by Sophia James
‘Hold him!’ The other man was on his feet again, his blade flashing. ‘We’ll carve him up good.’
Inigo fought, twisting and turning to dislodge his captor, but the man had the strength of a vice. One thought passed through his mind as he struggled: he was going to die in a fashionable alley, stabbed to death like his mentor Richard Penlerick had been over a year ago. No, not tonight. Not when Audevere needed him, not when he hadn’t got revenge for Collin. There was too much to do to die tonight.
He brought his foot down hard on his captor’s instep, making him squeal in pain and loosen his grip, enough for him to break free and to plough, head down like a bull, into the stomach of the oncoming attacker, his momentum causing the man’s blade to come free of his hand and skitter away on the cobblestones.
There was a yell behind him, followed by the sounds of combat, fists on flesh, as Inigo finished off his own opponent with a blow to the jaw. The man slumped to the ground. Inigo turned to manage the last thug only to find him already dispatched by his unlooked-for ally. The man was dressed all in black and wore a mask over his face. ‘You! You’re the Vigilante,’ Inigo panted in disbelief. He leaned against a wall, catching his breath and studying the man before him. For the past year, a man had been reported roaming the streets, meting out his own rough justice. ‘So you’re not just a rumour, a fanciful figment of bored society’s imagination.’ Inigo grinned his gratitude. ‘I am glad for it. I am indebted to you.’ He held out his hand, but the man did not take it. The man did not speak. He simply nodded and disappeared into the night.
Inigo brushed off his clothes and gave himself a quick assessment. Other than the rips sustained by his clothing and a collection of scrapes, he was far less injured than he might have been if the Vigilante hadn’t shown up when he did. But that reassurance did little to calm his nerves or settle his mind. His body pulsed with the restless energy that follows combat and his mind was a riot of emotions and questions, not the least of which was utter disbelief: he was a peer of the realm, Earl of Tintagel, heir to a dukedom. Only the boldest of the bold would think to assault him. Assuming, of course, that the bold knew who he was. But they must have known! They’d not been interested in his heavy purse. What sort of cutpurse chose to beat a man instead of taking the volunteered money and fleeing?
These were not cutpurses; these were thugs and they’d been sent specifically to target him.
The conclusion flashed through his hot mind like Vauxhall fireworks, followed by another flare: Brenley. Who else would be bold enough? Who else would want to do such a thing to him? He was not in the habit of making enemies. There were only so many reasons Brenley would have done it. Somehow, Brenley had known Audevere had been meeting him or perhaps he didn’t like the threat to the proposal he hoped Tremblay would soon be making and he thought to send a warning.
Inigo steadied himself with a hand against the wall of a building. Was Brenley warning him, or was Brenley warning her? Which meant he suspected she was planning something. A tremor passed through him that had nothing to do with his recent brush with danger. This tremor was all for Audevere. If she was truly in peril, three days might be too long to wait. Her escape might be cut off before it even had a chance.
He could not go back to his rooms. Spending a night alone with his thoughts would accomplish nothing. He turned his feet towards Newlyn House. He needed Vennor and he needed a cooler head than his at the moment to think things through. Never mind it was past midnight. That was what friends were for.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Inigo, what has happened?’ One look at him was enough to send Vennor into action. One could always count on Vennor to do something. He wasn’t one for sitting around idly. Within moments, footmen were called, the kitchen was awakened, tea was brewed, decanters refreshed. ‘Do you need a physician?’ Vennor pressed a generously filled tumbler into his hands, looking rather pale himself. He must look worse than he thought if Vennor resembled a ghost. He peered at Vennor as his friend moved about the room giving orders. No, not a ghost. Vennor’s brow was sweaty, his hair tousled from the outdoors, not from sleep, Inigo would wager. Had he caught his friend coming in from an evening out? But his mind had little time for Vennor’s dishevelled, frantic appearance.
