Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 140 - Hundred And Forty

Gladys gasped and skidded to a halt. She turned to run back the way she came, but the carriage had already pulled up to the curb, blocking her path. Two more men jumped down.

"Going somewhere, miss?" Finch asked. His voice was like grinding stones.

"Please," Gladys whispered, backing against the brick wall. "I have no money. I am just a girl."

"We don’t want your money," Finch said, stepping closer. He loomed over her, blocking out the little light that was left in the sky. "Our mistress wants a word."

"Who is your mistress?" Gladys cried out.

"Someone who is very interested in the books your master or should I say mistress writes. The very person you are trying to protect." Finch said.

He reached out. His hand was enormous.

Gladys tried to scream. "HELP!!!" But he covered her mouth with a rough cloth.

"Quiet now," Finch growled. "Or you won’t live to tell the story."

Gladys kicked and struggled, but she was no match for them. They tied her and lifted her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. They threw her into the back of the carriage.

The door slammed shut.

The carriage peeled away, disappearing into the fog.

~ ••••• ~

The London fog was no longer a nuisance. It swirled thick and gray around the legs of the horses as Carcel and Vance galloped through the damp streets.

Carcel was not riding in a carriage tonight. He was on horseback, riding a massive black stallion that seemed to drink up the darkness.

He was not dressed for a ball. He wore a heavy riding coat, dark breeches, and tall boots. He looked less like a Duke and more like a highwayman.

"Up ahead, Your Grace," Vance called out. His voice was low, carried by the wind. "My contact said they went this way after abducting her."

Carcel narrowed his eyes. Through the mist, he saw the faint yellow glow of a lantern. A carriage was moving hurriedly toward the edge of the city, heading for the desolate roads that led to the abandoned warehouses by the river.

It was Priscilla’s carriage. Or rather, the carriage she had hired to do her dirty work.

"I see them," Carcel said. His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion.

He felt a burning rage in his chest, but he pushed it down. Rage made a man sloppy. He needed to be careful. That carriage held Gladys, Ines’s dearest friend. If Gladys was hurt, Ines would be heartbroken, she would blame him for using her as the bait. And Carcel would not allow Ines to shed a single tear or be overwhelmed with guilt and anger.

"They are heading for the old bridge," Vance analyzed. "If they cross the river, we might lose them in the labyrinth of the docks."

"They won’t cross," Carcel vowed.

He kicked his horse’s flanks. The stallion surged forward, its hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones.

Inside the carriage, Gladys was huddled in the corner. Her hands were tied behind her back with rough rope. A gag was tied tight around her mouth, tasting of dust and oil.

Mr. Finch sat opposite her. He was cleaning his fingernails with a small knife, looking bored.

"Stop whimperin’," Finch grumbled. "The Lady just wants to ask you questions. You answer right, you go home. You answer wrong..." He stabbed the knife into the wooden seat next to him. "Well, don’t answer wrong."

Gladys squeezed her eyes shut. She prayed. She prayed for Ines. She prayed that Ines would never know about this, because if Ines knew, she would blame herself.

Suddenly, the carriage lurched violently to the left.

"What the devil?" Finch shouted, grabbing the strap to steady himself.

Outside, a horse screeched. There was a shout from the driver, then the sound of a heavy body hitting the ground. The carriage skidded to a halt, the wheels grinding against the stones.

"Ambush!" the driver yelled from the box. "It’s a ...."

His voice was cut off by a sharp thud.

Finch swore. He grabbed his knife. "Stay here," he growled at Gladys.

He kicked the door open and jumped out into the fog.

Finch landed on the muddy road, his knife held high. He looked around wildly. The driver was gone, his accomplice was knocked unconscious and dragged into the bushes.

Standing in the middle of the road, bathed in the pale light of the carriage lantern, was a man.

He was tall. He stood perfectly still. His hands hung loose at his sides. He looked expensive. His coat was cut from fine wool, and his boots were polished leather.

"Get out of the road!" Finch bellowed, brandishing the knife. "This is private business!"

The man took a slow step forward. He reached up and calmly began to unbutton his gloves.

"You have something that belongs to me," Carcel said.

He pulled the gloves off, finger by finger. He dropped them into the mud. He didn’t look at them. His dark eyes were locked on Finch.

Finch laughed. It was a nervous sound. He was big—nearly six and a half feet—but something about this nobleman terrified him.

"I don’t know who you are, rich boy," Finch sneered. "But I suggest you turn around before I cut that pretty face. You don’t know who you are messing with."

"My name is Anderson," Carcel said softly. "And you made a mistake touching her."

Finch lunged. He was fast for a big man. He slashed the knife toward Carcel’s chest. He stepped to the side with light steps and grace, letting the blade slice through the air inches from his coat.

Before Finch could recover, Carcel moved.

He stepped in close and drove his fist into Finch’s stomach.

Oof!

Finch doubled over, the air leaving his lungs in a rush.

Carcel didn’t stop. He grabbed Finch’s wrist—the one holding the knife—and twisted it sharply. There was a sickening crack. Finch howled and dropped the weapon.

Carcel spun him around and slammed him against the side of the carriage. The wood groaned under the impact.

"Who hired you?" Carcel demanded. He pressed his forearm against Finch’s throat, pinning him.