“Oh, Emma, I hope the same thing may happen to you one day. When it’s not the most awful thing on earth, it’s quite…wonderful.”
Laughing, Emma hugged her again. “Based on that recommendation, I think I’ll stay a spinster, thank you very much. And you may borrow Pimpernel, of course, but I’m certainly not going to allow you to go galloping off in the dark.”
Victoria scowled. “You sound like a headmistress. You’re only three years older than I am.”
“I am a headmistress. And you will have to set an example for my students. You may leave in the morning—which I hope will give you enough time to tell me your tale.”
Despite her desire to leave immediately, Victoria knew Emma was right. Riding out in the dark would likely see her lost, or killed by highwaymen. She rubbed her still-flat stomach. And she had more than herself, and even Sinclair, to consider now.
Angry as she had been with Sinclair and furious as she still was with him over his presumption in sending her away, she missed him terribly. Her heart ached to see him again, to be held in his arms and finally have no secrets between them. It might be nothing more than a fairy tale, but she wanted to tell him they were going to have a child, and have him finally tell her that he loved her.
She sighed. “It all started one night in Lady Franton’s garden.”
Emma smiled. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”
Victoria nodded. “And it doesn’t even have an ending yet.”
“So he didn’t come by at all?”
“No, my lord.”
Sinclair glared at Milo, willing the butler to alter his answer, but that seemed about as likely as Prince George taking up ballet. He’d missed luncheon, but Kingsfeld had had no way of knowing he hadn’t been at home. The earl should have been eager to discover whether Marley had been arrested or not.
“Was there a note, then?”
“No, my lord. No visitors, and no correspondence.”
“Damnation,” Sinclair murmured. He hated this part of an investigation, when he’d done everything he could and had to wait for the target to walk into the trap. “I’ll be in my office if anyone should call.”
“Yes, my lord. Might I presume you are at home to receive correspondence, as well?”
Now Milo was just being insolent, but Sin could hardly blame him for it. “Yes. And any artworks, musical serenades, or dancing bears that might happen by. I want to see anything and anyone that comes calling.”
Sinclair stalked down the hallway to the office. As soon as he stepped through the door, though, he realized it was a mistake. Victoria’s desk, neat and bare, stood beneath the window in the pale afternoon sunlight.
He nearly turned around and left again, but that wouldn’t have been much use. Everything in Grafton House reminded him of Victoria: every flower in every vase, every strip of wall covering, every patch of sunlight seemed colored by his thoughts of her.
After two years, he was about to apprehend Thomas’s murderer. He should have been pleased, relieved that they’d come within sight of victory and justice. Instead, he paced up and down the office missing his wife and wondering whether he’d hurt her too badly to earn her forgiveness, much less her love.
He was used to regrets, but never one that stabbed into his heart like sending her away had done. Victoria’s parents had treated her like a child, distrusting her common sense and locking her away—sending her away—when that had become the easiest alternative. He’d just done the same thing, knowing it would hurt her enough to make her want to leave. He would never do it to her again.
For an hour he paced up and back along the carpet, until he thought he would go mad from waiting. Parliament would go on all afternoon, but he had thought Kingsfeld’s curiosity would have sent him home early—to find his house ransacked and with Sinclair the most likely culprit. The front door finally opened, and at the sound of a female voice he strode to the entryway. To his surprise, Lady Kilcairn stood in the foyer, speaking to Milo.
“My lady?” he said, brushing past the butler. “What—”
She hit him in the jaw.
“Damnation,” he grunted, staggering. The blow hadn’t hurt, but it had bloody well startled him. “What was that for?”
“How could you let her leave?” Alexandra snapped, coiling her fist and looking as though she wanted to punch him again.
“That’s none of your affair,” he said stiffly. If he couldn’t tell Victoria what was going on, he damned well wasn’t going to tell her friends.
“Will you excuse us for a moment?” the countess said, glancing pointedly at Milo.
