Seducing the Earl

by Andersen, Maggi

  “I’ve found Moreau,” Irvine said, gasping. “I’ll swear it’s him. He’s here.”

  “Where? Don’t make it obvious.”

  Irvine gestured over his shoulder with a subtle movement. “He’s just appeared down Ave Maria Lane.”

  Strathairn turned his head toward the lane. A big solid dark-haired man stood among the crowd. “You’re sure that’s Moreau?”

  “I’ll never forget that hulking brute. He marked me indelibly.”

  “Alert the constables,” Strathairn said. “Tell them to follow me. But with stealth. We don’t want to lose him and neither do we want a stampede!”

  He left Irvine’s side and walked over to the barricade as another carriage carrying more wedding guests passed through.

  The regent’s cavalcade appeared and advanced in stately fashion down Ludgate Hill, flanked by guards on horseback. Strathairn pushed into the throng, patently aware that if the people panicked, many would get hurt. The tightly packed, excited mob pushed back at him, struggling to keep their position which made movement frustratingly difficult. He chose not to draw his gun while he kept his eye on Moreau’s dark head. A shooting match would be disastrous.

  Strathairn was a few yards from the Frenchman when Moreau saw him and whipped the rifle out from beneath his coat. Those around him who saw the weapon cried out and tried to get away.

  Exclamations of horror and rebuke followed Moreau as he fought his way back toward Ave Maria Lane with Strathairn coming fast behind him. Strathairn could hear his French curses and threats as he pushed people aside. His gun now drawn, he warned people to let him through, but their terror impeded him as they struggled to put distance between themselves and the two men with guns.

  Moreau shoved several people to the ground as he pushed on toward the lane. A woman carrying a child fell heavily.

  “Help her up!” Strathairn called with a curse. He couldn’t get a clear path, and Moreau had almost reached the edge of the crowd. If he made it to the end of the lane, he’d have a good chance to get away.

  Moreau burst out of the mob as Strathairn gained on him. He broke free and sprinted after the Frenchman. Behind him, the two constables following were jammed between those surging against the barricade to glimpse the prince regent, whose cavalcade was only minutes away, and those attempting to flee the scene.

  Strathairn wanted this mongrel captured alive. A quick death wasn’t good enough for Moreau. Drawn and quartered, his head on a pike would be the only justice and deterrent for others with the same aim.

  Moreau took off up the lane, but the heavy man was slow on his feet. Strathairn took aim and brought him down with a shot to the thigh. Like the felling of an oak, he crashed onto the pavement with a roar of rage, the rifle flying away. Strathairn reached him as he staggered to his feet, bleeding heavily. Strathairn did not expect the weight behind the mighty punch, which sent his head reeling. When his foggy gaze cleared, Moreau was lurching for the gun, and Strathairn leapt after him. Before Moreau’s hand could grasp the rifle, Strathairn kicked it away.

  The big Frenchman charged again, butting Strathairn in the chest, which knocked the air out of him. Strathairn staggered, then leapt forward and attacked him with his fists. All the pain and fury he carried for Nesbit and Irvine and past events that had nothing to do with Moreau lay behind every loaded punch.

  Despite being crippled and weakened from the loss of blood and Strathairn’s blows, the big man still fought back. A ham-fist connected with Strathairn’s cheek and his ears rung. Their labored panting reverberated around the narrow lane while the shocked crowd uttered barely a word. Strathairn managed to plant a good facer, rocking the man back on his heels. As Moreau shook his head, Strathairn danced forward and delivered a right to the giant’s stomach and followed it with an elbow to the jaw. Moreau’s head twisted, a trail of spit flying from his mouth.

  Moreau was all muscle but unschooled. Strathairn got the big man in a headlock. The rifle was too far away for him to reach. He had to disable the Frenchman to get to the weapon. When he brought his knee up into Moreau’s groin, he cried out in pain.

  Moreau spat out a string of French curses as Strathairn drove his fist continually into the Frenchman’s stomach. The devil wouldn’t go down.

