The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton

by Barbara Pierce

  “Get y-your—”

  She heard a noise at the door. She turned to see Oz, the table leg resting on his shoulder. “Oz, our patient is awake and making sense.”

  “Is he now?” Oz said, smiling.

  Devona turned back to Doran. “Riding astride might seem beyond your capabilities. However—”

  “Tipton!” Doran vehemently forced the word past his swollen lips.

  Devona frowned, worrying he was still delusional. She reached out to touch his cheek for fever. Her hand never connected.

  The table leg Oz was carrying was made from walnut. It was a fine, sturdy piece. He arced the table limb high, and then swung it at her head. He did not flinch at the sickening thud of connecting wood, flesh, and bone. Her limp body sprawled forward over a mewling Doran Claeg.

  * * *

  Devona awoke with a metallic taste in her mouth. She was lying on her stomach, her face resting on the most disgusting mattress she had ever encountered. That would account for the dreadful taste in her mouth, she grimly mused.

  Lifting her head magnified the hammering pain at the back of her head to intolerable proportions. Resting her cheek on the mattress, she took deep breaths to fight off the rising nausea. It did not work. She vomited up a clear light green liquid. Only when her violent spasms dwindled to dry heaves did she lay her head back on the ruined mattress.

  “I thought he had killed you.”

  She slowly tilted her head up. So consumed by the pain and sickness, she did not recognize the man on the bed with her. Embarrassed that she had an audience for her sickness, she was appalled to see that she had thrown up not on the bedding but on the man’s legs.

  “Forgive me. I could not move when the sickness came.”

  The man appeared equally ill. He took his time to speak. “Your hands. Bound. Behind you.”

  Listening to his halting words triggered her sluggish memory. “Doran?”

  “Yes.” His breathing had a slight rattle to it. “So sorry, Dev.”

  Tears stung her eyes. If the effort wouldn’t have aggravated her head, she would have cried. “Things are a little foggy for me, Doran. What happened after the roof dropped on my head?” Humor surfaced in the oddest places, but in this instance she did not smile. It did feel as though the house had come down on top of her.

  “He hit you.”

  She assimilated the statement. She sorted through the “he’s” in her life who would have dared. Not Papa, she thought; he had not spanked her since she was a small child. Brock and Nyle were too busy living their own lives to bother her. Rayne? Ridiculous, he—

  “Rayne struck me down,” she whispered, the idea taking root to fill in the holes in her memory. “He caught up with us. He tried to stop me from freeing you.” The horror of the memory made her feel sick all over again. “Oz?”

  “Oz. Hit you.” Doran’s expression hardened, giving her the impression of white marble. “You. Expendable now.”

  “How indelicately put, Claeg,” Oz Lockwood pronounced from the doorway. “Every lady enjoys the belief that we men would perish without their company. Even our independent, reckless Devona.” He made a small, disappointed noise when he noticed the mess she had made. “Not such the lady, it seems. I thought at first that I had killed you outright.”

  She gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to scream when he gripped her shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. The ceiling slammed into the wooden floor as she mentally tried to find her balance. Her breath came out as quick pants while she fought back another bout of nausea.

  “Well done, my lady. I have always admired your fortitude.”

  The dizziness she felt added to the unreality of the situation. “Oz, where is my husband?”

  “I suppose his whereabouts depend on what you did when you received my note.” He sat on a crate. “I was gambling on you not confronting him. I had hoped the shock of learning about the black-hearted deeds of your husband would send you running off to save your childhood friend. Did you leave him a note damning him for his treachery or did you simply use my note to explain your sudden disappearance?”

  Rayne was innocent. It also meant he was not coming to save her. He was probably half-crazed wondering what had happened to her. Devona closed her eyes, feeling the dual sharp prongs of shame and guilt. Empty-headed fool! He had warned her that someone was trying to tear them apart. She had refused to listen. Instead she had walked into a carefully laid trap. “I cannot recall.”

