At the conclusion of the meal, Roscoe suggested that rather than join the ladies in the drawing room the three males should retire to the billiards room. While Henry eagerly seconded the motion and Roderick looked grateful, neither Miranda nor Sarah was keen to allow Roderick out of their sight for too long. In the end, the three younger ladies followed the gentlemen down the long corridor to the billiards room at the end of the west wing.
Roscoe glanced at the windows, uncurtained to the night, then looked at Roderick. His left arm was still in a sling, but he was right-handed; although his progress down the stairs had been slow and heavily assisted by Rawlins, Roderick had otherwise been managing well enough on the single crutch he could properly wield. Roscoe arched his brows. “Are you up for a game?”
Roderick considered, then lightly shrugged. “I’m not sure—let’s try it and see.”
At first, Miranda sat on a bench flanked by Sarah and Edwina; all three watched the play while simultaneously discussing the various forms of gilt invitations. But after one game, when it was clear that by leaning against the table, Roderick could manage creditably well, Henry suggested they join in, making a three-way game of paired partners.
The three ladies exchanged glances, then as one rose to meet the challenge. Edwina paired with Henry, and Sarah with Roderick, leaving Miranda to partner Roscoe.
The resulting game contained more laughter, more jokes and good-natured teasing than any serious intention to win. A delightful and oftimes hilarious hour passed, culminating in the realization that no one had remembered to keep proper score.
While they were all claiming victory, the clocks throughout the house started chiming.
“Eleven o’clock.” Miranda looked at Roderick; so, too, did Sarah. “I’m sure Entwhistle would say you should have retired long since.”
Roderick grinned. “Doubtless he would, but don’t worry.” He reclaimed his crutch. “Mudd and Rawlins will help me upstairs.” He paused, then said, “It would probably be best if you ladies went up first.”
Roscoe crossed to the bellpull. He caught Miranda’s eye as he tugged. “Indeed—you three go up. Henry and I will supervise.”
Realizing that if Roderick’s progress back up the stairs caused him pain he might not want Sarah to see, and that if she didn’t retire, Sarah wouldn’t either, Miranda inclined her head. “Very well.” She glanced at Sarah; Edwina had already moved to the door. “Let’s leave them to it.” Glancing back at the men, she raised a hand in benediction. “Good night.”
They chorused their good nights, and the ladies left. Climbing the stairs with Edwina and Sarah, Miranda wondered how long Roderick’s ascent would take, and how long it would be before Roscoe joined her.
Deftly loading a pistol at the table in the gun room, Roscoe aimed an interrogatory glance at Mudd and Rawlins. “You’re sure they didn’t see you?”
Rawlins shook his head. “Nah—they’re down in that hollow, sitting tight.” He tipped his head to Roderick. “They could see their target large as life, moving around the billiard table. Seems they’ve taken the bait.”
Mudd and Rawlins had picked up Kempsey and Dole’s trail early that morning, when the pair had slunk onto Ridgware lands. Despite their size, Roscoe’s bodyguards were expert trackers, used to slipping through shadows in the lanes and alleys of the capital, yet equally at home in woods or fields. They’d tracked Kempsey and Dole into the woods bordering the gardens on the west side of the mansion, then reported to him, and he’d devised their plan.
“Right, then.” Satisfied with the pistol he’d primed, he handed it to Henry. “You have only one goal—to keep Edwina, your mother, and your grandmother safe. I doubt you’ll need to use that”—he glanced at the pistol Henry was checking—“but carry it just in case. The most important thing is to keep your aunt, your mother, and your grandmother confined to the family wing. If by some chance Kempsey and Dole get free in the house, we don’t want them running into any stray females they might think to use as hostages.”
Henry nodded, grimly determined. “Once they’re in their beds, I’ll sit in the corridor just up from their rooms.”
“Good.” Roscoe looked at Mudd and Rawlins; they were expertly loading the pistols he’d given them earlier. “You know your positions.”
Mudd nodded. “We’ll let them get past us, then close in from behind. Cater’s got the footmen on alert to cordon off the sides of the house once they hear the ruckus, and the stable lads and grooms will do the same, closing in behind us once we move in.”
