I was unconscious for most of that and casting up my accounts for a good deal of the rest!”

“I have already apologised for the discomfort you endured,” Enoch said stiffly, as if that ought to be an end to the matter.

“Oh, well, that’s all right then,” Delia said with a snort.

“Don’t snort, it’s most unladylike,” he reproved, his dark eyebrows drawing together before he took a bite from a piece of the apple.

“I’ll do something far more unladylike than that the moment I can,” Delia said hotly, fighting the urge to cry. There was no way on God’s green earth she would give him the pleasure of seeing her weep. “I shall brain you with the nearest heavy object, Enoch Goodfellow, and just wait until my brother finds out what you’ve done,” she added, having the satisfaction of seeing Enoch’s narrow face blanch at her words.

“It will be too late by then. We shall be married,” he said, striving to sound cool, though she could tell she had rattled him. Wrexham had long ago taken Enoch’s measure and despised him. He had no compunction about putting the wretched man in his place with a few sharp words. Whilst Enoch made much of pitying Wrexham for being blind, the truth was he was no match for her clever, quick-witted brother. Oh, how she wished he was here now. Instead, she was alone, with only her own wits and fortitude to protect her. The though made her throat tightened and the fear that Enoch might be right made her heart thud erratically.

He ate another piece of apple and Delia fervently wished for him to choke on it.

“Enoch, you do realise there are such things as trains now?” she said, fighting to keep her voice hard and angry so she might disguise the way it trembled. “You may be forced to take me by carriage to keep me hidden, but no one else will have such restrictions. They’ll be at Gretna Green long before we are. I don’t doubt Wrexham has half the country out looking for me by now.”

“Nonsense, he won’t want a scandal,” Enoch said, sounding so damned sure of himself that Delia wished she were strong enough, and brave enough, to launch herself across the carriage and beat him about the head with her fists. Sadly, she had already discovered Enoch was rather more powerful than she had imagined; she had the bruises to prove it. That had been the biggest shock to her system, to discover the man who had always treated her like she was made of spun sugar, had no compunction about treating her so roughly now. “Besides which, we are not going to Gretna Green.”

“Not going to Gretna Green?” Delia repeated in surprise.