Crowden picked up his gloves. “Are you ready, Swenton?”
Kerrington caught his friend’s arm. “Is something amiss, Crowden?”
The always-private marquis paused. “Just family issues. Nothing I cannot handle.” He removed his arm from Kerrington’s grasp. “I will be outside checking the horses, John.”
*
The coach slowed to a stop beside what appeared to be a deserted barn. Satiné had climbed onto the bench seat and peered out the window. She momentarily wondered if she could jump from the coach and run for assistance before the man caught her again, but fog draped the fields and hedgerows. No other structures existed as she scanned the area.
Suddenly the door swung open, and the man who had carried her from her uncle’s land filled the space. “Come,” he ordered, reaching in and grabbing Satiné’s arm.
“You do not understand,” she protested while fighting his manhandling. Shoving her toward the barn, the man ignored her pleas. She had thought to escape, but a quick glance about the fields showed no houses or lights or even a friendly dog. “Please. Do not do this.” She feared what the man planned for her.
“There be cover over behind those trees.” He pointed to a nearby copse.
Satiné stood looking to where he indicated, and then it dawned on her what he suggested. “You expect me to...to...” She could not form the words.
“Ye be getting’ airs livin’ with the baron. Ye kin use the privacy or do without.” Her abductor unharnessed the horses. “When I finish, we leave. Make up yer mind.”
Satiné thought to argue, but now that he had suggested it, she needed to relieve herself. Dejectedly, she walked toward the tree line. Realizing there was no reasonable means of escape, she finished and returned to where the man changed out the horses. There was nothing around for miles. The moors and the peaks loomed all around with nary anything else in sight. Watching his methodical movements, it dawned on her that he had attached fresh horses to the coach. “You planned this?” she said with new realization.
The stranger glanced over his shoulder at her. “I keep wot belongs to me,” he stated matter-of-factly.
She started to object, but he ignored her; instead, he walked the two horses toward the dilapidated-looking barn. “At least, I am able to think for myself,” she whispered to his retreating form. I require a weapon. She glanced around for something she could use against a man of his size. However, there was nothing beyond a few rocks and broken branches.
“Time to go.” The strange man lifted her to the coach, literally tossing Satiné into the carriage. “There be food and water on the seat.” He slammed the door.
“We must talk,” she called as the carriage shifted with his weigh.
“Nothin’ to say,” he responded as he flicked the reins, and the horses lurched forward.
Satiné righted herself as the rhythmic sway began again. Looking to the small basket now sitting on the seat, hunger’s head appeared. She had not eaten since breakfast. Nearly twenty-four hours earlier. Feeling the hunger pains, she began to search the basket’s contents. “An apple,” she said aloud just to hear another sound besides her rapidly beating heart. Removing the fruit, she took a large bite. Finding dark bread and hard cheese, Satiné tore off a huge chunk of both, alternating each item to taste. “Not much,” she mumbled, “but, at least, it is something.”
She pulled a flask from the basket’s interior and removed the cap. Wondering whether the man packed spirits, Satiné sniffed the contents first, but she smelled nothing unusual. “Smells like water.” She braced herself by catching one of the straps as the carriage took a sharp turn to the left. When she righted herself, Satiné took a deep drink of the cool water. It had a metallic taste, but that was not uncommon in many of the local wells. She took another bite of the bread and cheese and some more of the cool water. Just consuming sustenance had settled her mind. She needed to find a way to escape. Nibbling the last of her apple, Satiné leaned back in the well-worn squabs. However, the early morning light distorted the lines of the cushion’s tacking, and she felt her head fall forward as the blackness blurred her senses. “The water,” she mumbled before falling across the coach’s bench.
*
As soon as Mr. Stanley departed, Jamot gathered his belongings. He had stayed long enough. Likely, Stanley would find his conscience soon and tell the local magistrate of Jamot’s whereabouts. Therefore, the Baloch moved on to the next place. Today, he would ride to Lexford’s estate, and if both the viscount and his man were absent, Jamot would search the house for the emerald. Several months ago, he had completed a similar search of Lexford’s minor properties. The viscount’s absence would create a prime opportunity to determine what Lexford kept under lock and key.