  A monk approached them. He picked up Moreau’s rifle and pointed it at the Frenchman.

  “Give me the rifle,” Strathairn said, surprised that a monk should display a penchant for violence.

  The monk threw back his hood.

  Strathairn choked and went cold. Forney! The count sneered, his face thin and pasty. He altered the trajectory of the gun to Strathairn’s heart.

  “An eye for an eye. You killed my wife,” Forney cried, his strange wolf-like eyes wild.

  With a shriek, Moreau broke free as Forney fired, the ball striking Moreau in the head.

  Forney let out a howl as the Frenchman went down. With a sense that fate may have caught up with him, Strathairn stood helpless as the count aimed the gun at him.

  He pulled the trigger.

  A bright flash and Forney staggered back as the rifle exploded in his face. He crumpled, his habit smoldering.

  Strathairn knelt beside him as he fought to breathe. It seemed that fate had favored him today. He climbed to his feet as Sibella emerged chalk-faced from the stunned onlookers, the muff pistol in her hand.

  “Give me that.” Strathairn grabbed the gun from her as the two constables closed in on the stricken Forney who was prostrate on the ground, his blackened face hardly recognizable.

  “Is he dead?” Sibella asked, her voice oddly flat.

  “No, he still breathes, but not for long.” Strathairn stood looking down at the conspirator they had thought to be dead. No question that death would claim him now.

  He put his arm around Sibella. “My God, Sibella. I should be angry with you. What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  She struggled out of his grasp. “I was desperate. I wanted to help if I could. So I followed you.”

  He took her hand. “You’re missing your sister’s wedding.”

  “They’ll wait for me.”

  “Prinny doesn’t wait for anyone.”

  Sibella sagged against him and he led her to the church, through the crowd of subdued people. They gasped and murmured and parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. He half expected to see the prince emerge from the cathedral in a rage.

  “See what happens when you give me a gun?” she asked as they crossed the forecourt. “I don’t ever want it back.”

  “I’m not about to give it back.” She might have been hurt, or worse… “Everything is all right now.” He swept her up the steps.

  “Who was that man in the monk’s garb? I saw his eyes. He would have killed you,” she whispered.

  At the entrance, he raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Count Forney. He won’t kill anyone now. Thank you for being so brave, my love.”

  She pulled away from him. “The wedding. I must go.”

  “Sibella…”

  She shook her head sorrowfully at him and disappeared into the interior shadows of the cathedral.

  *

  The wedding party gathered in the nave.

  “Where have you been, Sibella?” Cordelia asked in a low voice. “You are holding up the wedding. The Prince of Wales will be angry.”

  “He isn’t,” Chaloner said, briskly, silencing Cordelia with a gesture. “Mother sits next to the regent and is keeping him amused. What happened out there, Sib?”

  “The assassin has been killed,” Sibella said.

  “Oh, thank heaven.” Maria clapped her hands.

  Chaloner nodded. “Then may we proceed?” He held out his arm to Maria and nodded to a church alderman. In a moment, the organ music swelled.

  Sibella took her bouquet of red roses from their footman, then walked down the aisle ahead of Aida and Cordelia in their white gowns with Chaloner and Maria following behind.

  Familiar faces greeted her as she wa
lked, from family to politicians and princes.

  She took her place beside her sisters. Relief that John was safe made her tamp down a shudder while she watched Maria join Harry at the altar and the ceremony began.

  When she’d followed John as he made his way through the crowd, it hit home to her the extent of the danger he faced. How strong and competent he was, yet he still came within a whisker of dying. It would not be the first time, of that she was sure. He would never give it up. Not for her or for anyone. It was in his blood.

  As Maria vowed to love and obey Harry, Sibella bit her lip to suppress the anguish which came with the knowledge that he was lost to her. Her sister’s voice seemed almost distant in the vast echoing space, perhaps because of the heavy thud of Sibella’s heart in her ears.

