“She arrived here with a black eye,” he admitted grimly.
Ambrosia shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Dalrymple’s hardly known for his even temper.”
Julian vowed to punch the man in the face should he ever have the opportunity. Several times.
“What shall you do, then, my lady? I can’t see you moldering out here in the country for long.”
Lady Ambrosia gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about me. One of the few things my father and I have in common is our ruthlessness in getting what we want.”
Oh, he’d definitely underestimated her. “And what is that?”
She smiled at him cryptically. “I believe our business with each other is done, Mr. Hirst.”
“And just when I was beginning to rather like you.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him and then continued on her way, never looking back.
He turned into the morning breeze, closed his eyes and laughed, feeling lighter than he had in years as he let himself shed the last of Kildale’s taint from his shoulders. How quickly things could change. Years spent plotting the ultimate retribution had been undone in just a few days by a lying little baggage in a pair of ridiculous boots. He hoped he was not too late…
“Mr. Hirst! Julian!”
It was as if his thoughts had conjured her up. He could have sworn it was Fawkes’ voice, but surely she and Sir Wesley were on the road to Rylestone Green by now, after his behavior yesterday.
He had to be hearing things.
Head spinning, he strode past yellow camellias and crushed rose bushes, hardly daring to hope.
“Julian!”
The voice was closer now, even more real, and unmistakably Fawkes’. He wasn’t imagining it.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to the sight of golden curls and wide cornflower blue eyes staring up at him. He’d never been so glad to see someone in all of his days. He only barely restrained himself from embracing her.
“Fawkes…thank God it’s you.”
She gave him a confused look, clearly not expecting such a reaction. “Of course it’s me,” she said, though something was off about her. Her voice was too high, and her eyes were too big. Too blue—too transparent. She was no longer even attempting to hide herself.
“You’re not wearing your spectacles.” He blamed such a complete and utter inanity on the emotional whirlwind of the last twelve hours. He may have had an unusually expansive brainbox, but even it had its limits.
She gave him a strange, determined look that Julian couldn’t decipher. “No. They’re not mine, anyway.”
Of course they weren’t. He doubted a stitch of her attire belonged to her. And that was certainly an interesting avenue of speculation, imagining what, if anything, she’d be wearing if all of her borrowed feathers were stripped away.
He shook his head and tried to focus. Fawkes was here. She’d not yet left him, and Julian was torn between crushing her to his chest in an embarrassing display of sentiment, and falling to his knees and…crushing her to his chest in an embarrassing display of sentiment.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded instead, his voice sounding unintentionally gruff.
The light in her eyes dimmed at his tone, as if Julian had crushed something vital inside of her, but her determination never wavered. “It’s lovely to see you, too,” she retorted with a bit of her usual fire.
“I thought you’d gone,” Julian said stupidly, for it was the only thing he seemed to be able to focus on. “Why aren’t you gone?”
Fawkes scowled at him. “I’ll be gone soon enough, don’t worry,” she said tersely.
He winced. He was coming off like a complete arse. “That’s not…”
She talked over him, clearly unwilling to listen to anything he had to say. He could hardly blame her. “I found something you should know about.” She held out her palm, revealing an oversized brass button embossed with a fox’s head. It was exactly the gaudy type his man-of-affairs sported on his ill-tailored jackets. It glinted dully in the sunlight.
“It’s a button,” he said dumbly, completely thrown.
Fawkes looked increasingly frustrated. “Don’t you recognize it?”
Of course he recognized it. “Well, it looks like one of Bones’ buttons,” he said testily. “Obviously. No one else would wear something so hideous.”
“It is one of Bones’ buttons,” Fawkes confirmed. “I found it in the basket of the charlière, and it reminded me of that night we stayed at the inn.”
He froze, remembering a tangle of bedsheets, the warm, heavy weight of her head in his lap, and the revelation of her body, curving gently beneath her lawn shirt. And that led to him thinking about the day before, when he’d felt her warm and firm beneath him, the feel of her clasped around him, and how he’d never wanted to let her go.
