Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “Have you packed all your trunks?” he inquired with mild irritation. “Are you certain there is nothing you have forgotten? Where is poor Finn—dragging them down the stairs?”

  Antoine pressed his lips together. “Finn is upstairs dragging the body of M’sieur Vincent into the anteroom to hide it.”

  Dudley had lit a second candle by then and the light reached into the shadows behind Antoine. From where Tyrone was sitting, he could only see Renée’s shoulders and the sagging crown of golden curls, but from where Dudley was standing, he could see the bright, dark rivulet of blood seeping down her cheek.

  “Tyrone … ?”

  But Hart was staring at Antoine. “Say that again.”

  “Finn is upstairs—”

  “You have your voice back.”

  “Then you should have heard me when I said Finn is upstairs dragging the body of M’sieur Vincent into the anteroom to hide it! I had to hit him on the head because he was beating Renée and making her cry!”

  “Tyrone”—Dudley crooked his head—“you might want to have a look.”

  Tyrone pushed to his feet. Renée quickly raised the folded wad of linen, both to blot up the blood and to shield her face from the probing eyes, but Tyrone took hold of her wrist with one hand and her chin with the other. She could feel his gaze hardening as it inspected every reddened blotch, every faint scratch and cut, settling finally on the slash that cut across her cheek.

  “Vincent did this to you?”

  His voice was so cool, so calm, it caused her to stammer when she answered. “Th—the cut was caused by a piece of g—glass. It must have happened when Antoine broke the bottle over his head.”

  “Is he dead?”

  She shook her head. “He is insensible. Finn is tying him up so he cannot call out an alarm.”

  “Robbie”—Tyrone half turned, though his eyes did not leave Renée’s face—“take them out to the boat. I’ll just go back and see if I can help Mr. Finn along. We shouldn’t be too far behind you.”

  “No,” Renée cried. “No, you must not go back in there. Please, Tyrone. You must not go back. I am sure Finn will be along any moment!”

  “I am sure he will. I just want to hurry him along.”

  As if to confirm her fears, Renée saw him check the charge in both firing pans of the snaphaunce before he reached around and tucked the gun into the waist of his breeches.

  “Tyrone, please … it means nothing. Vincent means nothing. It is over.”

  “Go with Robbie. Finn and I will be right behind you.”

  But she had seen something else when the flap of his waistcoat flared open with the movement of his arms.

  “M’sieur Dudley”—she looked imploringly to him for help—“do you know his wound is bleeding again?”

  “What?” Dudley stepped forward and before Tyrone could stop him, he lifted the panel of the striped satin waistcoat. There was blood on his shirt, just a few spots to be sure, but it meant his stitches had suffered too much strain—probably when he had been cajoled into performing a foolish charade for the Misses Entwistle—and the wound was oozing into the bandages.

  “I am fine,” Tyrone said. “It has been like that all night.”

  Dudley held the candle closer. Some of the spots were older and darker, some were new and bright red.

  “I am going back,” Tyrone said evenly. “Take them to the boat and wait for us.”

  “My vote is with the lady,” Dudley argued. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I was not aware this was a democratic assembly.”

  “All right then, go back. Blow Vincent’s head off. The house is full of dragoons and as soon as the alarm goes out, you can bet the woods, the canal, the roads, and fields will be full of them too. Look at yourself. You can hardly stand without holding on to the wall and you still have to run through the tunnel, row a boat into Coventry, and possibly fight off a patrol of Roth’s mongrels with or without an alarm going out. But if you feel you have to risk everyone’s safety to go and kill him, then by all means … go and kill him. I am sure Mademoiselle d’Anton and her brother both will appreciate the gesture from their gaol cells.”

  A finely sculpted muscle in Tyrone’s jaw twitched. There was no visible lessening in the fury that had turned his eyes a cold slate gray, but there was a faint glimmer of reason. It took a moment for the glimmer to spread, but it eventually won a reluctant nod of agreement.

  “All right. I won’t kill the bastard. But you will take Renée and Antoine down to the boat and I will wait here for Mr. Finn. Someone has to stay and see that the door to the cistern room is locked behind us.”

  Renée touched his arm. “Tyrone—”

  “You have my most solemn word of honor that I will not go back and shoot the bastard,” he said to her. “Not tonight, at any rate. And if my word is not good enough for you, mam’selle, then here, take this.” He removed the snaphaunce from his waistband and handed it to her. “The other one is on the step, take it as well. Would you like my cravat, too, so I am not tempted to strangle him?”

  It was obvious he was not accustomed to having to answer to anyone or justify either his past actions or future intent, and Renée took his hand in hers, fighting against the minor resistance she felt as she raised it and held the long, tapered fingers against her lips.

  “I am sure you could strangle him with your hands alone, m’sieur, but I shall happily accept your word that you will not.”

  The resistance wilted out of his hand. His fingers shifted and cradled the side of her neck. “Does this mean you finally trust me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “With all my heart.”

  “Never that much, I hope,” he murmured.

