by Alyson Chase
The two guards, Martin and Smuthers, had holed up with their innocent victim on the boardwalk of a nearby building. But with the pandemonium dying down, they would return to their post soon.
“Marcus . . .”
“I know.” Frustration seeped into his voice. Raising an arm, he waved at his friends.
Rothchild saw him, his lips flattening. Clasping the guard’s shoulder, he leaned in close, spoke to him in earnest.
Dunkeld nodded to Marcus. Bending down, he came back up with a knife. He spun the weapon in his hand so the handle faced front, and brought the blunt instrument down on the back of the guard’s head.
The man fell into Rothchild before dropping from sight. Rothchild glared at Dunkeld, snatched the knife from his hand, and strode over to her sister. He cut the rope binding her to the other prisoners, and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. With Dunkeld cutting a path to their horses, they reached the animals quickly. Even with the extra burden, Rothchild easily climbed into his saddle, and gently lowered Mandy to sit before him, both of her legs hanging over his left thigh.
A guard jumped down from the gallows and charged towards the escaped prisoner. Dunkeld stepped into his path, and wrestled the man to the ground. “Go!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Rothchild yelled, “Ha!” to his mount and pounded out of the square.
It took but a moment for Martin and Smuthers to figure out what had happened. Dropping the arms of the young man, they pressed towards the escaping earl, but the crowd pushed back.
“Prisoner escape!” They forced their way through the crowd, making their way towards where Dunkeld and the other guard rolled on the dirt. Dunkeld kicked out one of his thick legs and swept Smuthers’s legs out from under him. His friend ran for a horse. With a roar, Dunkeld slammed his fist into the face of the man he wrestled, and sprang up, leaving the man unconscious at his feet. He tore after Martin, pulled him down from the saddle. The guard swung an elbow, caught Dunkeld in the nose. Fists flew.
Smuthers struggled to his feet, and Marcus kicked their horse’s flanks. Pulling a two-barreled derringer from his pocket, he palmed it. They galloped past the guard, and Marcus slammed the hard metal of the firearm into the back of the man’s skull.
Liz glanced behind her as they rode past. A boy of about ten crept up to the fallen guard and began unlacing his boots. When the man awoke, he’d likely be stripped bare by the scavengers. She spared no guilt over his fate; he had been willing to hang a man without benefit of a trial. She wouldn’t waste that emotion on him.
Pulling their horse to a stop beside the guards’ horses, Marcus untied their reins from the hitching post, smacked each horse on the rump, and sent them running. He scowled at Dunkeld. “Will you stop playing around and finish it? We need to go.”
Dunkeld smiled, and took another blow to the jaw. The man’s face was already red and puffy; blood trickled from both his nose and split lip. It was the happiest Liz had seen Marcus’s friend in their short acquaintance. With a shrug, he landed an uppercut to the guard’s chin, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. He folded to the ground.
Dunkeld tracked down his horse, mounted. “After you, Your Grace.”
Marcus hesitated, his eyes tracking to the young man he’d accused. The boy slid into the crowd and up a side street. Pressing his mouth to her ear, Marcus whispered, “Hold on,” and jerked on the reins, kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks.
The horse reared, its flailing hooves parting a space in the crowd before it. Marcus took advantage and drove the horse through. People jumped out of the way. Some hollered after them, fists shaking. Most ignored them in favor of the ale spilling into the street.
Marcus found the young man a few blocks away. Circling the horse in front of him, Montague raised a hand. “Calm down. I’m not here to take you in.”
The boy shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to run.
“What’s your name, lad?”
He hesitated. “Paul Coachman.” His voice was quiet, but dignified.
“Mr. Coachman, I apologize for my mistake. You’re not the man who assaulted this woman.”
The boy narrowed his eyes, but remained silent.
Marcus tightened his grip on her waist. “If you come to my home tomorrow I’ll see that you are more than recompensed for your troubles. I am most sorry I involved you in this.”
