by Gaelen Foley
The only way she could redeem herself was to show him that she could obey like a proper wife; she could tell the truth, and she would accept his rightful authority as her husband. God knew, they had to start somewhere.
She’d take her sentence of being exiled to the country without complaint. Placing her hand on her heart, she raised her head and made a private vow to be a good, obedient, Order wife—like Daphne.
From this moment on.
That night, Beau wove through the noisy, all-male crowd gathered to watch the prizefights. Ale and blue ruin flowed; the air was thick with the smoke of countless cigars; rough laughter burst from a group where a man had just told his mates a very dirty joke. Most of all, the wagers flew, which was why he had come.
It was as likely a place as any to find his mercenary friend. He had checked in with his various contacts, whom he’d told to keep their eyes and ears open for him for any news of Nick. But his watchers had nothing to report. The bastard was obviously being careful. But since they had been friends for years, Beau decided to check at gambling hells he knew Nick fancied.
Madame Angelique had said Nick had already received a portion of his payment. Knowing him, it wouldn’t be long before he was back at the tables.
Beau knew from experience that Nick always turned to the heady distraction of gambling when he was under particular pressure, as now.
When he had heard at one of those gaming hells that Tom Cribb would be fighting tonight in Covent Garden, he knew this would be the place to look.
Nick loved to wager on the milling matches above all, and the English champion was his favorite pugilist. Cribb would be starring in tonight’s headline battle.
Beau knew Nick had to be here. He scanned the crowd continuously for any sign of him.
Meanwhile, inside the rails, the intermediate match would be starting in a few minutes. The meaty pugilists were receiving last instructions from their trainers.
Beau continued on the hunt, privately cursing himself for not telling Virgil long ago about Nick’s gambling problem. Every time he had nearly gone to the old Scot about it, Nick had talked him out of it and promised he would change.
On three different occasions, Beau had allowed himself to be persuaded because Nick was like a brother to him and because he wanted to believe. Certainly, he had not wanted some new, green agent replacing his best friend on the team. Nick was a damned fine spy, fearless, lethal.
Not to mention it went against Beau’s nature to be disloyal. He had been blinded by his loyalty, perhaps, forgiving to a fault. And now look where it had got them. Aye, he was paying the price for it now—though not as high a price as Trevor was paying. Hang on, mate, he mentally told his other closest friend, Nick’s hostage. I’ll get you out of this, wherever you are.
Winding his way toward the bet makers’ tables, Beau leaned against a post where he could see the men coming and going as they went to lay their wagers.
Excitement was high in the crowd; loud and boisterous talk filled the air. Everywhere, men were debating the various strengths and weaknesses of the two pugilists about to begin and airing their opinions on the last brawl.
All of a sudden, Beau spotted Nick in the crowd.
Instantly, he was in motion, striding toward him. He had his loaded Mantons at the ready beneath his coat in case his friend needed persuading. He was not above forcing Nick’s compliance with a pistol in the ribs.
One way or the other, he was going to put an end to this—and then there was still the matter to sort out of the bastard coming after Carissa.
Beau was very eager to pay him back for scaring his wife. Even Nick knew when he had gone too far.
But highly honed senses must have alerted Nick to the approach of a hostile party.
Beau was no more than ten feet away from him when the black-haired mercenary glanced over his shoulder and saw him coming.
He bolted.
Beau instantly ran after him, pushing through the crowd, while in the ring, the opponents were announced. The boxing fans started chanting for their favorite while Nick did his best to lose him in the crowd.
Beau spotted him just before Nick vanished out the door. He barreled after him. “Damn it, get back here!” he roared as he burst out into the dark, wet night.
Nick slipped around the corner. Beau was undeterred, sprinting after him, leaving the glow of the building’s doorway lanterns.
The narrow streets around the place were choked with the parked carriages of all the spectators crammed inside. Beau hunted his quarry through the maze of vehicles, his weapon drawn. When he bent down to glance beneath the endless rows of carriages, he saw running legs.
He chased. “Don’t make me shoot you again, you stupid bastard!” he shouted into the darkness. “Stop running like a coward and talk to me! I know what’s going on! I spoke to Angelique!” he shouted.
“Your wife is very pretty,” Nick taunted from the shadows somewhere nearby.
Beau rocked to a halt on his heels and glanced around, his chest heaving. He had heard him, but he couldn’t see him. He suddenly yanked open the door of the nearest carriage, but Nick was not inside. “Come near her again, and I will forget you and I were ever friends.”