  “That much and more,” she whispered, rising up against him. She blew out a soft, helpless breath as her lips touched his, but before he could react or respond to the words she pressed against his mouth, she moved quickly away, following Antoine and Dudley through the secret exit to the chambers below.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tyrone stood there for a full minute without moving, his body dark against the shadows, his hair silvered by the candlelight. He stared at the fake prayer nave long after it was pulled shut behind them and he could still hear the faint echo of her words in his ears, he could taste them on his lips.

  Je t’aime.

  How many times had he heard variations of the same declaration from women he had known in the past? How many times had he just laughed and plied his mouth, his hands across their bodies until they cried it out again in wild, passionate abandon? For that matter, had anyone ever said it to him sober or fully clothed? Or even in those precise terms? Usually they loved what he did to them or how he made them feel or the fact he made no demands on them and gave no promises in return.

  He stared at the nave until his eyes felt dry and he was forced to look away. When he did, he turned his head too sharply and the savage pounding in his temples began in earnest again. His ribs were on fire and his skin was clammy. Maggie had given him two packets of powdered willow ash to take if the pain in his side got bad, but they were both gone and the effects had worn off hours ago.

  Where the devil was Finn? He had promised he would not go back into the house—not with the intentions of killing Vincent, at any rate—but neither could he stand here in the darkness and shadows hearing the whispered rush of her words against his mouth without being able to say something in return … though he was not quite sure what it was he wanted or ought to say. “Damnation.”

  He started buttoning his waistcoat. He tied a hasty knot in his cravat and retrieved his jacket from the steps. The muscles were stiffer than he had let on and it was agony fitting his arm into the sleeve, but he managed with a great deal of cursing. After shielding the glare from the candle, he slipped out: through the low archway and stood in the darkened niche, listening for any sounds from the other side of the tapestry.

  Finn felt a bead of sweat slither down the bridge of his nose and dri
p off the end. It landed directly in Vincent’s gaping mouth, but neither of them noticed. Finn was too busy struggling to haul the oblivious man’s bulk through the door to the dressing room, and Vincent’s mouth was stuffed too full of dirty linens for one more salty drop to matter. He was dazed and disoriented, his eyes rolled back into his head at every bump and jostle, but he was still weakly fighting to resist being dragged into the anteroom.

  “Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and all the saints!” Finn grunted and heaved and shoved the lumbering hulk into the corner, then staggered back and stood bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in shallow, labored pants. “Might I recommend moderation in the future, sir,” he gasped. “In food as well as drink.”

  “I doubt he would take your advice on either count, old man.”

  Finn whirled around. Colonel Bertrand Roth was standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb, his arms folded in a leisurely fashion across his chest.

  Under his amused and curiously flat stare, Finn straightened and gave his jacket a prim tug to smooth it. “Forgive me, Colonel, I did not hear you knock.”

  “I confess to the boorish indiscretion,” Roth said wanly. “Having noticed both the bride and groom absent from the company below, I thought I should come and insure they were behaving themselves. And here I find no bride, the room smells of a distillery, and the groom is trussed like a heifer about to go to the butcher block.”

  “He was interrupted in the act of attempting to rape my mistress,” Finn said archly. “Rather violently so, I might add.”

  Roth followed a thin, pointing finger to the evidence of the torn, cast-off silk Renée had discarded on the floor. There was more evidence—towels with blood on them and a piece of jagged glass she had picked out of her hair.

  “I have sent her to safety in another part of the house,” Finn added. “I was trussing this—this vermin to keep him secure until I could fetch the proper authorities. The man is an animal. A drunken, fornicating creature of the devil and he should be hung as such, sir.”

  In the corner, Vincent groaned and contorted what he could of his face, demanding a release from his bonds.

  “Rape, you say?” Roth regarded Finn through narrowed eyes. “A serious charge.”

  “Mad’moiselle d’Anton was quite seriously hurt. In her attempts to defend herself, she was struck several times—a heinous crime in itself to anyone who would consider himself even partially civilized. When I attempted to dissuade Mr. Vincent from his drunken course—to no avail—he left me no choice but to deter him with violence.”

  “You did this to him?”

  Finn lifted his chin. “I did. And I would most heartily do it again if the circumstances warranted it.”

  “Smashing things over the backs of peoples’ heads seems to be a particular habit with you, Mr. Finnerty,” Roth said dryly. “Untie him.”

  “But Colonel—”

  “I said … untie him.”

  “He could easily overpower us, sir, and if he does—” Roth reached beneath his tunic and withdrew a steel cannon-barrelled pocket pistol. “Lucky for us, I brought this along, then. It carries a small charge, but at close quarters, will stop a man of any size and nature. If you please—” He waved the nose of the pistol in Vincent’s direction and thumbed the hammer into half-cock for emphasis.

  Left with little choice, Finn unfastened the bindings around Vincent’s ankles first, then his wrists.

  “Help him up. Bring him in here.”

  Again, Finn obeyed and despite Vincent’s clumsy efforts to push him away, he was hoisted up onto his feet and helped back into the main bedroom. There he slumped down into the vanity chair and cradled his head in his hands, groaning.

  “Now then, old boy, is what Mr. Finnerty says true? Were you trying to ravish your betrothed?”