How he’d done so anyway…
“What about that night?”
Fawkes gave him an impatient look. “The night someone lured you out to the balloon and coshed me on the head? What do you think I was talking about?”
Julian wisely decided to keep his mouth shut, since he was obviously not clear-headed enough to follow anything she was saying.
“The point is,” she continued, exasperated, “I thought it was the marquess who was trying to kill you, but it wasn’t. It was Mr. Bonnet.”
The words didn’t penetrate Julian’s thick skull for several long moments. When they finally did, he knew he was definitely hallucinating.
“Did you just say that Mr. Bonnet tried to kill me? Bones?”
“Yes,” Fawkes said, looking pained. “It’s been Mr. Bonnet all along. I’m sure of it. Not just with the charlière, but at the picnic, and in the workshop.”
Julian couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. “You’re mistaken,” he said. “Not Bones. He’s my oldest friend. You’re wrong.”
Fawkes’ expression turned pitying, and Julian could hardly bear to look at it. “I’m not wrong. Julian…”
“No!” he shouted, cutting Fawkes off. He couldn’t listen to this, and he had to get away, something dark and slithering and suffocating rising up from inside of him. “No. Why should I believe you? When all you’ve done since the day you arrived here is lie to me?”
Fawkes’ expression crumbled. “What?”
He regretted his words the moment they’d left his mouth. Where that burst of vitriol had come from, he couldn’t quite say, when just seconds before he’d been so happy to see her. He supposed he didn’t know how much he’d resented her lies, her inability to trust him with the truth, until that moment.
Though what had he done to deserve her trust, really?
This wasn’t going at all as he’d wanted.
But that she should accuse Bones, the only person on earth who’d stuck with him through thick and thin, from the stews of London to the arse-end of Yorkshire…
It was too much. Though just as soon as his disbelief faded, the doubts began to set in.
“No, it’s not true,” he said, weaker now.
“‘Fraid it is, Jules,” came a rueful, horribly familiar voice from behind him. Julian turned around reluctantly, and watched as Bones stepped out of the shrubbery, the metal barrel of a pistol pointed straight at him.
That dark, vile thing slithering inside Julian threatened to take over completely. He tried to ignore it. He tried to pretend it wasn’t real. He didn’t want it to be real. Then he’d have to acknowledge that this was happening at all.
“Bones,” he said, his voice shaking. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Exactly what I must,” Bones said, his voice harsh, uncompromising. Julian hadn’t heard that voice since their darkest days in St. Giles. “You’ve given me no choice, Jules. Yer so determined to throw away everything we’ve worked for on a bloody cove like Kildale. But I couldn’t let ya.”
“Let me? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He’s talking about your fortune—he wants it all,” F
awkes said, her expression grim.
Bones’ mouth twisted into a snarl. “Aye,” he conceded. “Had to do something before you leg-shackled yerself to that fancy bit o’ skirt.”
Julian understood at last, and an incredible weariness settled over his shoulders as the poisonous maelstrom inside of him gripped hold of his heart—what was left of his heart, anyway. He’d not seen this coming at all, too caught up in his own schemes to notice anything else. He probably should have.
“You wanted to kill me before I marry so that you’ll inherit it all,” he said.
“Shoulda done it months ago, when you started spending more time on yer bloody plans for Kildale than on yer work.”
“Why didn’t you, then?” he demanded bitterly.
“The engine,” Bones said, as if it should have been obvious. “I were waiting for you to bloody well finish the damn thing. I wanted the patent afore I sent you on yer way.”
Everything was starting to make sense now. “You sabotaged my engine.”
“For someone so bloody clever, it sure took you long enough,” Bones sneered, cocking his gun.
But Julian wasn’t through. “Because you thought I was going to marry Ambrosia,” he said, and laughed. Then he laughed some more. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and both Bones and Fawkes were staring at him as if he’d grown two heads.
