“You must have faith, sir. Except for your father, no Warfield has ever gone down without a fight. And you shall not imitate your sire. Now, deal.”
As Justin sat on the edge of his cot, shuffling the deck of cards, he eyed the aged Pattina suspiciously. “You know, Aunt, I’d swear you had another game besides whist in mind—one filled with intrigue, and of a deadly nature as well. Take care you don’t find yourself at the end of a short rope with a long fall ahead of you, the same as me.”
“You should know, nephew, the only rope I shall ever allow myself to wear is one made of pearls.” She placed her hand on her withered thigh, repositioning the loaded pistol which was securely tucked into her garter and hidden beneath her skirts. “Now, on with the game.”
“Indeed, madam,” Justin replied, certain his aunt had a cunning yet solid plan in mind for his escape. “And may it end successfully for us both.”
Raised torches lit the deserted roadway, casting eerie shadows on a small group of men. Taut muscles strained in unison as chests heaved outward in weighty effort while labored grunts escaped distended throats. Anxiously Aidan watched as the four men tried, without success, to lift the coach from the ditch where it had landed over an hour ago.
Lulled by the steady roll of the wheels, she’d stupidly gained a false sense of security. London was less than two hours away. Certain her worries were over, she’d thought Justin would be saved. Yet fate had reared its malicious head, and the instrument of its sordidness lay within inches of her.
A fallen tree limb had blocked the darkened roadway. Too late, the driver had caught sight of it. Reining in, he’d turned the galloping bays, sending them all into the ditch. Angrily Aidan kicked the gnarled limb; hot pain instantly shot through her toe and up her leg. Glaring her hatred at the thing, she hobbled back to where the small group of passengers stood watch, an enormous feeling of dread filling her soul.
“Give it up, men!” the coachman ordered, a low curse rolling through his lips as he rose and massaged his aching back. “There ain’t no way we can move it. ‘Sides that, the wheel’s busted. Couldn’t get another five yards on it even if we had to.”
Anxiety screamed through her as Aidan extracted herself from the weary group of passengers. “Sir!” she cried wildly. “It’s imperative I get to London before sunrise. Please, it’s a matter of life and death!”
“Look, miss,” the coachman said, wiping the sweat from his brow on the back of his forearm, “if ye want to set off walkin’, fine. Otherwise there’s not a thing I can do to help ye. I’m sendin’ one of my men on ahead to the next village. It’ll be daybreak or a little after afore he gets back.”
“But that will be too late!”
“Sorry, but there ain’t nothin’ to be done.” He turned toward one of the guards assigned to protect the coach. “Tom, break one of those bays free and head on into the next village. Have ’em send a smithy out with a new wheel.”
Aidan snatched at the coachman’s sleeve. “Can I go with him?”
“No, miss,” he said, shaking her hand free. “It’s against company rules.”
Hysteria bubbled up within Aidan as she watched the man retrieve his coat and pistol from the ground. He tucked the weapon into his belt. “Please!” she whispered, forcibly fighting the riotous emotion which threatened to send her into a screaming rage. “There’s no time. He’ll be—”
His back aching unbearably, the coachman’s nerves had gone suddenly raw with anger; he turned on her. “The word is no! So don’t bother me none about it again!”
Foolishly Aidan pressed on. “Sir, I’m the Duchess of Westover—”
“And I’m Prince Albert!” the coachman snapped back, his eyes raking over her paltry garb. “The answer is no!”
Aidan bit her lip and watched as one of the bays was unharnessed, then led away from the others. If she could only find a way to procure the beast, she thought, her narrowed eyes settling on the loaded pistol in the coachman’s belt. It was do or die, she decided, then rushed up to the man.
“Oh, sir, please hear me out!” she cried in a piteous voice, throwing herself full against him.
“Here, girlie! Stand back!” he ordered, grabbing her shoulders, thrusting her away. Aidan stumbled back, and the coachman’s eyes widened. His pistol was pointed straight at his heart. “Give me that, miss,” he said, slowly stretching his hand toward her. “You’ll come to no good by doin’ this. They’ll stretch your neck for sure.”