  Vincent gargled an answer for a moment, then reached with disgust for the linens still crammed into his mouth and flung them aside. “I only wanted what I paid for. The little bitch was trying to sneak out on us. She had the jewels packed and was heading out the door when I got here.” He lifted his head out of his hands to squint up at Roth. “She had the brooch too. She had the damned pearl brooch; I saw it in her bag.”

  Roth’s face hardened instantly. “The Pearl of Brittany? She had it? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “I saw it,” Vincent hissed. “I held it in my hand and asked her where she got it, but then I figured there was only one place she could have gotten it, only one man who could have given it to her.”

  Roth whirled around just in time to see Finn sidling toward the door. “Wherever the hell you think you are going, Mr. Finnerty”—he thumbed the hammer into the fully cocked position and aimed it squarely at Finn’s head—“I would not advise it. I am a crack shot and your fine gray hair makes an excellent target.”

  Finn’s hand curled back from the brass latch and dropped back down by his side.

  “Over here,” Roth snarled. “Away from the door.”

  Finn obeyed the jerking motion of Roth’s gun and moved at a dignified pace to stand in front of the window.

  “Is what he says true? Does Renée d’Anton have the Pearl of Brittany?”

  “I am not kept apprised of mad'moiselle's personal possessions, sir.”

  “It was on the bed,” Vincent said. “The last time I saw it, it was on the bed.”

  Roth glanced over, but there was nothing on the bed or beside it. He looked sharply back at Finn. “Where is she?”

  Finn pursed his lips but said nothing.

  “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way,” Roth warned. “Where is she?”

  Finn still said nothing and Vincent scowled up from his seat. “She was dressed and had a packed bag with her. My guess is she has gone to meet him. As usual,” he added, “you seem to have underestimated the strength and resources of your opponent, not to mention the fact that she must have been using us all along to get the brooch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it, you arrogant bastard. If there is already a French agent in London sniffing around, asking questions about the Dragon’s Blood suite, she must have known its value from the moment I put it around her neck. I warrant she would have stolen it before now if it wasn’t for the fact that the brooch was missing. I’ll also wager my front teeth she has been playing along, biding her time, hoping we would lead her to the Pearl of Brittany, and we did, didn’t we. Or should I say you did. You led her right to it with your clever, fail-proof scheme to catch Starlight.” Vincent paused to wipe a dribble of blood off his neck. “You stupid bloody bastard. I told you you should have let me handle this my way, but no. You had to prove you were smarter than Starlight, smarter than all of us. Well who is looking smarter now? Who had the foresight to exchange the real rubies for glass imitations? Who do you think is going to laugh the loudest when the little whore and her road thief find out they went to all this trouble for a few bits of colored glass, and who do you think is going to keep the real rubies now?”

  “We had a deal,” Roth said evenly.

  “Had … a deal. You lost Starlight, you lost the girl, and if it wasn’t for me, you’d have lost the rubies too. By my way of thinking, that makes them mine. And that makes you a fool … again.”

  Roth’s eyelids closed until there was just a shiver of white showing along the bottom lashes. In a move so shockingly swift it caused Finn to stumble back in surprise, the colonel lashed out, swinging the pistol hard and sharp against the side of Vincent’s face. Had the bigger man not been half-dazed by the previous blow to his skull, he might have seen it coming and been quicker to react, but he took the force of it fully on the temple and was thrown sideways, landing awkwardly against the delicate vanity table. Bottles, pots, jars went flying, crashing on the wall, on the floor, but Roth barely paid heed as he stalked toward the corner where Finn was standing.

  “Is what he said true? Has she gone to meet Starlight?”

&nb
sp; Finn merely glared in disdainful silence along the length of his nose and Roth’s eyes narrowed to yellow slits.

  “By God, you know who he is, don’t you? You know who Starlight is and you know where he has taken her.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Finn declared. “And even if I did—”

  “Yes?”

  He looked down at his thin, age-spotted hands and scraped a bit of lint out from under one manicured nail. “I would still have nothing to say.”

  “Your loyalty and bravado are commendable, old man,” Roth said, baring his teeth in a sinister grin. “But utterly and completely futile.”

  With Finn staring calmly into Roth’s eyes, the colonel swung the gun up, squeezed the trigger, and fired.

  Tyrone had been just about to edge the tapestry aside when he heard a tinkle of laughter on the other side. There was a flurry of whispers and breathless queries, followed by the patter of slippered feet and another laugh as the woman was caught and spun into her captor’s arms. There could be no mistaking the nasally whimpers of Miss Ruth Entwistle as she was swept up in the passion of the moment, though who her companion might be was anyone’s guess. It had been on the tip of his tongue last night to enlighten Renée to the fact that most men were not attentive to Miss Entwistle because of her intelligence. They were drawn to her because she would lift her skirts anywhere, anytime, and give them a rousing good ride in the process.

  Under any other circumstances, Tyrone might have found the situation comical. Standing not two feet away, with only the width of the tapestry separating him from the lovers, he could hear the moist, suckling sound their mouths made and the whispered crush of linen petticoats as one body crowded another against the wall. Making matters worse, they could be no more than a few inches from the opening of the archway; one amorous roll and they would find out the wall was not as solid as they supposed.