It would be hilarious if it weren’t so bloody tragic. His stupid little joke had cost him his best friend…or perhaps it had merely revealed Bones’ true nature. Either way, Julian had lost him.
Bones lowered his pistol in bewilderment at the outburst. “What’s so damn funny?” he demanded, scowling even more.
“You bloody fool,” Julian said acidly. “I never meant to marry Lady Ambrosia.”
Bones swallowed heavily, his shoulders sagging. “Wot?”
“I never told you I would marry her. You just assumed, and I never corrected you.”
“Wot!” Bones looked almost comically confused now.
“I’m not marrying her,” he said with a malicious grin. “My intentions were never so noble. I wanted to seduce and ruin her, not marry her. Where you got such a notion, after knowing me for a lifetime, I don’t know.”
Bones’ confusion was slowly transforming into a simmering rage. “You let me believe…”
“I let you believe it, because I thought it was amusing, for once, to have fooled you.”
“Not so amusing now, I’d reckon,” Bones said, pointing the pistol back at Julian’s chest.
“No, it’s still rather amusing.” Julian’s sense of humor had always been dark. “All of that effort for naught. And even if you had managed to kill me, you still wouldn’t have seen a farthing of my fortune.”
“I was there when you wrote your will, Jules. I know what it said.”
“That was ages ago. You think I haven’t changed it since then?”
Bones’ face flushed with an angry heat, his grip on the gun tightening so hard his whole arm began to tremble. “Yer lying,” he sneered.
He wasn’t, and Bones must have seen the truth of it in his expression, for those dark, familiar eyes widened in outrage.
“What did you do?” Bones thundered.
Julian grinned, for Bones was really going to hate what he said next.
“I’ve willed it all to charity.”
“Wot.” Bones’ voice was flat with disbelief.
“Every last penny,” he said with relish.
“Yer ‘avin’ me on,” Bones breathed.
Perhaps Julian really had gone insane, for he couldn’t seem to do anything but laugh, even with the threat of death so close at hand. “Charity schools. Scholarships. Grants. I’m even going to fund a bloody hospital in St. Giles.”
“Why you…you…”
“None of my fortune would have ever been yours,” Julian finished, “and you would have destroyed your own livelihood entirely by killing me. I’ve always told you to leave the thinking to me, Bones. You’re rubbish at it.”
Bones’ expression darkened further. “Bastard!” he hissed.
“Pot and kettle, mate,” he said mildly, though inwardly, Bones’ betrayal felt as if he’d already been shot through the heart. He couldn’t see how a real bullet could feel any worse. “You should have asked and saved us the trouble. If you needed blunt, I would have given it to you.”
“Always on your terms,” Bones cried. “I deserved more. I always deserved more. You never would ‘ave made it out of the stews wivout me!”
Julian looked at his friend sadly. “Possibly.”
“I can’t let you live now,” Bones said, his expression desperate, once more cocking his gun and aiming before he’d even finished speaking.
“No!” Fawkes cried, hurling herself at Julian’s back and shoving him out of the way the same moment the pistol exploded.
Julian stumbled and spun around in disbelief. He’d almost forgotten Fawkes was there at all. How had he forgotten? He was just in time to watch Fawkes’ expression crumble with agony, her hands clutching at her side. She fell to her knees with a cry, and when she lifted one of her hands from her side, it was covered in something dark and wet.
Blood.
Julian could taste the metallic bite of Fawkes’ blood in the air, alongside the stink of gunpowder, and something snapped inside of him, a haze as red as Fawkes’ spilled blood falling over his eyes. With an animalistic cry, he charged toward Bones, who was staring at Fawkes’ crumpled form in shock.
Julian took the other man to the ground easily enough, knocking the smoldering pistol into the neighboring shrubbery. Bones was so caught off guard that he could only stare up at Julian in stunned surprise. He was so firmly trapped beneath Julian’s weight he didn’t even bother trying to fight back.
