Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  “All ready here, my lord.”

  Whit nodded at the driver. “It’ll be only a minute more.”

  He noticed the fading light again. No reason he couldn’t try hurrying Mirabelle along, just a bit. He spun on his heel toward the house…and then saw it—the slightest movement in the shadows near the stables. He stopped, peered through the dim light and watched as a dark shape slipped inside.

  He turned to the driver and spoke quietly. “Hand me your crop.”

  “My lord?” the man asked, even as he handed over the whip.

  Whit took the handle, found a grip he liked. “If Miss Browning comes out, see that she stays in the carriage.”

  Trusting his man to follow the command, Whit worked his way around to the back of the stable. It occurred to him that whoever he was following might have a perfectly good, or perfectly legal at any rate, reason for skulking about. It could be someone meeting a lover, or a servant avoiding work.

  Or it could be a thief or the baron’s coconspirator.

  It certainly wasn’t Christian. The dark figure moved with an agility the stable hand lacked.

  Whit entered the stables silently, his muscles tense, the blood rushing in his ears.

  A light flickered and the sound of movement came from a stall two doors up.

  He let his feet roll beneath him, heel to toe, to lessen the noise of footsteps on hay. He stepped behind the closest post, craned his neck around the wood to peer into the stall.

  And looked directly into the eyes of his quarry.

  “McAlistair.” Whit didn’t jump—though it was a near thing—but he did let out an agitated breath at the sudden surprise. “Why not pull out a gun and shoot at me?”

  “Might have. Once.”

  Whit responded with an annoyed grunt, and lowered the crop. “What are you doing here?”

  “Orders.”

  In an instant, Whit’s blood turned to ice and the cold of it made his heart seize painfully in his chest. He had the man by the front of his collar before he’d even realized his intent. “Mirabelle’s in that house,” he snarled. “You’ll not do a bloody thing while Mirabelle’s in the house.”

  McAlistair shook his head. “Retired. Remember?”

  Whit loosened his hold, took a deep breath, and let his hands drop. “Of course. Of course, forgive me.”

  McAlistair made a slight movement of his shoulders that may, or may not, have been a shrug.

  “Why did William have you come?

  “Protection.”

  The insult stung. “I can bloody well protect myself.”

  “For the girl.”

  That insult stung more. “I can bloody well protect her as well.”

  “Orders,” he repeated and pulled a letter from his coat pocket.

  Whit reached for it, skimmed over the impersonal note from William informing McAlistair of his new mission, and handed it back. “How long have you been lurking about the grounds?”

  “Two days.”

  Since the start of the party, Whit thought, and nodded. William liked to play to his agent’s strengths. Whit was best at charming his way in. McAlistair was best at sneaking.

  “The mission’s over,” Whit informed him. “I need only get Mirabelle to—”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  Mirabelle’s mind whirled with the same dizzying speed as the day she’d tumbled down the hill. The room was out of focus, and her movements felt stiff and somehow disconnected from the rest of her.

  She had a pistol in her hand. That was clear enough. And her uncle was backing away into the corner of the room. She could see that, as well. It was a fine sight, she decided, as she rose from her knees and moved around to the front of the desk. A very fine sight, indeed.

  Shouldn’t he pay for every insult, every humiliation, every moment of fear? Shouldn’t he pay for hurting her, for stealing her future? She could see that he did. She could make certain he paid, and paid dearly.

  She gripped the gun with shaking hands, and leveled it at his chest. “I ought to,” she heard herself say as if from a great distance. “I ought to.”

  A loud click sounded behind her ear. “But you won’t, my dear. Not today.”

  Dread, cold and hard, filled her as Mr. Hartsinger stepped around her, his own pistol aimed at her heart.

  “It’s not so much that I’d mind you shooting him,” he said with his nasty giggle. “But murder invites attention, and I can’t have that. Be a good girl now and lower your weapon.”

  With no other choice, she slowly dropped her arm.

  The baron shuffled forward, a stream of blood issuing from his nose from where she’d caught him with the snuffbox. “Should beat you senseless,” he snarled, snatching the gun out of her hand.