‘It happened at St James’s and Jermyn. I was nearly home.’ Inigo sipped his drink gratefully. The post-combat thrill was leaving him and he was feeling the effects of the drubbing he’d taken. ‘There were three of them and I hadn’t been paying attention. They took me quite unaware.’ That had been his mistake. He’d set himself up to be an ideal mark. ‘But here’s where it gets interesting. They didn’t want my money. I offered my purse straight away, but they made it plain they had come for me.’
‘You could have been killed.’ Vennor settled on the edge of his chair.
‘The thought did cross my mind, at the time,’ Inigo replied drily. ‘The one thought I had as I stood there with my swordstick was that I might die just like your father—stabbed at a fashionable crossroads by street thugs.’ He shuddered.
‘Thank God you weren’t. I’ve lost too many people I’ve loved.’ Vennor had paled considerably at the mention. Perhaps he should not have mentioned Vennor’s parents? Or was it more than that? Vennor’s eyes had a shuttered quality to them, hiding whatever was going on in his mind.
‘God might have had something to do with it, but more directly, I owe emerging largely unscathed to the Vigilante. He showed up. Just in time, too. Otherwise things might have ended differently. I was getting the pulp beaten out of me and I was outnumbered.’ It was easier to talk about the assault if he could imbue the details with a certain insouciance.
‘The Vigilante showed up?’ Vennor replied. ‘I’m glad for it. My father wouldn’t have wanted you to meet your end as he did.’
‘How is that going?’ Inigo asked cautiously. By ‘that’ he meant Vennor’s investigation into his parents’ untimely deaths. It was an awkward and touchy subject. He didn’t quite know how to talk to Vennor about it. ‘Do you have any new leads on who might have done it?’
It. That. Neutral, nondescript terms. Richard’s memory deserved better than hesitant rhetoric from him.
‘No, nothing.’ Vennor shook his head with a sigh. ‘The trail is likely frigid by now.’ Frigid was too intense a term and it alerted Inigo immediately to the lie. Vennor was hiding something. He’d spent a year and a half looking for the killers. He would not suddenly capitulate and give up. But Vennor was in no mood to talk about his own investigation.
‘We’re getting off topic,’ Vennor redirected. ‘I think it’s safe to conclude Gismond Brenley was behind tonight’s attack.’
‘Yes, I’d already thought of that. It’s Audevere I’m worried about now.’ He slipped off his coat and shirt, taking the clean clothes offered by a footman. Inigo imbued his words with a certain nonchalance. He had things he wanted to hide, too. He didn’t want Vennor to think his emotions were engaged or that there were feelings for Audevere that might cloud his thinking. He was aware enough of what risks those factors might pose.
Vennor slanted him an I-told-so-you eyebrow. ‘No, it’s not like that.’ Inigo leapt to Audevere’s defence. ‘I am concerned she’s in danger, that this attack was meant to send a message. I need to get her out of that house and get her away while there’s still time.’
Vennor pushed his blond hair back from his face and let out a low breath. ‘She’s got you wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she? You’re just going to whisk her away? Her father will come after you.’
‘Probably. But it’s time this underground feud between Brenley and the Dukes ended and it’s high time that Brenley’s behaviour is exposed. We have nothing to fear from him. We can come forward.’ Inigo laid out his plan. ‘I want to leave the letter for the King with you. You can deliver it if my threat isn’t taken seriously.’ Or if something happened to him because the threat was taken all too serio
usly.
‘You trust her, then? And she’s worth this risk?’ Vennor asked cautiously. Inigo could sense the search for understanding in his tone.
‘She is,’ Inigo answered evenly, holding his friend’s gaze. A few weeks ago he would have answered differently. He would have said Audevere was ancillary to the project of avenging Collin or exposing Brenley. That taking her away was just another method of striking back at him. But that had changed in the wake of Audevere’s story. This was becoming more about seeing her safe than it was about avenging Collin’s death.
‘Are you falling in love with her?’ Vennor couldn’t keep the worry from his voice. Inigo understood how this looked to his friend. The daughter of their enemy was once more setting her sights on one of their number. The recipe for disaster was obvious.
