“You would never be found guilty of murdering such a bastard as one who abducted your wife. They would hail you as a hero,” Myles added.
“Yes, well, I certainly hope so, because I plan to do just that,” Thomas replied.
“Be reasonable. We had this discussion already and decided life in Newgate would be a fate worse than death,” Amesbury reminded him.
“Yes, I realize that, but my mind does not totally agree with it. I want revenge.”
Myles and Amesbury said nothing else as they followed the Runners to the warehouse district bordering the Thames. No sooner had they arrived at the most dilapidated building than Smythe turned around and glared at them.
“If you think I did not know you were following us,” he growled, “you hired the wrong man.”
“I knew you would,” Thomas answered. “But I do not care. If you think I could stay in the safety of my home while my wife’s life is in danger, you do not know me at all.”
“You are right. I do not know you, except by reputation as a hard but fair gentleman. Truthfully, had you stayed home you would have lost my respect, and since you and your cohorts have come, let us develop a plan of action,” Smythe said.
And so it was decided that Webster was a very stupid man. A little digging helped them discover an empty warehouse owned by none other than Mr. Webster’s in-laws. Thomas found it hard to imagine any woman would ever wish to have married the man.
***
After scurrying around the perimeter of the building, they found two unsavory, burly men guarding what appeared to be the only entrance other than the boarded-up loading doors that faced the river.
Smythe’s associates rendered the guards unconscious, tied them up, gagged them, and dragged them into an alleyway.
Thomas paused before entering the building. He needed to calm down. His heart literally beat a staccato inside his chest. Indeed, he was petrified to enter the building. His feet would not move as his brain considered what he might find there.
What if Emma had been hurt? What if she were dead? What if they were wrong and she was not even here?
And what, Dear God, will I do if she still did not want me?
“Are you coming?” questioned Smythe.
Thomas cleared his sore, dry throat. “Yes.”
They entered the dark, dank, and musty building with one candle between them. If possible, they wanted to surprise Webster.
Rats scurried away from their quiet footsteps. Thomas wanted to cry at the thought that Emma, his Emma, was being held in such a pigsty. He concentrated on saving her and believing she was unharmed and safe––waiting for him.
They found nothing on the first floor. As they ascended the rickety wooden staircase they heard footsteps shuffling around above, the creak of a door opening and closing, and the sound of a bolt sliding into place.
Thomas took a second to say a silent prayer to God for leading him here.
Smythe banged his fist against the recently locked door. “We know you are in there, Webster. And we know you have Her Grace, the Duchess of Wentworth with you. If you give yourself up, you will be unharmed and you will get a fair trial. If you refuse to cooperate, you will be shot dead where you stand.”
“Help me!” screamed Emma. Thomas fought to remain still. The sound of a slap resonated through the door and he thought he would explode with rage. How dare the bastard hit his wife? Pulling his revolver from his pocket, he stepped to the door and shouted.
“I will kill you. You’re a bastard for touching her.”
Laughter, sick, deranged laughter, filled the room.
Every man’s eyes looked toward the doorway. Each knew the man inside was crazy and liable to do anything. One of Smythe’s men produced an axe and chopped away at the wooden door. No sooner had they cleared the way than they heard one single gunshot.
The sound ricocheted around the room, deafening Thomas’s ears. His heart stopped as his feet moved toward the lone bed in the room and the figure lying still upon it. He spared one look at the dead barrister lying on the floor, blood pooling around his grisly face.
Once Thomas arrived at the bedside of his beloved wife, he collapsed to his knees. His Emma lay unconscious on a filthy mattress. Her dress exposed her lovely breast to all eyes in the room, and her skirts were hiked up around her waist. He heard a bloodcurdling shout and did not realize it came from him.
After he straightened his wife’s clothing, Thomas sat on the edge of the cot, cradled his wife in his arms, and rocked back and forth, weeping with relief that she was alive, although her face was battered, bloody, and bruised. She was not conscious, but still relief washed through his veins knowing she would survive. They would survive. And never, ever, as long as he lived, would he let her out of his sight.