A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  “Here, hold the mongrel.” Lord Neville thrust the leash at Greengrass.

  “Genevieve, don’t do this.” Richard shifted to stop her approaching Lord Neville.

  Evading him, she fumbled in her pocket. When all was said and done, the jewel was only metal and glass. It wasn’t worth blood. “I have to.”

  “I knew you were a sensible woman.” With sickening greed, Lord Neville’s eyes fastened on the object in her palm.

  “You won’t have it for long,” she retorted. “I’ll report the theft.”

  He sniffed contemptuously. “I’m a Fairbrother. Nobody will believe I stole it.”

  “They will when you display your ill-gotten gains.”

  “You mistake the collector’s passion. The joy is in ownership.” He grabbed the jewel as if afraid she still meant to keep it. “This perfect object belongs with me. Unlike its slut of a custodian.”

  “Mind your tongue, sir,” Richard said sharply, shifting toward Genevieve. His protection sparked a tiny ember of warmth, even in this fraught moment. “Last night you wanted to marry the lady.”

  “Marry that round-heeled trull?” Lord Neville’s eyes glittered with malice, while Greengrass’s snicker made her gorge rise. “The trollop fucked a scoundrel instead of accepting my honorable offer.”

  “Abduction and assault don’t count as an honorable offer,” she snapped, even as shame speared her.

  Lord Neville’s expression settled into a smugness that made her wish she’d clawed his eyes out, not merely bloodied his cheek. “It’s more of a proposal than you’ve received from this knave, I’ll warrant.”

  Her heart leaped to think that Richard might claim her. Although surely the magnificent Sir Richard Harmsworth would never stoop to wed a dowdy vicar’s daughter with an unfeminine interest in people dead before 1600.

  “Enough.” Richard’s voice was a whiplash. “You’ve got the jewel. I want my dog and I want you away from Little Derrick.”

  Genevieve’s surge of illogical, irresistible hope shriveled. How stupid to expect a declaration. Especially at such a time.

  Mesmerized, Lord Neville studied the jewel. “It’s exquisite.”

  “A fine example,” she said coldly.

  He looked up, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Better you’d taken the money.”

  She ignored his jeering. “Untie Sirius and let us go.”

  Lord Neville’s hand closed around the jewel. “That’s not convenient.”

  “Not convenient?” A quick glance at Richard revealed no shock on his face. He’d expected double dealing. She was a fool that she hadn’t.

  Suddenly Lord Neville’s cool response to her threats of exposure struck her as ominous. Fairbrother or not, if she alerted the law, he couldn’t be sure of emerging with reputation intact. A premonition of disaster pressed down and she edged closer to Richard.

  “As you pointed out, you and your lover can cause me a deal of trouble. Easier by far to dispose of you.”

  “What… what do you mean?” she asked shakily. Richard’s hand gripped hers. While she knew he couldn’t save them, the contact was welcome.

  “Genevieve, Genevieve, I really will consider your cleverness overrated if you can’t work out that it’s better for me if you two are dead.”

  “You mean to kill us?”

  Disbelief overwhelmed her. She realized that Lord Neville was base. Good heavens, hadn’t he attacked her last night? But staring into his self-satisfied face, she couldn’t help remembering how he’d been a guest in her house, eaten at her table, praised her work. The idea that someone she knew planned to shoot her left her staggering.

  “Not in so many words.” He waved the gun at them. “If you please?”

  Richard’s hold firmed in silent reassurance. Because she couldn’t think how to defy the fate bearing down upon them, she walked with him toward the chapel’s east end. Ahead rose empty stone tracery that had once contained glorious stained glass.

  Genevieve stopped, astonished. The stone altar, worn and covered in lichen, had shifted to reveal a gaping hole beneath.

  “Move.” Lord Neville’s gun poked her in the kidneys.

  “How—”

  “You never guessed that the altar covered the crypt’s entrance, did you?” he scoffed. “I found the abbey papers in my nephew’s library.”

  “You’re not going to shoot us?” Richard asked steadily.

