His cane snapped across the seats, smacking the blue velvet so hard that she sprang backward, away from its lash. “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire you. Don’t imagine I’ll let you go so easily.”
Lizzie’s low growl was continuous now, her chest vibrating beneath Eleanor’s hand. “Remington is still alive?”
“Very much so, and I shall enjoy finishing him.”
Eleanor gripped the dog’s collar harder, her palm slippery with sweat. “You…killed Lady Pricilla?” She held her breath, praying he’d deny it.
“For the exactly same reason I’m going to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Eleanor wet her lips. The carriage was careening through London, headed for the countryside. “Why?”
“Like Pricilla, you have no sense of propriety. No sense of honor. Just like you, Pricilla mated with a commoner.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “That night, I found her in the garden. I could have raised the alarm, kept her from her Mr. Marchant, and her father would have forced her to marry me. But I didn’t want her.”
Was Lord Fanthorpe delusional? Driven to madness by the loss of his dear fiancée? “You couldn’t have murdered her. You had no blood on you.”
He waved his lace handkerchief in airy dismissal. “I prefer the word executed—and I had my footmen with me. They did the job, and adequately.”
She remembered the footmen riding on the coach, and she swallowed. “Adequately? Everyone who saw the scene said she suffered horribly.”
“I had a lesson to teach. I wanted it taught well. She was a traitor to us. To noble people everywhere. As you are.” His narrow chin lifted, his narrow lips sneered. “I tried to save you the night I met you.”
“Save me? Oh.” She remembered. “With the attack on the carriage.”
“My men had strict instructions to kill Knight and leave you alone. But Knight’s a devil with his cane.”
“Yes.” Her mind lingered lovingly on the memory of Remington’s cane, the weapon he carried because it appeared to be harmless. “You tried again on my wedding day.”
“Right you are! I’m not usually so inefficient, but”—he flushed—“I’m short on funds, and the best assassins cost money.”
Lizzie sat on the seat beside Eleanor, staring at Lord Fanthorpe through narrowed eyes, and Eleanor wondered how a dog sensed his rot and she had not. “How is Remington supposed to find me?”
“He’s a smart young feller. A Marchant.” Fanthorpe leaned forward and whispered, “You see, I know who your husband really is.”
A cold trickle of sweat crawled down her spine. “How?”
“His father had dark hair, he was stocky, he was freckled, but he had those freakishly pale blue eyes, just like Knight’s.” Lord Fanthorpe shuddered. “Did Knight think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Why would he care? He didn’t know that you were a murderer.”
Lord Fanthorpe smiled with every evidence of pleasure. “I love the irony of this. Yes, your Remington will get there eventually, and find your body, and whimper over it. But I won’t be the fool I was last time. I won’t trust to the law for justice—I’ll kill him, too.”
“You’ll kill him yourself?” Because this old man had no chance against Remington.
Lord Fanthorpe sighed deeply. “I realize you don’t have a title of your own, but you’re a member of one of our most noble families. Kindly remember a true aristocrat never dirties his hands with menial tasks.”
She petted Lizzie and thought. This old man was going to have her killed.
She didn’t believe it. Remington would come for her.
But the dog was a problem. Remington couldn’t defend her and Lizzie, and Lizzie would do her best to get into the thick of things. She already hated Lord Fanthorpe. She would try to bite him, and Fanthorpe’s henchmen would have no problem killing a dog.
Keeping one hand on Lizzie, Eleanor opened her reticule and produced her needlework. “Where is there?” As she freed her long, sharp needle from the canvas, she watched Lord Fanthorpe across the carriage. He was old, and he stank of evil.
“Lacy Hall. We should be there within the hour.” He leaned his head back against the seat, a dreadful smirk on his painted lips. “I needed someplace close, and I liked the touch of killing you both on Marchant’s old estate.”
Eleanor tied the end of the thread into a noose, then looped it around her fingers. “But won’t Magnus get the blame for the murders?”
“Possibly.” Lord Fanthorpe chuckled. “The old duke of Magnus thought it was Marchant, at first. That was so grand. He persecuted Marchant to the fullest of his ability.”
