A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  She prayed the same could be said for Felicity.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ella watched out the window, trying to take note of where Rushworth was driving. There were trees and hills and honeyed-stone cottages with thatched roofs . . . and then there were just trees and hills and birds flapping overhead, and the road gave way to a track whose mud sucked at the tires, and then the mud was too deep and the tires just spun.

  “End of the line.” Rushworth didn’t sound put out by it. “Now you see why I arranged for horses for the trip back out?”

  She hadn’t dared to voice a question about that when he idled to a halt in the last village they’d gone through and passed a few pound notes to a stable boy. He was just a lad, no older than the one he’d hailed at the village near Anlic, to run a note up to the castle, “if you would be so kind.” No older than the one he’d paid to deliver a verbal message to the constable—that they’d headed the opposite direction.

  Each time they stopped, she’d been tempted to shout for help or try for the door. But he had her pressed to his side, an arm around her. And the gun in the hand at her side. Silence had seemed the wisest course—and this time she would obey her instincts, no matter how illogical they seemed.

  He scooted out the door now and held out his free hand toward her.

  Brook had a plan. The men too. The constable would surely see through the boy. They’d find her, and all would be well.

  And he had a gun, dreadful and cold and loaded.

  She put her fingers in his palm and let him help her from the carriage. Her shoes sank into mud up to their laces.

  Rushworth sighed. “I do detest the mud. And the rain, and the cold. We should pick a warm, dry place to settle. What do you think?”

  She hadn’t said a word since he pushed her into the car. If she spoke, her true feelings might come slipping out in her tone, and that wouldn’t be a good thing.

  But he was waiting for an answer, even as he led her through the muck, her hand held tightly in his.

  Ella cleared her throat. “I am bad at geography. I daresay you have studied it out, haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes, hence my thought of South America. There are wet parts, to be sure. But it’s warm. And we could buy ourselves half a country with the money the Russian will give us.”

  “I don’t need half a country.” At his sharp glance, she attempted a smile. “I just want a family, Rush. I don’t much care where I live, or how well. So long as there is love and laughter.”

  “That’s what I adore about you.” He halted, pulled her close, cradled her head with his gun hand again. Lowered his head.

  She closed her eyes and saw autumn leaves drifting down. Cayton smiling. Addie laughing. Herself in white. A sigh slipped out. Perhaps it wasn’t just a fleeting hope. Perhaps it was a reminder, sent by God. A reminder that hope wasn’t in vain—not if it was rooted in Him.

  She fluttered her eyelids open again, and Rushworth was pulling away.

  His eyes gleamed, his lips tilted up. “You understand what matters in life. You would do anything to protect your family. You wouldn’t turn a blind eye if someone hurt them. Certainly would never be the one to hurt them.”

  “Of course not.” She moved along with him when he turned toward the track again, glad the gun was not at her head anymore. “Kitty told me about your father.”

  He went stiff at the mention of him, but his fingers were gentle around hers. “Did she mention our mother? How she would just let it happen? Pretend she didn’t see the bruises? She would tell me that if I were just a good boy . . . But none of us could be good enough to please Father.”

  Ella shook her head. “No. She didn’t mention her.”

  “I was glad when she died.” He paused, glanced at her, continued in his even stride through the mud. “I’m sorry if that sounds terrible. But it’s the truth. She never thought of anyone but herself.”

  “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. And she was sorry. Had his mother intervened, had his father not been so cruel—Rushworth would be a different man. Perhaps a good man. Perhaps even a man she could like. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  “But then that left us with him. I was afraid to go to school, afraid to leave Kitty there, alone with him.” His fingers tightened around hers.

  She squeezed them back. “You have always been a good brother. I know you found ways to protect her.”

  “He had a bad heart.” This he delivered in a flat tone, utterly devoid of emotion. “The doctors knew it. So they didn’t think to question it when it stopped.”

  “Didn’t think to . . .” She stumbled, would have gone down into the mud had he not caught her. She would have preferred the mud to looking up into his eyes. “Rushworth . . . what are you saying? You couldn’t have killed your own father.”

