From the open doors at the end of the hall, she heard the orchestra strike tentative notes. It was time.
She moved decisively down the hall and into the wing holding the bedchambers. At Quail’s door, her courage began to falter. The hand that gripped the knob was slick with perspiration.
But then she thought of Justin. He was only a few feet away behind the next door, waiting. She could feel his eyes on her, the door must be ajar. She barely kept from looking over her shoulder, not because she feared witnesses, but because she did not want Justin to see she was afraid. For then he would call off their plan and they would be no better off than before, perhaps a good deal worse.
She knocked lightly and thought she heard from within the room the sound of hasty footsteps and the creak of a mattress. “Mr. Quail?”
He did not answer. He had to.
She knocked more loudly. “I say, Mr. Quail, are you all right? The maid said she thought she heard the sound of falling from within your room!”
Another short silence, then a man’s voice, hoarse and feeble—apparently Justin was not the only one good at his job. “Lady Evelyn? I’m in bed. I am fine except I feel so . . . weak. Please, don’t—”
But she already had. She turned the key in the door and pushed it open. The room was as it had been on her last visit, steeped in darkness, the curtains drawn, a single jet light glowing faintly on the far wall. Quail shivered beneath a pile of blankets, tossing his head fretfully, his hands clutching the sheets. His eyes were partially closed, but Evelyn would have sworn he tracked her every move.
“You are too kind, Lady Evelyn. But please, is that not music I hear?”
Evelyn turned toward the door she’d purposely left slightly ajar. “Yes.”
“Then you must go at once. Mrs. Vandervoort will expect you. I will go back to sleep.”
“Yes.” Damn. She ought to be able to come up with some bit of dialogue better than that, but the machinery of her mind seemed to have become clogged. Outside the room, even from this distance, she suddenly heard the thundering first chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Time slowed to a crawl.
He could kill me.
She felt her feet carry her to the bed, saw Quail’s eyes flicker with surprise, heard her own voice mutter something vague, and felt her lips stretch over her teeth in a rictuslike smile. She bent down. He recoiled as she laid her fingers against his cheek, the caring nursemaid testing his temperature.
He was cool. His makeup was slick . . . Two, three, four. Now!
Time catapulted forward again. She jerked upright, scrambling, backing toward the door, shouting above the din of the music, “Powell! It’s Quail! It’s Quail!”
It all happened so fast that for a second Quail froze, barely comprehending what was happening, that in an instant, she’d not only recognized that it was makeup on her fingertips but had figured out his identity and was screaming for backup.
He had no time to wonder at the rapidity of unfolding events. Not if he was to save himself. The paralysis that gripped him vanished. He leapt from the bed as Evelyn dashed into the hall, racing after her, intent on silencing her. But Justin Powell was already in the hall, coming at him fast, his unbuttoned dinner jacket flapping behind him.
There was no time. No time to nab the machine, no time to dress, no time to grab his notebook or his wallet, no time to do anything more than seize the small dark woman by the shoulders and hurl her at Justin Powell. He didn’t pause to watch the consequences of his act, he turned and sprinted down the hall, hearing a sharp curse and the uff! of colliding bodies. Good!
Anger and frustration nearly choked him as he swung toward the main section of the house heading for the front door, hearing Powell’s footsteps pounding after him. He’d been found out. Exposed. All the years of careful—and lucrative—work destroyed with the touch of that woman’s hand.
But at least if he’d been exposed, he had the savage satisfaction of knowing he would return the favor. They’d long suspected Powell’s role, but no one had foreseen the Whyte woman’s involvement. Oh, yes. They’d known there was another secret agent somewhere amongst the English aristocracy. The subtle clues were everywhere, thwarting their best-laid plans. Well, he may have lost the device but at least he’d unmasked her!
And yes, he’d have to retire from the game now, but at least he’d render Lady Evelyn Whyte useless to England’s covert operation committee. That is, if he got out alive to make his report.
