The hours passed in silence. When the sun dipped below the horizon, Wynne went about the task of lighting the coach’s inner lanterns.
“Tipton, I have given this some thought,” Wynne began, sounding hesitant to offer her opinion. “Rushing into the graveyard may be exactly what this madman wants. Besides, you cannot be certain she is even there.”
Sir Thomas stirred, awakening at the sound of Wynne’s voice. “What’s this? You think you know more about these matters than us men? Next you will be demanding we hand over a pistol so you can be the first to spit in the bastard’s eye?”
“And you are an expert, Papa? I will wager there are cobwebs in the barrel of that fine pistol you have tucked in your waist.” She ignored her father’s discreet scrutiny of his weapon and focused on Rayne. “This graveyard is close to Foxenclover, correct?”
“Our lands border the rectory. Why do you ask?”
“Maddy,” she starkly reminded him. “And your mother. If this man’s intent is to destroy you, do you think he would resist taking your kin? I realize your feelings for your mother are not the least sentimental; however, your sister—”
“Enough,” Rayne interrupted; the image of his sister’s proud, defiant face surfaced in his mind, haunting his conscience. “Your point has been made. Your concern is reasonable, and the logic of it irrefutable. We are fortunate that you are on our side.”
Brock’s grim features shifted in and out of shadow with the swaying movement of the coach. “Damn, but I have to agree. I would take all three, figuring your feelings for one, if not all, would lure you into an ambush.”
If there would be an ambush, Rayne planned on being the instigator. When they were a half mile from Foxenclover, he signaled for the coachman to halt. “An approaching coach this time of night will alert him of our arrival. We will continue to the house on foot.” He glanced up through the trapdoor at Speck’s ugly face. “Speck, you remain behind with the coachman. If there is no trouble, then we will return and continue to the graveyard.”
“Aye, milord.”
Rayne climbed down from the coach. He tilted his face up, a warm, misting rain beaded on his face.
“At least the rain will help mask our approach,” Brock muttered.
Rayne blocked Wynne’s descent. “Perhaps you should wait with Speck until we know what we will discover?”
Wynne brushed aside the suggestion. “If Devona is there, then she will need me. If not, then I will remain behind to keep vigil along with Maddy and your mother.”
He nodded. Devona would want Wynne to attend her. The pair of them shared a bond his own upbringing left him ill prepared to comprehend. Sir Thomas emerged after his daughter, patting his concealed weapon. Wet powder would be careless and, with these high stakes, quite deadly.
“Speck, I won’t waste my time telling you not to ride in if you hear shots.”
The servant spat. “Good. My hearing ain’t sharp when you start blathering idiocy.”
“Keep low. I would regret shooting you,” Rayne warned. He opened his medical case and removed a scalpel. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped the cloth around the razor-sharp blade and stuffed it in his boot. He wasn’t particular about which implement or whose hand saw to the task; what mattered to him was that the man who took Devona be punished.
Not wanting to risk a lantern, they made the trek to the house blind. Their movements were cautious and at times noisy. No one present was claiming to be an expert at stealth.
The house was unexpectedly dark, they noted while they crossed the front yard. Assuming one door would do as well as another, Rayne boldly walked up to the front door. The door opened easily; an even blacker darkness beckoned within.
The exertion and the cooling rain made Wynne’s teeth chatter. “Could they have gone visiting?”
“Possible. It appears Jocelyn has hired a negligent staff.” He entered the front hall. “Wait there until I can find a candle or lamp.” A few minutes later, the hall glowed from the light of an oil lamp.
“Should we call out?” Brock whispered.
A thud from overhead had Rayne putting his finger to his lips. Thud! Removing his pistol from the protective folds of his cloak, he moved toward the stairs.
“Wait!” Sir Thomas urgently invoked. “What if it is a trap?”
“What if it is Devona?” Rayne countered. He had no patience to debate this with the elder Bedegrayne. “Stay here and protect Wynne. Brock, assist me.” Not waiting for their agreement, Rayne swiftly climbed the stairs.
