by Sylvia Day
Colin had swiftly turned the direction of her thoughts elsewhere. He could not bear to think of Amelia while in the company of another woman. It felt like a betrayal, and he knew from experience that Amelia would be deeply wounded.
“Amelia holds the same allure for me as her sibling holds for you,” Colin said, meeting Quinn’s widening eyes. “Perhaps if you can explain to me why you still pine for Maria, it will help to answer your question regarding my feelings for Amelia.”
A self-deprecating smile curved the Irishman’s mouth. “Point taken. Will you return to her as Colin Mitchell or as one of your other aliases?”
Heaving out his breath, Colin glanced around the dining parlor at the many guests and overtly friendly serving staff. To Amelia, he was a part of her past . . . a deceased part of her past. A childhood friend who had grown into a young man who loved her with every breath in his body. She had loved him similarly, with the same wild, saturating, unrestrained adolescent passion. He had tried to stay away, tried to push her away, tried to convince himself that they would both grow beyond such impossible aspirations. As he was a Gypsy and a stableboy in her father’s employ, there was no possibility of a future between them.
In the end, he had been unable to keep his distance. Her father, the late Viscount Welton, had been the worst sort of monster. Welton had used Amelia as leverage against her sister, selling the stunningly beautiful Maria to marriage-minded peers, whom he then killed for the widow’s settlements. When Welton’s machinations put Amelia in danger, Colin had attempted a daring rescue during which he’d been shot and left for dead.
How did one rise from the grave? And once he managed that task, would she accept him back into her life in the role he wished to fill—that of lover and husband?
“If she will have me, she will be the Countess Montoya,” he said, referring to the title he had invented expressly for her. Over the years he’d built and strengthened the roots of that assumed nobility, purchasing properties and establishing wealth under that guise. He would not have her married to the common Colin Mitchell. She deserved better. “But perhaps it is her attachment to Colin that will win her heart.”
“I will miss you,” Quinn said, his blue-eyed gaze pensive. “In fact, I am not certain how I will manage without you.”
Quinn had been enlisted by agents of the Crown of England to manage tasks more cautious agents wouldn’t. He was not “officially” recognized, nor was Colin, which freed them both from the restrictions under which others labored. In return for their unacknowledged efforts, they kept most of the spoils, which made them exceptionally wealthy.
“You will find a way,” Colin said, smiling. “You always do. You still have Cartland. In some respects, he is far more accomplished than I. He can track better than a canine. If something is lost, he is the best man to find it.”
“I have my concerns about him.” Quinn rested his elbows on the carved wooden arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together.
“Oh? You never said as much to me before.”
“You were still in my employ then. Now I can speak to you as a friend who shares a joint past.”
The logic to that was odd, but Colin played along. “What worries you?”
“Too many seem to die around Cartland.”
“I thought that was by design.”
“Occasionally,” Quinn admitted. “He lacks the remorse that most would feel upon taking a life.”
“You mean to say that I feel,” Colin said wryly.
Quinn grinned and attracted the attention of a woman the next table over. His smile changed from one of amusement to one of sensual promise. Colin looked away to hide his chuckle. It amazed him that a man so widely lauded for his comeliness could hide such a covert livelihood.
“You never did enjoy that part of your employment,” Quinn continued.
Colin lifted his glass in a mock salute and then swallowed the blood red contents in one uncouth swallow. “I always feared that every life I ended would cling to me in some way, taint me, and that eventually they would make me unsuitable for Amelia.”
“How romantic,” Quinn jeered softly. “One of the qualities I most loved in Maria was her ability to survive in the gutter. I could not live my life with a lily-white female. The weight of the façade would quickly fatigue me.”
“You assume that the man you sit across from now is the real Colin and the one who longs for Amelia is the façade. Perhaps the opposite is true.”
Quinn’s gaze narrowed beneath boldly winged brows. “Then maintain the ruse a little longer.”