Quail turned the corner of the hall leading to the main corridor and saw the front door. He raced toward it, tearing off the nightshirt he’d worn over his clothes, his stocking feet slipping on the bare floorboards.
Ten more feet. A carriage or horse was certain to be without! He reached for the handle but before he could turn it the door swung out and a thick flange of guests crowded through, chatting and laughing as they hurried in, late for the reception.
He couldn’t believe his foul luck! He skittered to a stop and turned, cursing. He dashed back down the hall, passing the corridor leading to the bedroom just as Powell emerged, with the Whyte woman trailing behind.
There was only one place in the abbey where a man who didn’t want to get caught could go.
Quail headed straight for the wedding party.
“He’s going the wrong way!” Evelyn shouted, picking up her heavy skirts and bolting after Quail. She dashed past Justin, who started after her, only to lend verisimilitude to the encounter. The plan hadn’t been to actually catch Quail, only make him think they wanted to catch him. Then, after a narrow escape, Quail would tell his employers he had unmasked the identity of a hitherto unsuspected master spy, Evelyn Cummings Whyte. The real master spy, whoever he was, would remain safely anonymous.
Because everyone now ostensibly knew who everyone was, everyone’s effectiveness as spies would be neutralized and everyone would be safe. As an identified “spy” Evelyn would be assumed to be retired; Justin himself would retire, and so, too, would Quail. All’s well that ends well. . . .
Justin suddenly realized that for the few moments he’d been cogitating, his owlet was pursuing their escaping spy as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.
He could hear her ululating cry, “Not my wedding!” reverberating up the corridor. At the pace she was closing the distance between her and the secretary, if Justin didn’t do something to stop her, she was actually going to catch Quail. And that would be disastrous.
Justin sprinted in pursuit, arriving in the great hall just as Quail headed toward the French doors leading to the courtyard. Madly, the spy scrambled through the knots of dining tables and chairs, knocking over several, sending china, crystal, and silver crashing to the ground. The diners leapt to their feet, backing away from the madman, their mouths forming “o’s” of shock.
Behind Quail came Evelyn. For one second, she stopped at the entrance to the solarium. Her hair fell in a witchy black cloud about her white shoulders, and her eyes grew huge as she looked around at the destruction: shattered crystal, overturned tables, the floor covered in smashed food and soggy puddles of wine, the terrified guests. Then, like knife points, her gaze turned toward Quail and she wailed, “YOU BASTARD, YOU RUINED MY WEDDING!”
Clutching her skirts in one hand, with the other she snatched a silver butter knife from a table and sprang after Quail, her gaze fixed with cross-hair intensity on his back. She came after him in a straight line, kicking over pots of flowers and ferns, clambering over upended chairs as she followed him into the courtyard with its pond, bridge, and fake glen.
“Stop him! STOP HIM!”
A few of the male guests valiantly put themselves in Quail’s path, but he simply bowled over them, using them as a means to hinder her progress. It only made her angrier. Justin could have sworn he heard her growling, and now it occurred to him that he ought to at least appear to be making some sort of attempt to come to Evie’s aid, or the whole mess would be revealed as the staged production it was, or would have been had
not some of the key players forgotten their roles.
Blast!
He vaulted over a table and sped along the far wall, heading toward the open end of the courtyard, hoping that Quail would see where he was going and realize that only one man stood between him and freedom.
Quail did see. Unfortunately, he saw an extremely large, fit, and athletic-looking man wearing a very grim expression that he could not possibly know wasn’t directed at him but at the virago chasing him. So, rather than head toward Justin, Quail abruptly switched directions, scrambling back over the fake rocks.
He was close to panicking. He flung about, looking for an escape route, and saw none. The damn guests were not milling like they were supposed to; they were standing well back. Only his damn former employer stood beside the cake table on the far side of the stupid fishpond, staring at him as though he’d grown horns. Her new husband was nowhere in sight.
He looked back around. Powell blocked the open end, a crowd was forming on his side of the pond, and that black-haired harpy was coming at him like a demon from hell, wielding some sort of knife! He thought she was supposed to be a duke’s granddaughter!
