“Not on yer life.”
“’Tis safer here.”
“I’m goin’ with ya,” he stated firmly.
Lucy swallowed back her annoyance. If the boy chose to go with her, there was very little she could do about it. It wasn’t as if she could tie him down, though the idea was incredibly tempting right about now.
She shook her head and strode toward the house, once again wondering where the coachman had gone to. She had her answer a moment later. They had just gained the crest of the knoll when she looked down and saw John at the bottom of it, his pants around his ankles, the twin cheeks of his rear nearly as white as the shirt on Tom’s back.
“See,” Tom observed gleefully. “’E is emptyin’ ‘is pisser.”
“What do you want?” Garrick all but spat, furious with himself for being caught by Ravenwood. With his black hair, black jacket, and black eyes, the duke looked like the devil himself.
Ravenwood came forward and pulled Garrick’s pistol from where he had stored it in his waistband. Garrick’s eyes narrowed, watching, assessing for weaknesses. There were none, at least none that he could see. The duke shoved the pilfered weapon into his own waistband then slowly backed away. His eyes looked blackerthan coal in the flickering candlelight, the flames gleaming off the barrel of his pistol.
“I asked you a question, Ravenwood.”
A voice drifted through the sill. Ravenwood stiffened, crossing the room in three quick steps to shove the pistol in Garrick’s side.
“Move,” he ordered, pushing the pistol against him until Garrick was forced to walk toward the back of the room and out of sight of the door.
Only seconds later a head peeked into the room, a head with long red hair tied back with a green ribbon and emerald eyes that scanned the room. Garrick nearly groaned. He nearly cursed. He nearly turned to Ravenwood and told him to forget the whole bloody thing. The duke could have Lucy, he could bound and gag her and drag her away—with his compliments.
“Don’t make a sound,” Ravenwood whispered from behind him, using Garrick’s own body to hide behind.
Garrick clenched his hands.
“Why, Garrick, there you are.”
At that moment Garrick wanted to ignore the pistol rammed into his back and cross the room to shake some sense into Lucy’s mouselike brain. Instead he stayed put, straightening to his full height.
“What’s the matter?” she said in the dulcet tones of a person extremely proud of herself. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Garrick, ya should’a seen it,” an impish voice said from behind her, and Tom stepped into view.
That was when Garrick did groan. “We stumbled upon John coachman emptyin’ ‘is pisser, we did. Should’a seen the look on Lucy’s—”
The boy’s words died an abrupt death. Lucy gasped as Ravenwood made his presence known.
“Why, Miss Hartford,” the duke said softly. “This is a surprise.”
“Lucy, run!” Garrick ordered.
“Run and I’ll shoot your lover,” the duke said quickly.
Lucy pulled Tom up next to her, horror spreading through her. Ravenwood used the pistol to shove Garrick toward her, pulling out another from his waistband. Garrick stumbled, then turned back to the duke, his fist raised.
“Ahh, ah, ah,” Ravenwood murmured silkily. “Do that and I shall shoot Miss Hartford.”
After what seemed an age, Garrick finally lowered his fist. Lucy felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders, but it returned full-force as Ravenwood turned toward Tom. She didn’t like the way he stared at the boy. He looked … well, almost triumphant.
“Please, let us go,” she pleaded, her heart pounding so hard, her voice came out strangled. She darted a glance at Garrick, whose fists were clenched at his side.
“Sorry, Miss Hartford, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.” And with those words he aimed his second pistol at Tom.
Lucy screamed as the crack of gunfire filled the room with its deafening roar. “Tom,” she yelled, instant, petrified tears rising in her eyes.
“You bloody bastard,” Garrick bellowed. He took a step toward the duke, but Ravenwood stopped him by raising the second gun higher.
“’E missed,” Tom yelled, patting himself like a blind man. “’E bloody missed me.”
“You’re wrong, young man. I hit my target exactly.” His eyes never left Garrick’s. “Look yonder at the candelabra. Particularly the candle on the right.”
Lucy turned, then gasped. The candle had been cut cleanly in two. “I don’t understand,” she murmured.