  Oz stretched forward and calmly shoved her head so that it rebounded off the wall. Shooting stars streaked across her vision. Devona felt the bile rise in her throat.

  “The truth, my dear.”

  “I cannot. The blow to my head has confused me.” She winced when he reached for her again. “I will be fortunate to know my own name if you keep bashing my brains into pudding!”

  The familiar smile he fixed on his face chilled her to the bone. She recognized evil when it was grinning at her, promising the pain had just begun.

  She had to keep him talking. It would give her time to figure her way out of this mess. “I do not understand any of this. I thought we were friends. Was it because I married Rayne?”

  Oz laughed. “Such conceit,” he mocked. “Your brains must be muddled. I was the one who pushed you toward Tipton.”

  The swelling at the back of her head throbbed like the cadence of a drummer. Maybe she did have some of the facts wrong. However, she still had enough wits to not give Oz any information that could hurt Rayne. “Because of Doran?” she guessed.

  “You are trying my patience, Devona.”

  She glanced at Doran. He was conscious but in no better condition to help her. “Rayne said that Doran had left England. How did you learn that his death had been faked?”

  Oz shook a finger at her. “I was surprised Tipton bothered rescuing your precious Doran. I would have left his worthless hide to rot in the ’Gate. But then I saw the genius of Tipton’s actions. He gets rid of a possible competitor for your affections and becomes the reluctant hero of your heart. Brilliant.”

  “There was more to it,” she argued.

  “I almost permitted Claeg his exile,” Oz admitted, “but he was a thread that had to be snipped.”

  Doran sneered. “Gullible.”

  Oz cocked his head in the other man’s direction. “I intercepted him on his way to the ship. He believed me when I revealed that I was a participant in his great demise. I told him that you wanted to see him once more before he lost himself in the world. I played up the part of how you planned to sacrifice yourself to the marriage bed just to spare your beloved friend’s life.” He raised his hands and bowed his head. “If I did not have more lucrative plans, I would have considered the stage.”

  Devona shivered. “This elaborate ruse must have taken months to plan.”

  “Years. It was one of the reasons I ingratiated myself into your close circle of friends. At first glance I realized your looks and temperament would work to my advantage.”

  Because her hands were bound, Devona manipulated her shoulder upward to rub the tickling sensation behind her right ear. She glanced down to see bloody smudges on the shoulder of her dress. “Were you responsible for the runaway chaise at Vauxhall?”

  “The driver was more concerned about his next cup of gin than securing his animals. An unfortunately timed discharge of powder created a realistic accident.”

  “The poisoning? The woman who jabbed me with her pin?”

  Oz clasped his hands together and touched his lips. “A stroke of luck. I handed you tainted punch.”

  “Bastard,” Doran growled. He was ignored.

  “My intention was to drug you. Tipton in his arrogance thought you were beyond my reach. He needed to be taught a lesson and your abduction would have fitted nicely into my plans. There was a man waiting to carry your unconscious form from the garden.” He sighed. “Regrettably, I misjudged the dosage, since you refused to drink the entire cup. You were hallucina
ting and conscious far too long. Tipton and the others reached you before my man.”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “Rayne feared I was the villain’s target,” she mused. “He was wrong. I am just another pawn.”

  Oz beamed approvingly. “Excellent. I would have been distressed if I had damaged that quick little mind of yours. Toying with Claeg has been amusing, but our boy could never match your wit. I never understood why you supported our gloomy poet.”

  “To do that you would have to understand the meanings of friendship, loyalty, and honor.” Devona stiffened, prepared for his retaliation. He threw her off balance by laughing.

  “My dear, appealing to my civilized nature by issuing a backhanded insult will not work. I chose my goals early in life and the instruments just as carefully.” He stroked her cheek. “You have blood coming from your ear. Is the pain in your head intolerable?”

  “Why?” she asked, turning her head so that she did not have to feel his fingers on her face. “You enjoy knowing that you’ve hurt me?”