He didn’t stop to think any more about the sorry pass modern aristocracy had come to. He climbed out on a fake crag and jumped, landing square in the middle of the fragile-looking bridge. Only it wasn’t made to be leapt on.
With a huge crash, the structure collapsed beneath him. Only extraordinary skill allowed him to leap clear of the falling edifice and land safely on the far side of the pond.
Behind him the preternatural silence was broken by a long, eerie wail. He turned. She stood on the opposite bank, her face awful in its whiteness. He smiled.
It was not a good decision. She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes narrowed, and waded right into the fishpond, coming straight at him.
“Jesus!” He looked around for a weapon and spied the quartz champagne fountain. He grabbed it in both hands and launched it though the air. It landed short of her, achieving nothing but to give the witch a good soaking. She didn’t even notice.
And now, Quail was beginning to fear not only capture, but for his very life. He had never seen such an expression on a lady’s face before.
He looked around and spotted the bride. He could have kissed Lady Cuthbert in his relief. A hostage! He grabbed her wrist and dragged her to his side. “Stay back!” he ordered. Finally, something stopped the Whyte woman’s inexorable approach.
On the other side of the room, Justin Powell had begun to slip along the wall. “You, too, Powell. Stop where you are or I shall be forced to hurt her!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Evelyn muttered, taking another step in the pond.
“Are you sure?” Quail twisted Lady Cuthbert’s arm. She winced.
Evelyn stopped, her head lowered, her eyes riveted on him in smoldering hatred. The knife flashed at her side and Quail seized on the inspiration, snatching up the cake knife and bringing it to the bride’s throat.
“I am leaving here now. I am taking her with me. If anyone follows me, I shall slash her throat.”
“No!” A choked cry rose from the doorway. Every head swung toward it. Lord Boniface Cuthbert stood quivering in the doorway, one hand clutched on the doorjamb, the other to his heart. A little dog stood at his feet, his hackles raised in alarm. “Please. Don’t hurt her!”
“Then see that you all stay here!”
Finally, Quail thought, things were starting to fall into place. The witch looked paralyzed; Powell looked grim; Cuthbert, the silly toad, had clutched his fool dog to his chest; and Lady Cuthbert was staring at him in unfeigned horror.
Yes. He could work with this.
He dragged Lady Cuthbert after him, down the stupid papier-mâché glen and back in through the French doors. The guests inside cringed back, eyes wide with fear. He ignored them, pulling his hostage quickly after him. She did not say a word.
They’d just got to the point where the corridor branched off to the sleeping quarters when Quail heard a peculiar scrabbling sound. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a brown-and-white-furred demon launch itself at his leg. With the tenacity born of a hundred generation of ratters, the terrier clamped down on Quail’s calf.
With a howl, Quail released Lady Cuthbert and swooped down, slashing wildly at the dog. But the dog was a street-smart fighter. He twisted out of the way, his jaws still locked in the meat of Quail’s leg. But smart as he was, he couldn’t hope to avoid Quail’s knife for long.
Luckily, he didn’t have to. For as Quail bent down, Mrs. Vandervoort squealed—and later Quail would recount to his superiors that that was the most surprising point in the entire affair, that his composed, collected employer should squeal over a miserable cur’s threatened life—and began pummeling him about the head and shoulders. Added to all of this, as Quail lifted his arms attempting to ward off her blows, Evelyn Cummings Whyte rounded the corner like Medea Enraged.
And she still had that damn butter knife.
It was time to cut his losses. With one last effort, Quail managed a savage kick that sent the terrier flying and, at the same time, walloped Lady Cuthbert across the face, knocking her to the ground. Then he fled down the hall, running as fast as he ever had or ever would run again.
He disappeared out the front door as Evelyn, still intent on the chase, raced past Lady Cuthbert. Only the low moan of distress behind her caused her to break her stride and turn back. She knelt down by Lady Cuthbert as Justin hurled into view.