The men heard the noise again. It came from the room at the end of the hall. Mentally, he reviewed the layout of Foxenclover and immediately concluded his sister’s tower room was the room they approached.
“Please, Mama.” Maddy’s sobbing plea was faint behind the door. “Whatever I did, I apologize.”
Rayne imagined it was her tiny fist that pounded futilely at the door, each stroke weaker than the last. The lamp revealed a chair had been jammed against the door. The key still in the keyhole gleamed in the light.
Brock opened his mouth to alert Maddy of their presence. Rayne silenced him by slapping his hand over the younger man’s mouth.
“It could still be a trap. Let’s check the other rooms before we free her.” His sister’s broken sobs tore at him in a manner he never thought possible. Perhaps it was because he could easily place Devona as the frightened woman behind the door. Brutally he shut the interfering thoughts from his mind.
The quick search of the other rooms revealed nothing suspicious. Maddy, too tired to pound on the door and beg, had been reduced to soft, incoherent crying. He removed the chair. The action brought Maddy to the door.
“Mama?”
“It’s Rayne.” The key turned, the door opened, and suddenly his arms were full of a very hysterical, albeit grateful, sister. Her face pressed against his chest, his name a muffled litany.
The men’s gazes met. “She’s not here, Tipton.”
Brock’s grief could not compare with Rayne’s desolation. He pulled his sister from him and gave her a rough shake. “Where is she?”
Confusion and the urgency in her brother’s voice quieted Maddy. “Who? Mama?”
“No. Devona. Has she been here?”
Through swollen red eyes Maddy searched both men’s faces, judging their sincerity. “Why would you expect to find Devona at Foxenclover?”
Brock placed his hand on Rayne’s arm to gain his attention. “Wynne was wrong. We need to get to the graveyard.”
Maddy sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Has everyone gone mad? First Mama, now you two.”
“Tipton, you might want to come down here!” Sir Thomas called out.
His sister in tow, Rayne went downstairs with Brock. Maddy ran into Wynne’s waiting embrace. The mothering comfort brought forth more tears. “Papa is in the drawing room,” Wynne murmured, petting Rayne’s sister’s hair.
“What has happened?”
He heard Maddy ask the question to Wynne as he and Brock went to view Sir Thomas’s discovery. Two maids and Mrs. Poole were lying on the floor.
“Dead?”
Sir Thomas picked up the housekeeper and placed her on the sofa. “No, although they are giving an impressive representation of it. I cannot rouse them. There are three others in the kitchen.”
Brock picked up a discarded teacup and sniffed the contents. “Drugged, I’d guess.”
Rayne had seen enough. “Did you find my mother?”
Sir Thomas’s reply did not hearten him. He returned to the hall where the women had stayed.
Maddy ran to him. Trembling, she grabbed his hands. “Wynne told me everything. You will find her. I feel it.”
“The staff has been drugged, Maddy. What does Jocelyn have to do with all of this?”
She did not flinch, nor did she collapse into tears as he expected. Instead, she held her head up courageously and expelled a shaky breath. “Mama. She said we were celebrating. There was tea, biscuits, and ev
en currant cake.”
He did not give a bloody farthing what was served at their little party. “Then what?”
Her brow furrowed. “Nothing, really. I spoiled Mama’s party by getting sleepy. I thought she locked me in my room to punish me for my unladylike behavior.”
“Not likely,” Brock mumbled, coming up behind them.
Wynne’s lips parted in amazement. “You cannot believe my sister’s disappearance and your mother’s strange tea are related.”
“Let’s just say Jocelyn has some explaining to do.” Rayne addressed Maddy. “Do you know where our father’s pistols are kept?… Good, I want you to show Wynne.” He locked gazes with his sister-in-law. “Do you know how to load a pistol?”
“Insulting, I tell you,” Sir Thomas charged, joining the group. “Male or female, Bedgraynes know how to defend themselves.”
“I’ll stay and look to your sister and the staff,” Wynne promised.