Roscoe smiled intently. “Once Kempsey and Dole come out of the woods, one way or another, we’ll have them.”
Roderick pocketed the pistol Roscoe had handed him, then grasped his crutch. “I’d better get upstairs and let them see me at the window.”
Roscoe pushed away from the table. “You might need to go out on the balcony, just to make sure.” He opened the door, waited for everyone to file out, then followed.
Henry glanced at him. “Aren’t you going to take a pistol yourself?”
Roscoe’s lips curved predatorially. “Like Kempsey and Dole, I prefer knives.”
Mudd muttered something. Rawlins snorted.
Unperturbed, Roscoe waved Henry on and followed.
Miranda jerked awake to a resounding crash.
She’d leapt from the bed before she realized she’d been alone in it; Roscoe was nowhere to be seen.
Sounds of an altercation echoed through the house—from the direction of Roderick’s room next door.
Hauling her nightgown over her head, she swiped up her robe, flung it on and belted it, grabbed the poker from the fireplace, and rushed to the door. Flinging it open, she raced into the corridor.
The door of Roderick’s room stood open. She dashed in, raising the poker—and came face-to-white-face with Sarah.
“Oh!” Sarah swallowed, then waved at the bed. “He’s not here!”
Lowering the poker, Miranda stared at the bed—pristine, unrumpled.
A muffled thud and a rough oath reached them; she and Sarah looked at each other. “Next room along.” Miranda whirled, but Sarah was faster and shot out of the door first.
On a muttered curse, she followed the younger woman. Sarah had thrown a knitted shawl over her nightgown; the gown flapped like a white flag as Sarah raced down the corridor toward the increasing din, then flung open the next door and ran into the room.
“Aaah!”
The short scream halted Miranda as she reached the doorway. Standing in the shadows, she stared into the room.
Into a scene of pandemonium. She took it all in in a single glance. Ahead and to the left, Roscoe had been fighting with Kempsey, both men brandishing wicked-looking knives. Roderick wasn’t in the bed but sitting on its left side, across the covers holding a menacing Dole at bay with a pistol and one crutch wedged awkwardly under his other arm.
The right side of this room opened onto a balcony, and the French door stood open; that was how Kempsey and Dole had got in. But there was barely any light. There should have been moonlight streaming through the wide windows, but the night had turned cloudy. All the figures in the nightmare scene were nothing more than dense shadows in the dimness.
And Sarah had rushed straight into the fray.
Kempsey had grabbed Sarah and was now using her as a shield. Even as all she’d seen crashed into Miranda’s mind, Kempsey raised his knife’s edge to a panicked Sarah’s throat and growled at Roscoe, “Stand down! Or I’ll cut her.”
Roscoe cursed and eased back.
Kempsey shifted, effortlessly dragging Sarah with him. He looked at the bed. “Put down the pistol.”
Kempsey’s back was to the door.
Miranda raised the poker and rushed in.
Kempsey sensed her coming. He whirled and flung Sarah at her.
Miranda gasped and jerked the poker higher, away from Sarah. The younger woman crashed into her and they fell in a tangle of nightgowns, robe, shawl, and flailing limbs.
>
Curses, both clipped and guttural, fell on her ears, then Kempsey loomed close. One huge, hamlike hand reached for her arm—
Roscoe flung himself at Kempsey, sending the man staggering back from Miranda and Sarah. Regaining his balance, he planted himself between Kempsey and the women, then smiled.
Kempsey roared and rushed him—and at last it was on.
Roscoe was distantly aware of Miranda moving, of her and Sarah scrambling into the corner where he’d been hiding. Good. That left him free to give his full attention to the matter before him. He set out to beat Kempsey, but to keep the man alive.
Kempsey, on the other hand, wanted him dead.
They feinted and clashed, knives slicing, thrusting. In full light, it would have been a deadly game; in the unexpected darkness, even with his eyes fully adjusted, the engagement was lethal madness.
Kempsey wasn’t bad. He was better, but he wanted a certain outcome, was prepared to wait, to sustain the odd nick or slash to get it.
