Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison

by Annie Burrows

  He continued around the perimeter, reasoning that not even Dick Gibbons would leave anything incriminating or that could be of value in the open center of a room. He touched as little as possible, moving things aside with his boot.

  A few moments later, Wycliffe appeared in the doorway, his tall frame nearly blocking any light. “What a bloody mess,” he said. “Shall I call in help?”

  Charles shook his head. “I am beginning to wonder if we will find anything here.”

  Wycliffe tilted his head toward a tin plate of stale bread and overripe fruit. “Looks like supper. Think he’s coming back?”

  “Not if he sees us here.”

  “A search of this place will take us hours. Richardson is outside, keeping watch. He will stay and send word when Gibbons returns.”

  A sensible plan. Charles nodded and slid his boot under another rag pile. The scrape of his sole against a wooden plank invited closer inspection. He knelt and moved the rags, Wycliffe peering over his shoulder. The board was level with the dirt floor, as if it had been set in a hole. He removed the pick from his pocket and pried one edge up. Yes, there was a hole beneath.

  He flipped the board over and peered into the hole. A metal box with a hinged lid appeared. Rather than open the lid, he lifted the entire box out and placed it on the floor. Wycliffe knelt beside him and flipped the lid back.

  The glitter of gold flashed in the candlelight. So this was the Gibbons treasure trove. There were not many pieces, but why had they kept these when they were wont to sell everything they stole within a day of two of the theft? Were these fresh acquisitions? Had Dick not had time to dispose of them?

  Wycliffe pulled out a chain, from which a dainty oval amethyst dangled, and held it to the light. This was no tawdry imitation, but the living model of Clark’s sketch of Lady Caroline’s stolen necklace. There, too, was the Scottish thistle brooch and pearl earrings. If he had needed confirmation that the Gibbons brothers had been the thieves who robbed Lady Caroline’s coach, he had it now. There were other items, too. A tiny ring meant for a child, a dainty garnet necklace, an opal ring and a bracelet of wrought gold. And, most damning of all, a locket with a miniature portrait of a younger Georgiana.

  “These were Lady Caroline’s,” he said, pointing to the first items. “The jewels she wore the night she was robbed.”

  Another warning chill invaded Charles’s vitals as he stood. After all the time he’d spent chasing Gibbons, this was too easy. Too convenient. How had Gibbons missed the paper with his address when he’d stolen everything else of value from Hathaway’s room? Unless he’d left it there? He stepped outside and glanced around. Was it a trap?

  Wycliffe gave him a questioning look, as if he’d felt it, too—this nameless suspicion.

  No. Not a trap. A diversion. A red herring meant to keep them occupied. The hair on the back of Charles’s neck stood on end, and a deep dread filled him. “Georgiana,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Knowing she could never get drunk enough to drown the facts of her birth or even dull the memory of Charles’s face when she admitted the truth, Georgiana gave up the attempt. Darkness had fallen by the time she left the library and went up to her room. She found a valise in her dressing room and put it on her bed.

  She only needed to pack a few things. She could send for the rest later. The journey home would not take that long. Charles could handle the details of the annulment. There shouldn’t be too much of a scandal since they’d never even formally announced their engagement. Heaven knew he had grounds enough. Fraud. He hadn’t known who she really was. Though she hadn’t known she was a Gibbons at the time of the nuptials, she had known she was illegitimate—Lady Caroline’s illegitimate daughter.

  And, should the authorities wish to arrest her for her husbands’ deaths, they would know where to find her. Even that eventuality did not seem to matter now. Odd, how only days ago her life had been quiet and ordinary, and now everything was turned upside down.

  Had she dealt so much with death that it had lost its power to horrify her? Was she simply numb from the revelations of the past few days? Or had something died inside her with the look on Charles’s face when he realized who she was? Some spark of humanity that she would never be able to reclaim? No, she would never be the same. Even now the pain of losing him again was almost more than she could bear.