She tensed. Clutched the dog’s collar.
“But apparently the current Magnus convinced him someone else had done the deed.”
She measured the distance between her and the door.
“So the old duke made Magnus promise to find George Marchant and do some kind of reparation. Magnus was so helpful in tracking Marchant to Boston.” Still in that dreadfully amused voice, Lord Fanthorpe said, “That ridiculous fool told me all the details. All I had to do was hire the men to take out Marchant and his family.”
With all the force of her arm, she plunged the needle into the back of Fanthorpe’s hand.
He roared in pain.
With the thread, she jerked the needle free.
He snatched his hand back.
The dog made a lunge for him, but Eleanor propelled herself against the door, opening it. “Go home,” she whispered in Lizzie’s ear, and tossed her out onto the road.
Eleanor heard a yelp as Lizzie hit the ground.
Grabbing Eleanor, Lord Fanthorpe slammed her back against the seat.
Gripping the needle, she swung her hand at his face in a great arc. The needle sliced through the skin under his eye.
From outside, a footman shut the door. Popping open the hatch, he shouted, “M’lord, shall we stop fer the dog?”
“No. Let it go.” Stunned by her attack, Lord Fanthorpe touched the cut, then looked at the blood on his fingers. His eyes were thin slits of hate. “You slut.” His voice trembled with rage, and he lifted his arm to strike her.
“Don’t!” she shouted. “That’s a menial’s work.”
As he swung, he said, “I’ll make an exception for you.”
“Remington, they’re saying on the street that you were killed by a speeding dray.” Clark stood in the door of his office, where Remington was going over the profits from his newest shipment.
“Never felt better,” Remington said. Then it struck him—how odd that Fanthorpe should be leaving England at the same time such a rumor was circulating. A prickle of warning ran up Remington’s spine. “Who says so?”
“Lady Huward is screeching over half of London that you went to your solicitor, changed your will in Mrs. Knight’s favor, and within an hour, you were killed.”
Remington’s sense of unease grew. “That’s a very specific rumor. Where is Lady Huward?”
“She was in Green Park. Now she’s home, surrounded by ladies and almost fainting from shock.”
“Green Park?” Remington rose. “That’s where Eleanor walks. Does rumor say where Eleanor is?”
“I believe she was there, too.”
“Hell!” Eleanor would have chided him for swearing if she’d been here. Eleanor, who had so sweetly kissed him good-bye this morning. Her lips had clung, and he’d thought, for a moment, that she was going to tell him that she loved him.
She hadn’t.
But surely a woman like her wouldn’t give herself so freely unless she loved him. Maybe she didn’t realize it. Maybe she was afraid to say the words. But it was the truth. It had to be.
“I’m going home,” Remington said. “I want to see that Eleanor is safe.”
“Henry, order Mr. Knight’s carriage. Remington, I’ll go with you.” At Remington’s lifted brow, Clark said, “I did promise, as your best man, to watch your back.”
Remington nodded and ran toward the
outer door, Clark puffing beside him.
Fanthorpe had to board that ship today. He should be there now.
But what if he were truly mad? Eleanor looked much like Lady Pricilla. What if Fanthorpe sought to destroy Eleanor?
Or what if he wasn’t mad but knew Remington’s true identity? In his drive to wipe out Remington’s entire family, would he include her?
And what if he was on board but had hired the job done? The carriage was pulling up as they descended the steps. “Home,” Remington shouted. “Hurry!”
“Does anyone walk with her?” Clark asked as they swung inside.
“Her maid. That dog. I don’t like this. The rumor is so blatantly untrue, so easily disproved, and Horatia is such a fool—I don’t believe she made it up. I think someone told her.” Remington’s hands trembled as he fingered his cane. He kept a knife hidden in the carriage, too, and he drew it out and fingered the nine-inch blade. Sharp and made for slashing…he strapped the sheath to his arm. Couldn’t John drive any faster? “I didn’t think he would go after her.”
“Fanthorpe,” Clark said. “Of course.”
The rest of the ride to his home was silent, their arrival grim.