Sinclair took her arm and led her down the front steps to the graveled drive. “I apologize if I’ve offended you,” he said, urging her toward her waiting carriage, “but I don’t intend to stand about and argue with you about my wife. Not today.”
“Very well, I’ll go. I just wanted to let you know one more thing that isn’t any of my affair.”
He rubbed his jaw. “What might that be?”
“Your wife is carrying your child,” she shot, her eyes flashing.
He blanched, the ground rolling beneath his feet so wildly that he had to sit on the bottom step. “What?”
She nodded. “Given the way you yelled at her, I didn’t think she would tell you, but I also think that she deserves a chance at being happy. She thinks that chance lies with you, Lord Althorpe. I don’t think you should disappoint her.”
Gathering her skirt, she climbed into her carriage and instructed the driver to leave. Sinclair sat at the edge of the drive for a long time, staring at the ground without seeing anything at all. His child. That was why she’d been so upset. And he was an absolute blundering, blithering, idiotic boor. He was going to be a father, and he didn’t deserve it—or her.
He’d definitely done the right thing, though, sending her away. At Althorpe she would be safe until he could go to her and apologize and tell her that he loved her. Slowly he rose and went back inside, barely noting Milo in the doorway as he walked past. He was going to be a father. Good God.
It was dusk when he finally heard the front door open and the low murmur of male voices. He seated himself behind his desk, his pistol in one hand. For a moment he wished he hadn’t removed Thomas’s massive desk from the office; putting a ball through Kingsfeld from that seat would have seemed poetic justice. This, though, would be enough.
The office door opened, and he curled his fingers around the pistol’s ivory handle. The widening doorway, though, remained empty.
“Sin? It’s Crispin. Don’t blow my head off.”
Sinclair cursed. “Get the bloody hell in here.”
The tall Scot stepped inside, and Sinclair’s breath stopped in his throat. Crispin’s face was drawn and serious, and an even grimmer-looking Wally followed on his heels. When Bates appeared behind them, Sin stood so abruptly that his chair went over backward.
“What happened?” he snapped.
“We’re not sure. We dumped Kingsfeld’s desk drawers out and pulled half the books off his shelves in case he needed more convincing that he’d been ransacked.” Crispin drew a breath, his expression becoming even more dour. “It’s my fault. I rode straight here in case you needed assistance. Wallace stayed to keep an eye on Hovarth House.”
“And?”
Wally cleared his throat. “Kingsfeld went home right on schedule. Not five minutes later he came running outside like a bat out of hell, grabbed his horse from the groom, and rode off.” The stocky man shifted. “I thought he was heading here, so I went to see if Bates was back, to send him after the papers you wanted.”
Slowly Sinclair sat on the corner of his desk. “So where did Kingsfeld go?” he asked, his jaw clenched so tightly that he could barely get the clipped words out. “I know he didn’t come here.”
“We don’t know, Sin. By the time we realized he wasn’t here, he’d been missing for over an hour.”
“His clubs,” Sin snapped, rising and striding for t
he door. “We’ll split up.”
“Sin, we—”
“Damnation, Crispin! Why did you wait so long to tell me?” He whipped around, jabbing a finger into the Scotsman’s chest. “Forget I said that. It’s my own bloody fault, for trying to be so damned clever instead of just shooting the bastard.”
“We checked the clubs already,” Crispin countered. “And Gentlemen Jackson’s and every shop on Bond Street.”
Dread made Sinclair’s blood run cold. “Check them again. I’m going to Hovarth House, and Geoffreys had best know where his employer went.”
“Where d’you think he went?”
“Just find him,” Sin said grimly, his chest tight, “because I don’t want to think where else he might be.”
Even without saying it, though, he knew. Kingsfeld hadn’t evaded any hint of guilt for two years by being foolish. Victoria alone might have gone anywhere, but with Augusta and Kit leaving at the same time, the number of possible destinations narrowed considerably. In his anxiety to protect them, he might very well have left them vulnerable to a murderer. If anything happened he would never forgive himself.
