Brianna knew the letter was from the Bank of England. Flicking the corner of the envelope, she lifted her gaze. Her entire life, she had always wanted to make a difference to those she loved. Perhaps she couldn’t on their same scale. Her brothers built worlds. Stephan Williams served to uphold the bastion of democratic ideals. And Michael would soon take his seat in the House of Lords. Her contribution was to motherhood…and Aldbury.
“It’s my dowry,” she said.
“It’s more than your dowry. You sold your shares of Donally and Bailey Engineering. He would never have allowed you to do that.”
“This estate needs working capital for what my husband wishes to do. Legally, it’s his money anyway. Aldbury Park needs it.”
“He’s not naive, your Grace. He knows that you’ve been working with the vicar. Eventually he’ll learn how you’ve been funding everything.”
“Then let it be a surprise.”
Sipping his brew consideringly, Chamberlain regarded her bouncy feathered hat. Clearly, she was a jarring impact to the sterile grandeur of Aldbury. But she liked it here. Michael’s world was like a splash of sunlight on a blank canvas, and the possibilities for a finished masterpiece had become endless, if she could just learn how to paint with the correct brush.
Brianna’s gaze dropped to the envelope in her hand. “My maid has gout,” she stood. “I don’t want her trapped in a carriage all day. Besides, the countess has become somewhat dependent on Gracie.”
Gracie always did want a patient who appreciated her medicinal potions.
“I will send Louisa with you. She has never been to London. Perhaps she will consider this an adventure.”
“And one more thing, my lord.” Brianna pressed an impulsive kiss on his whiskered cheek, flustering him with her exuberant display of emotions. “My staff will be returning to the cottage house to finish the job I paid them to do. The countess can learn to share.”
Chamberlain’s brow lifted in subdued astonishment. “I’m quite positive that will be an education for you both.”
She smiled. “On that fact, we can both agree.”
He looked out the tall window at the slate gray sky and churning clouds, and mild panic stirred Brianna. It had been raining heavily since early that morning. “If you’re going to get to your sister-in-law, you best be leaving soon.”
“Please see that his grace gets this message.”
Michael closed the missive and looked up at the boy who had delivered it. “How long ago did you get this?”
“It came to the dowager’s this afternoon, your grace. We didn’t know fer sure where you were. Then her grace, the dowager, said to try the Boar’s Inn since ye fancy taking your meals here on occasion when you are out.”
Lord Bedford entered the inn and doffed his rain-soaked jacket and hat. Michael excused the boy and watched as Bedford sat across from him. Water dripped from the man’s hair and eyelashes. Michael didn’t intend to stay long.
“Why the cloak and dagger routine of a clandestine meeting, Ravenspur?” Bedford demanded.
“I want you to call the wolf off my wife.”
“The wolf?” Amused, Bedford flagged the barmaid for ale. “No one has ever referred to my sweet Amy as the wolf.”
“No doubt their adjectives are far more descriptive and less fit for mixed company.” Michael leaned back in the chair. It creaked in protest to his weight. Long riding boots hugged his calves.
“There have always been rumors surrounding me. Most have no basis in fact and don’t even dignify a response. The one about Amber is new and is as low as anyone could get to hurt innocent people, including your niece. You were good friends with my brother. What would Edward think about having his daughter’s parentage questioned?”
“Amy was always loyal to Edward.” Bedford contemplated the ring on his finger. “What can I say? I love her.”
Michael paid the barmaid for the ale and ordered coffee. Behind him the sky had darkened, and most of the common room remained lit only by the fire in the hearth. He leaned forward on his elbows. “She’s having a difficult time. I’m asking for a reprieve until she can get her feet beneath her.”
Bedford’s chair creaked as he shifted weight. “All right,” he said, and removed an envelope from inside his waistcoat.
“I wasn’t able to get into Charles Cross’s files,” Bedford said.
“Secret?”