With a steady hand, Aidan kept the barrel leveled at the man’s chest. “And you, sir, will find a lead shot in your heart. So keep yourself back.” The coachman obeyed. “Now,” she ordered, “have your man bring that horse over here.”
“Tom,” he called, “bring the bay to me.”
The guard ambled toward the coachman, a length of leather lead held in his fist. “Does ye wants me to go or don’t ye?” he asked in a perturbed voice.
“The little lady, here, has decided to take your place.”
The man nodded toward Aidan, and Tom’s eyes slowly followed; he blinked. “Don’t get excited now, missy,” the guard said. “Just hand me that there pistol.”
“Instead, sir,” Aidan rejoined, “you can hand me yours.”
“Do as she says,” the coachman commanded when the guard hesitated. “She’s bent on gettin’ to London. So don’t nettle her none.”
Tom slowly passed his weapon, butt-first, to Aidan, then he quickly stepped back. “Now, get on your knees,” she ordered, pointing the weapons, one at each man.
Although she’d been speaking to the one called Tom, both men instantly fell to the ground, their noses bent to the earth. All the better for her, she thought, smiling to herself. Quickly she lowered the pistols. Hiking her skirts, she used their backs as stepping-stones as she vaulted astride the huge gelding.
“You may collect your horse at Westover House, London,” she called as she grabbed up the leads, her heels kicking the gelding’s flank. “And thanks for the loan of your weapons.”
A double explosion ripped through the air; then the spent pistols fell to the ground beside the quavering men. Aidan was off down the road, a round of oaths following her into the night. With a little over two hours until sunrise, she began her litany anew, praying that she would make the old London gates before the rays of dawn scattered themselves across the sky.
Justin threw his cards on the table and rubbed the back of his neck. Even his loosened shirt collar, the buttons left undone to mid-chest, suddenly seemed too tight. “What time is it?” he asked.
“It grows close to dawn,” Aunt Patti replied, her blue eyes scanning her nephew’s tired face. “Perhaps you should rest.”
“Rest?” He laughed raucously. “I shall soon be doing that for eternity.”
The key rattled in the old lock; the door opened. “Ye have some visitors,” the guard said. “A Lord and Lady Manley, they says.”
Justin released a long breath, then came to his feet. “Send them in.”
“Your Grace,” Eugenia said, curtsying. “David and I came to—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. They choked her throat, and she shook her head, for she was unable to go on.
“There’s no need for tears, Lady Manley,” Justin said, taking pity on her. “Sometimes life deals us an unlucky hand. It appears I’ve been dealt mine.”
“But it’s not fair!” she cried anxiously. “I know she’s still alive!”
“Has there been any word?” Aunt Pattina asked, looking to David.
“None, Lady Falvey,” he replied despondently. “Your men have been unable to find a trace of her.”
“We must not give up hope!” Eugenia cried. “There’s still a chance …Oh, God! How foolish she is!”
A great sob overtook her, and as Justin and Pattina watched, David led his wife from the small cell. “Well, nephew,” his aunt said. “I hear France is lovely this time of year.”
Justin cracked a cynical smile. “And I’ve heard that hell is hotter than
blazes.”
“I’d much prefer France,” his aunt countered, “but whatever the outcome might be, we shall go the distance together, nephew.”
Justin frowned. “I can’t allow you to—”
“Don’t argue with me. The Warfields have always championed one another, no matter what opposition they might face. It shall remain so this time, sir. I’ll not be left without family to sustain me in my old age.”
Justin shook his head. “You’re a fiery old baggage, Aunt. Tenacious as they come. Too bad I didn’t marry a woman exactly like you.”
“You did, sir. You simply overlooked the fact.”
The door squeaked open anew, drawing both Warfields’ attention. “Ye has another visitor,” the guard said, but before he could announce the name, Cynthia Danvers swept into the dank little room.
“Oh, Justin,” she said, coming up to him. She raised herself up on tiptoes to press herself against him; her red lips touched his. When she received no response, she lowered her heels to the floor. “I can’t believe this is really happening,” she lamented soulfully.
“Believe it, Cynthia,” Justin said without emotion. “The deed shall soon be done.”