  “Then we wouldn’t be able to find out what she knows, would we?” Hartsinger pointed out with contempt. “Now then, my dear, you and I are going to take a walk, calm as you please, to my waiting carriage. If you give any indication of duress, I’ll shoot you in the back. I’d just as soon not, but—”

  “And I’ll shoot your friend. What’s his name—Christian,” the baron interrupted. He sneered when she looked at him with surprise. “Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?”

  “You didn’t know about that,” Mr. Hartsinger muttered. “Until I pointed it out.”

  “Well, I know about it now,” the baron snapped before waving the gun at Mirabelle. “And if you give us any trouble, girl, I’ll aim between his eyes.”

  And likely shoot off his own foot, Mirabelle thought. Only, by the way her uncle’s face was once again turning red, it was clear she hadn’t just thought it. In her muddled state of mind, she’d said it out loud.

  She wasn’t given much of a chance to regret the error, just the time it took for her uncle to turn the gun around and bring the butt of it down on her head.

  Hartsinger lowered his arm and stared at Mirabelle’s crumpled form.

  “You idiot,” he snapped at Eppersly, snatching the baron’s gun away and tossing it safely out of reach. “How do you propose we get her out of the house now?”

  Whit and McAlistair watched from around the stall walls as a heavyset man with a thick crop of dark hair entered through the front and called out. “Christian? Christian, my good man, have you seen our girl today?”

  It must be the perpetually absent Mr. Cunningham, Whit decided. Mirabelle had said he was an amiable sort, and Whit couldn’t imagine any of the other guests would refer to Mirabelle as “our girl,” or know to ask Christian about her whereabouts.

  Odd though, that man didn’t appear to be suffering the aftereffects of a long illness. He walked down the center aisle with a clipped step and continued to call out in a booming voice. “Christian? Are you in here?”

  Whit leaned forward and squinted his eyes. He knew that voice. He knew the man. The hair color was different, and there was something off about the nose, but he knew him…and not as Mr. Cunningham.

  He straightened and stepped forward from the stall. “Any particular reason for you to be looking for her, Mr. Lindberg?”

  Lindberg started, then winced. “Thurston. Blast. Ah, well. It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”

  “Before what?” Whit asked.

  “Before this business ended,” Lindberg responded cryptically and moved forward to close the remaining distance between them. “Hello, McAlistair.”

  McAlistair sniffed once. “You reek.”

  “God, man, what is that?” Whit took two steps back. “Bad fruit?”

  “Old cabbage and a healthy splash of vinegar, actually. Pungent, isn’t it?”

  “It’s noxious. Why the hell are you attending the baron’s party, disguised, and smelling of old cabbage and vinegar?”

  “Didn’t want the girl getting too close,” he explained. “What if she recognized me in London?”

  “She couldn’t bloody well recognize you as you’ve spent the whole of the party in your room.”

  “Yes, well, thi
s time. But I learned you were to come, you see, and—”

  “Explain ‘this time,’” Whit instructed.

  “I’ve played the role of Mr. Cunningham for more than ten years.”

  Ten years? “Why?”

  “To watch over the girl, of course.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just following orders.”

  “There’s a lot of that going round,” McAlistair murmured.

  Lindberg blinked and smiled. “I believe McAlistair just made a joke.”

  A new voice sounded from the doors. “Are we all here, then?”

  Whit whirled around to see Christian striding forward with long, uneven steps. Whit shot a glance at McAlistair.

  “Didn’t you hear him coming?” McAlistair always knew when someone was approaching. Before McAlistair could respond, however, Whit’s eyes widened in realization of something and he turned back to Christian. “You’re not stooping,” he accused. “Why aren’t you stooping?”

  Christian came to a stop in front of them, his limp and weak arm still apparent, but his back was straight and his shoulders squared. “It was only for the girl’s benefit. I fancied I was less of threat to her that way. Evening, McAlistair. Lindberg, your smell is bothering the horses.”