“Closed.” Bedford sat back in his chair. “You’ll have to wait until next week when I can find a clerk who can navigate the basement. Do you want to explain your interest?”
“I don’t like him. Is that reason enough?”
Michael accepted coffee from the barmaid and waited until she took the meal away. Turning his attention back to Bedford, he regarded the man over the cup rim. “I have an emergency to attend to in London. While I’m there, I need your office to find someone else for me. Sir Christopher Donally is or was the Public Works minister in Egypt. He resigned his position four weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since—”
“He arrived in Southampton two days ago. Had a deuced tough time getting back this time of year.”
Michael’s coffee cup clinked in its saucer. “You just happen to know this?”
“The foreign secretary has a vested interest in Donally, considering the man is his son-in-law. They hate each other, but the arrogant bastard is ecstatic that his daughter is well on her way to delivering him a grandchild. She’s been living in her father’s Denmark Hill residence for the past three weeks completing some book about Coptic temples. Though I prefer The Plight and Prejudice of London’s Poor a more fascinating read. I understand your wife is the author of that titillating piece.”
“Where did you say Lady Alexandra was living?”
“With her father. Somewhere near the university district. Leave it to Ware to be obtuse about his place of residence.”
Michael was sure that Brianna had not known that Alexandra was not living at home. Her message had stated that she would be going to Epping. He turned in his chair and looked out the window at the growing green and black sky.
“London is getting pounded,” Bedford said, looking out the window. “The approaching night promises to be black as hell.”
“Are you sure Lady Alexandra is staying with her father?”
“I just left London.” Bedford stood and shrugged into his coat. “He’s been leaving Downing Street early every night.”
“Because she’s ill?”
“Hell no.” Bedford finished his ale and shrugged into his coat. “Because she’s home.”
“The bridge is under water, guv’na.” A man hunched in a black slicker shouted over the rain as Michael reached the crossing three hours later. A lantern swayed in the man’s hand as he checked the railroad trestle. “No one is getting through to London tonight. Leastways not from this place.” Behind him, the train stood huffing in the pouring rain, an occasional blast of steam sounding akin to Michael’s black temper.
“I need to get to the High Beach area,” he yelled over his shoulder. Still atop his horse, Michael held the reins clutched in his gloved hands. The stallion did an impatient turn. His calves wrapped the barrel of the horse in an unforgiving vice. “How far is the next crossing?”
“There ain’t no guarantee the bridge in Watford is in better shape.” The railroad conductor raised the lantern. In the hours since the rain had begun, the waters were still rising. “Either way, you ain’t getting to London, guv’na. You’re better off sitting tight here.”
Michael stared at the torrent of rushing water that had breached its banks in an ugly surge of swollen, muddy water. Swinging the bay south, he didn’t make it far before the sullen waterway again blocked his path. “You’ll have to go to St. Anne’s abbey,” someone yelled out from the darkness. Michael had been desperate enough to cross.
He slammed his hand against the edge of the saddle and stared in fury at the sky. The rain blinded him. He knew he’d kill his horse if he continued
on to find another crossing. Or he’d kill himself in the dark. Though she didn’t know it, Finley’s men were with her, and he had to trust that they would guard his wife with their lives.
The roads were dark and flooded when Brianna reached the outskirts of London. Turning down the lamp, she raised the curtain in the carriage and looked outside. There was something ominous in the road’s emptiness. She heard the driver’s whip crack. The carriage picked up speed. Louisa was curled inside her cloak on the opposite seat, asleep.
The carriage had pulled out of a way-station what seemed hours ago. She’d learned the bridge behind her had been closed. The men outside needed to find shelter. Brianna laid her head against the velvet squabs. She thought of Michael, and wondered if it was raining where he was as well. Had he gotten her message?
Or had he already returned to Aldbury?
Something smacked against the roof, and Brianna awakened with a start, looking around her. For a moment she’d forgotten where she was. Sheets of water cascaded down the window. The carriage had stopped.