Slowly, the young man nodded, but the suspicion didn’t leave his face. The chances of him showing up on the duke’s doorstep Liz figured to be about fifty-fifty.
“I’m at Berkeley Square,” Marcus said. “Until then.”
Marcus continued down the street at a brisk clop, Dunkeld at their side. Turning, Liz looked back down the road. The gallows stood empty in the distance, the noose swinging in the wind. A shiver raced down her spine. “It’s not as though they won’t remember that the Duke of Montague was there. You made quite the scene. They’ll suspect you’re involved with freeing Amanda.”
“But with no proof, they won’t dare to accuse me. I have too many connections.” He tightened his hand at her abdomen, the warmth of it seeping in to soothe her unsettled stomach. “Still, it would be best for us to get far away for now.”
“Will he take her back to your house? Do you think the guards will catch them?”
“No one will catch Rothchild. And he’ll take her to either my home or his. Both of our houses are secure. When you have friends as high ranking as we do, no one will dare come searching for her in our custody.” He nuzzled her ear from behind. “Relax. You’ll be with your sister soon. But until we clear this up with the judge, we must take care.”
Liz rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension. Until she held Mandy in her arms, however, she would be on pins and needles. “I should take her to the Continent. Out of reach of the British legal system.”
His chest tensed behind her back. “No.” Marcus wove between carriages, kicked their mount into a trot. “I’ll work with the judiciary. Your sister won’t be a wanted woman for long.”
“But—”
“Trying to book passage to the Continent would only bring more attention to yourself. It makes no sense to run when your sister has a safe place to hole up. And when she will soon be exonerated.” He pulled her firmly to his body so she sat completely on his firm thighs. “Take a deep breath, Liz.”
His chest pressed against her back, moving her with each of his slow inhales. By the time they reached the end of the street, her breathing matched his. “That’s it, little bird. Everything is going to be all right. You and your sister are safe.”
“What about Westmore? He could come after Mandy.”
“I’ll take care of Westmore. Trust me.” He pressed his lips to the sensitive skin below her ear. “Tonight, you will tend to your sister. Leave the rest to me.”
Liz exhaled, long and deep. She did trust Marcus. She would leave Westmore up to him.
* * *
The exhalations of the horses sent billows of steam through the cold night air. Marcus and Rothchild led a group of ten other riders towards an inn at Winchester. Their latest intelligence indicated Westmore had stopped there on his way to Portsmouth where a ship waited to take him across the channel. A man of prudence, the earl had decided to make his escape with as much of his wealth as he could carry and was headed for France.
Marcus had received orders not to let that happen. The orders were unnecessary. After what Westmore had done to Liz and her sister, Montague would have chased him to hell and back.
Rothchild shifted in his saddle. “We should have sent for a doctor. I don’t like leaving Miss Wilcox uncared for.”
The argument was beginning to grow tiresome. Marcus sighed. “We have gone over this. There were no physical ailments that rest and food will not solve. Liz is with her, and she will give the best care Amanda can receive.” He damned Westmore again for forcing Marcus out into the cold night instead of letting him stay home with Liz and her sister, where he belong
ed.
Rothchild had brought Amanda to his own home, but as Liz refused to leave her sister, even to sleep, and Marcus refused to have her spend her nights anywhere but under his own roof, he had brought the two sisters to his town house in a heavily curtained carriage. He’d dismissed all but his most trusted servants for a week, with pay, without raising any eyebrows. Working as a spy for the Crown, he’d displayed enough secretive behavior over the past couple of years, and his servants had grown accustomed to it.
He rubbed his chest. He had seen the tiny furrows that appeared between Liz’s dark brows even as she smiled cheerfully for her sister. He wanted nothing more than to be with her, help her care for her sister, make sure she took care of herself. But his duty took precedence.
It didn’t hurt that his duty matched up so nicely with his own desire for vengeance.
“Yes, but I think she might be developing a rattle in her lungs. Rotting in Newgate like that, it would be no surprise.” Rothchild muttered an oath. “Westmore will burn in hell for making an innocent a pawn in this sort of game.”
