Rayne flinched, the truth of why Devona left him battering at his self-control. She thought he had lied to her about Claeg. For a time, he had emerged as the real monster polite society whispered about, and she had believed it. “Naturally, as a concerned friend, you helped her escape the fiend she married?” The urge to strangle the man consumed his thoughts.
“She came to me,” he boasted. “I planned it brilliantly. I sent an anonymous note revealing your misdeeds. Devona insisted on traveling to the mentioned locale and I could not in good conscience allow her to journey alone.” He sighed. “She was heartbroken when she found out that the information about Claeg was true.”
Rayne’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. He was so focused on Oz that he matched him, breath for breath. “So, Cousin, you covet my title? Come and take it.”
“Why do I have to take it when your delightful mother offered it to me?”
The news that his mother played a part in this scheme did not surprise him. “When?”
Oz shrugged. “The first time I heard from her was when she was arranging to commit you to the asylum fifteen years ago. She had inquired, and realized I was next in line after you. That lady loves her pretty house, and the money that goes with it.”
“She contacted you when I returned, I assume.”
With Oz passionate about his triumph, the pistol’s aim shifted and bounced at every gesture. “I have always been there, Tipton. Why do you think Foxenclover has been stripped of its treasures? You may be cheeseparing, but you provided enough funds for the care of your mother and sister. Unfortunately, you did not account for my requirements.”
He blinked at the audacity of the man. “You blackmailed her.”
Oz’s teeth clenched as if he was recalling what he had endured dealing with the dowager. “Being denied my birthright was costly for Jocelyn. When you returned, she was so terrified of you that she finally agreed that a fifteen-year-old mistake needed to be corrected.”
Brock came stalking out of the surrounding blackness. His clothes were rain soaked and smeared with mud. Blood dripped from a wound at his temple. “Fart-catching cully,” he muttered, swinging the shovel in his hands.
Bloody hell. Bedegrayne was going to get one of them gut shot. Rayne moved at the same time Oz twisted around to confront Brock. The flat side of the shovel struck Oz in the face as his finger reflexively pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening. Rayne hit him from behind and the action also took Brock to the ground.
“A little late in coming, Tipton. Now get him off me.”
“Where did the ball hit you, Bedegrayne?” Rayne was already turning the facedown Lockwood over.
“Not me.” Brock sucked in his breath at what was left of Oz’s face. “Lockwood must have bungled the loading.”
“Bring the lantern closer,” Rayne ordered. He did not need the extra light to show him that Oz was badly injured. Whatever the reason, the pistol had literally exploded in his face. Pieces of wood and hot metal had punctured his left eye and sheered off a ghastly amount of flesh, exposing gleaming white glimpses of cheekbone.
Bedegrayne swore and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Even stitched back together he’ll look like some sort of hellfire creature.” He stared on as Rayne unknotted his cravat and began wrapping the long cloth around the injured man’s head.
“I will need yours as well.” Rayne slipped the end of the cloth under another layer to keep it in place. “Talk to me, Oz.” The man was conscious, and his pain beyond a man’s endurance. When he parted his lips, blood gushed and soaked into the cravat. “You will most likely die if we do not try to sew up these wounds. First, tell me where Devona is hidden and we will get you to the rectory. I have my medical case in the coach.”
“Want—want to die.”
“Fine,” Rayne snapped. “I would not stand between a man and his God. Where is my wife?”
He shuddered. “At peace.”
Brock slapped his cravat into Rayne’s hands. He glared down at the injured man. “Lockwood. It would give me the greatest pleasure to draw out your pain, till madness makes you peel the other half of your face off. The bastard cracked me in the head with a bloody shovel,” he explained to Rayne. “He probably knocked my father out, too. I vow he will get no peace until he pays for what he’s done to our family.”
“No riddles, Oz. I have no patience to explore your perverted views. I want you to tell me where Devona is or I will abandon you to Brock’s negligent abilities.” Rayne checked his patient’s pulse. “Sometimes when the trauma is severe, the brain cannot cope and it begins to depress normal functions.”