  She opened her bureau drawer and removed a nightgown and robe, as well as some stockings and handkerchiefs. A breeze wafted from the open window and brushed a stray curl across her cheek. She shivered and tucked the curl behind her ear.

  “Oh, there’s a good girl. You knowed I was comin’ fer you, eh?”

  Georgiana jumped, her heart pounding wildly. Dick Gibbons stepped from behind the draperies and grinned. Her hand came up to cover her heart and she was so frightened that she could not speak.

  “Madam? You want dinner?”

  She spun to look at the locked door in horror, then back to Gibbons, who had drawn a knife and was scowling. She knew with cold certainty that he would kill Clara if she entered the room. And that he was completely unhinged.

  “No, Clara. I am not hungry. I do not wish to be disturbed the rest of the night, please.”

  “You need help undressing, madam?”

  “I can manage. Good night, Clara.”

  Gibbons nodded approval.

  If only she could think of a way to summon Finn! When the maid’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Gibbons gestured with the wicked-looking blade, light flashing from the razor-sharp edge. “Quick thinkin’, Georgie gal. I knew you was smart.”

  She noted the faint sound of a door opening and closing somewhere below. Finn? Charles? She had to keep Gibbons talking. Distracted from the sounds of the house. “Where are you...where are we going?” she asked as she placed her little stack of clothes in the valise, knowing her only chance of survival lay in indulging him.

  “Why, it don’t matter. Maybe back to that big house in Kent. Maybe not. First we gets you away and then I can kill Hunter.”

  She noted the gleam of madness in his eyes and suddenly it was all clear. “You killed Allenby, didn’t you?”

  Gibbons merely gave her that inane grin.

  “And Mr. Huffington?”

  “Not with my own hands, but they wasn’t good enough fer you, Georgie.”

  She sank to the bed, feeling light-headed with shock. “And...and Adam Booth?”

  “I was aimin’ fer Hunter that night, but Booth stepped in his way. Artie took the second shot and hit Hunter. Shoulda killed him, though.”

  “Artie?” If she could keep him talking, perhaps Finn would come to check on her.

  “My brother. Yer other pa.”

  He’d made some sort of reference to that before. “I don’t understand. My other father?”

  “Aye. We don’t know what one of us sired you. We both had her that night. Yer ma was the only fancy lady we ever got at. Cut ’er up good, we did, so she couldn’t be with anyone else. We kept watch on ’er and found out she was breedin’. We followed ’er to Devon where the nuns took care of ’er. If you’da been a boy, we’da stole you away. But you was only a girl, so we didn’t bother. The old lord took you away when you was born, though, and we thought he mighta drowned you or left you in a ditch. Then she fetched you home.”

  Her stomach cramped and she feared she was going to be sick. She could not even imagine Caroline’s agony. Nor could she comprehend that she would never know which monster sired her.

  But she could not think about that now. She had to stall, to keep him talking until she could think of some way out of this mess. “I remember seeing you in the village.”

  “Aye. We come to keep an eye on you every now an’ then. When we saw how pretty you was, that’s when we started makin’ plans.”

 
“What sort of plans?”

  He chuckled to himself. “Yer pretty enough to catch a lord. Maybe a duke. We was gonna have you rise in your station, gal. Make the Gibbons clan high-flyin’ dandies. Have Gibbons blood minglin’ with royalty.”

  Good heavens! He was really quite mad. So mad that he could not see the flaws in his plan. No peer would ever marry without being certain of his wife’s lineage. Preserving the integrity of the title was too important. Caroline had understood that, and had been careful to marry her to country squires where such a secret could be kept. She’d even thought Charles too dangerously close to the peerage. Dare she tell Mr. Gibbons that? Would he dispose of her, too, if he thought she was of no use?

  “Do you still think that is possible?”

  “Why not? By the time yer mournin’ is done fer Hunter, we’ll come back to town and hunt you up a proper lord. You’ll marry who I tells you to this time.”

