by Sharon Page
“That’s to be determined by the courts, Miss Beddington,” Mick said behind her. “I’m not a Runner, but I have an interest in seeing the murderess of my employer swing.”
“Assuming she is guilty,” Devon coldly pointed out.
Anne didn’t know whether to despair or grasp at faint hope. At least Devon spoke as though he was willing to doubt her guilt. “I am innocent,” she cried. “I had to rescue three young girls from Madame—virgins she was going to sell. She threatened to shoot one of them. To get away, I had to hit her. I meant to hit her arm, so she wouldn’t kill the girl, but I struck her head. Yes, she collapsed, but Mick has told me she was alive.” Her story sounded like a jumbled mess, but she was so desperate to spill it out. It was as though she had only seconds to convince him. “It’s the truth. I did not kill her. Someone else did.” But the more she gasped out protests, the more she feared she sounded guilty.
For an instant there was a stunned silence. Then Ashton began to speak, but Devon held up his hand. At that, all his men steadied their mounts. It was as though they were waiting for him to shout, Charge.
“I don’t give a damn who you are.” How calmly he spoke. But each word vibrated, like a slicing rapier. “You will turn over Cerise—or Miss Beddington, or whatever her name is—now.”
She felt Mick tense behind her. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” Mick protested, “I don’t feel comfortable giving her over to you. How do I know you will hand her over to the magistrate? Seeing as how she’s your mistress—”
“I’m the Duke of March, Taylor. I have no intention of letting you leave with her. Do you understand? Surrendering her now will make this go easier on you.”
Mick’s laugh was harsh and snide. “Considering I’m holding both her and a pistol, Your Grace, I don’t see how you plan to do that.”
Anne felt the end of the weapon slide along her cheek, and she quivered with shock. She knew exactly what Mick was going to do, even before he gave an evil chuckle. “Admittedly, I’ve got only one shot. Not enough to stop your men, but one shot is all that’s needed to mete out justice to a wanted criminal. Back off with your men, Your Grace. I’m not letting this whore get away. She’s mine. If there’s a reward for her capture, I’m getting it.”
Reward? There couldn’t be a reward. She understood what Mick was doing. He had to give a plausible reason for his determination to take her—one that did not involve her cousin Sebastian.
“You are a bloody idiot, Taylor.” This time Ashton snapped at Mick. “Release her.”
Gazing helplessly out at Devon and the other men, Anne gritted her teeth. Would Mick shoot her? She didn’t think he would—if she was dead, what good would she be to Sebastian? Why was her cousin willing to go to such lengths to have her?
This was madness. She couldn’t just sit here, like a sack of potatoes balanced on a horse, her body acting as a shield for Mick. Devon had demanded that his men lower their weapons rather than put her at risk. What was Devon going to do? What could he do?
Devon dismounted with easy grace. That, she hadn’t expected. Resting his hand on his horse’s flank, he shouted, “Taylor, last chance. Let her go.”
Mick’s horse shifted, hooves smacking against the dirt of the track. Devon began to walk toward the sound. Anne’s heart leapt into her throat. She wanted to shout at him to go back, but she couldn’t yell orders at Devon in front of his men and Mick. She should tell him to walk away, keep himself safe, leave her to her fate. But her foolish heart, her fear, wouldn’t let her.
“Stay back, Your Grace,” Mick warned, but his voice rose with nervous uncertainty. He wouldn’t want to shoot her. Dear heaven, he wouldn’t be mad enough to shoot a duke, would he?
For almost five years, she’d kept herself safe by trying to understand Madame and her lackeys, by trying to learn what they would do so she could anticipate rage and violence and avoid it. Would Mick fire a shot at the duke, something to frighten him? He was aiming at Devon, who had now moved out from the line of his servants. But Devon couldn’t see him. He didn’t know the danger. He would not do as Mick expected—
“Your Grace, please don’t come closer,” she cried out. She knew Mick was vicious when thwarted. Once, he had tried to rape one of the girls, and the young woman had scratched him to stop the attack. He had bided his time—then the poor girl was found outside the house, beaten to a pulp. Mick had insisted it was done by a footpad. But all Madame’s girls had guessed the truth.
