Page 81 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

The curricle would block the lane, but that couldn’t be helped, and it seemed a rarely used route, at least on a Sunday. Kit nodded and handed the reins to Smiggs.

While Smiggs secured the horses, Kit focused on Jack. “Right, then. Tell us what happened from the moment Hillary reached here.”

That didn’t take long.

All but jigging with impatience, Jack tugged Kit’s sleeve. “We’ve got to go and save Miss B. Best go through the trees, just in case he looks out.”

Accepting that Jack had superior knowledge of the terrain, Kit urged him to lead the way. The boy wriggled through the bushes; Kit followed, with the other two boys on his heels and Smiggs bringing up the rear.

Jack paused at the edge of the cleared space that stretched along the front of the mill. When Kit halted beside him, Jack pointed to a gig, the horse standing with head hanging, then to the closed door of the mill, toward the other end of the building from where they stood.

Kit nodded. Judging by the brightly painted sign above the door, the neatly trimmed clearing, and the thin stream of smoke that curled lazily upward from the chimneys, the mill was a going concern. He considered the closed door for several seconds, but given the size of the building, depending on where Hillary and Sylvia were inside it, a frontal assault would almost certainly give Hillary time to seize Sylvia and use her as a hostage.

Kit glanced at the others and signaled that they should circle toward the rear of the mill. He took the lead, pleased that the others remained silent as they crept in his wake. Impatience had dug its spurs deep, but the overriding need to ensure Sylvia’s safety gave him the strength to resist all unwise compulsions.

He was banking on there being more than one reason the mill was built so close to the river’s edge.

Sure enough, in the rear section that had been enclosed as an add-on to the main building, he found not just the two waterwheels that must at one time have powered the now almost-certainly steam-driven mill but also a hatch for loading barges to be sent downriver.

The hatch was cut in the side wall of the rear section; it was low and wide and secured with a simple hooked latch on the inside.

Kit crouched by the hatch and tipped his head. He could hear the rumble of a male voice from inside. He signaled to the others, and they obediently froze as he drew out his penknife. After opening the knife, he inserted the blade through the gap at the edge of the hatch and carefully eased the hook up, then slowly let it down…

The hatch eased open a crack.

And the voice inside reached him clearly.

Along with the others, who edged nearer, Kit paused to listen.

Sylvia had managed to make a few questioning noises around the gag, and that was all it had taken to prompt Hillary into loquaciousness.

He’d rambled for several minutes about how long it had taken him to find his way after being so badly done by—how he’d been forced to take himself to Bristol and tout his brilliance as a preacher on the docks. His lip had curled contemptuously. “Parading up and down with boards exhorting sinners to pray and pay for their repentance!”

Yet according to him, despite his brilliance, he’d been reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence, one entirely inappropriate for a man of his stamp.

At least she now knew it was he who’d been watching her.

While he ranted on, Sylvia surreptitiously tested the ropes anchoring her hands. There was only a little—insufficient—give. However, Hillary had wound the ropes over her gloves. If she could manage to slide her hands free of the leather…

With an expansive gesture, Hillary concluded, “Indeed, my dear Sylvia, I cannot tell you how very pleased I am to have finally found the perfect revenge.”

He smiled at her in an unctuous way that reminded her forcibly of his recent occupation; his eyes seemed to shine with what, in other circumstances, might be taken for evangelical zeal. There was also something strange about his familiarity toward her; he seemed to know her, while she couldn’t place him.

She still had no idea what he was talking about—why he’d kidnapped her for his revenge—but she had a bad feeling about the way he’d tied her, almost in a position of a sitting crucifixion.

Her only chance lay in keeping him talking and praying the boy found someone to help. “Why revenge on me?” She tried to enunciate clearly through the gag and adopted a mystified expression to boot.

Hillary studied her for a second, putting sounds together with her look, then he understood, and that smile she’d rather not see wreathed his face again. “Ah, no, my dear Sylvia—this isn’t about revenge against you. No, no—you, it must be said, are merely an innocent pawn to be sacrificed in a deeper game.” His smile took on an ecstatic aura. “It’s your father, the good Reverend Buckleberry, whom I intend to strike and hurt—to flay with a flail that will cut deeply into body and soul.”

Horrified, Sylvia stared at Hillary while her mind raced, assembling the critical thrust of his plot—his revenge. He was correct in thinking that if she was killed—sacrificed in some brutal fashion—less than a mile from her father’s door, and he learned it was because of him…

She still couldn’t make sense of this. “Why?”

Hillary blinked at her. “Why?” He paused, head tilting as he considered her, then said, “I suppose it’s been to my advantage that you haven’t recognized me. As you were only a child at the time, I daresay you don’t remember, but my name, my dear, is Hillary Nunsworth, and at one time—a sadly short time—I was deacon of this parish. Your father’s parish. Unfortunately, your sanctimonious father took a dim view of the monies I was collecting—in my opinion, nothing more than my due—from the parishioners and reported me to the bishop. Thanks to your father, I was defrocked and denied the vocation I had trained for—along with my ability to make an easy living as a suitably respected member of society.”

His voice took on a darker, distinctly ugly tone. “Rather than being looked up to, rather than having people curry my favor, I was shown the vicarage door, and the village turned against me. I was hounded out!” His eyes flared, and he trained his feverish gaze on Sylvia. “And it was all your father’s fault! Because of him, I’ve been forced to eke out a living exhorting money from the gullible in Bristol.” His eyes narrowed to burning shards, and he lowered his voice to a grating growl. “And day by day, week by week, month after long month for a good decade and more, I’ve nurtured and nursed my hatred for your father.”

As Nunsworth glowered darkly at her, Sylvia swallowed. Her heart was thudding in a panicky tattoo.