“Speaking of the staff, you and the gel might want to check on them. One of the ladies moaned and rolled to her side.”
“I will check on them immediately, Papa.” Her hand clasped in Maddy’s, Wynne paused in front of Rayne. “Find her and bring her home.”
“Only death will keep me from her.”
A small smile teased Wynne’s full lips. “We want to keep you, too.”
“Be well, Brother,” Maddy murmured shyly, allowing Wynne to lead her away.
“I do not know what evil lurks in the blackness this eve, but it cloaks my wife. I propose we light our path with lanterns. I intend to kill what I aim at.”
They returned to the coach and shortened the journey to the graveyard. Once again they halted the coach. Dim light beamed from the rectory windows. There was enough light to discard the bold notion of approaching the grounds with lit lanterns. There was no reason to offer Devona’s kidnapper an easy target. The vulnerability of light went both ways. Rayne would be able to see anyone who stood in front of the windows.
Reaching the building, they crouched against the side wall. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he assumed the excitement he saw in his new kinsmen’s eyes mirrored his own.
“I think we should separate, each taking an entrance. One of us is bound to catch the kidnapper unawares.”
Brock wiped the mist from his face with his sleeve. “We have to get out of this rain or the pistols will be worthless.”
Sir Thomas was still attempting to catch his breath. “What if one of us is captured?”
Rayne did not see fear in his father-in-law’s eyes. There was a steely determination in them that promised he would sacrifice his life if it would bring down the kidnapper.
“No heroics. If you are taken, then wait for us. The distraction will be to our advantage.”
Sir Thomas nodded, looking slightly disappointed. “I will go right.”
“Brock, you take the left. I want to check that small building. Try not to shoot one another if you circle around.”
The men separated and faded into the darkness. Rayne paused to light the lantern. There was no warm glow of inviting light coming from the building. Choosing a side window, he held the lantern up to the glass. A huge saw hung down from one of the wood beams. The building was probably used to store tools. It might even be a workplace for a carpenter to build coffins.
An indefinable chill passed through Rayne. He had managed to avoid this graveyard for fifteen years. It had rained that night, too, he remembered, but then it had been a violent storm with thunder and lightning stabbing the starless obsidian sky. His rebirth had cost him his family. Devona and the rest of the Bedegraynes had replaced the one he lost. He refused to allow another stormy night in this graveyard to spin the wheel of fate to determine if he would win this time, or lose.
He did not hear the man. One minute he was alone; the next the man was a blurred image in midflight. His head collided with Rayne’s chest and they both fell to the ground. Fighting instincts heightened, he shoved the man off him and rolled to the left. Any hopes that the tackle had knocked out his attacker were diminished when the man dived for Rayne’s knees, bringing him down on his back.
He tugged at the strings securing the black cloak. It no longer served to hide him in the night; perhaps he could use it to deflect the blade the other man wielded. Rolling the thick fabric over his arm, he leapt backward avoiding the arcing blade. The second attempt he used his padded arm to block. The attacker seized the knife with both hands, utilizing all his strength and weight to bring the blade downward.
Both men were breathing heavily, a silent struggle of strength and sheer will. The man’s gaze dropped, and Rayne knew what had caught his attention. The pistol tucked into Rayne’s waist. The surprise attack had prevented him from drawing it. The belief that this man could lead him to Devona kept him from using it.
His attacker experienced no such dilemma. Freeing one hand, he reached for the weapon. Rayne took advantage of the man’s torn priorities. Instead of reaching for the pistol, Rayne focused on the knife. Allowing the blade to cut into his padded arm, his other fist shot upward, connecting with the man’s wrist. The attacker cursed at the distinctive crack of breaking bones. His countering swipe to steal the pistol knocked it into the mud. The man dived for the weapon. Rayne fell on top of him, praying the rain had ruined the powder.