“My testimony—I couldn’t lie, Justin!” she insisted, her fingers climbing up his chest, brushing the dark hair peeking through his open shirt
“I never asked you to do so,” Justin stated, removing her hand. “If you’ve come here to seek my forgiveness, then you’ve wasted your time. You only repeated my own words, as did everyone else. You see, Cynthia, I managed to convict myself. Now, I must beg your forgiveness, for I wish to spend my last moments with my aunt.”
Taken aback by his dismissal, Cynthia scanned her former lover’s face one last time, then quickly fled the cell. When the door closed, Justin turned to Aunt Patti. “I suppose you won’t reconsider your plan?”
“I will not.”
“Then hand me the pistol, Aunt. In your haste, you may very well blow off your own foot.” He saw her questioning look and smiled. “Where else would a lady hide a weapon but beneath her skirts?”
Just as the dowager marchioness started to lift her gown, the door burst open anew. Several men came through. “It’s time, Your Grace,” one of the men said as the great bell began to toll, summoning Justin to his execution. “Ye’ve a long walk ahead of ye to the gallows, so we’d best be goin’.” The man produced a set of manacles and cuffed Justin’s wrists behind him. “Sorry, but we cain’t take no chances,” he said, making certain the irons were secured.
Gray eyes settled on faded blue ones as Justin looked to his aunt. A message passed between them in what could very well be their last good-bye. Then Justin felt the guard’s prodding hand on his shoulder, and he walked toward his cell door. God! Where are you, Aidan! Save me, love!
Aidan urged the lathered bay onward. The gelding’s breath drew and released itself in great racking snorts as the nearly spent horse broke past the ruins of the old Roman wall and what was once a secured entry into London known as Bishopsgate. A violet hue painted itself across the sky, and within a short time the soft purple would turn to pink; then the fiery sun would top the eastern horizon to mark the beginning of a new day and the end of Justin’s life.
Aidan kicked the steed’s sides, and flying hooves hit the cobblestones at a frantic pace. Reining the horse to the right, Aidan turned onto Corn Hill. In the near distance, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed before her. Newgate Prison was just beyond, and Aidan’s heart sang, for the sky was barely pink.
Suddenly the great steed faltered; it slowed, then toppled beneath her, throwing Aidan into the street. Dazed and badly bruised, she slowly drew herself up to her knees, then shook the buzzing sound from her head. There before her lay the bay. With a great blow from its lungs, it released its last breath.
Oh, God! she thought, coming to her feet. Why? She was so close, yet so far. Hiking her skirts, she stumbled across the street, then down the sidewalk. Tears blurred her vision as great sobs broke through her lips. Oh, Justin! her heart cried. I’m coming, love! Please, God, keep him safe!
Blindly she ran around a corner, the cathedral dome her guiding landmark; then she rushed into the street, where she caught sight of a conveyance only yards ahead of her. “Wait!” she screamed, then chased after it.
The vehicle pulled to a stop, and the man inside turned toward the disheveled woman. “Aidan!” George Edmonds cried in disbelief. By special consent, he’d been on his way to watch the life being choked from the blackguard who’d killed his beloved Aidan. But now? “My God! You’re alive!”
Aidan leapt into the phaeton. “Get me to Newgate!” When the stunned George hesitated, she grabbed the reins and whip, then set the horse into a full gallop, throwing Lord Edmonds back into his seat. On the last turn, which led to the prison gate, Aidan glanced up at the sky. Riotous streaks of pink fanned out across its magnificent width. Dawn, she thought, praying it wasn’t too late.
Pulling the reins, Aidan violently jerked the horse’s head back, and before the phaeton had stopped, she leapt from the seat; George fought the beast down as it reared, then he, too, hopped to the ground.
Frantically Aidan’s fists pounded the weathered gate. “Open up! Hurry!”
A small door opened within the larger one, and a man’s head appeared. “Here! What’s all the noise about!”
“Let me in!” she cried, noting the sky was lighter still. “My husband, the Duke of Westover, is about to be hanged! I have to stop it!”
Doubtful eyes scanned the woman in front of him. “Eh, go on with ye. This here ain’t no public hangin’—Queen’s orders.”
“Sir, I’m the Duchess of Westover. Open that gate this instant!”