So much for hiding his emotional attachment. ‘I care for her, Vennor,’ Inigo confessed. ‘She has been through hell and if we do not get her away, she will continue to suffer. I know how this sounds to you; I know you doubt her. But don’t doubt me. My word has always been enough for you and I’m counting on my word being enough for you now when I tell you we hardly knew her. She is so much more, has endured so much more, than we ever could have guessed.’
Vennor was silent for a long while. Then, slowly, he nodded his head. ‘You’re right. I don’t know her. I can only take your word for it that she needs you. More than that, I can only take your word that she is not leading you into trouble. I do not want to see you hurt, my friend. But your word is all I need. What can I do?’
Inigo grinned, feeling better than he had all night. ‘Thank you, Ven. I owe you.’
‘No, you don’t. Friends don’t owe.’ Ven shook his head. ‘You were all there for me when my parents died. I wouldn’t have got through that first week without each of you. I can never repay that debt.’
‘Very well.’ Inigo nodded his acceptance and began to plan. ‘We’ll need to get Tremblay involved. Brenley will never believe a summons if it comes from us…’ His plan would go into motion in just eight hours. He hoped it would be soon enough to spare Audevere.
* * *
Gismond Brenley eyed his daughter over the edge of his newspapers at breakfast. He would know soon enough if Audevere was guilty of deliberately attracting Inigo Vellanoweth’s attentions last night. He hoped not. It would mean his hold on her was slipping, that she no longer feared what he could expose about her. The sooner he could marry her off to Viscount Tremblay the better and then his grip on her would be strong once again.
He rattled his newspapers to get her attention. ‘Mrs Tetford said Tremblay was happy to see you last night,’ he mentioned benignly.
‘Yes, the company last night was very pleasant.’ Audevere looked up briefly from her breakfast with a polite half-smile, her expression bland. If she was hiding anything, she was doing it well.
‘Inigo Vellanoweth was with him, I hear. I also hear he ran into a bit of trouble on the way home. He was set upon by thugs.’ Never mind those thugs had been less effective than Brenley had hoped. Vellanoweth had put up quite the resistance and then the damned Vigilante had interrupted. Still, he was assured a few punches had been landed before help had arrived; enough damage had been done to ensure that his message had been received.
‘He was beaten?’ Audevere’s voice held a tinge of unmistakable worry. Perhaps it was only from natural concern, but perhaps not.
‘Oh, yes,’ he assured her nonchalantly from behind his papers as if it was of no consequence to him. ‘First Richard Penlerick is killed in the streets and now this attack on Vellanoweth. One might think those Cornish Dukes are unlucky.’
* * *
One might think such a thing indeed if one didn’t know better. Audevere tried to keep her expression and responses normal. She forced herself to keep buttering her toast. Inigo had been attacked. Even now, Inigo was hurting. He would know who’d sent the men. Would he blame her? Would he think she’d betrayed him? Was he cursing the day he’d agreed to help her? She wanted to run from the room, right into the street, and keep running until she reached him. She wanted to assure herself he was all right. But she could give away not even the slightest indication of her feelings without betraying him in truth.
This was her fault. She’d not been as safe as she’d thought at the musicale. Someone had seen them sneak out. Someone had reported them. Inigo’s beating was a message to her. Her father suspected something, but what and how much? Three days seemed like an eternity now. She felt sick to her stomach. Inigo had been hurt because of her! But perhaps now he’d believe her when she warned him, when she expressed reticence about dragging him into her life. Perhaps now he’d be glad she’d refused the cottage in Devonshire.
A footman entered the room and offered her father the salver with a message on it. She watched his face move from confusion to satisfaction as he broke the seal and scanned it. ‘We have good news, Daughter. Viscount Tremblay has an investment opportunity he wants to share with me.’ He tapped the edge of the note on the table. ‘He wants me to meet with his investors in Dover. He’s invited me to travel with him. The only catch is that he’s leaving tomorrow. That doesn’t give me much time and I hate to leave you. But I think there’s no choice. He says he means to go on to his home in Sussex afterward.’