  The ceremony over, Maria and Harry went to sign the marriage lines. Sibella returned her mother’s smile with trembling lips. Since Coombe died, her nerves seemed to lie close to the surface. In her quiet moments, she relived the terrifying expression in his eyes, his determination to rape and murder her, and the awful moment when he was killed.

  When John spoke to the man with the crutch and entered the crowd, she was compelled to follow him with an overwhelming urge to do everything she could to help, to turn what fate might have in store into a victory.

  The monk had pushed past her and pulled back his habit. She saw the mad, murderous look in his eyes, which had chilled her to the bone. What made men so wicked? It shook her to the core to know such evil existed. Her sheltered life had left her unprepared. John must have witnessed many terrible things. How close he had come to death, yet he seemed so calm.

  She’d sought solace in his arms for one fleeting moment, and she would always be grateful for that. She admired his bravery and his dedication, but at the same time, she wanted to beat him on the chest and rail at him for this work he did. What a fool she was to love him for precisely what he was, a brave man prepared to risk his life for his country, and yet wish to change him, to subject him to a life of quiet domesticity. She wouldn’t ask it of him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Strathairn saw Moreau’s body and that of Forney, who was now deceased, off in the wagon. The ceremony over, the guests filed out of the cathedral with murmurs of disbelief as news of what had taken place spread among them. The crowd remained, ten-deep behind the barricades, waiting for any crumb of information.

  When the regent descended the cathedral steps, a hush came over the crowd, but for a few, faint-voiced protestors. What they had witnessed seemed to subdue even the most vocal. Strathairn stood with Irvine while they organized a carriage to take his wounded colleague home. “So much for prototypes, eh?” Irvine said.

  “Not properly tested,” Strathairn said.

  “Thank the lord for that.” Irvine patted him on the arm. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you standing here. Tried to get a shot off from the barricade, but too many people were in the way. I felt bloody helpless watching that unfold.” He shook his head as he handed Strathairn his pistol. “Too close for comfort, milord.”

  “Indeed.” Strathairn could only be grateful that he hadn’t been reduced to a bloody mess in front of Sibella. Sibella! Why did he fear she was moving away from him? Had he lost her?

  Before mounting the steps of the royal carriage, the regent sent his aide to fetch Strathairn.

  He praised Strathairn’s swift action. “If we had more like you in the royal guard, I would sleep better at night,” he said, his plump face breaking into a smile. He granted Strathairn the title of Marquess of Strathairn in principle.

  Shocked, Strathairn thanked him with a bow.

  “I shall expect to see you take your place in the House of Lords,” he said before climbing into his carriage.

  The procession began to wend its way past the dismantled barricade as the crowd rallied to boo and cheer. There was no way of refusing the regent, and Strathairn found he didn’t want to.

  By the time he arrived at St. James’s Square directly after visiting Parnham, the guests had partaken of the wedding breakfast and had repaired to the ballroom.

  When Strathairn entered the ballroom, Maria left her new husband’s side to greet him. She curtsied low enough to please the regent.

  “Lady Harrington, please. That is hardly necessary.” Strathairn took her hands and raised her to her feet.

  “My family is eternally grateful for what you did today Strathairn. You are a very brave man.”

  “You should caution your sister not to take such risks.”

  “I have done.” She studied him carefully. “She is very bold and daring isn’t she. I am in awe of her.”

  “Yes, and courageous.”

  She eyed him anxiously. “Sib would make you a fine partner in life.”

  “She might not agree with you.”

  “Oh, she does, never fear,” Maria said gently. “But this business with Lord Coombe has affected her. Sib needs time to recover.”

  He doubted time was what Sibella needed. She needed distraction and to feel safe, both of which he was happy to provide. “You make a beautiful bride, Lady Harrington. Your husband is an extremely lucky fellow.”

  Her eyes sparkled up at him. “I am blessed to have Harry.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Here is my sister. Please excuse me, I must return to my husband.”

  She walked away, leaving him alone with Sibella. After one glance at her pale face, he took her arm. She did not resist as he drew her out into the corridor. A footman shut the ballroom door on the buzz of conversation.

