by Wicked Wager
“No!” he cried, blocking her hand. “While, ah, gazing upon the charms of his lady strengthens the man,” he improvised rapidly, “speculating about her courtier’s attributes enflames the lady.”
“Indeed? Well, if that’s what the sages of the east say.” After appearing to give the matter a little thought, her expression brightened. “It is rather titillating to contemplate. You promise I’ll not be disappointed?”
“You may be many things afterward, my lady, but not that,” he affirmed somewhat grimly.
Servants appeared with food and wine. Seeming content with his explanation for the moment, Lucinda let him ply her with champagne while she talked about her activities in London during the years he’d been gone. By the time he led her back to the events surrounding Garrett’s death and his and Jenna’s arrival back in London, she was more than a little tipsy.
“As you guessed, I did have hopes of seducing the widow,” he admitted. “But my patient assistance in her projects led nowhere. She’s still too distraught over her husband’s death to succumb, even to one of my vaunted skill, and the matter grew even more hopeless after she lost the child.”
“Such a tragedy,” Lucinda said, but with a little giggle that belied the sympathetic words.
“Have you no empathy for a woman in mourning?”
“Well, why should I? Everyone else is fawning over her—ah, that charade of pity at Garrett’s services! I lost just as much, nay even more, but no one is holding my hand and offering platitudes. He loved me, after all! She should never have married him, and if she lost everything, ’tis what she deserved.”
“Harsh words. One might even suspect you wished her to have an accident.”
Lucinda sniffed. “I—” she made a vague gesture, nearly upsetting her wineglass “—am not hypocrite enough to pretend I wished her well.”
Tony captured the stemware and handed it back to her. “Some think it might not have been an accident.”
Lucinda straightened, needing a moment to focus on him. “Indeed? Why would anyone think that?”
Nelthorpe shrugged. “There’s talk that the head groom might have mounted her on an unpredictable horse and deliberately refrained from acquainting her with its habits. It seems someone suspects something, for that individual, who was discharged over the incident and is the only witness who would know the truth of it, just met with an untimely accident himself.”
Wetting her lips, Lucinda put down her wineglass. “An…an accident?”
“Yes. It looks as if someone is tying up loose ends. The man was shot once through the heart.”
“Shot!” she gasped. “But killing him was never part of—” she cried, before halting in midsentence to clap a hand over her mouth. “I…I think I must go, Tony,” she said a moment later, her voice shaky. “I feel quite unwell.”
You heartless, scheming bitch, Tony swore silently, cold rage hardening his resolve. “I don’t doubt it. But you will remain here until you tell me everything you know about that incident.”
Her dilated eyes widened further. “You…you are still working with her.”
“Ever the clever one, my angel. So you will understand when I warn you that I don’t intend to release you until you tell me everything you know.”
“I—I don’t know anything. You will take me home at once, or…or my husband shall pursue you and call you out.”
“If your husband wished to call out every man who’d trifled with you, he’d be a very busy fellow.”
With a hiccupping sob, she pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. “How could I ever have thought you charming? You are h-horrid!”
Tony seized her chin and forced it up. “Yes, I am horrid. I’ve just spent three years at war, a rather horrid business. Coming upon troopers being tortured by guerrillas, I’ve learned more than just the love secrets of the east. Should you decide not to confide in me, I might be forced to demonstrate some of my new skills.”
At that, the countess’s defiance crumbled. In halting, sob-marked sentences, she told of her long liaison with Lane Fairchild, who, noting her resentment when Jenna Fairchild returned to London and her outrage when she was informed that her lover’s widow carried his child, suggested that a little accident might soothe much of her distress.
It wasn’t as if she’d truly done anything wrong, she insisted. As Lane had explained it, all she need do was bribe the groom to change horses and hold his tongue. It had been in God’s hands whether Hetty’s mare trotted placidly or bolted.
Dismissing that rationalization with the contempt it deserved, Tony questioned her further, but she seemed to have no idea what Lane Fairchild would gain from such a plan, beyond the satisfaction of gratifying his mistress. Switching topics, he then forced her, with bitter resentment, to admit that though she had entreated Garrett to visit her when he’d been in London the previous March gathering troops, he had politely declined.
Concluding that he’d learned all he could from her, he sent a servant to summon a hackney.
“I never wish to see you again, Tony Nelthorpe,” she said sullenly as he assisted her into the vehicle.
“Given that groom’s untimely demise, I would suggest that if you wish to live to see anyone, you make immediate plans to depart London. Preferably to pay a very long visit to a suitably distant friend.”
After letting that recommendation register in her wine-soaked wits, he closed the door behind her and watched the vehicle set off into the lightening dawn.
As he collected his belongings and tipped the curious staff, he reviewed the scene again, a little ashamed of his extortion tactics but nonetheless satisfied with the results. He couldn’t help wondering, however, how Jenna might have reacted to similar coercion.
As she had once before, she would probably have remained defiant in the face of all his threats. Then while distracting him by feigning collapse, she’d have bashed him with the wine bottle and escaped into the night.
“You’re in love with her, too, aren’t you?” Lucinda Blaine had accused. “Why? She’s not even beautiful!”