  He righted her, pulled her onward. “I used to dream of it, of someone bludgeoning him as he did me. That was why I went hunting for Dorsey. . . . Well, I went hunting for the man who killed Pratt’s father. I thought perhaps he could do the same to mine. I couldn’t find him. I found Dorsey instead, wanted for the murder of his aunt. We were of an age. Understood each other. Struck a bargain.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and walked blindly. “But he’s so . . .”

  “Violent, yes. I decided, after all, that it wouldn’t do. Not if I wanted to avoid questions. So I gave Father some laudanum. He used it habitually, so it was easy enough to increase the dosage in his vial. Then some drops of belladonna in his eyes to hide the contraction of his pupils, and no one was the wiser. They all thought he’d died in his sleep. Heart failure.”

  She shuddered, couldn’t help it. A murderer was holding her hand. “Rush.”

  “Well, it was him or my sister. What would you have chosen?”

  “Another way. I would have chosen another way.”

  He sighed and halted again. Gave her that strange, tender look. “Yes, you would have. Because you’re so very good. And I’m sorry that I’m not, not yet. But I will be. For you. And I want no secrets between us, which is why I’m telling you all this. That yes, I killed my father when I was eighteen, to protect my little sister and myself. I pray you can forgive me for it, given the reasons.”

  She forced a swallow. Opened her mouth to assure him she understood, even if she didn’t agree with it—which she did, somewhat. But instead of that, she said, “What about your nephew? Did you use the laudanum on him too?”

  His eyes flashed dark—then bright. His lips curved up. “Look at you, you clever thing.” He tugged her onward. A clearing was just ahead, and in it a tumbling-down church. “It was a miscalculation, and I have repented of that, I assure you. I never thought it would hurt her so badly.”

  Oh, Lord God, what am I to say? “Hurt her? What about the boy?” Probably not the best choice.

  “The boy.” He released her hand and took her elbow instead. He spoke of his nephew as if he were saying “the dog” or “the horse.” “He never should have existed. If Kitty hadn’t behaved so with Pratt, forcing a wedding—but she was always stupid when it came to Pratt. When I realized what they’d done, I nearly let Dorsey have at him, as he suggested. But Pratt said he was close to the diamonds.” He shook his head. “Had it been a girl, it would have been nothing but a minor inconvenience. But a boy—that tied us forever to Delmore. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  He stopped abruptly, spun on her, took her head between his hands again.

  A sound escaped. She knew it was a whimper, but hoped to him it would just sound like surprise. And hopefully he wouldn’t notice the tears blurring her eyes.

  “Ella, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean it—I was making it up. Dorsey always does that, exaggerating his exploits. I suppose the habit has rubbed off. But it’s a lie. I didn’t kill him. Of course I didn’t. It was the crib death.”

  He must think her an idiot. And she must let him. Though she couldn’t even nod with her head trapped between his hands. S
he could only bite her lip to keep from saying something stupid and try to keep the gasps from turning to sobs.

  “Shh.” He wrapped his arms around her, rubbed a hand up and down her back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said such things. I didn’t mean to make you frightened of me. I won’t hurt you, Ella, and I will never, never hurt our children. You must believe me, after all I did to protect my sister. We can have a family, as many children as you want, and I’ll adore them all.”

  Brook’s plan had better be appearing soon. Ella couldn’t keep the shaking from her limbs much longer.

  The sound of an engine rumbled through the stillness.

  Rushworth pulled away. “Ah, good. They got my message. Come, my love. We’ll take the high ground.” He pulled her toward the crumbling church on the little rise.

  She saw autumn leaves falling, heard imagined laughter echo. And said a prayer that she lived to see it, and Cayton with her.

  Cayton slammed the door of the car, tempted to kick the wheel of his own as he stomped past. Couldn’t the thing have seized up for Rushworth? Stalled out? “Hurry up—the engine’s still ticking, they can’t be far ahead of us!”