  “What if none of them want me?”

  “Clever gal like you? You’ll know how to bring ’em to heel. Why, I warrant you’ve learned a few tricks from Hunter.”

  Nausea churned in her stomach at the thought of doing any of those things with anyone but Charles. “And if I can’t...bring them to heel?”

  He scowled at her and brandished his knife. “You damn well better, chit. Everything we done since that day we saw you, we done fer you. You owe us and yer no use to me if you don’t do as I tell you. Now get packin’.”

  She could not stall him much longer. She went back to the bureau and chose a chemise. “I cannot imagine how you were able to keep track of me all these years. I saw you in the village occasionally, but have you not spent most of your time in London?”

  “’Twere easy once we hired yer ma’s fancy man.”

  Fancy man? “Do you mean Hathaway?”

  “Aye. He sent word now an’ then. Took that little likeness of you from yer ma and sent it to us so’s we could see how pretty you was. He were the one took care of Allenby an’ Huffington.”

  No wonder Hathaway hated her. He’d known who she really was. That little street urchin who is no better than she ought to be....

  “He’d bring us some of yer gewgaws so we’d know you was good. Charged us a pretty penny, too.”

  So that was the answer to the mystery of all her little missing items, and why she’d found Hathaway snooping in her room on occasion. Oh, she’d been so naive!

  “What if Hathaway tells someone? Tries to blackmail you?”

  Gibbons snorted. “Hathaway ain’t tellin’ anyone anything.”

  Her heart stilled and she swallowed her horror. She did not have to ask to know that Hathaway was dead.

  She studied the man for a long moment, trying to find anything familiar, anything redeeming or endearing in him, and failing. Even his supposed fondness for her was merely another means to achieve riches or glory for himself. She was a tool to be used, not a cherished daughter.

  As she tucked her chemise into the valise, she thought she saw a movement in the dressing room. Finn? How long had he been there? Oh pray he did not bumble in. Pray he realized the situation before he, too, was killed. Was there some way to warn him?

  “I need a dress.” She held Gibbons’s gaze. “I will fetch one from the dressing room.”

  “I’ll pick it fer you,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Never mind. If we are going home to Kent, I have enough there.”

  He frowned at her, glancing between her and the dressing room. “You tryin’ to get away, Georgie gal? Gonna go in there and lock me out?”

  “No. I... You did not tell me for certain where we’d be going.”

  He grunted. “One dress is enough fer any gal. C’n only wear one at a time, anyways.”

  She closed her valise, buckled the straps and lifted it from the bed. “We had better be going.” She wondered how he intended to get her out of the house. Surely not the same way he’d come in. She looked toward the window.

  He cackled when he realized what she was thinking. “We’re gonna walk outa here, proud as you please. Yer the woman of the house. Won’t anyone stop you. Not even that man Hunter hired, if you tell him to stand back.”

  She glanced at his knife again and nodded, resigned to doing anything he asked to keep him from killing anyone else because of her. “I will need my cloak.”

  * * *

  Charles, straining to interrupt Gibbons and Georgiana for the past five minutes, shot Wycliffe a warning glance. They’d heard Gibbons confess to everything. Georgiana had led the conversation almost as if she’d known they were listening.

  And he’d heard the hopelessness and despair in her voice and knew she believed he’d deserted her. Abandoned her to whatever darkness was awaiting her. In his shock, he’d walked away without giving her any reassurances or a single word of understanding.

  What a fool he’d been. What an utter ass. He loved her, and that was all he’d ever need to know about her.

  But Gibbons was not going to take his wife anywhere. Wycliffe nodded and released his hold on Charles’s arm.

  He slipped the small pistol from his boot and edged forward. As he cleared the dressing room door, he came face-to-face with his old enemy.

  Gibbons blinked and brought his knife up even as he seized Georgiana’s arm. “Stay where you are, Hunter.” He began to back toward the door.