Her heart in her throat, Miranda watched them fight, but then Dole stirred. He eased back, edging not toward Roderick but around the bed toward the knife fight.
“Stay where you are!” Roderick hoarsely ordered.
Dole, his eyes on Roderick, continued to stealthily drift down the bed.
Roderick’s pistol roared.
Clapping a hand to his arm, Dole swore, then he focused on Roderick, snarled, and started toward him.
“No!” Sarah sprang to her feet beside Roderick.
Grimly Roderick switched the pistol into his less useful left hand, and, with his right raised the crutch, jabbing the end at Dole, making him weave.
Putting a hand on the ground to push herself up, Miranda found the second crutch. “Here!” She lifted it.
Sarah grabbed it, then holding the crutch firmly in both hands, she leapt onto the bed alongside Roderick and started raining blows on Dole’s head.
Miranda left her to it. Rising, gripping the poker tightly, she clung to the deep shadows by the wall. Watching Roscoe and Kempsey, she circled, waiting for an opening.
Roscoe seemed intent on drawing Kempsey closer, but the big man fought wary of the wicked-looking knife Roscoe held in his right hand. Then Kempsey abruptly charged, trying to overwhelm Roscoe by sheer weight.
Miranda stepped in, swinging the poker in a sideways slash—just as Kempsey, denied by Roscoe, sprang back. The poker connected with Kempsey’s skull, but in a glancing blow. The big man started to turn toward her.
Stepping closer, Roscoe dropped his knife, grabbed Kempsey’s knife hand, and plowed his fist into Kempsey’s jaw.
Kempsey blinked, dazedly shook his head.
Roscoe hit him again. And finally Kempsey’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled and went down.
Satisfied, Roscoe shot a look at Miranda, but she was standing, both hands still gripping the lowered poker, staring down at Kempsey—as if daring him to try to rise again.
Two burly figures rushed in through the balcony door. They hesitated for only an instant, taking in the scene, then they fell on Dole, still trying to push past the flailing crutches; within seconds the pair had subdued him.
Roscoe looked at the bed, saw Sarah, still balancing on it, lower her impromptu weapon. Inwardly shaking his head, he bent and undid Kempsey’s belt, then heaved the man over and used the belt to cinch his hands.
He glanced over to where Rawlins, watched by Mudd, was performing the same office for Dole. “What the devil took you so long?”
It was Mudd who, after a moment’s hesitation, replied, “You know that trellis we were supposed to climb up?”
“What of it?”
“It broke. Must’ve been weakened by these two scrambling up it. Came down on our heads the instant we tried it. We had to fetch ropes and grapples.”
Roscoe straightened. “The best-laid plans . . . but at least we’ve got them both, and, I think, no harm taken?”
Sarah had collapsed beside Roderick, her head down on her raised knees. Roderick had his arms around her. He quietly asked her if she was all right. She didn’t look up, but her pale head nodded. Roderick looked at Roscoe. “My arm’s sore, but I didn’t take a scratch. You?”
Roscoe checked the sleeve on his left forearm. “My coat took the worst of it. Maybe a scratch or two, nothing of any significance.” He looked at Miranda.
She met his gaze. “Like Sarah. Nothing more than a bruise from when we fell.” Even through the dimness, he saw her frown. “We should clean those scratches.”
He looked down at the figure laid out on the floor between them and felt his face harden. “Later.”
Later, once he’d got the roiling—whatever it was evoked by seeing Kempsey go after her—under some semblance of control.
“Let’s get these two into appropriate accommodations.” Going to the door, he opened it and looked out. “Cater?”
“Here, my lord.” Apprised of their plan, the butler had remained on duty throughout.
“Did His Grace have any trouble?”
“Not as such, my lord. The dowager’s and duchess’s apartments were too distant from the noise. They weren’t disturbed. Lady Edwina did come out, but His Grace persuaded her that you had the matter in hand and would not appreciate her interference. She subsequently retreated.”
“Excellent. Please tell His Grace that the excitement is over, and that he may now retire in good order.”
“Yes, my lord. Do you wish the miscreants to be locked in the cellar?”