  “On the contrary, I abhor violence, particularly when it involves a woman. I just want to make certain you can keep up with me.”

  Devona focused on appearing to be what Oz expected her to be—a frightened, injured woman. “The rope is cutting into my wrist and my fingers are numb. Untying me would make little difference. I doubt I could walk three feet without falling. Running would be impossible. Please, Oz. A little mercy would not shift the power in my favor.”

  He stood and hope surged through her. As she expected him to produce a knife when he reached behind to remove something from the waist of his breeches, her eyes widened at the sight of her pistol. She had forgotten she had lost it when she tripped in the dark.

  “This was never meant for a lady’s delicate hand.” He checked to see if it was primed. He made an approving noise. “I assume Brock taught you how to handle a weapon. I wonder if you could have fired it.”

  “Want to put me to the test?” she dared, giving him a glare that assured him she would like to aim the sight directly at his heart.

  “I regretfully decline your offer, my lady, just as I must deny your request for untying your bindings.” His apologetic demeanor was more appropriate for a ballroom than a dirty storage room where he played his life-and-death games. “This is my show. My rules. Rule number one.”

  Oz aimed the pistol at Doran. “Snip.” He pulled the trigger. The discharge was deafening in the small room, blocking out Devona’s scream.

  A thread that had to be snipped.

  The ball struck Doran’s throat. There seemed to be an explosion of gore and spraying blood as the lead ball separated the fragile column of bones in his neck. Her face and dress were washed in a sea of red. Through tears and blood she watched Doran convulse, the gurgle of liquid bubbling from the gaping wound in his throat quieted to an eerie hiss. His eyes had locked on hers in those final horrifying moments, becoming fixed. She did not recognize the wild, high-pitched sound that filled the silence as her own tortured screams.

  She had never seen anyone die. Even when her mother took that fatal blow to the temple while chasing a three-year-old Devona, her family had sheltered her the best that they could. She certainly had never imagined witnessing the murder of one of her best friends.

  “Madman! Fiend!” she shrieked.

  Oz’s eyes seemed to glow, piercing the lingering smoke that floated around them. “That instrument served its purpose. I have given him dignity in death that he never could attain in life. He was dead even before I pulled the trigger.”

  Devona struggled against her bindings. He was going to kill her. Snip. As soon as her value expired, he would aim the pistol at her heart and the organ would explode into chunks of useless matter only a cook could appreciate. The bones in her wrists and shoulders twisted and popped under the strain, but the rope held.

  “Do you want to know rule two?” He stepped closer.

  Inwardly she cringed at his approach; however, her expression was tranquil when she asked, “Why bother adding rules when rule one is so tidy?” Oz reached for her skirts. She yelped and pressed her back to the wall. “No!” she yelled, kicking at him to prevent him from grabbing her legs. She did not think she could bear it if he violated her.

  “Hold still.”

  Mindlessly she fought him. She managed to land a stunning blow to his stomach. Instead of holding him off, it impelled him to capture her. He seized her ankles and dragged her across the mattress. With both feet caught she kicked his arms and his chest. He grunted and staggered back a step. It was enough to make him release her right leg. She arched her back and drove it upward. Her heel connected with the underside of his chin. Oz’s head snapped back, and his arms flew up to steady his gait. It did not help. He collapsed like a fan. Devona rolled to her side, then pulled up to a sitting position. Oz was on his back. His eyes were closed.

  Fighting off the increasing dizziness and nausea, she stood. Her swaying stride would not win any races, but she managed to get to the door. With her hands bound, escaping by horse was impossible. She would never be able to outrun Oz. The truth did not dishearten her. There was another option. She might be able to elude him by hiding in the woods. If she was patient, she could return to the house and find something to cut through the rope. He would have taken the horses by then, but it did not matter. She would crawl on all fours back to Rayne if that was her only choice.

  Rough hands mercilessly speared her hair, locked, then jerked her backward. The pain dimmed her vision to the size of a nail’s head. His hand still gripping the back of her head, he rolled her into him so that her body pressed against his.