“Sin?”
“We’ll meet back here in an hour. If you see Kingsfeld, grab him. I don’t care how.”
Milo stood in the foyer as they exited, his expression a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. The time had come, Sinclair decided, to stop slinking around in the shadows and trust a little.
“Milo, I need you to keep watch here for Lord Kingsfeld. Choose three footmen, and all of you arm yourselves.”
“My…my lord?”
“It is my belief that Kingsfeld is the man who killed Thomas. I don’t want him wandering around where he can hurt anyone else.”
The butler drew himself up straighter. “If he comes here, my lord, he will not be leaving.”
Sinclair nodded. “We’ll all be back here in an hour. You can trust these men,” he said, gesturing at his lads. “And Lord Kilcairn.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Most of the lights were off at Hovarth House, which Sin took as a bad sign. Kingsfeld hadn’t returned, and the servants weren’t expecting him back anytime soon. Sinclair pounded on the door.
It was nearly a minute before Geoffreys pulled it open. “Lord Althorpe? I’m afraid Lord Kingsfeld isn’t home.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, my lord.”
“You had a break-in earlier, didn’t you?”
The butler looked momentarily startled. “Yes, my lord. How did you—”
Sinclair shoved a hand into the man’s chest, pushing him back into the foyer and following him inside. “I know because I did it,” he snarled, slamming the door with his free hand. “Where is Kingsfeld?”
“My—I don’t—please unhand me, my lord.”
“I almost like you, Geoffreys. Don’t make me loosen your teeth with my fist.” He shoved the butler up against the hall table.
“This is highly irregular, my lord.”
“Yes, it would seem to be. Answer my question. Now.”
“I can’t do that, my lord. Arthur! Marvin!”
Sinclair scowled. “That was stupid.”
Two large footmen pounded into the hallway. “You’ll have to let him go, my lord,” the bigger one grumbled, moving toward them.
With his free hand, Sinclair pulled the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Geoffreys’ forehead. “Your so-called employer murdered my brother, Geoffreys. Don’t think I won’t return the favor. Now, for the last time, where is the damned Earl of Kingsfeld?”
The butler gasped. “I don’t…” His eyes rolled back into his head, and with an oddly delicate-sounding groan, he fainted.
“Damn,” Sinclair growled, taking Geoffreys’ weight on his shoulder and letting him sag to the floor.
As he turned, the footmen hit him. He saw them coming and ducked beneath the first one, even as the second slammed into his legs, knocking them all to the floor on top of Geoffreys. With a curse, Sinclair rolled to his feet and caught the first man to rise across the forehead with the butt of his pistol. Flipping the weapon in his hand, he aimed it at the second one, who was just climbing to his knees.
“Which one are you?” he snapped, wiping blood from his lip.
“M…Marvin.”
“Marvin, I am going to ask you one question. If you don’t answer it, I am going to shoot you in the head, and then ask Arthur over there the same thing when he comes to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Splendid. Where is Kingsfeld? An educated guess will suffice.”
For a bare second he wasn’t certain the large footman would answer him, and Sinclair tapped him none too gently in the forehead with the pistol barrel.
“Did I mention that I’m not joking?” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.
“Ouch! Bloody…he’ll kill me!”
“So will I. Now or later, Marvin. Decide.”
“He went to Althorpe.”
Sinclair’s heart stopped beating. “Alone?”
Marvin shook his head. “Wilkins and two others were to meet up with him on the road.”
Wilkins was the head groom, Sinclair recalled, another large, unpleasant-looking man. “Did any of them say anything else?”
“Just that we were to say the earl had gone home to Kingsfeld on urgent business, and he would return shortly. Geoffreys didn’t know any different.”
“I’m glad I didn’t have to kill him, then. I suggest you and your friend be here when I return,” Sinclair said, “and that you be ready to repeat what you just told me, as many times as necessary. If you run, I will find you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sin backed toward the front door. He doubted any of Kingsfeld’s servants would remain in London by dawn, but he couldn’t take the time to tie them all up and make certain there was no one else in the house to free them later. Unless…
“I’ve changed my mind. Come with me.”