Brock spat at Lockwood’s feet. “If you mean he’s dying, good riddance.”
“This weather is not helping his condition. Unlike you, I hope he lives long enough to tell me where he’s taken Devona.” Rayne rose to his feet. “Carry him to the rectory. There isn’t much you can do except to question him again if he awakens.” He picked up the lantern and the shovel. “You might want to look for your father. If Oz greeted him with this shovel, call out for me. His head may not be as hard as yours.”
“Where are you going?” Brock asked.
“To search the graveyard. Devona might be tied up and gagged somewhere close.”
Rayne felt he had no choice but to leave Oz in his brother-in-law’s care. Head injuries were fickle. Some wounds bled heavily and still the patient survived, where other smaller wounds killed the patient outright. If Oz survived, he would be recovering in Newgate. If the infections there did not kill him, the hemp would.
“Devona!” Rayne yelled. Holding the lantern out in front of him, he scanned each gravestone. Most were small, but their shadows were large enough to conceal a slender woman. He also kept a firm grip on the shovel. If Oz had any more accomplices roaming the area, he wanted a reliable waterproof weapon. “Devona!”
After he finished searching the graveyard, he would move on to the copse of trees beyond. She was close and unharmed. He could feel it. The light washed over another stone. This one made him pause. Nightmares of drowning in a river of rain, the smell of inebriated resurrection men, and the smell of corpse-packed earth still awoke him at odd times over the years, his mouth opened in soundless terror and cold sweat drenching the sheets. He forced himself to say the words aloud.
“RAYNE TOLLAND WYMAN OUR LAMB AT PEACE.”
At peace. Those were the last words Oz had spoken before he lost consciousness. Another riddle or was he speaking the truth? Rayne’s eyes widened in horror as he nudged the soft earth with the toe of his boot. Too soft. He lowered the lantern and surveyed the area. It was difficult to ascertain in the darkness and rain, but the ground looked freshly dug. He dropped to his knees and pushed his hands into the earth. The first inch or so was mud; however, the dirt beneath was dry and soft. A newly dug grave. At peace. My God, Devona!
He screamed her name. The madman had buried her alive. Rayne could very well imagine the horrors tormenting her. If he wasn’t too late. He couldn’t be!
“Tipton!” Brock called out from the other side of the graveyard. “Lockwood is conscious and asking for you.”
“I will see him in hell!” he shouted back, not slowing his frantic digging. “Find another shovel. That demonic bastard buried her alive.”
He heard Brock’s roar of denial, then his heavy footfalls as he went to search for a shovel. Rayne vehemently hoped Oz was still alive when he was finished. He would see to it that Lockwood took her place.
Keep your head, Tipton, he thought, when his clawing fear for Devona threatened to overwhelm him. This was just like that night fifteen years ago. Resurrection men were able get a body out without disturbing much of the gravesite. Concentrate on the head. He could splinter the lid and pull her out. She will be fine, he tried to assure himself. He survived; so would Devona. The shovel struck wood. Lying on his stomach, he scooped the crumbling dirt out with his hands.
“Rayne.”
He could hear the tears in Brock’s voice. He
tamped down the surge of raw emotion. “Clear away the excess dirt. I don’t want it to fall on her face when I break open the lid.”
“Maybe you’re wrong. This could be your old coffin?”
Rayne was in no condition to calm Brock’s fears. “The wood is new,” he said, his teeth clenched as he drove the edge of the shovel into the lid. “If this had been mine, this lid would have been breached.” He slammed the shovel into the wood again. A crack formed in the center. Again. Again. Again. Three crevices the width of his thumb opened. He bisected the damage by smashing the shovel horizontally.
Tossing the shovel aside, he got down on his knees and shoved his fingers into the cracks and pulled. A jagged piece of wood broke off. He threw it to the side and attacked the next section.
“I see her!” Brock added his strength to the labor, creating a large enough hole to pull her out. “I can’t tell if she’s breathing.”