*
Cashé had spent her first night in a small inn outside of Leeds. The roads’ conditions had allowed the coach’s travelers to make their lay over in a timely fashion. Taking her meal in her quarters and trying to be unremarkable, she had let an insignificant room. If her Uncle Charles gave chase, she wanted no one to remember her.
“I wish I knew where to look,” Cashé told herself as she watched the busy inn yard from her small window. “I pray Mr. Charters takes Satiné to Leith, or better yet to Uncle Samuel.” She actually paused and said a silent prayer for Satiné, another for Lord Lexford, and a few words for herself. Her dreams of a life with Marcus Wellston looked grim. He would likely have nothing to do with her now. Leaving Manchester on her own had made her a fallen woman. Compound that offense with Velvet’s earlier disappearance and now Satiné’s kidnapping, the likelihood of an earl, a peer, choosing her had diminished to null. All she could do was to return to Scotland and to intercept Charters before the Scot did something terrible to her twin. Cashé realized Charters could be volatile when pushed to abstraction, and surely he was exactly that. If her former intended had gone so far as to come to England to retrieve her, then Charters had lost his practical reason, and that would not bode well for any of them.
*
Kimbolt felt the pressure of the girl’s mouth upon his lips and the heat of her body beneath his own, and his heart came alive. Could this woman be the balm to his shattered dreams? Could he finally cast off the mantle he had worn for the last three years? Yet, his failure, his inability to save the woman he had loved, had haunted him. So much so that the Shadow kept its tight grip about his chest, and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and his memory with the misery of his own vulnerability. As he implanted the girl’s countenance on his memory, her face dissolved into a swirl of sensuous withdrawal. A helpless sigh echoed in his ears as thunder broke in excruciating violence. On the edge of panic, he reached for her, but the Shadow replaced the girl’s warmth with the familiar Guilt, which shook him to his bones. Something twisted painfully in his chest, and an icy hand plunged him downward into the darkness.
Jamot shimmied the servant door open and slid into the darkness. After thoroughly searching Lexford’s manor house for the emerald and finding nothing, he had made the short trip from Cheshire to Manchester. News of the viscount’s injury had sent the man’s household into an uproar, but the staff had concentrated their frustrations to the servants’ quarters, leaving the rest of the house easy pickings.
Now, two hours after midnight, he invaded Baron Ashton’s home–not because he thought the Realm had given the man the emerald for safekeeping, but because Jamot required knowledge of how the baron and his nieces fit into the lives of the Realm members. He had hoped to use the information he found against his enemy. Plus, he had wished to see for himself the extent of Lord Lexford’s injuries. Stanley provided limited knowledge of the situation.
Carefully traversing the narrow servant stairway, he eased open the door leading to the main hallway and the baron’s study. Only one footman remained at his post, and the servant nodded in deep sleep. Taking cover behind potted palms and marble statues, Jamot clung to the wall. He slid into the partially opened door and made h
is way to the baron’s desk. Easing each drawer open, he fanned stacks of papers. The bright moonlight permitted him to read a line or two of each page before searching the next. None of what he found identified a connection to the Realm, but Jamot took several pages with Lord Averette’s name on them from a ribbon-bound stack. Now to the viscount, he thought.
Freely mumbling words of endearment, as well as expletives, Lexford had threshed about for hours. Not wishing to expose the girl to the foul language or to allow others to hear what she supposed to be Realm secrets, Eleanor had excused Ashton’s maid. Now, she sat beside his bed, changing out the cold compress. The viscount’s color had appeared more normal, but the violence and anger exposed in his dreams had wrenched her heart with pain. He had saved her from Louis Levering and had initiated her return to Kerrington’s care. Now, Eleanor searched Aidan Kimbolt’s kind countenance, which was painted with misery and despair, and she wished to ease each frown and furrowed line. “Shush, my Lord,” she whispered softly. “I shall find a way to relieve your anguish.”