“But—”
“Now, dammit!”
His hands carefully away from his sides, Marvin reluctantly followed Sin outside. Sin gestured his captive toward the street and pocketed the pistol as soon as the footman’s back was turned. “Hail a hack,” he ordered.
Cursing under his breath, Marvin did as he was told. Sinclair freed Diable’s reins from the bush where he’d flung them and swung up into the saddle. The generally calm black seemed to sense his tension, because it sidestepped nervously and snorted.
“Easy,” he murmured and urged the horse up to the side of the hack. Marvin climbed in, and Sinclair kicked the door closed. “What’s your name?” he asked the driver.
“Gibben. What’s it to you?”
“Gibben,” he said, pulling a hundred-pound note from his pocket and lifting it so the man could see it, “if you take this man to Grafton House and turn him safely over to the butler there, you will receive two more of these. How does that sound?”
“Like angels singing, m’lord,” the man answered, grinning.
Sinclair handed him the money. “The butler’s name is Milo. Tell him I’ve gone to Althorpe, and that he’ll find your fee in the bottom left drawer of my desk.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“If you arrive there without this man, I will hear about it, Gibben.”
The driver gave a grim smile, leaning forward to stuff the money into the top of his boot. “Oh, he’ll get there, m’lord. May be a bit banged up, though.”
“Just make sure he’s alive.”
Gibben tipped his hat and snapped the reins over his team. The hack lurched back out into the street at a rather frightening speed for such a dilapidated vehicle. Sin almost felt sorry for the footman inside.
Taking a deep breath, Sinclair turned Diable toward the southwest and kicked the stallion in the ribs. Crispin and the lads would follow, but he wasn’t going to wait. They had a long distance to go tonight—and he didn’t intend to stop un
til he reached Althorpe. He wouldn’t rest until he held Victoria safe in his arms. And after this, if she would forgive him, he was never letting her go again.
“I don’t like you riding off alone. It’s hours to London, and there are highwaymen everywhere.”
Victoria kissed Emma on the cheek. “I used to ride alone all the time. And there’s no one else to ride with me.”
“I could get John, the gardener. Or one of Lord Haverly’s grooms. He’s just down the road.”
“I’ll be fine. I need to do this, Em. I’ll send for Jenny in a few days.”
The headmistress scowled. “And just what do you think you’ll do if you make it to London alive? I should think that Lord Althorpe knows precisely what he’s doing.”
“He may be a fine spy,” Victoria returned, stepping up onto the mounting block and sliding onto Pimpernel’s broad back, “but he hasn’t a clue how to be a husband. I am going to educate him. And I’m not leaving him to face Kingsfeld alone.”
She’d barely slept again last night, worried that Sinclair would be so angry with her that he would refuse to believe in Kingsfeld’s guilt, after all. If the earl hurt him, or killed him, she would die, too. She’d never find anyone else who accepted her silly, flighty ways as easily as Sinclair, and she knew she would never meet anyone else in whose arms she would feel so happy. If he didn’t love her, she would convince him to do so. There had to be something she could do.
“All right, Galahad,” Emma said, her face still concerned. “I know I can’t stop you. But please be careful, Vixen. Don’t let your heart make you do foolish things.”
Victoria smiled. “Goose. That’s what hearts are for.”
She tapped Pimpernel in the ribs, and the sorrel mare obediently trotted toward the front gates of Miss Grenville’s Academy. Little girls’ noses were pressed against the upstairs windows of the converted monastery, and she briefly wondered which one of them would be the next Vixen. And she wondered whether her own daughter would attend the Academy one day.
That made her think of Sinclair again, and how badly she wanted to box his ears and tell him to stop being so stubborn about protecting her. He might very well protect her right into a box, and then there would be no room for the two of them.
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