Devon possessed a calm and confidence that astounded her. But then, he’d run into battle, toward hundreds of men who were firing rifles and cannons at him with the intent to kill.
Mick would not shoot her. She had to break free of this numbing terror and do something. Mick had her body clamped to him, but she had two free hands. She hit out, slamming her right hand into his wrist, trying to jostle the pistol free. With her left hand, she jabbed wildly behind her, praying she could stick her fingers in his eye.
“Bitch,” he barked. He swung his free arm at her flailing hand.
Devon was moving across the black ground for her—his steps fast but uncertain. He had never looked harder or more ruthless. “Taylor!” he shouted.
“The wench is mine, Your Grace, and I’m taking her back to London,” Mick retorted.
Devon’s arm suddenly arced toward them, and he lifted a pistol and trained it on Mick’s head—he must have followed Mick’s voice.
“You wouldn’t dare shoot!” Mick sneered. “You’re blind—you’d hit her by mistake.”
Through the buzzing in her ears, Anne heard Devon issue a curt command, and she felt Mick twist around in panic. Black shapes seemed to ooze from the trees. She saw fists flying—more of Devon’s men. One grabbed for her, pulling hard at her arm, but Mick held her tight. Another came at Mick from the right side, swinging a stick at him like a club. Mick had to let her go to defend himself. He had the pistol but, she realized, he didn’t want to waste the shot.
“Bloody hell,” Mick snapped. “All right, Your Grace, you win this round.”
She was pushed from behind. She slid off the horse, cried out, and fell into a man’s arms—one of Devon’s grooms. The man jerked her quickly away from the horse, away from Mick.
“Where is she?” Devon barked.
“I’ve got her,” the groom answered, though she struggled in his arms like a beached eel. A moment later, Devon’s strong arms plucked her from his groom, hauling her to his chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mick’s horse rear up on its hind legs. Long powerful forelegs pawed through the air, and she was frozen, watching disaster begin to slowly drop, as though magical strings guided the animal’s movement. She would be crushed beneath those hard hooves, and Devon would be too.
She was too stunned to warn him, but a man yelled, “Look out, Your Grace!”
Devon jumped to the right, pulling her with him. He landed on his back, she fell on top of him, and his breath flew over her in a whoosh.
His men were shouting. Devon lifted her off him and leapt to his feet, amazing her. She knew she’d knocked his wind out, yet he seemed unfazed. She had to struggle to get up—until Devon’s hand clamped around her wrist and she was jerked swiftly to her feet.
“Damn it,” spat one of the men. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but he’s run. Once the horse reared, we couldn’t get near him. He must have jerked that animal around in midair.”
“Two of you, go after that man. He threatened me, and I want the truth of what is going on here.”
“I’ll take up the chase,” yelled Lord Ashton. He and a servant spurred their mounts and took off along the track in fierce pursuit of Mick.
“They’re riding too fast,” Anne gasped. “They’ll kill themselves.” Unless Mick fell first. She hoped he did and broke his neck—death was something she would never wish on anyone, but Mick was thoroughly evil.
“They won’t. Ashton is a brilliant rider,” Devon said coolly. “I hope I didn’t frighten you with that pistol. T
aylor was right: I wouldn’t have taken the shot, but I needed to distract him while my other men got in position to attack.”
“It worked!” Her voice shimmered with gratitude, but his face remained hard. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “You rescued me.”
All he said in response was, “Your dress is wet.”
She hadn’t realized her dress was like a cold vise clamped to her body. Obviously she was more soaked than she’d suspected. But when she shivered, it was because of the frostiness she sensed in Devon, not because of her wet clothes. “I fell, trying to cross the stream.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf. We need to get you home, dried, warmed.”
Those words flooded her head. Would he get her dried and warmed to hand her over to the magistrate? Perhaps he would. He had rescued her, yet he sounded so cold.