Then Julian started punching him. And punching him some more. On the second or third blow, he could feel Bones’ nose break against his knuckles, could hear the sickening crunch of his cheekbone echoing in his ears beyond his own angry growls.
He lost count after that, aware of little else beyond the satisfaction of landing each blow and the blood-red rage that engulfed him. He could see nothing but Fawkes falling to her knees, blood on her hands, playing over and over in his mind, the look of hatred in Bones’ eyes as he pulled the trigger. He wanted Bones to feel the same pain he felt, though he wondered if it would ever be enough.
Then suddenly he was aware of arms pulling at him and voices calling his name. Someone was grabbing him around the waist and hauling him off Bones, dragging him back through the dirt. The rage began to subside, and he came back to himself just enough to see Sir Wesley and Pilby staring down at him. Both men looked shaken.
“That’s enough, old boy,” Sir Wesley said sternly. “Any more, you’ll kill him.”
Chest heaving, he glared at Bones’ prone, still form lying a few feet away from him. “That was the idea,” he growled.
Sir Wesley glanced around the garden. “We heard a gunshot. Where is my…where is Davina?” he asked. “She came out here to find you.”
Julian’s stomach sank to his toes as his wits returned. Damn it all to bloody hell.
He pushed Sir Wesley away and scrambled toward the shrubbery where Fawkes had fallen, castigating himself the entire time. What had he been doing, taking his rage out on Bones, when Fawkes was lying there, alone and injured? What was he thinking? He’d done nothing but fail her, over and over again, in the past twenty-four hours.
He fell to his knees next to her, and his eyes had hazed over again, but it wasn’t rage any more. When something hot and wet began to drip down his nose, he realized he was crying. If Fawkes was dead…
But she couldn’t be. Julian wouldn’t allow it. He ripped Fawkes’ cravat away and felt for a pulse at her neck. He was so relieved to feel one that he whimpered and gathered the little fool’s limp body into his arms. Not dead, then, though she was so cold and pale that Julian could almost believe otherwise.
Sir Wesley rushed to thei
r side, stricken. “Oh, God! What’s happened?” he cried, reaching for his sister.
Julian only barely restrained himself from growling at the man. He didn’t want anyone touching Fawkes but himself, a feeling of possessiveness unlike any he’d ever felt gripping him.
“Gunshot,” he said gruffly. It took everything in him to release Fawkes from his embrace and lay her down on the ground once again. He had no time for possessiveness, not when she could be bleeding out. He began fumbling at Fawkes’ jacket buttons.
“Gunshot!” Sir Wesley cried in disbelief. “What do you mean, gunshot!”
“In the side,” he bit out, shoving the jacket out of the way and starting in on the waistcoat. Damn her ridiculous layers.
“Oh, God!” Sir Wesley said, his face pale as a ghost. “What was I thinking letting her come back here!”
Julian ignored the baronet’s hysterics and continued his grim task. He could feel the blood, warm and sticky on his fingers, as he pushed aside the waistcoat and began to jerk at the lawn shirt underneath. The delicate linen gave way easily, and he was reminded of just yesterday, when he was doing the same thing, but for a very different reason.
His hands faltered at the memory, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his paralyzing regret away. What had he been thinking?
He resumed stripping away the layers of linen and found a small graze about two inches long that ran down the left side of Fawkes’ lean ribcage, leaking a steady stream of blood. It looked worse than it was, merely a flesh wound after all, though it had probably been enough of a shock to Fawkes’ system to knock her out.
He pulled the scraps that remained of Fawkes’ clothing over the wound, and buried his head against her shoulder, the relief washing over him in waves so profound they left him gasping for air.
He felt a touch to his shoulder, and he sat up just enough to see Sir Wesley, staring worriedly down at his sister. “Is she…is it…”
“A surface wound. She’ll live,” he whispered.
“Oh, thank God,” Sir Wesley breathed.
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 25