“You reckless idiot!” he bellowed on seeing her. He slowed to a stiff-limbed march. “You scared the hell out of me! What did you think you were doing?”
“Seeing to Lady Cuthbert.” Evelyn twitched her skirts back, revealing Lady Cuthbert and the little terrier dancing excitedly around them.
From the end of the hall came another group of men, their anger rising as the full impact of the insult they and their friends had suffered sank in. They marched with determination, some already calling for horses, other trotting ahead.
Evelyn longed to go with them and chase down the blackguard like the rabid creature he was. He’d ruined it, all of it. Destroyed all her work, her every effort, the atonement she’d been about to make for all the disasters in the past, the proof that she could do well in the future.
“Where did he go?” one of the men asked Lady Cuthbert.
Justin had helped her to her feet and she stood swaying slightly, her face noble and brave. She raised her hand and pointed. “There . . . I . . . I think . . . Now, Mr. Powell, if you could take me to my room—”
From down the hall they heard a cry of relief as Lord Cuthbert arrived and, seeing his bride whole and unharmed, hobbled forward and tenderly enfolded her in his arms.
Chapter 24
QUAIL GOT AWAY.
A group of outraged male guests went after him, but by the time the horses were saddled, Quail was long gone, never to be seen again. They returned shortly to the house, where the women and the men who’d stayed to protect them anxiously awaited news, and there discussed the matter at some length.
Lord Stow quickly dispelled their air of disappointment by pointing out that at least they had the satisfaction of having thwarted a burglary which had obviously been in the planning for a long time, and which would have, if successful, reaped an astronomical amount of jewelry. Others eagerly embraced the point of view.
Such a bold bastard! To have struck at a couple’s happiest and most vulnerable moments! Thank God, he’d been stopped in time.
And with the bride and groom more than willing to accept the patina of heroism that quickly was settling over the whole rather sordid affair, it was ultimately Francesca Whyte, Lady Broughton, who gaily suggested that since the party had transformed into a hunt ball of sorts, might it not be too, too whimsical if they were all to adjourn to the local pub? They could even take the orchestra with them. Besides, traditional manor weddings invariably ended up in the town square.
So,
their collective spirits having been bolstered by the knowledge that they had faced down evil and emerged, if not precisely victorious, in no way bested, they drove off.
Quail himself, after his flight across East Sussex, hightailed it to Dover, where he caught a packet ship bound for the Netherlands; from there he made his way to secret places. When he finally made his appearance before those men who employed him, he was able to assuage their disappointment about his unmasking by offering them invaluable information.
He had incontrovertible proof not only that Justin Powell was a spy but that Evelyn Cummings Whyte was the mysterious and troublesome agent they’d suspected had been placed amongst the aristocracy. At their expressions of disbelief, he recounted all the pieces of evidence that pointed to her, ending with a dramatic narrative of his final hours at North Cross Abbey, her terrible aspect as she had realized she’d been unmasked, the maniacal single-mindedness with which she had pursued him in hopes of keeping his information from reaching her enemy’s ears, the madness in her eyes when he’d last seen her.
No, he had no doubt at all that he had unearthed as dangerous and diabolical an agent as England had ever produced. And if he himself had to be exposed in the process, it was well worth the cost.
But that was days hence. Later on the day of the wedding, back at North Cross Abbey, while Quail was still hotfooting it over the countryside, Justin had just begun a brief but telling interview with Bernard.
“You always were a maverick, Powell,” Bernard pronounced with heavy dissatisfaction. He looked up from behind the desk, where he was penning an encoded report about the affair. “Do you wonder now why we didn’t advise you of our plans? As soon as you understood them, you changed them to suit your own purpose. Added to which you certainly didn’t tell me what you and this . . . this chit were planning.”
“No, sir,” Justin said evenly. He stood at attention, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his eyes forward. He was still too angry at the danger Evie had been put in to look at his superior without wanting to strike him.
Bridal Favors Page 24