  Sibella’s eyes looked bruised as they searched his. She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m sorry if you’re angry with me.”

  “I’m not. Why would I be?”

  She shook her head. “It was foolish of me. I might have got in the way.”

  “I wish you hadn’t witnessed it, that’s all.”

  He wanted to kiss her, to convince her that the future was theirs if only she would trust him. But the footman stood to attention by the door, making a valiant effort not to gaze in their direction.

  “Maria thinks we make a good pair,” he said, his voice gruff. He wanted her to love him, but this was hardly the time to plead his case. There was so much more he needed to explain to make her understand what he’d only just realized himself. Now with Forney dead and the regent’s commendation, he felt freer, lighter than he could remember. It was a profound experience which almost left him reeling.

  “Now that Maria has left home, Mama is having the dower house prepared. She plans to move in as soon as it’s ready.”

  He hesitated, measuring her for a moment. “Your mother will be quite comfortable there?”

  “Yes, we both shall be.”

  “You’ll stay with her until she is settled?”

  She refused to meet his gaze. “That part of the garden has been neglected. I look forward to the undertaking.”

  “This is what you want?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “It is time Chaloner and Lavinia had the house to themselves. Lavinia has been remarkably patient.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” He took a step closer.

  Lady Brandreth entered the corridor. “Sibella?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “We are charging our glasses. Wales is about to make a speech.” She nodded at him. “Strathairn. I believe we are indebted to you yet again, but come, we cannot insult the prince.”

  Frustrated, Strathairn followed them inside. He accepted a flute of champagne from a footman. There was no chance of pursuing his conversation with Sibella. Today, she belonged to her family and he must dredge up some patience from somewhere.

  “To the bride and groom!” The regent raised his glass to the married couple, and everyone responded. He launched into a speech about his father’s close friendship with Harry’s father, the Duke of Lamplugh, and how sorry the king was he had not been well enough to attend.

  “The king cannot walk and isn’t aware tha
t his wife is dead,” Vaughn said at Strathairn’s elbow. He gained a fierce look from his mother.

  After Lord Liverpool added his sentiments to the occasion, as eloquent as always, then the musicians tuned their instruments for the first dance.

  Strathairn sought out Sibella when the music began. She refused to dance, so he sat beside her. “When do you return to the country?”

  “In a few days.”

  “I will visit you there.” Her smooth brow creased, and he hastened to add, “I shall be busy for a while, however.” He had no intention of forcing his suit upon her. Maria was right; she needed time.

  *

  Late November, Tunbridge Wells

  Sibella made a mental note to tell the gardener that the rhododendrons beneath the drawing room windows had become too bushy and were shutting out the light. On her garden ramble, frost crunched under her half boots, the fountain frozen over. Gardeners raked up piles of papery brown leaves from beneath the skeletal trees and burned them, smoke rising into the cool gray-blue sky, the color of Strathairn’s eyes.

  When she recalled the warmth and determination in those eyes, her body tingled. Her memories of him invaded her thoughts constantly. She twirled the stem of a yellow autumn crocus in her fingers and wandered on, cutters in hand, bending to trim a branch here and pluck a spent bloom there. Twitch, a brown and white terrier puppy from the stables, followed her about on his short legs, deserting her only to chase off the birds. She wanted to make a pet of him, but her mother refused, because he barked at her cat.

  In the two months since the family had returned to Brandreth Park, she had busied herself making improvements to the garden. After conferring with the head gardener, they worked to restore the neglected corner surrounding the dower house while inside, workmen hammered and sawed, the smell of paint drifting out. She had chosen the color schemes for the paint, wallpapers, and fabrics for many of the rooms, as her mother seemed a little subdued and disinterested. “I miss Maria’s gay laughter,” she’d said on more than one occasion.

  “I do my best, Mama,” Sibella said for the umpteenth time. Not even the most celebrated comedian of their time would rouse her mother to laughter. But Sibella was gentle with her, aware that her mother was having trouble with the move and adjusting to losing another of her chicks.