“You will in a moment,” the duke answered enigmatically.
Silence descended, but it was only when a half-dressed servant burst into the room that the realization of what he’d done dawned.
“Fetch the earl and the countess,” the duke ordered.
“You want the earl present?” Lucy asked as the servant backed out of the room.
“I do.”
And Lucy grew even more confused. Ravenwood was evil.
But he’d been kind to her on the Revenger.
She nibbled her lip in thought. He’d killed his brother.
Then again, nobody had actually proven that yet. She frowned, thoroughly confused, though that wasn’t an altogether uncommon occurrence, she admitted.
Less than five minutes later the door re-opened and a woman who was obviously Melanie, Countess of Selborne, glided into the room with all the dignified aloofness of royalty, but when she spied Ravenwood her regal glide came to a peasantlike halt. “Ravenwood!” she gasped.
“Melanie.”
Melanie’s gaze swung toward them, her eyes widening. Lucy studied her, curiously disappointed by what she saw. She had expected the countess to look like one of the witches from Macbeth—instead she saw a woman approximately ten years older than herself. She had black hair and features which might have been beautiful but for her pointy chin, which spoiled it all. Lucy shivered as she looked into her cold eyes.
“Here now, what is the meaning of this?” asked a man coming up behind her who—judging by the brown and gold dressing robe, and the ingrained loftiness on his face—was undoubtedly the earl. And whereas Melanie’s eyes were frigid, the earl’s gray eyes were filled with anxiety and confusion as he spied Ravenwood’s pistol, then the room’s other three occupants. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Ravenwood smiled, an evil smile filled with malice. “I am Ravenwood.”
“Ravenwood?” the earl gasped. “The duke of Ravenwood?”
He bowed.
“What do you want, you black-hearted devil?”
“I am that, and I’m here to speak with your wife … and you.”
The earl turned to his wife. “Do you know who this is, Melanie?”
The countess tiled her arrogant nose to an elevated level. “I’ve never met the man in my life—”
“She’s lying,” Lucy said, her eyes meeting the evil countess’s defiantly. “She asked the duke to find us, and he did, capturing us with help from pirates—”
“Who the devil are you?”
Lucy looked the earl square in the eye. “Lucy Hartford. And as I was saying, your wife wanted the duke to kill us, at least, I think she wanted him to kill us—”
“Kill you!” the earl boomed.
“Miss Hartford, please,” Ravenwood interrupted. “Do let me do the talking.”
Silenced, Lucy debating the wisdom of complying.
“He wants ta expose the countess, too,” Tom exclaimed.
Lucy stiffened. She exchanged a startled glance with Garrick. Wherever could Tom have gotten that idea?
But one look into the duke’s diabolically amused face made her realize Tom could be right.
The thought was confirmed when the duke said, “Indeed I do, young man.”
25
“Expose the countess?” Lucy gushed, unable to stop herself.
“Indeed, Miss Hartford.”
“But why didn’t you just confr
ont the earl with what you knew earlier?”
“I needed the boy as proof,” the duke answered.
“This is ridiculous—”
“Sit down, Melanie,” the duke snapped. He pointed with his pistol to two armchairs whose tall backs were to the dormant fireplace. “You too, my lord.”
The earl looked clearly defiant, in his eyes a mixture of fear, anger and confusion. “No.”
“Sit down.”
The earl jumped, as did Lucy. Then Selborne’s eyes narrowed. He straightened his brown and gold dressing robe and with one last look of rancor, placed his hand on the small of the countess’s back and guided her to a chair.
“Um, may we sit, too?” Lucy asked.
The duke nodded. “By all means,” he announced, indicating a settee opposite the armchairs.
All three of them sat, Tom between Lucy and Garrick. Lucy shifted around a bit, until she realized she was sitting on the spent pistol. She pulled it out from beneath her. Tom snorted in amusement. When she looked up, she found the duke staring down at her with a frown on his face. Ignoring it, she went on to straighten her skirts, then settled back in the settee, impatiently waiting for the duke to begin.