Beth sobbed in a chair in the foyer.
Bridgeport stood wringing his hands, and at the sight of Remington, announced, “Madam is missing.”
“With Lizzie…,” Beth quavered, her eyes red and swollen.
Remington turned icy cold. His brain began to work as it always did in crises—intelligently, coolly. “How long ago was she taken?”
Beth gulped and said huskily, “An ’our, sir. Just like ye instructed, I screamed and screamed, but the coach rolled away so fast, no one could catch it.”
An hour’s head start, but in a coach. “Bridgeport, get me my horse. Clark, follow with help.”
Clark nodded. “But where?”
Remington knew exactly where he was going. “To Lacy Hall, to the ruins of the old house on the estate. And Clark—for the love of God, hurry.”
Chapter 30
Remington raced through the London traffic. Pedestrians shouted imprecations and scurried out of his way. Vehicles maneuvered aside as rapidly as they could. And still he couldn’t move fast enough.
Terror rode with him. Would he get to Eleanor in time? Fanthorpe had murdered before; he would murder Eleanor out of evil pleasure, because she was Remington’s.
Remington left the outskirts of Town behind. On the open road, he could allow the horse its head, and he bent over, galloping so hard the wind brought tears to his eyes.
A single bark brought him wheeling to a halt.
Lizzie stood beside the road, an expression on her face he’d never seen before. Her eyes gleamed red, her lips lifted in a snarl, and she looked at him as if to demand he make things right.
“I’ll rescue her, girl,” he said. “I promise.”
He rode on, and behind him he heard ever-diminishing, reproachful barks. He couldn’t take Lizzie up, so she was following him as fast as her gangly legs could run.
Eleanor was correct. Lizzie was a brave little dog, and she would be all right. She’d better be, for Eleanor would murder him if something happened to that dog….
Murder.
Grimly, he passed the gatehouse to Lacy Hall and continued down the road, to a faint, old trail through the grass that had once been the entrance to his father’s house. When Remington had first arrived in England, he’d visited here on a pilgrimage of bitterness. He had stood among the trees that had marked the drive, and stared at the jagged ruin of the house. Ivy grew over the rubble of bricks, and birds nested in toppled chimneys. He had hated every de Lacy ever born, and on his sister’s grave, he had vowed revenge.
Now he raced to rescue a de Lacy, the woman who had cured his wounded soul. “Hurry,” he whispered to the stallion. “Hurry.” He wound his way along the lane, through the tortured trees, following fresh wheel marks in the grass.
Taking the last turn to the house, he saw the coach standing before the wreck of the front steps, as if death were visiting. He saw Fanthorpe, dressed in his old-fashioned, garish garb, leaning against the coach and watching. He saw six men, dressed like footmen in their blue satin costumes, and looking like thugs. They were standing in a circle around…Eleanor.
Remington had arrived in time.
She looked beautiful in the dappled sunlight, fresh and joyous, and he loved her so much he didn’t dare consider failure. Two women had already died because of Fanthorpe’s evil. Remington would not allow him to take Eleanor.
He was slowing the horse even before Fanthorpe pointed the pistol at him.
“Get down, Mr. Marchant,” Fanthorpe shouted. “Or I’ll shoot you now.”
A searching glance showed Eleanor’s face had lit up at the sight of him. The brutes surrounding her held cudgels, but she seemed blissfully unaware of the danger. She cared only for him.
Remington measured the distance between Fanthorpe and his men. Forty feet, probably. Perhaps Fanthorpe didn’t want blood spattered on his clothes—and perhaps he didn’t trust these bastards to stop once they’d gotten started.
Remington cantered to a spot halfway between the old man and Eleanor.
“I told them you would come for me,” Eleanor called. “I warned them.”
“I’m glad you have such confidence in me,” he answered. He hadn’t been so sure—he’d been scared to death.
He was still scared to death. Fanthorpe’s men were dangerous, scarred and grim, the dregs of the slums who had nothing to lose.