Marcus glanced at his friend. Julius knew all too well what it was like to be shut away in a cell. He’d survived his own imprisonment at a place much worse than Newgate. His empathy for Miss Wilcox wasn’t surprising.
His rage over the ill-treatment of a relative stranger, however, gave Marcus pause. Rothchild excelled at never taking life too seriously. If the delight in his eyes was a little faded, he still managed a careless smile and shrug of his shoulders when faced with life’s privations.
“I heard nothing from her lungs. She made no sound at all.” Marcus frowned. Liz’s sister might be irreparably damaged in the mind from her time in prison. He wasn’t sure how best to help Liz with that hurt if it came. “And I must remind you that she is hardly an innocent. She did kill her father.”
Rothchild growled, and Darkwing skittered sideways, away from the sound.
Marcus raised a hand. “Be that as it may, at the first hint of illness, I will send for a doctor. It’s best that until we get her legal status sorted with the Old Bailey as few people as possible see her. It’s for her protection, as well.”
Moonlight glinted off of Rothchild’s narrowed eyes. “I’ll be coming by every day to check on her. If I think she requires a physician I’ll send for one.”
“All right, my friend. I agree,” Marcus said.
Rothchild rolled his shoulders. “All right then.”
They plodded along in companionable silence for several minutes. The cold air and the miles in the saddle made Marcus’s back begin to ache. When this was over, a hot bath with Liz would be the first thing on his list. And perhaps if he played up the minor ache he could convince her to use her sweet hands for a little backrub. From there . . .
He shifted in his saddle. Inappropriate thoughts when on a mission. He searched for a distraction.
Irritating his friend would do. “So, the prison guard got a good look at your face. Your prison break lacked both charm and stealth. I do believe even I could have sweet-talked the man better than you.”
Julius snorted. “Can you believe I found the one government worker impervious to bribery? That man had a moral streak a mile wide.” He scratched his jaw. “I feel bad Dunkeld had to hit such a rare creature. But Dun said he would take care of it. When we get the charges dropped against Miss Wilcox, that man will be happy to forget the face of the man who rescued her.”
“If he’s such a moral man he might kick up a fuss,” Marcus warned.
“When confronted with the fact that his prisoner was sent to the hangman’s noose at the behest of a traitor, Joseph will turn a blind eye to my misdeeds. I have little doubt.”
“Joseph?”
Rothchild peered down his aquiline nose, a difficult feat riding aside Marcus on a horse several hands shorter than Darkwing. “Yes, Joseph. I learned much about the man in the few minutes we spoke. It’s called charm, my friend, and it’s how one convinces someone to do what one wants.”
“Or not, in your case.” Marcus thought back to all he’d convinced Liz to do, all without his friend’s vaunted charm. He rocked in his saddle. It was a greatly overvalued trait.
“Well, it usually works,” Rothchild grumbled. One of the men behind them sneezed. In a more subdued tone, he asked, “What will you do once we find Westmore?”
“There aren’t many options left to the man. He cannot reach France and relay any further information he may have. If he’d got his hands on that letter the princess’s life wouldn’t have been worth the paper it was written on. And we need to learn what other secrets he’s passed along.” Marcus leaned forward in his saddle, and saw the faint glow of a village come into view. His skin crawled. The confrontation was soon upon him. He wanted to tear the man apart for what he’d done to Liz, but the encounter that lay ahead was something even he didn’t relish. “We all have very few options.”
“Pathetic words coming from a duke.” Rothchild huffed, a cloud of vapor billowing in front of his mouth. “We are privileged men in a society where most men have little opportunity, fewer choices. If you can’t find a solution to one of your problems, then you’re not thinking hard enough.”
Marcus bit back a sarcastic reply. He knew he was privileged, but he also had more responsibilities than the average man. Life presented insurmountable challenges, even to a duke.
“Your Miss Wilcox is the daughter of a gentleman,” Rothchild continued. “Have you not thought of that?”