  Lord Neville shook his head. “Too quick and easy. The altar can only be moved from above. Once down there, you’re caged like rats until you starve or suffocate.”

  “People will look for us.” Blind terror overcame Genevieve at the prospect of being buried alive.

  Lord Neville smiled. “No, they won’t. You two are the talk of the village. When I announce that I saw you eloping on the north road, nobody will doubt my story.”

  “Aye.” Greengrass dragged a stiff-legged Sirius toward the crypt. “Every bugger knows you’re gagging for it.”

  Genevieve muffled a sound of distress. Lying in Richard’s arms, she’d felt brave and strong. Listening to Lord Neville and Greengrass, she felt dirty.

  “You have no need to be ashamed, Genevieve,” Richard said softly.

  But the truth was that she did. She’d given herself to a man outside wedlock. She’d die at Lord Neville’s hands with that stain on her name.

  Pride bolstered failing defiance. “I regret nothing.”

  Lord Neville laughed. “You will before you’re done.”

  “What about Sirius?” Richard asked.

  Lord Neville shrugged. “I could shoot him here. Seems kinder.”

  “Don’t,” Richard snapped.

  “For you, dear sir, I make the concession.” He pointed the gun toward the descending staircase. “Pray take your places.”

  As if his thoughts were written on a parchment, she watched Richard consider throwing himself at Lord Neville. But with him unarmed, Genevieve’s presence made heroics too risky. Again she berated herself for following him.

  With a grace that made her heart dip in admiration, he stepped over the stone rim and onto the descending staircase. As calmly as if he asked her to dance, he extended his hand. “Come, Genevieve.”

  “With pleasure,” she responded steadily.

  Surprisingly she meant it. While her response to Lord Neville had been pure bravado, she realized that at this moment, she didn’t regret a second of what she’d done with Richard. She’d acted out of love.

  There were worse epitaphs.

  Perhaps they’d win through. It was impossible to see Richard standing tall and steadfast, staring at her as if she carried the moon in her hands, and accept that Lord Neville had prevailed.

  No, they weren’t beaten yet. And something in Richard’s eyes told her that right now, he considered her the best companion a man could have in adversity. His unconditional belief made her straighten and step forward. She couldn’t disappoint him by playing the coward.

  His hand closed around hers and he helped her onto the worn stone steps, letting her enter the crypt first. She had a second to take in a cavernous space lined with stone tombs. Then with a scrabble of paws, Sirius tumbled after her.

  “I wish you peaceful rest,” Lord Neville taunted from above.

  The sharp report of a pistol made her jump. Greengrass marking his triumph, she guessed. With a loud scrape, the stone shifted, narrowing the light to nothing. Thick darkness slammed down, heavy with the stink of dust and ancient misery.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Above them, warm autumn lingered. Down here in the dark, it was permanent winter. From the base of the stairs, Genevieve heard Richard murmuring reassurance to a whimpering Sirius. The mere sound of his voice rescued her plummeting spirits. Her crippling horror of suffocation receded. Panic constricted her lungs, not lack of air.

  She fumbled toward the nearest tomb. The stone she sat on was cold and she shifted, seeking a more forgiving position. There wasn’t one. The blackness seemed infinite, be
yond possibility of light, like a living, malevolent entity. Something brushed her nape and she shivered. It was probably only a stray drift of air, but she felt as jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm. She was a scholar and a skeptic, yet in this charnel house, malicious ghosts seemed to ogle her.

  She shuddered. She didn’t want to die in the cold and dark.

  “I sent George to the duke with a note.” Guilt stabbed her anew. She shouldn’t have come. Alone, Richard might have escaped.

  “Cam will look for us, then.” His voice sounded odd. Thin. A trick of acoustics, she supposed.

  But the duke didn’t know about the crypt beneath the altar. Nobody did. Fear wedged in her belly, along with bleak awareness that this underground chamber would likely become their grave. Air seemed short again.

  She shook her head to banish discomfiting thoughts and fiddled in her pocket. Within moments, frail light bloomed. Choking dread receded into the endless emptiness surrounding them.