“No.” Roscoe turned to see Rawlins forcibly steering Dole to the door. Mudd bent and hoisted Kempsey, still unconscious, over one shoulder. “The storeroom off the stable has been prepared to receive them—they can cool their heels in there.”
“Very good, my lord. I will convey your message to His Grace.” Cater bowed and withdrew.
Roscoe held the door for Rawlins and Dole to pass through, followed by Mudd lugging Kempsey’s unconscious form.
Roscoe glanced at Roderick and Sarah. Both were on their feet, although who was supporting whom he couldn’t have said. Miranda was watching the pair, too. She hesitated, but didn’t cross to help her brother.
Reaching out, Roscoe caught her hand, drew her to him, then steered her out of the door.
She sighed. Poker swinging by her side, her other hand locked in his, she walked beside him back along the corridor, past the open door of Roderick’s room and on to the door of hers.
Behind them, they heard Sarah and Roderick go into Roderick’s room. The door didn’t close, but Roscoe had other things on his mind than helping Roderick into bed. Sarah would manage that well enough.
The tension inside him had subsided somewhat, yet it was still there, simmering beneath his surface. It wasn’t going to simply fade away, not anytime soon, not while he could remember that moment when, poker raised, Miranda had rushed into the dim room. The image was indelibly imprinted on his brain, along with the impossibly sharp spike of raw fear it had evoked.
Lips tightening, he set her door swinging open, followed her through, pushed the door closed behind him, then with his grip on her hand, he pulled her back, swinging around so that she landed with a soft “oof” with her back to the door and him directly before her. Holding her there. Trapping her there.
The poker clattered to the floor.
Her hands rising to his chest, she blinked at him, eyes wide, but calm assurance and clearheaded certainty were paramount in her expression.
He trapped and held her gaze, for a long moment let the tension thrum between them, then quietly said, “Don’t ever rush into a fight like that again.”
His tone was flat, unequivocal, an order—a warning—laced with command.
Her brows faintly arched. Her gaze didn’t shift from his. “Don’t get into a fight like that again, and I promise you I won’t.”
He narrowed his eyes, but her resolution didn’t waver; if anything, her chin firmed. “Idiotic woman.” His gaze lowered, fastened on her lips.
“Irritating man.”
A heartbeat passed.
They moved.
His head swooped, she stretched up and their lips clashed in a kiss so ferocious, so greedy, so demanding and ravenous that it stole his breath.
Passion ignited. It didn’t burn—it blazed.
His hands raced over her, sculpting, shaping, caressing.
He found the tie of her robe, yanked it free. She shrugged the garment off and flung herself at him.
His fingers brushed buttons, fumbled as, driven by desperation, he undid them. He heard something rip.
She didn’t seem to care. She wriggled free of the nightgown, wrapped bare arms around his neck and kissed him as if she would devour him.
Then she fell on his clothes with the frantic ardor of a dervish.
Shedding garments, they swept across the room to the bed.
Naked at last, he took her down to the mattress. They sank together, bodies molding, melding. She wrapped her arms around him, arching to press her breasts against his chest, her legs wantonly tangling with his.
He took her mouth, plunged them both back into the wild kiss, and let passion and desire reign.
Her hands spread and seared him, stroked and drove him.
He drew her close, with a single thrust joined with her, and together, tongues tangling, fingers twining, they dropped the reins.
And let the flames have them.
Bodies desperately merging to an escalating beat, they let passion catch them, infuse them, and whip them ever on.
Celebrating the victory.
Exorcising the fear.
Glorying in their mad triumph over both.
The end, when it came—when it rose up and crashed over them—was cataclysmic. It shook him to his soul.
Shook him to see, to register and note how tightly she held him.
How compulsively, desperately, and unrelentingly he held on to her.
“Attempting to kill someone in a ducal house is a sure path to the gallows.” Placing a chair with its back to Kempsey and Dole, who were perched on milking stools in the storeroom off the stable with their hands tied behind their backs, Roscoe straddled the chair and, folding his arms over the chair’s back, regarded his prisoners with nothing more enervating than mild curiosity.
The Lady Risks All Page 29