Lexford calmed for the moment. Long enough for Eleanor’s already heightened senses to hear the nearly silent tread on a loose board under the carpet runner three doors along the hall from the viscount’s room. She knew it could signal the maid’s return, but something deep within her gut said otherwise. Without considering the danger, Eleanor caught Lexford’s gun in her grasp and stepped behind the hinged folding screen. Before she could settle her nerves, the door opened on a silent rush of air, and a man she knew to be the Realm’s enemy stood framed in the darkness.
Eleanor bit back the fear that clogged her throat. What was Murhad Jamot doing in Ashton’s house, and, more importantly, what did he want with Aidan Kimbolt? Instinctively, she sank further into the room’s shadows.
Jamot quickly glanced about the room. With the draperies of the four poster tied back, he knew by design Lord Lexford’s position, but where was the person who attended the viscount? It was not likely that the household had left his enemy unattended; but possibly the maid had stepped from the room to address personal matters. Yet, Jamot would take nothing for granted. He warily peeked through the door’s crack to find no one behind it before tentatively stepping into the room. Removing his gun from his waistband, he cross-stepped carefully to his left to view first the darkened dressing room and then behind a small desk set in the room’s corner.
Eleanor swallowed her fear. This was the same man who would shot at her in Hyde Park, who would kidnapped Velvet, and who would slit Louis Levering’s throat and leave the baronet to bleed to death. She had no doubt that the Baloch would kill both her and Lord Lexford without expressing any qualms. It would be her domain to protect the viscount. Immediately, she thought of James Kerrington and his absolute faith in her. She would not fail him.
Yet, before she could act, Lexford rasped, “Do not touch her! I beg you.” Once more, her husband’s friend threshed from side to side. The viscount mind fought hard to free him from his enemies. He growled, “Aarrgghh!” as he struggled with the invisible bindings.
Eleanor’s eyes grew in size as Jamot looked to the open door; the Baloch obviously expected someone to return to care for the viscount. Seeing nothing, her husband’s enemy edged closer to where Lexford lay.
“Kill me!” The viscount bit out with anger. “But do not hurt her again!” he wailed.
“Always happy to bow to the Realm’s wishes,” the Baloch vowed as he stepped to beside the viscount’s bed. Reaching for a pillow, Jamot placed the cushion over Kimbolt’s face and bore down with all his weight.
In horror, Eleanor watched as Lexford fought the intrusion, and for a moment, she froze. Yet, the viscount’s muffled cry brought her to action. Stepping from behind the screen and bracing the gun with both hands, she ordered, “Leave him, or I will shoot.”
Jamot’s countenance held his surprise. For a second, something like a smirk played across his mouth before he released his grip on the pillow and straightened slowly. “Ah, Lady Worthing,” he smiled condescendingly. “I did not realize you were the cousin tending to the viscount and the baron’s household. However, I should have suspected as such.” He was unarmed. The Baloch had placed his gun on the bed when he had used the pillow to smother Lord Lexford.
“You were aware of Her Grace’s association with my family,” Eleanor countered in a surprisingly calm voice, “when you kidnapped her.”
Jamot tilted his head to the side, indicating the truth of her words. “I recognized the former Miss Aldridge’s connection to the twin girls who distracted me in Liverpool,” he said evenly. “Yet, for some unknown reason, your presence in Viscount Lexford’s room has taken me unawares.”
“As did yours for me.” Eleanor’s lips twitched with amusement. “Now, I will ask you again to step away from Lord Lexford’s bedside.”
“I will hunt you to the ends of the earth,” the viscount snarled as he continued his imagined struggle.”
Eleanor fought the urge to glance to Lexford’s form. She knew better than to give the Baloch any opportunity to escape. “Raise your hands slowly,” she advised Jamot.
The Baloch smiled with confidence. “You are not a person who could shoot another in cold blood.”