Brianna pulled aside the curtains, to see trees bent and swayed. They were on Christopher’s long drive; her brother’s Elizabethan manor house loomed in the shadows, a distant light in the back marking the late hour of her arrival. Across from her, Louisa remained asleep. The driver had not set down the step. How long had she been here?
Pressing her face against the glass, Brianna cupped her hands around her eyes. Tree branches lashed the house in a frenzied tantrum. The wind rocked the carriage.
Suddenly, the front door opened and a man stepped onto the porch. Backlit by the lights that began to blink on in the corridor, she could barely make out his shape, though she couldn’t see much beneath the shiny slicker. One of her footmen must have gone to get someone to open the door. At this hour, most of the servants would be retired to their quarters out back of the house.
Anxious to see Alex and to get out of the storm, Brianna didn’t wait for the man to make his way out to her. The wind yanked the door from her hand and it slammed against the side of the carriage. Louisa awakened with a gasp.
“Wait here,” Brianna yelled over the wind. “Someone will come out and get you.” Holding her reticule with one hand, she gripped the hood of her cloak and slammed the door with the other. She turned and ran past the figure approaching her, his head bent against the slashing rain. “Get Louisa,” she cried, lifting her skirts and taking the slippery stairs into the house where Barnaby would be awaiting her.
She didn’t know who was awake to greet her. Once inside with the door shut, the noise seemed to abate. “Look what I’ve done. I’m so sorry, Barnaby.” Laughing in frustration, she glanced down at her muddied boots and felt like a dog in need of a good shake. Water dripped on Christopher’s beautiful polished floor. “Are you the only one awake?”
“No.”
The strangely accented voice whirled her around. Brianna raked the hood off her face. Her hand froze.
“Jackals travel in packs, Sitt Donally. Didn’t you know?”
“Selim…?” Her voice was a whisper. Her heart frozen in her chest.
And the look on his face turned into a sneer of unspeakable evil. “Where is Major Fallon, Sitt?”
The light in the hall was dim, but not so dim that she didn’t recognize the eyes staring at her from the shadows. She’d last seen him alive on the caravan. He’d been the boy in her photographs. He wore no black turban and tagilmust. His black hair was long and dripped in tangles around his face. He was the youth who’d posed with Napoleonic fervor beside a camel and befriended her over a meal of couscous.
The horrible carnage at the caravan came back to strike her.
He was Omar’s son.
“Oh, Jaysus—” She started upstairs, only to be blocked. Her brain trailed seconds behind the action. “What have you done to Lady Alexandra?”
“You will not see her again, Sitt. You will not see anyone.” He shoved her and she hit the banister. She had a vial of rosewater in her purse and it clunked solidly against the derringer.
The derringer!
The front door opened and the man wearing the black slicker stepped inside ahead of the slashing rain. Sheathing a long knife, he spoke something in Arabic to Selim, sharing a laugh. Louisa had been the only one outside.
The door shut.
Her gaze suddenly caught the mark beneath the man’s sleeve. These people had tried to kill Michael.
“The letter from Alex’s physician wasn’t real,” she whispered.
“Fallon is a lot of trouble, Sitt. How do we get him out of hiding? Let me see?” He rubbed his bearded chin in sarcasm. “We have you.”
Something inside her broke.
They would not use her to kill Michael.
“To think that I felt sorry that you’d died.” Brianna swung her reticule, smashing Selim in the face. The bottle of rosewater shattered in her purse, striking a gash across his cheek. “He’ll kill you!”
Brianna made it up the stairs before Selim caught her ankle. Twisting around, she grabbed the spindles on the rail and kicked out with all of her might. Kicking again and again, she smashed Selim’s nose. With a piercing shriek, he tumbled down the stairs and crashed into the other man. Brianna’s reticule dropped and, grabbing the rail, she watched in horror as it hit the floor below.