  “Good God, Genevieve. You’re an enchantress indeed.”

  She smiled at Richard where he kneeled on the stairs. “I always carry candles and a tinderbox in my pinafore.”

  “For exploring underground passages?”

  She struggled to pretend that this was a normal conversation in normal circumstances. “You’d be astonished how often I need light. I do practical research as well as read musty documents, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon, Madam Adventurer.”

  She rose and approached Richard, who struggled to remove Sirius’s bonds. One of Richard’s elegant hands smoothed the tangled fur, calming the shivering dog. He’d succeed, she knew. Richard Harmsworth’s touch held magic.

  “Madam Adventurer has a knife. Would you like it?”

  His gallant smile set her heart thumping with love and crazy hope that they’d survive. “If you’ve got a knife, I’ll ask you to marry me.”

  She ignored his teasing. Odd to recall that mere minutes ago, she’d regretted the lack of a proposal. Right now, all that mattered was that they were alive. And together. She dug into a pocket. “Here.”

  As he reached out, she caught his swiftly concealed wince. “Richard, what is it?”

  Fear banished fragile optimism. Her gorge rose as she recalled the gunshot. Trembling, she lifted the candle. In the uncertain light, a patch shimmered wet on his black sleeve.

  Nausea tightened her throat. When her lungs began to ache, she realized she’d drawn a breath and never released it. It hurt to exhale. “Dear God, you’re bleeding.”

  “Greengrass holds a grudge.” His drawn face contradicted his casual tone.

  “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something?” Anguished concern sharpened her question. Her hand shook so violently that the candle flared wildly, sending shadows hopping over the walls.

  “I was being heroic.”

  His humor fell flat. “Idiotic, more like.” On legs that threatened to collapse, she stepped closer. She reined in her futile need to rage at him. “Take your coat off.”

  He sawed at the rope muzzle. “Let me see to Sirius first.”

  “Men!” she snarled, snatching the knife and kneeling on the steps. The twine was thick, but eventually Sirius was free. He whined again and huddled into his master. Candlelight revealed blood caked around his mouth.

  “Poor boy,” she murmured, stroking his brindle back. He butted her with his head. “Poor old fellow.”

  Fortifying courage with anger, she turned to Richard. “I’d like to slap you,” she said conversationally, placing the candle on a higher step to illuminate his wound.

  “You can’t hit an injured man.”

  “Which doesn’t stop me wanting to.” Still, her hands shook and sweaty palms threatened her grip on the knife. She firmed her hold and stretched his coat sleeve tight. She stuck the knife into the sodden material. “Don’t move.”

  “What in Hades are you doing?” He jerked away, then hissed as the movement jarred his wound.

  “I need to see how badly you’re injured.”

  “I could take it off.”

  “Won’t that hurt?”

  “I can bear it.”

  “I’m not sure I can.” She gritted her teeth. The wool parted under the blade. Sirius, bored with the lack of attention, wandered into the darkness.

  “You must meet my tailor.” Richard’s sangfroid was unconvincing.

  She hardly listened. Her jaw ached with clenching and the rusty stench of blood made her feel sick. “Why?”

  “By the time you’re finished, I won’t have a decent coat left. He’ll be in work for decades.”

  She didn’t bother pointing out the odds against Richard escaping to need new clothes. “You were always overdressed for the country.”

  “By Gad, I wasn’t!” He sounded mortally offended. “I always look comme il faut.”

  “In Belgravia, maybe.” A hard tug ripped the sleeve away. His stifled groan resounded in her bones.

  “Genevieve?” he asked with no hint of teasing. “Genevieve, speak to me.”

  She made herself glance up from the saturated mess of his shirtsleeve. While all she saw was blood, blood everywhere.

  “Take a deep breath and listen. It’s only a nick.”

  Vaguely she was aware that she should reassure him, not the other way around. “How can you tell?” she asked thickly, her vision flooded with red. She struggled to focus on his face.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. The bullet didn’t stay in the wound.”

  She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry.

  She cried.

  “Darling—” He stretched out his good arm and curled her against his chest. For one weak moment, she rested there. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat with ineffable life, welcome proof that he wasn’t at death’s door.