She could see her father weighing the opportunity with the risk. Not to see Tremblay one more time would be to forfeit his suit. Once in Sussex, Tremblay would be tucked in for the winter. London would not see the Viscount again until spring and Cornwall was even further from Sussex than it was from London. They would lose him, possibly permanently. Everyone knew Tremblay’s neighbour had a pretty daughter and a large adjoining estate. Audevere remained silent. If she was too eager to have her father pursue the trip with the Viscount, she would rouse his suspicions. And she had a few of those herself. The offer couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Just when she needed her father out of the house, here he was with a coveted invitation to leave for Dover. Now her hand really did still on the butter knife. The game was afoot.
The footman returned, this time with a bouquet of flowers. ‘For you, miss. Courtesy of the Viscount.’
Her father brightened considerably at the prospect. ‘It looks like the Viscount is back.’ Audevere tried to see the morning’s deliveries through her father’s eyes: the gesture of flowers was a sign of continued courtship and matrimonial interest; the invitation for a shared investment a sign that Inigo’s earlier visit to the Viscount had not deterred him from pursuit; the request to travel together a chance to continue more private conversations before the Viscount decamped for the winter.
She smiled coyly. ‘Perhaps he never left, Father. I told you that waltz at the Bradfords’ would spark him to action. There’s nothing like a little competition to remind a man of what he wants. It’s what you told me to do and I did it.’ She rose, flowers in hand. ‘Might I be excused to find a vase for them?’
He waved her away, hardly noticing, his mind already arranging his trip to Dover with the Viscount. There was no question of not going now. How he must be revelling, Audevere thought as she left the room in search of a vase and some privacy. Her father had spent a lifetime hoping for such opportunities.
Audevere found a private alcove in which to read the card that came with the bouquet. At first it was a disappointment. It actually was from Tremblay—but surely Inigo would have spoken to him by now, as he had promised? It read simply and predictably.
I look forward to your father’s company in Dover and to seeing you again. Please respond with an appropriate time to call upon you for a private meeting.
It was signed Arthur Fenmore, Fourth Viscount Tremblay. Only the four was written in Roman numerals: IV.
There was no need to indicate he was the fourth of that title in such an unusual fashion. Except… IV didn’t only stand for four. It also stood for Inigo Vellanoweth.
A
udevere smiled in relief. She’d not imagined it. Tremblay would be the go-between and the decoy. Tremblay would take her father to Dover and make sure he stayed there. And Tremblay would deliver her response to Inigo. But she’d have to write today, before Tremblay left. She folded the note carefully and breathed a sigh of relief. Inigo was all right and he had a plan. Inigo had not forsaken her even after last night’s beating.
She berated herself for the doubt, remembering Inigo’s confidence last night, how intoxicating he’d been in that moment. Here it was, only the next morning, and he’d put a plan into action, perhaps worried for her after last night’s events despite what had happened to him. The thought made her throat thick. How long had it been since anyone had had a care for her? Had there been anyone since her mother died, since Collin died? Everyone who cared for her had a habit of dying. Her father had sent men to attack Inigo. To scare her, to scare him. It hadn’t worked. It had only served to further entrench her determination, and Inigo’s, too, it seemed, to get her away. Audevere touched the note in her pocket with a sense of relief. She wasn’t alone any more.
CHAPTER TEN
It galled Inigo that he couldn’t get to her. He’d managed to send her father away and he still couldn’t claim her. He slammed down the articulating compartments of his telescope as Tremblay’s carriage drew away from the kerb in front of Brenley House. Tremblay and Brenley were off to Dover, Tremblay more than willing to play the decoy for a few days in exchange for Inigo having warned him off the match. Tremblay’s sister went with them, adding to the authenticity. But that didn’t mean the way was clear for Inigo to storm the castle or for Audevere to leave it.