Neither could Rayne. “Stand aside.” He took the shovel and rammed it into a stubborn section of wood. Three hits and Brock was able to pry it off. Enough. She was so still. At peace. The phrase taunted him.
“Your sister wouldn’t dare die on me. She hates to disappoint me.” He braced his legs on either side of the hole and gently dragged her out of the grave. Brock brought the lantern closer as Rayne laid her out on the ground.
“Is she alive?”
He put his ear to her chest and listened. His eyes closed in relief. “Yes. Devona.” He tapped her on the cheek. She did not awaken.
“What’s wrong with her?” Brock asked, picking up the lantern when Rayne scooped her into his arms.
“The air might have been too stale,” Rayne said, more frightened by her unresponsiveness than he was admitting. “I have some smelling salts in my case. Let’s return to the rectory and get her warm.”
Brock matched Rayne’s hurried stride. “My father is standing guard over Lockwood. It turns out his head is as hard as mine.”
Rayne did not reply to the banter. All his concentration was focused on willing Devona to stop terrifying him and awaken. They met a stern-faced Sir Thomas in the sanctuary.
“Lockwood, blast his soul, is dead.” Sir Thomas appeared to visibly age in front of them when he saw his unconscious daughter. “Will my gel live?”
“Yes,” Rayne vowed. The two of them had a bargain.
“I’ll get your case,” Brock offered, disappearing through the door.
Rayne placed her on the floor. He touched her everywhere, searching for a reason why she was not awake. He felt the large bump at the base of her skull. Lifting her up and folding her over his arm, he pushed her matted hair back, trying to view the damage. “Let’s hope Devona inherited your hard head, Sir Thomas. She took a blow to the head as well.”
“She’s a Bedegrayne. My gel has a harder head than most.”
Rayne agreed. “There is a great deal of blood on her,” he observed, placing her carefully on her back again. “I cannot find a source. It must belong to someone else.”
Doran Claeg.
“The salts!” Brock burst through the door. Speck followed behind him, carrying several blankets.
Rayne opened the bottle containing a combination of ammonia and various oils. He waved it under her nose. No reaction. “Wake up, love. This is no place to spend the night.” He held the bottle under her nose.
Devona’s nose wrinkled. Her breath hitched, and then she started coughing. Rayne pulled her to a sitting position, bracing her back with his arm.
“Horrid,” her voice rasped, as she tried to catch her breath.
Rayne kissed her forehead. He thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever said.
* * *
A day later, Rayne caught Devona sneaking out of bed. “I know you said a week, Tipton. However, I cannot bear it. My back hurts and I have slept enough for a lifetime.” She did not remember Oz sealing her in a coffin, nor the ride back to Foxenclover after they had revived her. The thought made her shudder. Lady Jocelyn’s mysterious herb concoction had sedated her. Whether through faulty chemistry or application, the bitter liquid had not erased Devona’s memory as her ruthless mother-in-law had promised it would. The blow she took to her head had done more damage. While her husband and brother had frantically unearthed her grave, she had blissfully slept through the horror.
“Have you been remembering?” Rayne politely queried.
He was dressed in buff-colored breeches and a cream-colored shirt. His beautiful silky hair she so loved was neatly tied back. To look upon them now, one would never guess what they had endured the last few days.
“A few more details,” she admitted, shrugging. “Brock tried to answer some of my questions earlier, but I stopped him. Some answers are best forgotten.” Like Oz taking her place in the grave. “I am sorry about your mother.”
Devona had concluded that years of unrelenting grief over the death of her son Devlin and then her husband had placed Lady Tipton’s mind in a fragile state. Her own greed and lust to defeat the son she feared and loathed had shattered what remained of those tangible threads of sanity. Perhaps she had truly believed she could have discreetly disposed of Rayne without killing him. Or maybe that was what she had wanted to believe. No one would ever know with complete certainty.
“She deserved her fate.”