  But they’d lost so much time already. That interminable walk to the telephone, only to discover it dead. They’d had to drive to the constable, afraid to approach Anlic themselves lest Rushworth was watching and would react in panic. But then the boy had rushed in and said he’d spotted a man and a woman with a gun, headed south.

  Stafford had wanted to head straight out. It would have been the logical thing, but something in Cayton had fought the instinct. Had insisted they first head back to Ralin to see if any other messages had arrived for them.

  He’d never in his life been so glad he’d heeded that quiet advice, and that the dukes had listened to him. He still had Rushworth’s second note in his pocket, with instruction on where to rendezvous. With the diamonds.

  Stafford hurried, checking his pistol again as he did so. “We’ll catch him. We’ll get the women. It will all be fine. He won’t hurt them so long as we have the diamonds.” He craned his head around. “Nottingham?”

  Nottingham lifted the black velvet bag, his face as hard as stone. He had refused the offer of a weapon. “I don’t like this. Who knows when the constable’s men will make it out here—it’s just us against him.”

  “I like those odds.” Stafford lowered the pistol to his side but didn’t holster it.

  A good idea. Cayton pulled his out too. “Those are the real Fire Eyes, right? He’ll know if they’re not.”

  “They’re real.” Nottingham didn’t sound pleased about it. “You two both promise you won’t shoot to kill—we’re out for justice, not vengeance.”

  Cayton didn’t dignify that with a response. Neither, he noted, did Stafford. They trudged a few steps up the track. He held out an arm to block the others, his eyes on the ground. “Two sets of footprints. A man and a woman, as the boy said.”

  “Catherine.” Stafford bent down to get a closer look. “They’re no deeper than his, to indicate a struggle. It must be Catherine.”

  The odds were still in their favor, but the likelihood of something going wrong felt greater.

  It couldn’t—that was all. At least not until Rushworth told them where he had the women. They had to assume he had the duchesses too. And Ella. Ella.

  She would tell him it would be all right, if she were beside him. He knew she would. She would smile that bright smile of hers and tell him not to fall back into the fear, into the recriminations. She would tell him it wasn’t his fault.

  Except it was. If he hadn’t told Brook to call for Nottingham, then Ella wouldn’t have stormed out and been caught. If he hadn’t kissed her yesterday, they never would have had the argument with Brook to begin with. If he hadn’t fallen in love with her, then he wouldn’t have thought kissing her a good idea.

  The recriminations pounded for a few steps, louder than any drum. Calling up those old wells of hatred, loathing, all aimed at himself.

  Then he saw Ella’s smile in his mind’s eye, and the drumbeat stilled. She would say it was worth it. She would say that no matter how they planned their ways, it was the Lord who set their path. She would assure him that He would take care of them. That it wasn’t his fault.

  He pushed ahead. It had been years since he’d been out here, but he remembered the ruins of the old church in the clearing, from a time so long past that the stones were marked with Latin and anything once wood had rotted to nothing. It was the kind of place he’d liked to have taken Ella, someday. Let her think she was wandering aimlessly through the wood but then lead her out into the clearing. He could imagine her delight at discovering it.

  They stepped out into the meadow, his eyes moving to the church—and his blood freezing in his veins. “No.”

  Stafford gripped his arm just before he surged forward. “Easy. Think it through, James.”

  How was he to think it through? Rushworth had Ella on the church steps, a gun to her head and an arm clamped around her waist. Her red hair blew in the wind, begging him to hurry. He had her—he had her right there, and Cayton couldn’t do a thing. Dear Lord . . . I thought it was for me—for me to protect her, to redeem myself.

  “Easy.” Still gripping his arm, Stafford urged him forward. “Rushworth!” he called out as they neared. “Let her go. We have what you want.”

  They were close enough now to see how pale she looked, how still she stood. Afraid, surely, but brave. Faithful. Trusting the Lord. Because that was his Ella, so very Ella.

  “You had better,” Rushworth called back. “Stop there. That’s close enough. Where are the Fire Eyes?”

  Nottingham lifted the bag in trembling hands.