Instead of reaching for the pistol, the man clawed at Rayne’s throat. His frantic twisting bucked Rayne off. He straddled him, prepared to deliver a vicious blow, but his arm stayed cocked when he saw the reason for the man’s struggles. The burden of Rayne’s weight and the man’s broken wrist had altered the angle of the knife and had driven the blade into his neck. It had entered three inches below the man’s left ear and was buried deep within the intricate tangle of veins, arteries, muscle, and bone. He was still breathing, so he had managed to avoid cutting his windpipe.
Rayne dragged him up by his shirt, his relentless gaze probing for the man’s attention. “Where is my wife?” He slapped him when his eyes threatened to roll white. “I’ll remove the blade and leave you to drown in a puddle of your own blood. Tell me where she is and I will use all my skill to save you.”
The man’s lips twitched. Rayne leaned closer to hear the dying man’s last words.
“T-too late.” The man fainted from the loss of blood.
Furious, Rayne stood, wondering if the man referred to himself or Devona. He stooped over to pick up the pistol. There was a slim chance it was functional.
“I fear the rain has ruined your fine weapon,” a man spoke behind him. “Even so, it pays to be prudent. Throw the pistol to the ground, Tipton.”
The newcomer stood just beyond the light of Rayne’s discarded lantern.
“Your lady needs you, Tipton,” he urged. “The weapon.”
Reluctantly, he opened his hand and allowed the pistol to drop. He did not need it. He was angry, desperate, and just mean enough to dispatch this man with his bare hands. “Where is she?”
Laughter came from the darkness, drawing closer as the man stepped into the light. “Close. Real close,” Oz Lockwood promised, the barrel of a pistol peeking out from his greatcoat. He correctly read Rayne’s thoughts. “I have not dropped this one. Is Devona’s life worth risking to prove the condition of this weapon?” There was a hard edge to his mocking smile. “I thought not.”
Disgusted, Rayne wiped the mist from his face. “She never realized you were dangerous. Hell, she probably invited herself along on her own kidnapping.”
“You have come to understand our reckless Devona very well. So beautiful and a spirit to match. If there was a lady to breach your defenses, I wagered she would be the one to succeed.”
“Do not attempt to convince me that my wife conspired against me, Lockwood. I will not believe it. What puzzles me is the why of it. I do not know you. I have led a quiet life in London,” he mused, keeping his gaze on the pistol aimed directly at his heart. “If you encouraged Devona to seek me out, then it cannot be for her affec
tions. So why?” Brock and Sir Thomas would come across them soon. All Rayne had to do was keep him talking.
“You are a creature of fate, are you not? An illness, death, a miraculous resurrection and the discarded second son became Viscount Tipton.”
He could not help smiling at the ridiculously brief account of his life. “There was pain, grief, loss, and redemption, too,” he dryly added. “You seem remarkably obsessed and informed about the details of my life.”
Oz shifted, redistributing his weight. “We have never been formally introduced. You might recognize me by my full name: Osmund Lockwood Rawley.”
Despite the poor lighting and rain, it was obvious that the man expected some reaction to his revelation. Rayne purposely kept his expression blank. Oz had taken so much from him; he refused to give him one more damn thing. “Under our present circumstances, do not expect me to be pleased to meet you.”
Oz faltered; the lack of recognition seemed to stun him. “My name. Rawley. Do you not know it?”
“Should I?” he asked, barely concealing a yawn. The moment Oz Lockwood Rawley became careless he was a dead man.
“The title was mine, you resilient upstart!” he shouted. “There had been talk of you dying in India—”
“A few close calls,” he modestly admitted.
“Then you returned to London, prepared to live out your life scoffing at the title I would have killed to possess.”
Rayne watched the barrel pointed at him waver. His muscles coiled, readying for a sudden attack. Oz, noting his intense concentration, readjusted his aim. “You already have—killed, that is.”
Determination hardened the man’s jaw. “A few. Doran Claeg for one.” Oz nodded his head, satisfied that he had managed to surprise his nemesis. “Ah, I see you did not expect my little confession. Poor Devona. She was beside herself when she learned her childhood friend was not off exploring the world as her husband had sworn. She found him half-starved and chained like a wild animal in the bowels of an old ruin.”
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 28