Ravenwood turned back to the earl and after a few moments of contemplative silence finally said, “My lord earl, what do you remember about the death of your firstborn son?”
“I’ll not listen to another word,” the countess suddenly cried, shooting up from her chair. “Richard, if you do not—”
The duke strode forward, the countess yelping when he shoved her back down. “If you say one more word, Melanie, I will gag and bind you to that chair.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she huffed.
“Wouldn’t I?”
She stared up at him, her eyes cold as tempered steel, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Stay put, Melanie,” her husband warned.
The countess shot him a glare, then looked at Ravenwood, her expression pure snake venom, but she settled back nonetheless.
“Very smart of you, Melanie. I see you realize I should have no problem putting a ball through that cold lump of iron you call a heart.”
“You bastard,” she spat out.
“No, my dear, I can assure you I am many things, but not that.”
“Is it more money you want? Is that it?”
“No, Melanie. I never wanted the money, I only wanted the letters from you asking—nay, begging for my help. But you never mentioned the boy by name. You’ve no idea of the trouble that caused me. I had to go after the boy myself, my living proof of your perfidy.”
“No—”
“Quiet!” he snarled, turning to the earl. “The boy is your first son, my lord. Ten years ago she paid to have the child killed.”
“Lies!” Melanie shot.
The duke turned back to her. “Are they, Melanie? I think not.”
The countess didn’t move.
A slow, victorious smile trickled across the duke’s face. He turned to the earl. “Fate has played a cruel trick on your wife, my lord, for the child in question sits over there.” He motioned toward Tom. “Say hello to your son, my lord. Your firstborn son. A boy your wife paid to have killed ten years ago.”
Lucy waited, hardly daring to breath as she waited for the earl’s response. She had it a moment later.
“Preposterous.”
Her brow scrunched into a frown. That wasn’t the response she’d expected.
“Impossible,” the earl continued, his eyes latching onto the duke’s with the ferociousness of a wild animal. “How dare you, sir? How dare you implicate my wife in such a scheme?”
Melanie looked smug now, so much so Lucy found herself saying, “He dares because it’s the truth, my lord. The man who was hired to kill Tom was your kennel master.”
“Enough,” the earl spit out. “You’re insane. All of you. Certainly Melanie and I have had our problems, but not even she would be so evil. Besides, I saw my son buried with my own two eyes.”
“Did you?” Lucy interrupted. “Did you actually see his body?”
The earl’s eyes narrowed in anger, his patience obviously at an end. “No, I did not. Nor would I want to—”
Lucy seized her advantage. “Then how can you be sure it was your son who was buried?”
The earl bristled, the anger rising off him like heat from a fire. “I don’t know what your part is in this, madam, but I assure you, you’ll pay for your involvement. Whatever it is.”
Lucy stiffened and Tom shot up from the settee. “I says we leave ‘im to ‘er.”
“Thomas Tee,” Lucy hissed. “Sit down.” The boy looked ready to protest until she lowered her tone of voice. “Please,” she said softly. “You’re not helping matters.”
Tom stared hard at her for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped. He turned toward the earl and gave him a glare.
But the earl was staring at Tom as if she’d suddenly sprouted an extra set of arms. “W-what did you call him?” He asked hoarsely, his voice stangely devoid of emotion considering the disbelief on his face.
Lucy darted Garrick a confused stare before saying, “I called him Thomas Tee.”
Selborne slowly sat up in his chair. “Where did he get that name?”
“I, well, I don’t remember exactly. You told me that was your nickname, didn’t you, Tom?”
Tom nodded, then crossed his arms in front of him mulishly.
“Where did you get the name?” the earl repeated, his fingers alternately clutching then releasing the arms of his chair.
Tom shrugged, looked as if he wasn’t going to answer, but relented when Lucy tapped his foot with hers. “Been called that since I was a little mite.”
“Why?”
Tom was beginning to look rebellious. He darted a glance around the room, his eyes catching upon Lucy’s. “Tell him why,” she said earnestly, excitement flowing through her. “Tell him Tom, tell.him now.”