  “Can’t be avoided,” Lindberg responded. “It appears things are drawing to a close. Or a head. I’m not quite sure which.”

  Whit looked at each of the three men and the hand holding the crop tightened. “I want answers—”

  “William sent us,” Christian informed him.

  Though he hadn’t meant to have the answers now, he couldn’t help responding. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve had this same mission, for years?”

  “Only four,” Christian replied and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Holy hell.” He held up his free hand when Lindberg looked as if he might add something to that. “Not now. I need to get Mirabelle out. You,” he snapped at Lindberg, “Go keep Eppersly occupied. The rest of you meet me at Haldon in an hour.”

  He didn’t wait to hear if there were any objections, but simply turned and strode from the stable. He’d deal with William and the others after he’d gotten Mirabelle safely to Haldon. A man could only worry over so many things at once. He had to have priorities.

  And Mirabelle was his first.

  Crossing the now darkened yard at a trot, he noted with some relief that Mr. Hartsinger’s carriage was gone. There’d be no need to sneak her out now. With the baron in his study, and the house filled with disinterested staff, he could simply walk her down the front steps.

  But just to be certain, he stopped at the study doors once he was inside. Reassured by the sound of huffing breath and creaking floorboards on the other side, he headed upstairs to Mirabelle’s room, peeking in the library and billiards room for returned guests along the way.

  He found her door unlocked, which irritated him some. But he found the room empty, and that flatly infuriated him.

  Hadn’t he expressly told her not to leave her room?

  He turned a circle in the small space, taking in the gown laid across the bed, the mess of papers at the desk, and the packed valise on the floor.

  She’d gone looking for something, he assured himself, even as a chill of unease settled over the anger. Like as not, the stubborn chit was in one of the countless storage rooms, digging out some memento or other.

  The shuffle of heavy feet in the hall had him striding out of the room again.

  “Something’s wrong,” Lindberg said, panting a bit from his quick climb up the steps. “Study’s a wreck. Eppersly’s sporting a bloody nose and wouldn’t let me past the door. Where’s our girl?” he added on a shout as Whit sprinted past him.

  “Missing! Fetch the others!”

  Whit barreled into the study, throwing the doors open with a crash. He took in the contents of the room in one sweep of his gaze. Furniture turned over, papers and items from the desk scattered, the baron holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose, and—most terrifying of all—a pistol lying in the corner.

  Eppersly hastily shoved the handkerchief in his pocket. “Thurston, my boy—”

  “Where is she?” Whit demanded, crossing the room in a few long strides. He fought the urge to wrap his hands around Eppersly’s neck and squeeze the information out. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t answer if he couldn’t breathe.

  Eppersly made a sad attempt to straighten his cravat. “Where is who?”

  “Mirabelle,” Whit ground out, curling his hands into fists. “Where is she?”

  “Mirabelle? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eppersly blinked rapidly, the very picture of a dim-witted man attempting to play stupid.

  Which was twice the idiocy Whit had the patience for. His fist shot out, connected, and Eppersly went down like a felled oak.

  It may not have been as satisfying as strangling the bastard, but then, Whit wasn’t entirely confident his hands could have found a neck under all those rolls of fat. And it was immensely satisfying to plant his boot on the man’s chest and hold him down.

  “Where is she, you miserable—”

  “You don’t understand!” Cowed, Eppersly shook on the floor. “She’s mad! She went mad! Attacked me!”

  Whit was almost glad for the excuse to lean in until the baron garbled and choked.

  “Where?”

  “Hartsinger,” Eppersly gasped when Whit let up again. “Hartsinger took her.”

  The confession hit Whit like a shot to the chest, robbing him of breath and leaving him reeling.

  She’s mad.

  Hartsinger took her.

  “You sent her to St. Brigit’s?” he hissed.

  “Smuggled her out in a trunk,” Lindberg’s voice informed him from the doorway. Whit glanced over to see him enter the room with McAlistair and Christian. “The staff here will do anything for a coin. And admit to it for a little more.”

  Shoving aside panic, Whit stepped off the baron and turned to Christian. “Can you fight?”