“Do not tempt me,” she warned. “Besides the attempt on my life, I have reason enough to overcome any deficit you think I might hold.”
Jamot eyed her cautiously. “Do you even know how to shoot, Lady Worthing?”
Eleanor returned his contempt. “I suppose we shall both have to discover that reality together.”
Jamot’s slight raise of his arms told Eleanor that the Baloch, at least, considered the possibility of her shooting him. “You do not need to do this,” he whispered flatly. “Allow me to leave, and we may call it even. I have no desire to kill a woman, especially with child. Yet, I will not permit you to place me in custody. I will fight you, Lady Worthing.”
Eleanor’s heart raced. She not only placed her own life in jeopardy, but also the one of her first child. However, she could not allow Jamot to leave. Determined, she motioned with the slight flick of the gun for the man to move. If only a footman or a maid would appear where she might send for help, things would be easier. But it was the dead of night, and she was alone with an accomplished killer. “Move to the chair,” she nodded to the one behind him.
“As you wish, my Lady.” Jamot slid his left foot backward, but, like a caged animal, in the next second he lunged for Eleanor, turning her sideways and wrestling with her–forcing Eleanor to lie awkwardly across the viscount’s bed. They grappled for control of the gun, and Eleanor fought with a resolve that surprised even her. However, effectively ending the battle, he wrenched the weapon from her grip. With vengeance, Jamot slapped her hard when Eleanor rose with him to continue the tussle, and for a split second, she knew only the pain. Forcing Ella to fight the ringing in her head and giving her the impetus to rise, the viscount kicked at her draped body.
The action brought reality, and Eleanor spotted the Baloch’s retreating form. Turning and reaching for the gun lying at Lexford’s feet, Ella grabbed it with one hand and caught her skirt tail with the other.
Giving chase, she saw the man scurry down the first flight of steps. Eleanor charged after him; yet, she knew she had no chance of catching him. Skidding to a stop on the landing, she raised her arm–settling the gun in a desperate step to prevent Jamot’s escape. “Aim low.” Eleanor heard her husband’s voice whisper to her. “Your target is below you.”
With a steadying breath, she squeezed the trigger. The smoke momentarily blinded her, but Ella saw the Baloch clutch at his shoulder. At the bottom of the stairs, Jamot slugged the advancing footman with a left across the servant’s jaw, before turning to the slowly descending Eleanor and giving her an elegant bow of respect. She knew he held Lord Lexford’s gun and could have killed her if he wished, but she had driven the man from the baron’s house and from her life. “Lord Worthing possesses a worthy opponent,” Jamot smirked. Th
e sound of others awakening from the noise signaled his retreat. The Baloch slipped through the library door and out the balcony to the gardens.
Eleanor watched him go. Her first instinct had been to give pursuit, but her hand instinctively rested on her increasing abdomen, and she protectively refused to risk her child more than she already had done.
“Lady Worthing,” the butler was by her side. “Are you hurt?”
Eleanor’s hand drifted to her bruised cheekbone. “Nothing that will not heal quickly.” She glanced at the hand still clutching the gun. Her whole body felt weak now that the crisis was over, and she allowed Mr. Whitcomb to remove the weapon from her grasp. “Let us see to Lord Lexford,” she heard the words but did not move until the butler and one of the footmen braced her stance. She said weakly, “I suspect that the magistrate will not be pleased to hear from us again.”
Chapter 14
Very late the following day, Ashton and the messenger sent to retrieve him rode into the circular drive of Chesterfield Manor. The aging peer was on the ground and running before his horse came to a complete stop. Whitcomb jerked opened the door just as his master reached it. Ashton made no notice, tossing his hat and gloves towards the man. “Satiné!” he yelled. “Cashémere.”
“Neither lady is at home, Sir,” Whitcomb said softly behind him.
The baron swung around, glaring at the man delivering the message. “What do you mean? Surely someone has found Satiné by now!” The baron’s voice rose on each word.
“No, Sir. We have heard nothing since Lord Worthing departed in pursuit.”
Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere Page 24