Selim had recovered enough to call her a bitch. Brianna didn’t wait to see the knife he pulled from his tunic. She ran blindly up the stairs and down the long corridor. She darted into Christopher’s room and slammed the door, her hand freezing over the knob. There was no key in the lock. With a choked sob, Brianna scraped a chair across the floor. She braced the knob, then ran into the dressing room and flung open Christopher’s old military chest. She knew her guard and driver were probably dead. And what of Alex and Louisa? Alex’s staff?
Somewhere down the long corridor, over the raging storm outside, she heard doors slamming. She prayed that Christopher still kept his service revolver inside his chest. Brianna rifled through old uniforms, a haversack, and a holster. Her hands wrapped around the cold metal of the gun. It was an old 1857 Colt firearm. Outside the room, a shoulder slammed against the door. No door barred the dressing room. Dropping to her knees, she searched the bottom of the chest, desperate to find cartridges. Her hand closed over the pack.
With a start, she realized that someone had come into the room.
Her fingers steadily loaded the gun. Early on, she’d felt that split second of blind terror before swinging her reticule. But now she felt more rational, and aware of every sound.
A dark shape began to form out of the shadows just beyond the dressing room. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room.
“Stay away!” The ammunition in her hand rolled to the floor. She’d only loaded one shell. Both hands gripped the handle and she cocked the revolver with her thumbs. “I swear, I’ll shoot you.”
The quiet that came over her was terrifying. Something banged against the roof of the house, a tree limb perhaps.
“Brianna…”
The voice was quietly beckoning and familiar. But Brianna had already pulled the trigger.
Chapter 24
Donally’s house, with its high sloping roof and gable windows, sat at the top of a rise delineated by the indigo sky. A wind gust swept the avenue of hornbeam and massive oaks that lined the gravel drive before dying to a tired breath. Detecting a sudden alteration in the manner of his horse, Michael wrapped the reins around his fist and held the horse in check. In the widening silence, he removed his gun. The man on the mule beside him stirred.
Michael had spent a restless night with a hundred others stranded at St. Anne’s abbey, huddled against a damp stone wall. By the time he’d reached this house, the day had again yielded to the closing darkness. A few moments ago he’d met Donally’s groundskeeper on the road.
“Most of the servants that work here live in the cottages out back,” the thick-set man told him, leaning forward in the saddle. “Her l
adyship returned from Cairo in January. But she is visiting her pa right now.”
Michael gave his full attention to the man. “When was the last time you were here?”
“Before the rain. Day before yesterday.”
“And she was gone?”
“For two weeks, your Grace.”
Michael slid from the saddle and explored the ground with careful fingers. He found a recent indentation of a horse track.
“Stay here,” he said.
Moving toward the darkened house, Michael could make out part of the gazebo silhouetted against the encroaching lake. No recent carriage tracks marred the drive.
Bounded by a low stone wall, a garden terrace ran around the side of the house. Somewhere, a horse snuffled. From the gravel drive, his horse answered, and pulled Michael’s attention to the stables. His gun at the ready, he stood in the shadow overhang of the roof, his thumb easing back the hammer of the revolver. A barely audible answering click warned him of another person’s presence an instant before he swung his pistol around the corner of the house. Distant lightning flared, briefly throwing the face of the man standing before him into sharp relief, barely freezing his finger on the trigger.
“Christ, Donally.” Face-to-face with a.44 Smith & Wesson, Michael felt the ungainly slug of his heart against his ribs. His tone was dry and harsh. “How long have you been here?”
Michael knew Donally could see even less of him in the darkness.
“That’s a bloody fooking way to get your head blown off, Fallon.” Donally pulled back his revolver. “It’s the wrong night to be prowling my garden. Where the hell is my wife?”
Lady Alexandra was sitting down with her father when a stir and bustle in the corridor interrupted supper. “I’ll announce myself, Alfred,” a wonderfully familiar male voice was heard to say in an irrefutable tone, and then Christopher was standing in the doorway.
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