  “I’ve a brace of loaded pistols in the stable,” Christian answered with a nod.

  “Good. Saddle the horses. Lindberg,” Whit continued as Christian left, “take the carriage to Haldon, tell William what’s happened.”

  “Of course.”

  “McAlistair, there’s a pistol in the corner—”

  “Now see here!” Eppersly interrupted, struggling to a sitting position. “You’ve no right interfering! No right! You don’t even like the chit!”

  Whit didn’t bother responding. He simply pulled the printing plate and bank notes from his pocket and handed them to McAlistair. “Find out what he knows. If he gives you any trouble,” he said clearly, “kill him…Have you ever killed a baron?”

  McAlistair considered it briefly before shaking his head. “Duke once. Two counts. A Russian prince.”

  “Well then, a baron wouldn’t be much of a feather in your cap, would it?”

  He left the room to the sound of Eppersly’s whimpering.

  Twenty-five

  Mirabelle woke in stages, fighting her way through a fog of pain and confusion. She was vaguely aware of being curled on her side in a small space, and of a bumping and rocking sensation. But nausea and exhaustion dragged her back to oblivion before she could work through what that might mean.

  When next she woke, her world was still, stale, and absolutely black. She blinked her eyes experimentally to be sure they were open. When the darkness around her didn’t alter, she reached out and discovered a hard surface mere inches from her face. Not blind then, she reasoned, shoving at the barrier, but trapped. With panic creeping steadily through her blood, she searched the meager space around her with her hands and feet, and found only that she was boxed in on all sides. A trunk? She shifted and squirmed, trying to find or force a way out.

  And there was a way out. There had to be.

  It was like being buried alive.

  The possibility of such a horror sent the panic racing. She cried out, ki
cked, and clawed at her confinement.

  An answer came in the form of a loud creak, a rush of fresh air, and a great burst of light in her eyes.

  “Now, now. There’s no need for all that,” a familiar voice admonished.

  “Let me out,” she demanded even as she scrambled up. “Let me—”

  “I hardly intended to keep you strapped to the top of the carriage for the whole trip.”

  A set of bony fingers gripped her arm and helped her climb out of the trunk. Shaking them off, she stumbled across a few feet of dirt road toward a carriage, then simply bent at the waist and let the cool night air fill her lungs.

  “That’s it, my dear. Take a few more deep breaths,” the voice advised. “A strike to the head can be a bit off-putting to the system. The man’s a brute. You’re well rid of him.”

  A strike to the head, she thought dully. A road and carriage. A high-pitched voice and bony fingers. Memories came trickling back.

  Oh, Lord. She’d been kidnapped—struck over the head, stuffed in a trunk, and taken away. It was beyond comprehension, surreal enough that she had trouble wrapping her mind around it. Young ladies being hauled off against their will was the sort of thing Kate’s novels were rife with—a clear indicator of how far removed the scenario was from reality.

  She straightened slowly and held her hand up against the blinding light. “Where are we?”

  “On the road home, my dear,” Mr. Hartsinger said, lowering the lantern.

  “Home?” What was the man talking about? What sort of abductor brought his captive home? “You’re taking me to Haldon?”

  Hartsinger giggled. “Of course not, silly girl. I’m taking you to your new home, St. Brigit’s.”

  St. Brigit’s.

  Suddenly, her circumstances didn’t seem surreal at all. Kate’s stories of damsels in distress might have been fiction, but the tales Evie told of sane but inconvenient women being sent to asylums were terrifyingly real.

  Her eyes jumped from one side of the darkened road to the other. She couldn’t outrun a carriage, particularly feeling as dizzy and sick as she did, but if she could dart off the side into the trees, perhaps she could hide….

  “Ah, ah, ah. None of that,” Hartsinger sang, lifting the pistol she’d forgotten he had. “And I shouldn’t bother looking to my driver for help, if I were you.” He jerked his chin toward the shadowy figure pushing the trunk off the side of the road. “I pay him handsomely. Now, into the carriage with you.”