Marcus’s heart leaped behind his breastbone. Of course he’d thought of that. He’d thought of everything concerning his little bird. “The daughter of a murdered gentleman, from a disgraced family. It probably would have been less improper had she been a maid.”
“It? So you have considered marrying the girl.” Rothchild’s voice was much too smug for Marcus’s liking.
“Of course I’ve considered it. I’ve considered it from every possible angle. That’s what one does when one is in . . .”
“Love?” Rothchild suggested.
Marcus clenched the reins. “Regardless, the repercussions of such an act would be intolerable. She would never be accepted, would live a life shunned from society. A duchess has social obligations that a mistress doesn’t have to face. Liz would suffer every time she steps out on my arm if she were my wife.”
“Don’t you think that should be her decision to make, whether she’s willing to face that or not?” Rothchild asked gently. “And,” he said more loudly, blocking out Marcus’s protestations, “don’t you think that you should be able to make marriage to you worth her while? You are a determined man, my friend. If you can’t make her happy, even over the occasional cut direct, you’re not the man I thought you were.”
Marcus snapped his mouth shut. Of course he could make her happy. But after years of life as an isolated duchess, would she resent him? He sat up straight in the saddle. Making her happy wasn’t a temporary condition. He would have to work at it all of his life. And that was something he could do. If she’d let him.
“You’re right. I’m a bloody duke. If I can’t make a bunch of society ladies eat their words I’m underserving of the name Montague.”
Rothchild reached over and slapped him on the back. “My felicitations. I am sure the two of you will be most happy, you poor sapskull. The first of us five friends to marry. May God have mercy on your soul.”
“If she says yes,” Marcus grumbled. “And wait until it’s your turn. I’ll laugh myself silly when a woman finally ensnares you.”
“But you would have to know how to laugh.” Rothchild smirked. He nodded his head up the road. “The inn is the third building, on the left.”
Marcus slid from Darkwing, and gestured for his men to follow suit. He didn’t want to give Westmore any time to flee by pounding up to the inn with a contingent of soldiers. Using hand gestures, he indicated that the men should surround the inn. He and Rothchild tied up their horses to the hitching post by the front door.
The heat from the kitchens and the fireplace struck Marcus when he stepped inside the inn, penetrating his thick greatcoat. He kept the heavy garment on. He wanted as many barriers between himself and what was to come as possible. He scanned the open dining room, but didn’t see his quarry.
Rothchild pulled the barkeep to the side and had a hushed conversation. He shook the man’s hand, Marcus catching a glimpse of the silver that passed from his friend to the barman. Rothchild hurried back to Marcus, jerked his head to the side. “Our man is in one of the private rooms. It seems he has been drinking steadily since he arrived.”
Marcus grunted. That could make Westmore easier to manage. Or make him less predictable. He pushed the door open with a firm hand, the blood leaping in his veins when he saw the man sprawled in an armchair, a mug of ale in one hand.
His base animal instincts thrilled at finally cornering his prey. Without a pause, he strode across the room, grabbed Westmore’s cravat with his left hand, and smashed his right fist into the earl’s face. “That was for Liz,” he growled, and threw the man back in his chair. His fingers tingled with the need to throttle the man again and again, so Marcus took a step back. Control. He tugged at the bottom hem of his waistcoat, pain zipping from his right hand to his brain. Discipline.
Rothchild stepped beside him. “You’ve never looked better, Westmore.” He waved his finger in the direction of the blood trickling down from the earl’s nose and the upper lip that was starting to swell.
Westmore pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. “I would have looked better at my estate in France. It’s amazing what the Loire Valley can do for one’s appearance.”
“So you admit it?” Marcus clenched his fists so hard a knuckle cracked.
“Why not?” Westmore held the linen beneath his nose and took a long draw of ale, his head tipping to rest on the back of the chair. “I’ve become quite familiar with the English legal system of late. It matters little what evidence actually exists against someone. If someone higher up wants you in prison you’ll go to prison.”