Tom uncrossed his arms, took a deep breath and leveled a glare upon the earl. “It’s short for Tom Thumb. Been called that on account of me big toe lookin’ like a thumb.”
“Dear God,” the earl moaned, sinking back into the seat.
“Utter balderdash,” the countess said shrilly. “It’s not true. They must have heard the tale from somebody.”
“But we can prove it, can’t we Tom?” Lucy said triumphantly. Tom nodded reluctantly. “Take off your boot.”
“Me feet stink,” the boy said petulantly.
“Do it, imp,” Garrick urged.
Tom shot Garrick a look of long-suffering resignation and then did as he was told. In seconds his left foot was exposed for all of them to see. The earl gasped.
“They don’t smells that bad,” the boy mumbled.
Lucy laughed. She couldn’t help it. She was so delighted. She glanced over at the countess in triumph.
She was gone.
“The countess!”
But Ravenwood already had her, had grabbed her by the back of her dressing robe and tugged her toward him.
“No,” Melanie screamed, turning on him with her arms outstretched, her hands curled into claws and confirming her guilt by her very actions. The duke neatly sidestepped her charge, and Lucy tensed as she waited for the crack of a pistol. But it was apparent the duke had other plans for his captive, for he grabbed her and pulled her up against him. She struggled despite the pistol now held to her temple. His head lowered and Lucy had to strain to hear, “I’m looking forward to making you pay, Melanie,” he said softly. “Looking forward to it a great deal.”
“No,” she pleaded, her eyes seeking out her husband’s. “Richard, I—”
“Don’t,” the earl interrupted coldly. “No more of your lies, Melanie.”
And for the first time Lucy saw fear on Melanie’s face. Loads and loads of it.
26
The next morning Lucy watched, alone, as Melanie, Countess of Selborne, was escorted to the waiting carriage like Lady Jane Grey o
n her way to the executioner. The image through the glass at Selborne was crystal clear, and so Lucy had a perfect view of Melanie walking toward the carriage, her posture so straight and upright it looked as if she balanced an apple beneath that green bonnet she wore.
It had taken hours to truly convince the earl of Tom’s identity. He’d questioned the boy over and over again about his childhood, but in the end it had been the letters that had convinced him, the duke’s concern over Tom not being mentioned in them all for naught. Melanie had very distinctive handwriting, handwriting the earl had recognized at once.
Lucy sighed. The sight of the earl’s face when he’d realized the truth was one Lucy never wanted to see again. He’d been destroyed. Utterly destroyed.
Shoving the memory aside, she refocused on the scene outside the window again. Ravenwood was helping the countess into the carriage with a smugly superior grin on his face. The countess jerked her arm away, and Ravenwood’s smile grew. A moment later he too disappeared. The vehicle sprang forward, the trunks piled atop it swaying from side to side as it rumbled around the curved drive, past some bushes, beyond the fountain, until at long last it crossed between two brick columns and turned onto the road.
And just like that, it was over: the countess was gone and Tom restored to his rightful place as heir to the earldom. Too bad Garrick wasn’t here to see it, but he’d gone to London to fetch her aunt, leaving so early he’d missed breakfast. But Lucy was sure Garrick would’ve liked to have seen the countess being marched from the house like Napoleon on his way to Alba. Perhaps it might have helped to banish the blue funk he’d sunk into, a dark mood she’d no idea how to brighten.
She sighed. Between Garrick’s glowering countenance and Tom’s obnoxious behavior this morning, she was hard pressed to decide whom she wanted to choke first; Garrick for dodging her questions with the sure-footedness of a goat, or Tom for behaving as if he’d lived in a barn for the past two months. Right now the boy was undoubtedly upstairs, pouting after being forced to take a bath, small punishment indeed for passing gas at the breakfast table.
She turned back to the empty room, the gray light of morning turning the off-white tones of the decor to the color of ash. She was exhausted, the wound on her head still hurt, and she ached for Garrick’s arms.
My Fallen Angel Page 22