  Georgiana’s eyes met his and he was struck by her fear—not for herself, but for him. He could feel Wycliffe at his back. Gibbons did not miss with a knife. If he threw it at him, Charles would die, but Wycliffe would save Georgiana. Slowly, he raised his pistol and took careful aim.

  Gibbons realized the decision he’d made and jerked Georgiana’s arm to bring her in front of him. He tightened his arm around her waist, using her as a shield, and held the tip of his blade to her throat. “I’ll kill her before I let you have her, Hunter, so you better let us go,” he snarled. “You ain’t good enough fer her.”

  Charles kept steady aim. “I daresay you are right, Gibbons. But she stays with me.”

  The tip of Gibbons’s blade made a depression in the soft flesh at the hollow at the base of Georgiana’s throat. The bastard would actually do it! And Charles could see in her eyes that she knew it, too. And did not care.

  She closed her eyes and swung her arm out from her side. For the first time, he noted that she held a small valise, and that she intended to use it against Gibbons. The jolt would ruin his aim if he threw the knife at Charles, but would surely drive the blade into her throat if he held it steady. Ah, sweet Jesus, she meant to sacrifice herself for him.

  But Gibbons was a head taller than Georgiana. In that split second before she could complete her swing, Charles steadied his pistol and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot reverberated in the small room and a pungent cloud of sulfur and vaporized blood rose in the air. Gibbons fell backward, dragging Georgiana with him. Once they hit the floor, neither of them moved.

  The outer door splintered and dropped flat on the floor as Finn trampled over it like an enraged bull, Clara behind him waving an iron pan.

  Charles stepped forward and kicked the knife away from Gibbons’s limp hand. He needn’t have bothered. A pool of blood was forming beneath him, and a ragged black hole in the center of his forehead gave evidence that he would never wield a knife again.

  He lifted Georgiana in his arms and carried her to the bed, relieved that her only sign of injury was a small bead of blood at the base of her throat. At the very point where, when he kissed her there, she would sigh and tighten her arms around him.

  He wiped the single bead of blood away with the pad of his thumb, only vaguely aware of Finn hoisting Gibbons over his shoulder and taking him away.

  Wycliffe gave orders to remove the Persian carpet and any traces of the incident. He us
hered Clara, craning her neck in curiosity, from the room. When they were alone, he lowered his mouth to that vulnerable spot and brushed his lips across it.

  Georgiana’s eyelids fluttered even as she curled her arms around his neck. “Oh, Charlie. Oh, thank God.”

  “Thank you,” he corrected.

  “I nearly got you killed.”

  “No, Georgiana. You gave me back my life.”

  Epilogue

  Georgiana kneeled on the deep grass bordering the flower beds and began digging weeds. So much had changed in just one week, and she had found a sense of peace, though she still did not know her future. Something would need to be settled soon. She could not go on living here, loving Charles and knowing it could all be over the next second.

  She had met with the ladies of the Wednesday League and Mr. Renquist to explain the events of that night, though she hadn’t found the heart to tell them the whole truth. She’d said only that Mr. Gibbons was a man who’d become obsessed with her when he’d seen her in her village many years ago, and that his delusions had set her husbands’ deaths in motion. They’d all been relieved it was over at last. When she was finished, Mr. Renquist had smiled and nodded at her and she wondered if he knew more than he was saying. If so, she knew her secret was safe with him.

  Shockingly, she’d learned that Richard Gibbons and his brother, Arthur, had amassed a sizeable fortune. Somewhere in the range of one hundred thousand pounds, their solicitor informed her. She was their sole heiress, and she wanted none of it. Since there was no way of knowing from whom they had stolen, extorted or blackmailed it, the ladies had helped her establish a philanthropic fund for the purpose of housing and educating foundlings.

  Finn’s services had not been required and he had been dismissed, and yet she would find him lurking around the kitchen, loitering in the garden and sighing as he watched Clara go about her duties. She feared she would be losing a maid when she returned to Kent.