Tensing, Colin set his empty glass down and listened alertly. “What do you want?”
He would do anything for Quinn, but the sudden portent of danger set him on edge. His bags were packed and loaded aboard the ship. In a few hours he would set sail and begin his true life, the one he had interrupted six years ago to become a man of means. A man of title, prestige, wealth. A man worthy of Amelia Benbridge.
“I have been told that Cartland is meeting often with confidants of Agent-General Talleyrand-Périgord.”
Colin whistled. “Cartland is one of the most impious men I have ever met.”
“Which is why his association with the equally impious agent-general is concerning. I want to search his lodgings tonight,” Quinn said, “while you are still here to see to my safety. I simply need you to delay him if he attempts to retire early.”
“Since he is aware that I depart at dawn, he will find it odd if I approach him.”
“Be covert. Most likely he will cause you no grief. He is not known for being reclusive.”
Nodding, Colin ran the posed scenario through his mind and could find nothing that would interfere with his removal from France. A few hours of his time and he would alleviate his feelings of guilt for abandoning Quinn. Cartland spent more time awake in the night hours than he did during the day. Chances were more than good that Colin would sit in a carriage watching the door of one establishment or another and go directly from there to the wharf.
“Of course I will help you,” he agreed.
“Excellent.” Quinn gestured to an attendant for more wine. “I am indebted to you.”
“Nonsense,” Colin dismissed. “I can never repay you for what you have done for me.”
“I expect to be invited to the wedding.”
“Never doubt it.”
Quinn raised his refilled glass in a toast. “To the fair Miss Benbridge.”
Filled with anticipation for the future, Colin drank eagerly to that.
“What are you about?” Colin muttered to himself just a few hours later as he clung to the shadows of an alleyway and followed Cartland at a discreet distance.
The man had left his mistress’s home an hour past and had been strolling rather aimlessly ever since. Because he continued to move in the general direction of his lodgings, Colin followed. He could not have Cartland returning while Quinn might still be there.
The night was pleasant, the sky clear but for a few clouds. A full moon hung low, providing ample illumination when not blocked by a building. Still, Colin would much rather be in his cabin at the moment, sleeping away the hours until he could stand at the bow and breathe deeply of the crisp sea air.
Cartland turned a corner, and Colin fell behind, counting silently until the appropriate lapse had passed and he could round the building as well and continue his leisurely pursuit.
He made his move and paused, startled to find a private courtyard ahead. Cartland stood there, engrossed in discussion with someone who appeared to have been waiting. Two brick posts held lanterns marking the entrance to the outdoor retreat. A small fountain and a neatly trimmed, tiny lawn were the only other items in the space.
Colin hung back, drawing his cloak around him to better disguise his frame in the darkness. He was not an easy man to hide, not at a few inches over six feet in height and sixteen stone, but he had learned the art of concealment and practiced it well.
Oddly enough, while he
could attribute his size to his laborer parents, Cartland was also quite large, and his breeding was more refined. He worked for a living only because his father had bankrupted them, and he made certain that everyone knew he was above certain tasks. Killing was not one of them. That was a duty he enjoyed far too much for Colin’s taste, which was why they associated with each other only when forced to by necessity.
Creeping along the damp stone wall, Colin moved closer to the two men, hoping to hear something that would help to explain this assignation.
“. . . you may tell the agent-general . . . ”
“. . . forget your place! You are not . . .”
“. . . I will see to it, Leroux, provided I am compensated. . .”
The debate seemed to grow more heated with Cartland gesturing roughly with one hand, while the gentleman with whom he spoke began to pace. The sound of heels tapping restlessly along cobblestones helped to disguise Colin’s stealthy approach. Cartland’s evening garments were covered by a short cape secured with a jeweled brooch that gleamed in the lantern light. The other man was hatless, coatless, and much shorter. He was also highly agitated.