“She has a beauty of soul and character that will endure long after yours has faded,” he’d told her.
But only if Jenna lived long enough. There being no question now that she was in danger—and from whom, he could not afford to wait until socially acceptable calling hours.
He must sneak into Fairchild House and warn her at once.
HAD JENNA’S CHAMBER WINDOW not faced over the street, Tony might have attempted to avoid the possibility of encountering servants by climbing up to it, painful as that might have proved with his stiff knee. Instead, drawing upon skills of stealth developed over a misspent young manhood, he used his knife blade to pick the lock of the back gate and the kitchen entry, then tiptoed through the deserted house up to Jenna’s chamber.
’Twas many years since he’d crept into a lady’s bedchamber while her household slept. Before, it had been almost a game, the danger of discovery amplifying his anticipation of the pleasure to come. Though his mission this time was far too serious for sport, still the idea of slipping to Jenna’s bedside and gazing upon her with her hair unbound, her body cloaked only in the fine linen of a night rail, caused his mouth to dry as his mind filled with images of how he might stroke her to wakefulness, had only the peril not been so great.
Forcing his thoughts from those tantalizing possibilities, he primed himself to enter. He’d need to wake her gently, so she did not become frightened and cry out. He’d not be able to get her away safely if she caused an uproar or was paralyzed with fright.
Taking a deep breath to keep his hand steady, he picked the final lock, pushed open the door and stepped in.
In the next, confusing instant he saw Sancha, outlined by moonlight as she poised to throw her knife, and Jenna holding a pistol aimed at his heart.
FOR AN INSTANT, NONE OF THEM moved. Then, shaken by the knowledge that she’d come within a hairbreadth of firing on him, Jenna gasped, “Nelthorpe!”
/> “What in the world are you doing here?” she whispered, motioning him closer as she set down her weapon. “Sancha, close the door and stand guard by it, please.”
She slid from the bed and took a chair, indicating that he take the one adjacent. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you through the heart. Honestly, this must be the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done!”
“Then you’ve led too sheltered a life,” he drawled, his features silvered by moonlight. “I’ve done things a deal more outrageous, I assure you. But I didn’t sneak in here just to broaden your education. Tonight I induced Lucinda Blaine to admit that she paid the groom to sabotage your ride—on the recommendation of Lane Fairchild. Who most probably arranged to fire upon you and dispatch the groom.”
“And who also may or may not be attempting to poison Bayard and win the title for himself,” she informed him. “Or so Bayard’s valet, at gunpoint, was made to confess.”
“God in heaven!” After following that exclamation with several muffled curses, he sprang up from his chair. “Then surely now you understand how imperative it is that you quit this house. Sancha, pack only those necessaries you can fit in a bandbox and we shall leave at once.”
“And go where?” Jenna demanded.
“To Lady Charlotte’s, I suppose. You did speak with her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ll not venture there until a reasonable hour of the morning. Don’t scold me for being foolish,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall his protest. “As you have seen, both Sancha and I are armed and watchful. Besides, though I no longer deny Lane threatens me, as exacting as he is about the honor of the family name, I don’t think he would attempt to murder me at Fairchild House. Such a death would be much too difficult to conceal or explain.”
“An interesting theory, but one I wouldn’t wish to put to the test. Leave now, Jenna.”
She shook her head. “’Tis nearly dawn. As soon as Sancha and I can depart with any semblance of normalcy, we shall proceed straight to Lady Charlotte’s.”
“Thanks be to God!” he said fervently. “Though I still cannot approve the delay.”
“Don’t think I am not deeply appreciative of your concern—and your efforts on my behalf, but ’tis not your decision to approve. Indeed, I am almost tempted to remain in spite of what we’ve discovered.” Garrett would not run away with the murderer of his child unpunished, she thought. “We still have no proof that Lane attempted to harm me—only the suppositions of a valet and a faithless jade. If we could force him to take some further action—”
“Absolutely not, Jenna! I won’t let you risk it.”
“Then how shall we ever bring him to justice—or protect Bayard, for that matter?”
“Jenna, get dressed and, Sancha, start packing. We can argue strategy to your heart’s content—once you are safely out of this house.”
“Very well, we shall plan later. But I will not leave the house until morning. If I do, Lane will surely know that I am suspicious of him, and become so careful that we may never be able to prove his guilt.”
In the thin moonlight he studied her face and seemed to realize she would not be budged. “Morning, then,” he agreed with a sigh. “But I’ll not leave until dawn breaks. Three can keep watch better than two.”
“No, you must go at once! The longer you remain, the greater the risk of some servant—or even Lane himself—becoming aware of your presence. Which, in addition to the scandal, would be just as plain an indication of my suspicions as if I fled in the night.”
Nelthorpe proving as stubborn as she, they argued the matter until Sancha prosaically observed that if he didn’t leave soon, the disagreement would be moot.
“Please, Tony,” Jenna whispered, risking the jolt of awareness that always shook her when she touched him to take his hand. “Please, though you cannot like it, let me do this my way.”
After a start of surprise, he gripped her fingers fiercely, his jaw working as he gazed at their joined hands. “All right, Jenna. Your way. But for God’s sake and mine, be careful!”