  “Take them out. Let me see them.”

  He untied the bag and jiggled the earrings out into his palm. His jaw was clenched so tightly it had to hurt.

  Rushworth nodded. “Good. Toss them this way.”

  “No.” Nottingham’s voice was thick, heavy. “Not until you let my sister go.”

  “Aw.” Rushworth pursed his lips and held her closer. “I do understand the need to protect one’s sister, Nottingham. I do. But Ella is quite safe right now, so long as you do as I say. Toss the diamonds as far as you can in this direction, and she and I will go together to retrieve them while you heroic men stay right where you are. Isn’t that right, darling?” He trailed his nose down the side of her cheek.

  Her nostrils flared.

  Cayton sprang forward. He didn’t mean to, and he didn’t get but a step before Stafford dragged him back. But Rushworth saw, of course.

  And he laughed. “How perfect! You love her. That makes this all the sweeter. Tell him to stay away, Ella.”

  She swallowed and pulled out a smile. A strange, fragile one he’d never seen on her before and prayed he never saw again. “Stay back, Drat. I don’t need you rushing to my rescue.” She closed her eyes when the gun shifted against her head. “I don’t even like you.”

  I love you too, he wanted to say.

  “The diamonds, Nottingham!”

  Nottingham closed his fist around them. “Ella? Tell me what to do, Ella-bell.”

  “Wait! I’ll help you, Cris!”

  Two blondes emerged at a run from the back of the church, Catherine pulling Brook by the arm.

  Rushworth shifted with Ella. “Kitty?”

  Ella sighed. “Do what Catherine says.” Perhaps she was talking to Rushworth. But Cayton didn’t think so—she was answering her brother.

  They had a plan, those crazy women. And it would be all right. His hands still shook, his heart still trembled, but they would be all right.

  Cayton and the two dukes shifted as Catherine pushed Brook closer to Rushworth. Stafford muttered, “What are you doing, Brook?” and looked more puzzled than worried. Well, no. But as puzzled as worried.

  Catherine wheeled Brook to a halt beside Rushworth. “I’m sorry I’m late. But I’ll help.”

  Her brother fr
owned. “Why did you bring her?”

  “How else was I to find my way? Besides, I don’t know how to drive that car of hers. Stay right there, cousin, or my brother will put an end to your insipid little friend. I’ll fetch the diamonds, Cris.”

  There was no possible way Brook would have led her here to help. Not unless she had a reason to want to. It was part of whatever plan they’d hatched—and Ella wanted, needed them to trust her.

  “All right. Go.” Rushworth shifted a step away from Brook, pressed the gun harder against Ella’s temple. “Don’t try anything, Brook.”

  Brook held her hands away from her side.

  Catherine sped across the grass between them, her face more harried than he’d expected, and more sorrowful. She stopped in front of Nottingham and grabbed not the earrings but his hand. “It’ll be all right. I promise. Just . . . trust me. I know you can’t, but trust me.” She scooped up the gems and spun back.

  They could have seized her and mirrored Rushworth, pointing a gun to the head of the one who mattered most to him. But it wouldn’t have been right. His hands still ached to move, to grab, to force, but he held himself in check. He would trust. Her, and the Lord. “Let it play out,” he murmured, as much for his own benefit as the dukes’.

  Stafford nodded. “He’s right. Brook wouldn’t have brought her here unless . . .”

  But unless what? Could they really trust Catherine? Ella apparently thought so. Still, Cayton gripped his gun, knowing he couldn’t use it, not with one pointed at Ella, but taking comfort in its warm metal. It would be all right. It would.

  No it wouldn’t. It would all go wrong, Rushworth would get away with the diamonds, and he just knew . . .

  Nothing. He knew nothing.

  Catherine stopped halfway back to her brother and squared her shoulders. “Let Ella go, Cris.”

  Rushworth’s brows drew down. “What are you doing, Kitty? I have this worked out. You don’t need to interfere.”

  Catherine didn’t budge. “But you don’t mean to let her go. I know you don’t.”

  “Kitty.”