“You have not followed through with your end of our arrangement!” Leroux snapped. “How dare you approach me for more money when you have yet to accomplish the task you were previously paid for!”
“I was underpaid,” Cartland scoffed, his features hidden beneath the rim of his tricorn.
“I will inform the agent-general of your ridiculous demands, and advise him to seek someone more trustworthy to work on his behalf.”
“Oh?” There was a smugness to Cartland’s tone that alarmed Colin, but before he could act, it was too late. The light of the moon caught the edge of a blade and then it was gone, embedded deeply within Leroux’s gut.
There was a pained gasp and then a thick gurgle.
“You can pass along something else for me as well,” Cartland bit out, as he withdrew the dagger and thrust it home again. “I am not a lackey to be set aside when I have outlived my usefulness.”
Suddenly a dark form leaped from the shadows and tackled Cartland, knocking his hat aside. The blade slipped free and clattered to the cobblestone. Leroux sank to his knees, his hands clutching at the welling blood.
Rolling and writhing upon the ground, the would-be rescuer fought brutally, delivering blows that echoed off the buildings around them. Material ripped and venomous words were exchanged as Cartland gained the upper hand. Pinning his assailant to the ground, he reached for the knife lying just a few feet away.
“Cartland!” Colin abandoned his attempt at stealth and rushed toward the fray, tossing his cloak over his shoulder to bare the hilt of his small sword.
Startled, Cartland pulled back, revealing a face etched with bloodlust and cold, dark eyes. The man beneath him took the opening and swung his fist hard and fast, clipping Cartland in the temple and sending him reeling to the side.
Colin ran through the posts that marked the entrance and pulled his blade free. “You have much to answer for!”
“It won’t be to you,” Cartland cried, kicking out with his feet.
Sidestepping the assault, Colin lunged, piercing Cartland’s shoulder. The man roared like a wounded animal and flailed in fury.
Circling, Colin turned his head to look at the unfortunate Leroux. His open, sightless eyes betrayed his demise.
It was too late. The man who had the ear of Talleyrand-Périgord was dead.
The dreaded feeling of portent once again hit Colin hard.
Distracted, he failed to anticipate the blow that came to the back of his knee, tumbling him to the ground. By instinct, he rolled to the side, avoiding another assault from Cartland, but coming up against the corpse and the pool of blood quickly spreading around it.
Cartland scrambled for his discarded knife, but the other man was there first, sending it skidding across the cobblestones with a well-placed kick. Colin was struggling to his feet when alarmed shouts sounded from the nearby street. All three of them turned their heads.
Discovery was near at hand.
“A trap!” Cartland hissed, leaping to his feet. He stumbled toward the low stone wall and threw himself over it.
Colin was already in motion, running.
“Halt!” came a cry from the alleyway.
“Faster!” urged Leroux’s would-be rescuer, fleeing alongside him.
Together they took a different alley than the one Colin had arrived through . . . the one that was presently filling with authorities who pursued with lanterns raised high.
“Halt!”
When they reached the street, Colin ran to the left in the direction of his waiting coach; the other man fled to the right. After the explosion of activity in the small courtyard, the relative stillness of the night seemed unnatural, the rhythmic pounding of his footfalls sounding overly loud.
Colin weaved in and out among various buildings and streets, taking alleys whenever possible to lessen his chances of being apprehended.
Finally, he returned to Cartland’s mistress’s house and caught the eye of his coachman, who straightened and prepared to release the brake.
“Quinn’s,” Colin ordered as he vaulted into the carriage. The equipage lurched into motion, and he hunched over, tearing off his blood-soaked cloak and tossing it to the floorboards. “Damn it!”
How the hell could such a simple task spin so far beyond his control?
Keep Cartland from returning home too early. A bloody simple task, that. One that should not have involved witnessing a murder and the drawing of his blade.
The moment his carriage drew to a halt before Quinn’s door, Colin was leaping out. He pounded with his fist upon the portal, cursing at the lengthy delay before it opened.