The man snorted. “So says ye! Move along, girlie.”
Infuriated, Aidan glared at the man. A great bell began to toll, startling her. “What’s that?” she cried, eyes wide.
“The duke’s bein’ summoned to his execution. In a few minutes it’ll all be over.”
Aidan felt certain she’d swoon. “Please, you must believe me. George, tell him,” she pleaded, uncontrollable tears falling from her wild eyes. “Make him believe me!”
His brown gaze ran over her face. “It’s too late, Aidan. The bell. I—”
“Won’t anyone help me!” she screamed.
“Open that gate, sir!” a familiar voice bellowed from behind her, and Aidan spun around. “She’s who she says she is!” Alastair stated. “Now, by God, do as I say!”
“Aye, Your Grace,” the guard said, instantly recognizing the Duke of Atwood, for the man had been here several times, checking the workings of the gallows, and was one of the few to be granted permission to watch the hanging. “As you wish, sir.” The door creaked open, and the threesome rushed inside.
“Get me to him,” Aidan ordered the guard. “Hurry!”
“It’s too risky,” Justin whispered to his aunt as she stepped through the cell door into the dank corridor which led to the gallows; Eugenia, David, and Cynthia stood close by. “Someone could get hurt.”
“Hurt!” Pattina lashed out in a low voice. “You’re about to be gibbeted, sir. Do you think there’s no pain involved?”
Two men suddenly grabbed Justin’s arms while the third informed the others, “If ye are all goin’ with him, ye’ll have to follow a length behind.” He wedged his girth between the small group and his condemned prisoner. “Now, move back.”
Infuriated, Aunt Patti leaned one hand on her cane and, with the other, reached for her skirts. Seeing her movement, Justin yelled, “Pattina—don’t!”
His cry erupted too late, for a withered hand had already pulled the pistol from her garter; cocking the pistol, she pointed it at the guard’s head.
“Here, what do ye think ye’r doin’?”
“You’ll not hang my nephew, sir,” she stated coldly, her hand wobbling uncontrollably from the weight of the weapon. “Now, release him.”
The guard eyed the frail woman. Sud
denly his foot kicked out, striking the cane. Knocked off-balance, Aunt Patti stumbled; the pistol fell from her hand as she hit her head against the stone wall, rendering her unconscious. Eugenia and Cynthia screamed as a deafening explosion erupted. A volley of sparks flashed as the lead shot ricocheted down the narrow corridor.
Seeing his injured aunt lying on the filthy stone floor, Justin was filled with instant rage. With a feral cry he fought against his guards, but they held fast to his chained arms. “Aunt Patti!” he cried, his anxious eyes traveling over her fragile form. He noted her silver hair was turning red. “Someone help her!”
Eugenia moved, but the head guard, his own pistol drawn, motioned her back. “Stay put, all of ye!” He looked to his men. “Get him to the gallows!”
“I’ll see all of you in hell!” Justin shouted, struggling against his bonds.
At the pistol’s discharge, followed by screams, Aidan’s heart had nearly stopped. Recovering, she rushed past the guard who was leading her to Justin, and ran down the lengthy corridor, George Edmonds at her heels. Finally rounding the corner she heard Justin’s damning pronouncement. “Release him!” she cried, running toward him.
Hearing his wife’s voice, Justin spun around. Silver eyes riveted themselves to Aidan. His heart swelled with momentary elation as he took in her disheveled appearance. Her hair tumbled wildly around her shoulders, her dress was tattered and dirty, but she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Then his gaze leapt to George Edmonds, and instantly his chest felt as though it had been crushed by a heavy stone.
What deception was this? he wondered, certain that he’d been made to suffer for naught. Cheat! he thought, a silent curse rolling through his mind. His aunt had risked her life to save him, while all along his wife had been alive and well, no doubt tucked away somewhere by her lover. Damn her for her subterfuge!
Forthwith he was hit by the force of Aidan’s body as she threw herself against him, her arms encircling his neck. “Oh, Justin, I thought I’d be too late,” she said, her joyous kisses raining themselves over his emotionless face. “Oh, love, thank God you’re safe.”
A Heart So Innocent Page 32