Worse, something had made Fanthorpe lose that sneering self-assurance that usually imbued his every move. Hectic color filled his cheeks. He had a scratch under his eye, deep, red and puckered. He leaned heavily on his cane, and the hand holding the gun shook. “You got here earlier than I expected—Marchant.”
Hell. He knew who Remington was.
Remington didn’t like the trapped expression on Fanthorpe’s face. Men who were trapped shot wildly, without forethought, and that would set off a massacre. The whole situation was as dangerous as a powder keg on a burning frigate.
In a calm voice, Remington said, “My lord, you’re missing your sailing.”
“The captain will wait for me. I’m the earl of Fanthorpe.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard.” Smoothly, Remington swung out of the saddle. “The tide waits for no man.”
“Then I’ll take another ship.” Fanthorpe no longer sounded suave and cold, but sharp and thin. “Marchant, are you carrying your cane?”
“No. Why?” As if Remington didn’t know.
“I had to hire new men after the last time you used your cane.” Fanthorpe waved the pistol toward the circle. “Go there. It’ll be very touching. You can die in the arms of your lover.”
Remington moved toward the circle, gripping the knife in his sleeve.
A cold-eyed thug slapped his palm with his cudgel and eyed Remington with pleasure. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he declared, “M’lord, this is a big un. ’E’ll cost ye another ten quid.”
In a patient voice, Eleanor said, “I told you. Lord Fanthorpe doesn’t have any money. You’re not going to get paid. None of you are going to get paid.”
Remington recognized her tactics. Eleanor talked her way out of trouble, and that was what she was trying to do now. She’d held the brutes off—good, although Remington suspected these men would finish the job for the pleasure of it, then start on Fanthorpe until they were paid.
But Fanthorpe was looking harassed, and in a vicious tone, he said, “I told you to shut up.”
Remington noted a bruise darkening her cheek, a smear of blood under her swollen nose. That was Fanthorpe’s work.
Remington caught her gaze, sliced a glance at his horse, and silently spoke to her with his eyes. Escape when I give you the chance.
She nodded, the serenity he’d admired intact, and in a sweetly reasonable tone, she spread her hands and asked the men, “Why do you think
Lord Fanthorpe is catching a ship today? Why do you think he wants me to shut up? He’s escaping his debts.”
Fanthorpe’s patience snapped. “Trollop!” The pistol swung from Remington to point at Eleanor.
Eleanor threw herself to the ground.
Remington slipped his knife free and drove the glistening blade onto the arm of the cudgel-wielding thief.
And all hell broke loose.
The thugs jumped on Remington, swinging their cudgels. Without his cane, the odds were impossible, yet he fought back, slicing at them, taking two down before the sheer numbers broke his defense. A cudgel cracked his skull. They ripped the knife out of his grip and caught his arms. Before their first blow landed, he saw Eleanor running toward the horse.
“Get her!” Fanthorpe shouted, the pistol wavering.
One man broke away to chase her.
And she stopped—and lifted her skirts to her waist.
The men froze. All of them froze and stared at the display of her long, bare legs and her pale, curved bottom gleaming in the sunlight.
Remington’s mouth dried. He wanted to kill the other men for staring, but he couldn’t tear his own gaze away.
Then she ran at the horse, swung herself into the saddle, and rode straight at Fanthorpe. The old man scrambled backward onto the step for the coach.
At the last moment, she swerved and headed toward the road.
Fanthorpe hobbled out, aimed his pistol at her back, and shot. “Bitch!” he shrieked.
She rode on, unscathed.
Released from their paralysis, the blackguards swung their cudgels. Remington felt a rib crack. The air blew out of his lungs. He kicked one man in the groin, freed an arm, grabbed a dropped cudgel and laid about him smartly. But he fought a losing battle. He faced a slow and painful death, yet the thought sprang into his mind that his last memory would be of Eleanor, sprinting for the horse, her skirts held high.
They had his arms again and were using their fists, taking turns, shouting as if they were at a boxing match. Each shout was punctuated by another blow, another agony. He felt his nose break, his lips split against his teeth, and he tasted blood. The sound of their enjoyment grew in intensity; these brutes relished their work.
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