A disheveled butler stood with taper in hand. “Sir?”
“Quinn. Now.”
The urgency in his tone was clear and undeniable. Stepping back, the servant allowed him entry and showed him into the lower parlor. He was left alone. Then a few moments later Quinn entered wearing a multicolored silk robe and bearing flushed skin. “I sent for you hours ago. When you did not reply, I assumed you had boarded your ship and gone to sleep.”
“If you’ve a woman upstairs,” Colin gritted out, “I think I might kill you.”
Quinn took in his appearance from head to toe. “What happened?”
Colin paced back and forth before the banked fire in the grate and relayed the night’s events.
“Bloody hell.” Quinn ran a hand through his inky locks. “He will be desperate, running from both us and them.”
“There is no ‘us,’” Colin snapped. He pointed at the longcase clock in the corner. “My ship sets sail within a few hours. I’ve come only to wish you good riddance! Had I been caught tonight, I might have been delayed for weeks or months while this mess was sorted out.”
More pounding came to the door. They both paused, hardly daring to breathe.
The butler rushed in. “A dozen armed men,” he said. “They searched the carriage and took something from inside it.”
“My cloak,” Colin said grimly, “soaked with Leroux’s blood.”
“That they would come for you here would suggest that Cartland has offered you up as the sacrificial lamb.” Quinn growled as commands were shouted from outside. “Answer that,” he said to the waiting servant. “Delay them as long as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler departed, closing the parlor door behind him.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Quinn muttered, moving to the clock and shoving it aside, revealing a swinging panel behind it. “This will lead you to the stables. You may find trouble at the wharf, but if you can board your ship, do so. I will manage things for you here and clear your name.”
“How?” Colin rushed over to the hidden portal. “Cartland was working with the French in some capacity. There must be some level of trust in him.”
“I will find a way, never doubt it.” Quinn set a hand on his shoulder as voices we
re heard in the foyer. “Godspeed.”
With that, Colin rushed through the door, and it was immediately shut behind him. Scraping sounds accompanied the moving of the clock back to its original position. He heard no more than that, because he was moving blindly through the dark tunnel, his hands held out to either side to feel his way.
His heart racing, his breathing labored, he fought against a rising panic. Not because capture was at hand, but because he had never been so close to reclaiming Amelia. He felt as if she were within his grasp and that if he were unable to board his ship, he would be losing her all over again. He’d barely survived the first time. He doubted his ability to survive another.
The tunnel became dank, the smell unpleasant. Colin reached what appeared to be a dead end and cursed viciously. Then the sounds of skittish horses caught his ear, and he glanced up, noting the faint outline of a trapdoor above him. He kicked around with his foot until he found the short stool; then he pulled it closer and stood upon it.
Quiet as a mouse, he lifted the door just enough to look through the strands of straw that covered it. The stable was still, though the perceptive beasts it housed shifted restlessly in response to his agitation. Throwing the hatch wide, he climbed out and sealed the door again. Colin grabbed the nearest bridle and horse, then opened the stable doors.
He walked his mount outside, eyes wide and ears open as he searched for those who might be hunting him.
“You, there! Halt!” cried a voice coming from the left.
Grabbing two fistfuls of silky mane, Colin pulled himself up and onto the horse’s bare back.
“Go!” he urged with a kick of his heels, and they burst out to the mew.
The early morning wind whipped the queue from his hair. He was hunched low over his mount’s neck, as they raced through the streets, breathing heavily in unison. Colin’s gut knotted with anxiety. If he made it to the ship without incident, it would be a miracle. He was so close to leaving this life behind, damn it. So close.
Colin galloped as near to the wharf as he dared, then dismounted. He freed his horse, then traversed the remaining distance on foot, moving in and out among the various crates and barrels. Sweat coated his skin despite the chill of the ocean breeze and his lack of outerwear.