To others his comment might have sounded callous. Devona knew that buried beneath his indifference, guilt and pain simmered. Devona wanted to offer him comfort. She doubted he would thank her for it. Regardless of his protestations, learning that his mother had encouraged Oz’s obsession for the title must have cut Rayne deeply.
Speck had discovered her battered body in a small workroom. Lady Jocelyn had been punished for her crimes. It would be a long time before her children would be able to forgive her treachery and perhaps allow themselves to grieve.
Rayne propped his arm against the window and gazed down at the view of the gardens. Devona knew he saw Maddy weeding her precious flower beds.
“You have been avoiding me.” There, she had said it.
“I wanted you to rest.” His wry glance skimmed her from head to toe, admiring the seductive way the thin fabric revealed as much as it concealed. “Brock and your father have refused my advice as well. I should have known better than to order about a Bedegrayne.”
“Wyman,” she lightly corrected. “We made a bargain. I intend to uphold my end of it.”
He visibly sagged at her announcement. “I thought I had lost you. First when you disappeared from the house, and later as I stood over the earth covering you.” He rubbed his eyes and inhaled. “I bullied you into our bargain.” He hesitated; a guarded expression replaced the pain she had glimpsed. “My family has visited enough misery on yours. What if I said that I did not want to remain married just for the sake of a bargain?”
He was pushing her away. Looking into those mysterious pewter-colored eyes, Devona realized she and Rayne might as well have been separated by an ocean. He had spent half his life distancing himself from love. He would sacrifice his chance of having a wife, a home, and his own family if she did not stop him. This was one rescue for which no one would accuse her of being reckless. Getting on her feet, she moved closer to him. Her gait was still unsteady from the effects of the drug.
“What if I agreed? After all I have experienced, I think I deserve a marriage not bound by past bargains,” she murmured; the flash of emotion he could not hide from her gave her the courage to continue. “What if I demanded a new bargain? This one made for love?”
He caught her and pulled her close. “You love me? Not for Doran’s sake? Not even for mine?”
“You know us Bedegraynes.” She smiled up at him. “Never a more stubborn clan.”
“Wyman, Lady Tipton,” he corrected, brushing a kiss against her lips. “My beautiful beloved. I thought you were a maddening piece of baggage the night you barged into my study and demanded that I help you.” He swept her off her feet and carried her back to bed. He placed her
gently on the mattress, then stretched out beside her.
“I thought you were wickedly handsome.” She sighed, reaching for the bit of leather that bound his hair, and tugged. It gave way easily and his hair curled slightly against his shoulders. She threaded her fingers through it and he leaned into her touch.
His eyes, this time glowing the lightest blue, touched her as tantalizingly as his roaming fingers. “I love you.” The words rushed out as he kissed the lace at her throat. “I promised your father that I would give you a dozen children to keep you too busy to revert back to your reckless ways.”
Devona laughed. Yes, they would have children. Beautiful babies possessing her cinnamon-fire hair and his keen intelligent gaze. Together with their extended family, they would rebuild Foxenclover, this time filling it with love.
“Well, hopefully I will not have to give up all my reckless tendencies.” To prove her point, she teased the outline of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. He growled, claiming her mouth in a devastating kiss.
Rayne pulled back to nibble her lower lip. “Not all of them,” he amended. Smiling, he rolled her on top of him, encouraging her to demonstrate her uninhibited nature. Devona happily complied.
Le Cadavre Raffiné had rediscovered his heart.
Read on for an excerpt from
TWILIGHT WITH THE INFAMOUS EARL
by Alexandra Hawkins
Available December 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Frost rarely pursued a lady.
First, it took too much effort; more to the point, most were not worthy of the chase. Second, most ladies were willing quarry. His handsome face and title had opened the doors of countless bedchambers—something he had often had taken for granted. However, he had been willing to make an exception for Miss Cavell. Although it galled him to admit it, the lady mildly intrigued him. Her acrimony toward Nox gave him the excuse he needed to seek her out.
In the end, she came to him.
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 29