“Then, I want the truth, Cer—I mean Anne Beddington. Assuming that is your real name.”
“It is,” she answered numbly. The truth. She would give him every single piece of it. But would he believe her?
Chapter Seventeen
UPPING A BRANDY balloon, Anne huddled in Devon’s warm greatcoat, surrounded by the familiar scent of him. They were alone in his study—he had sent his servants away. He had carefully poured the liquor, held it out without a word. When she’d taken it, he sat across from her. She noticed he hadn’t poured any for himself. At least there she’d done some good.
Lifting the glass to her lips, she took a sip. The spirits set a fire in her belly but didn’t ease the icy feeling in her heart—a cold that had nothing to do with her wet dress or the fact that a cool rain was now falling. It reminded her of their first walk outside together, and her chilled heart ached.
Devon must have been listening to the sounds of her swallows and her gasps, for when she stopped, he lifted his head. “You knew the man who captured you?”
Of course his tone would be as cold and foreboding as his expression. “Yes.” She tried to keep her voice steady. She knew Lord Ashton had returned empty-handed. Mick had gotten away. “His name is indeed Mick Taylor. He acted as a kind of bodyguard to my madam, protecting her from irate clients, thieves, and other unsavory characters. Madame was horrible. She was willing to hurt anyone for money, even a young and terrified innocent. She was going to shoot a fourteen-year-old girl. That was why I had to hit her—”
“Shhh. Let’s go about this in order.” Devon leaned back in his chair, his face terribly blank and emotionless. She had told him over and over that she wasn’t a murderess—she was so giddy with relief over it, she couldn’t stop saying it. “Tell me what happened, Cer—” He stopped. “Miss Beddington.”
Finally he revealed an expression. He looked … hurt. She wanted to fall through his floor, ashamed. She felt wretched for lying to him, but she’d had no choice before; she had thought she was guilty. And he was being kind to her: He was listening. “I always planned to escape from the brothel, but I was too much of a coward to do it. I truly did fear what Madame or Mick would do to me if they caught me in the attempt. And Madame did keep us locked up. Like prisoners. Like slaves.”
Devon looked so pained. She knew she was flushing with shame. But he said softly, “I’m sorry you went through that, angel,” and her heart gave a tremendous lurch.
“You were very strong to survive it,” he said. “You told me you had rescued a young girl. I suspect that was what prompted you to finally attack the woman.”
She breathed deeply. “Yes. I overheard Madame—her real name is Mrs. Meadows, but she called herself Madame Sin—instruct Mick Taylor to acquire innocent girls for her. She wanted three and he was to kidnap them. She planned to auction the girls’ virginity. On the night of the kidnappings, I witnessed one being brought into the house. From my window, I saw a black carriage stop in the street by the door. Mick got out carrying a sack—a burlap sack that wriggled. At least, it did until he struck it with his fist.” It still hurt to think of that moment—when she’d realized there had to be a young girl held captive in the sack and that Mick had hit a small defenseless person because he was annoyed by the struggles. She saw, in Devon’s face, answering horror.
“I searched the whole house to try to find the girls. There were rooms in the attic that Madame always kept locked, so I guessed that was their prison.”
“What happened then? Did you confront the woman?”
His voice was now so gentle it eased her nerves. “I didn’t intend to. I knew there was no point. Madame had no conscience at all. My plan was to help the girls escape. I worked with my hairpins for two nights before I figured out how to spring the lock.”
“Bravo,” he said quietly.
“Then I slipped inside the room—” As soon as she had seen the three pairs of frightened eyes, as soon as she’d realized the girls were too frightened to even scream, her thoughts toward Madame had been murderous. But she’d known the best revenge was escape.
“Tell me everything, love.”
His voice was gentle and tempting—it sounded like the voice of a man who would believe her.