“I will. Meet me at Lady Charlotte’s later and we shall plan what to do next. Now, use your vast experience to good advantage and creep back out of here undetected.”
He gave her fingers another hard squeeze before releasing them, then stood, hesitating as if he wished to say something more.
In the end, with a “God be with you,” he limped out.
Over the next few hours as the new day brightened, having given up the fruitless effort to sleep, Jenna dressed and discussed strategy with Sancha. By morning, they’d decided to modify the plan.
They would leave together, but not with a bandbox—an irregular item that would surely be noticed and cause speculation among the staff. Having agreed that, not knowing the extent of the conspiracy, it would not be wise to trust the grooms or any of the staff, they would announce they wished to take a morning walk.
Once safely away from the house, they would hail a hackney to convey Jenna to Lady Charlotte’s house. Sancha would return to Fairchild House with a tale of having met Lady Charlotte in the park, after which her mistress had been invited back to breakfast. During the meal, while discussing her imminent departure to spend the holidays at her country house, Lady Charlotte had begged Jenna to accompany her, and at length, her mistress agreed. Sancha was to pack her trunks and return with them.
Though Jenna was pleased with the plan, the wait for full morning light seemed endless, both she and Sancha starting at every small noise. Her nerves were worn raw when at last, they descended the stairs, her back prickling with a sense of threat as they walked away from the house.
They halted a block away, Jenna’s breath as shallow as if she’d run every step. “Madre de Dios!” Sancha said with a triumphant chuckle. “Mistress, we have done it!”
A few moments later, she helped hand Jenna into a hackney. “Come quickly, Sancha,” Jenna murmured, giving the maid a hug. “I will not rest easy until you too are safely out of Fairchild House.”
“Nay, my lady, the plan is sound, nor am I in danger. I will pack quickly and join you soon.”
Jenna nodded and, after giving the driver her direction, settled back against the squabs, her mind moving forward to the next challenge.
How could they prove Lane Fairchild’s part in this?
After reviewing all her dealings with him since arriving in London, she had to admit it still seemed incredible. His concern for her welfare, unless he was the most skilled actor she’d ever met, appeared genuine. That Lucinda Blaine had bribed the groom to change horses, on Lane’s recommendation, was the only fact definitely linking him to the events—assuming they could trust Lucinda’s word.
Frankston’s belief that he intended to dispose of his cousin was unproven speculation, though a speculation that made the shot fired at her and the groom’s fatal accident fit into some logical order.
Though free for the moment from menace, a shiver traveled down her spine. Had Lane truly designed this elaborate scheme? Was he capable of murder? Or might someone else be responsible?
She was still mulling over that disturbing question when it suddenly occurred to her that by now, she should have reached Lady Charlotte’s. Had the driver not understood her directions?
She banged on the forward wall. When the vehicle did not slow, she banged again, then reached over to put up the window shade, latched to keep out the morning chill, so she might determine their location.
Only to find the curtain nailed into place.
For a shocked second she sat immobile. Then, dread gathering in the pit of her stomach, she seized the door handle.
She wasn’t surprised to discover that it, too, was bolted shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PANIC SWEPT THROUGH HER, swiftly succeeded by a rage that tempered her fear. After a few moments speculating about how their plan had gone awry, she set her mind to determining what she would do when the carriage arrived at whatever destination to which she was
being taken.
Her abduction could, she decided, be an advantage, for whoever had arranged it was likely responsible for all the rest. If she were lucky enough to be able to face the perpetrator, rather than being held or dispatched by hirelings, she would discover the true face of her enemy.
It must be either Bayard or Lane. Having caused her pain and cost her Garrett’s child, Lucinda Blaine would have little to gain by killing her. Indeed, she would probably prefer Jenna alive, her grief-stricken presence among the ton a constant reminder of Lucinda’s cleverness in punishing the woman she held responsible for “stealing” the man she claimed to have loved.
Bayard or Lane? The new viscount would appear to have had the most to gain. She’d not searched to discover whether the tray Frankston had carried that night held something more lethal than food. Both Bayard and his valet were odd enough that she had no real grasp of how vile a crime they might be capable of committing.
Setting her mouth in a determined line, she patted the pistol in her reticule and adjusted the knife in her half-boot. Whomever—Bayard or Frankston or Lane—she encountered once freed from this prison would find her much more difficult to eliminate than her unborn child.
Despite her perilous position, with a soldier’s appreciation for resting when he could before the battle to come, she dozed. So when the vehicle finally halted, she was not perfectly sure how long they’d traveled.
She could make a break immediately when the door was opened. But she had only one shot in the pistol and her knife would not prove adequate against a crowd of brigands. Better to wait, assess the odds against her, and pray she found another chance.
And to improve that possibility, better to appear the terrified, trembling female they were no doubt expecting.
So when the door was opened, she shrank back. “What is the meaning of this outrage? Where are we?”
“Get out with ye now, so’s I kin get back to Lunnon,” the driver replied, motioning to her.
“You will return me immediately,” she said, ending on a frightened squeak that belied that demand.