  She sniffed and without success, tried to sit up. “I have to clean your wound. Stitch it.”

  “To Hades with that idea. My social credit would never survive a pregnant elephant etched into my hide.”

  Laughter bubbled up, uncertain, unsteady, but restoring as a day at the seaside. His embrace was strong and sure. When he held her, she couldn’t believe that they’d die without seeing the sun again.

  She hid her face against him and struggled for composure. There was a miraculous hollow between his chin and shoulder perfectly shaped for her. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s a peony.”

  Steeling herself, she straightened and shifted to his wounded side. This time, she handled his arm without swooning. Ruthlessly she tore his shirtsleeve off.

  “Oh.” She swallowed the bile stinging her throat.

  “Is it that bad?” He watched her with an unquestioning trust that she didn’t deserve.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Like the devil.” Her jostling, necessary as it was, left him ashen.

  “If you faint, I’ll kill you,” she said grimly. She eased away the tattered remnants of coat and shirt.

  His lips, white with pain, stretched in a travesty of his usual grin. “Warning noted.”

  Using his shirt, she cleaned the wound. What she’d give for a bowl of warm water and some soap. What she’d give to be back in her parlor, battling to keep Richard Harmsworth from guessing that he attracted her like a magnet attracted iron filings.

  “Will I live?” he asked after a long silence.

  Would either of them live? Right now it seemed unlikely. But she took a lesson from him and answered with fabricated confidence. Not about his wound—he was right, and lucky; the bullet had merely grazed him. Despite the copious blood loss, she found no major damage. “You’ll be dazzling the debutantes in no time.”

  This time his smile was a little more convincing, although she couldn’t deceive herself about his discomfort. “My days of dazzling debutantes are over.”

  Ignoring his banter, she bent to inspect the wound. Now she’d cleaned the injury, she saw a long gash along the outside of his upper arm. At least it had stopped bleeding. She ca
st away the filthy shirt. “A new coat or two and you’ll be your irritating self again.”

  She ripped the dirty hem from her petticoat and discarded it. She tore off a cleaner strip and wrapped it securely around Richard’s arm.

  “I’ll owe you some new undergarments,” he mumbled. He’d been stoic through the agonizing process, but the thready note in his voice indicated that his endurance faded.

  She made herself smile. “More than one set.”

  “Brazen wench.”

  “That’s me,” she said lightly, even as apprehension gripped her. Given the blood he’d lost, she was surprised he’d stayed so chipper for so long. Now exhaustion shadowed his features. Suffering pared him down, made him much more like a regular mortal.

  She tied the bandage as firmly as she could. “There’s a comfortable tomb waiting. If you promise not to snore, I’m prepared to offer my shoulder as a pillow.”

  “I’d be honored.” For once, he didn’t sound like he joked. Another sign of failing stamina.

  She rose and gently helped him up. For one frightening moment, he staggered. Then he found his feet and covered the short distance. He couldn’t hide his weariness when he slumped to the ground, leaning heavily against the carved tomb.

  Oh, Richard. Compassion squeezed her heart as she slid down beside him. She’d give anything to relieve his pain. But there was nothing she could do.

  Except perhaps one thing.

  Carefully she drew his ruffled head to her breast. Tearful gratitude thickened her throat when within minutes he sank into sleep.

  “What the devil—”

  Richard stirred in thick darkness. He was cold and sore and his arm throbbed like a drum. Yet well-being outweighed every other sensation.

  “It’s all right,” a beloved voice murmured and he remembered. The clash with Fairbrother. The gunshot. Being trapped in this pit with Genevieve.

  Genevieve who embraced him with a tenderness that banished the chill.

  “Did the candle burn out?” He wasn’t a fanciful man, but the air in this crypt oozed wretchedness. The prospect of perishing here with no glimmer of light was grim.

  “No. But I only have two. Better to save them.” She shifted. Even that slight movement jogged his wound. He bit back a groan. Nonetheless she must have heard because she stilled. “How are you feeling?”