“I thought all I would have to do was lead the girls out of the house. But they were so scared they could barely move. The poor things had been beaten to the point that they were almost frozen with fright. I forced them to come with me, but we moved too slowly and Mick caught us before we got out. He dragged us to Madame’s private office.”
Suddenly Devon asked for her glass. She surrendered it and watched as he poured more brandy, using his finger to know when he’d given enough. It gave her time to slow her pounding heart—had he known she needed a few moments?
“Madame was furious. She wanted to terrify the girls and punish me. I was … half mad with rage and fear. There were only the girls and Mick and me in the room with her. I was desperate.”
He held out the glass and she took it. She jumped as her fingers touched his. He let his linger—a gesture of support she savored. She didn’t drink, just cradled the glass. “I insisted she let me take the girls and leave. Madame laughed, and she took a pistol out of a drawer in her desk. She pointed it at one of the girls. She threatened to shoot the child to show the others what would happen if they disobeyed. Her finger went to the trigger, so I—I snatched up her fireplace poker.”
“You hit her to stop her from shooting a child.”
“Yes, I tried to hit her arm so her shot would miss. I put all my strength behind the blow. At the last second she moved toward me and I hit her in the head. It was an accident. It wasn’t what I meant to do at all—”
“Love, you did it to protect a child.”
Love. “I thought Madame was dead. I thought I’d killed her, and I felt … sick. But I had to rescue the girls—I was afraid of what Mick would do. I grabbed the pistol before Mick could get to it. I kept it pointed at him, and I made the girls jump out the window. There was a low roof below us, and they landed there, then slid to the ground. As I pushed the last one outside, Mick lunged at me, but I managed to escape.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“I landed in a heap on the roof. Bruised my knees and jarred my elbows.”
“What did you do then?” He leaned forward. “I have to admit, at this moment, you have my every sympathy.”
Did she? But what did that really mean? That he would help her? Or that it would hurt him when he turned her over to the law? “I stuffed the pistol down my bodice, and I grabbed the girls and ran with them. Mick and some of Madame’s male servants chased us, but we lost them in the stews.” Her voice rose. “But I hadn’t killed Madame. Mick told me that when he caught me in your woods. He told me she was still alive. And he hit Kat badly to learn where I was.”
He stayed silent for a long time, while her heart roared in her ears.
“You got the three girls to safety?”
She blinked. “Yes. I finally made the smallest, Lottie, climb on my back, and I held the other two by their wrists. I got to Kat’s house, then the next day I took the girls to
friends of Kat. Friends who ensured the girls were returned to their home in the country. To pay their way, I gave the girls almost all the money I had saved.”
“Leaving you with almost nothing, which was why you came to me.”
“Yes. When Lord Ashton tried to tempt Kat to ‘heal’ you, as he put it, I could not resist. It meant escape from London. I knew I was suspected of Madame’s murder. I thought I was guilty. Coming to you meant … a roof over my head and safety. But I put Kat at risk.”
“And you say Taylor told you the woman was not killed by your blow.”
“Yes. After weeks of thinking I’d killed her, I really hadn’t!”
He frowned. Of course, she had no proof. Only Mick’s word, and he was gone. And Devon’s next words made her fear he thought she was lying. “Miss Beddington, if you did not kill her, how did your madam end up dead?”
“Someone must have hit her again after I escaped with the girls. Perhaps it was one of the other women in the brothel. It might have been one of the clients. I thought of Mick, but he wouldn’t have any reason to want Madame dead.”
“Are there any men you suspect?”
She desperately tried to think. “I don’t know. When I overheard her talking with Mick, she said she had already told certain gentlemen about her innocents. Maybe one of those men was driven to fury by thwarted lust.”
“I doubt it,” Devon countered gently. “He could have found other young women at another brothel. However, if your madam had already taken money for the girls, that might have enraged a man enough to kill her.” But he frowned, as though he doubted the theory.
Her stomach roiled. Her story sounded implausible: Who would believe she had left the madam alive, then, coincidentally, someone had killed her? Even she found it hard to imagine she was reprieved from the horror of being a murderess.