  “Lady of fire,” he murmured. “I should have spared you and kept you for my own.”

  Revulsion rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. Her very survival was at stake. “It is not t-too late, Oz.” She cried out in pain when he tightened his grip.

  “I know you love that resurrected outcast, Devona. Save your breathy lies.”

  In their brief struggle, she had managed to hurt Oz. A trickle of blood oozed at the corner of his mouth. She had also disturbed his well-crafted façade of a gentleman. His clothes were rumpled. There was a tear at the seam of his shirt and his cravat was in an unidentifiable tangle. Blood and dirt marred his usual immaculate appearance. Devona felt a fierce rush of satisfaction at the ruddy swelling under his chin where her foot had struck him. It wasn’t enough. Nothing but death could balance the misdeeds he had committed against her friends and family.

  “I have yet to tell you about my rule two.” He pulled her close so that another breath closer their lips would touch.

  Tears leaked passed her temples and into her hair. “I hate you.”

  He continued as if he had not heard her violent declaration. “Rule two: when choosing the proper bait, do not stint on the presentation. There must be beauty, succulence to tease the palate, and value beyond price. Are you priceless to Tipton?”

  Rayne had never failed her. She understood that now. They shared a similar type of loyalty and reckless spirit that would force him to find her, even if the cost was his life. Oz would not have him, she silently vowed. She had to find a way to stop Oz before he staked her out as bait.

  Devona’s refusal to answer had angered Oz. He punished her by pressing a bruising kiss to her lips. The pressure he exerted on the swelling at the back of her head to keep her from turning away was too much for her. The peripheral blackness closed to a point of light, then winked out completely. She embraced the dreamless darkness.

  NINETEEN

  Proof that his wife had not run from him willingly arrived at the door in the afternoon. Four large, tired, unrelenting men interrogated the boy who had been paid to deliver the note. Disgusted that the sobbing boy could not bring him closer to solving Devona’s disappearance, Rayne had returned him to the streets. It had not been loyalty that had kept the child quiet. He simply did not know who had requested his services.

  When he thought on
it, Rayne felt as though Devona had been lost to him for weeks. In truth, it was barely a day. If he had not known someone had been stalking her all along, it would have been simple to believe that she was away on a country visit.

  Brock, Sir Thomas, Wynne, and now Brogden sat brooding in Rayne’s study. Jocelyn, frightened by the situation, begged him to allow Maddy to return immediately with her to Foxenclover. He did not protest. They were a distraction. It was also safer. There was no point providing the kidnapper with another viable target.

  “Read it aloud again,” Brogden requested. They had spent the last hour contemplating the contents of the note. The brief riddle was meant to frustrate and mock yet offer a clue to Devona’s whereabouts.

  Wynne cleared her throat and read:

  “Hail the reborn prince of maggots!

  Choking on hallowed earth and stale air

  His baptism a gravedigger’s golden piss.

  Vile outsider!

  Cast out to distant shores,

  No coin, knowledge or time absolves

  Thy shroud-bound resurrected heart.”

  “Cheerful,” Wynne observed. “’Tis unfortunate the scrawling script could not conceal the disgusting contents.” She glanced at Rayne. “Tipton, did we accidentally receive a political commentary about our Regent or did the anonymous poet have you in mind?”

  “No mistake,” Rayne replied. “How many people do you know who have been buried alive?”

  Brock shook his head. “It makes no sense. There is nothing in those lines about Devona.”

  “Perhaps the riddle was just the teaser,” Brogden suggested. “Our villain enjoys pulling the legs off a spider before he smashes it under his shoe.”

  The corner of Rayne’s mouth lifted slightly. “I do not approve of the analogy to the spider, but I can appreciate the opinion.”

  “Nay, you all have it wrong!” Sir Thomas bellowed. He paced the room, looking as though he wanted to tear the room apart. “There is nothing missing. The clue is in what is stated, though I cannot fathom why the chap didn’t speak the words in plain English.”