“Relax, Beauchamp, I was only making a point.”
“What, that you’ve forfeited all honor?” Beau crept toward an alleyway ahead. “Who do they want you to kill?” he persisted, trying to keep him talking so he could home in on his location.
“Don’t know yet. Probably find out soon.” Nick paused. “Not that it’s any of your affair.”
“It’s madness, man. You don’t even know who hired you. It doesn’t smell right, and you know it.” He whirled around the corner with his pistol in position, but Nick wasn’t there. “Where are you?” he shouted, losing patience. “Come out and face me like a man!”
But there was no answer.
He continued searching, but Nick had slipped away.
Beau cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he whirled in frustration, scanning in all directions one last time. Nick was nowhere to be found.
He stopped, took a deep breath, closed his eyes to clear his mind, and pressed his eyelids with his thumb and middle finger. What now? Think.
His heart still pounding, fury in his veins, it took but a moment to choose his next strategy. Then he was striding to his carriage. If Nick was going to be difficult, he had other angles to pursue.
There was only one gunsmith in London that the Order agents really trusted to produce the weapons on which their lives so frequently depended.
Hans Schweiber was a Hessian-born gunsmith whose family had been in the trade for generations. He was one of the primary contacts Beau had first alerted to keep an eye out for Nick, but he had heard nothing back and decided tonight it might be worth his while to stop in and check with the old man.
When Beau walked into his shop half an hour later, Schweiber peered over the small, rectangular spectacles perched on his nose. The rest of the shop was dark, and the weathered gunsmith was alone, working by candlelight on one of his sleek, well-balanced creations.
“Herr Schweiber,” Beau greeted him.
“Lord Beauchamp. Thought I might be seeing you soon,” he remarked serenely, pausing to change tools.
“Why is that?” he greeted him. Beau closed the door behind him and sauntered in. He found Schweiber’s place oddly comforting—the familiar smells of gunpowder and oil, and the leather of the powder flasks on offer.
Hunting trophies and military memorabilia adorned the walls, honored gifts from the highborn hunting fanatics and military officers who revered the Hessian for his skill in making the weapons that had saved their lives.
Schweiber looked over the tops of his spectacles again. “You tell me.”
Beau leaned an elbow on the counter, watching the gunsmith work. “You know about my problem with Forrester.” He met his gaze. “Has he been here?”
Schweiber stared warily at him.
“Ja,” he admitted after a moment’s hesitation.
“When? Why didn’t you contact me?”
“It was only the day before yesterday, and I was thinking it over.”
“What do you mean, thinking it over?”
The Hessian shrugged. “He said you were the problem.”
“Me?” Beau exclaimed.
“Ja. He told me you turned traitor.”
Beau looked at him in astonishment, then burst out in angry, cynical laughter. “Oh, that is Nick for you.” He shook his head. “Schweiber, surely you didn’t believe him!”
“I wasn’t sure whom to believe,” he said with an unsmiling, German stare.
“And you weren’t eager to pick sides,” he retorted matter-of-factly.
Schweiber shrugged.
“He didn’t attempt to threaten you into silence, by chance?”
“No, no. I’m too useful to get threats even from my most dangerous clients,” he said with a low chuckle.
“Well, I can assure you, I am following all the usual protocol. It’s Nick who’s left the Order’s purview. I need to find him before he does something rash. What did he want from you?”
“Sniper rifle.” Schweiber put down his rag and eyed Beau with cagey acceptance.
“Sniper rifle,” he echoed, nodding. “Did he say anything about the sort of shot he had to make? Ask for any unusual specifications on the gun?”
Schweiber shook his head.
“Did he give an address for you to send the bill to, or where to send the piece when it was ready?”
“No need for me to send a bill. He bought the best weapon I had on hand. He actually paid me up front for it. First time, far as I can remember.”
“How novel,” Beau said dryly.
“Ja.” The old man paused. “It did make me wonder.”
“What is it?” he pressed him.
Schweiber gave a guarded look. “He seemed agitated. He was acting so strangely that I told my apprentice to follow him—at a safe distance, mind you. Good apprentices are hard to find. Told the lad not to let himself be seen.”
Beau went stock-still. “Where did he go?”
“East End ganglands. The street was unmarked, but Michael can show you the place when he gets back from making his delivery.”
“Superb. Well done, Schweiber. Thank God somebody in this city has their wits about them besides me. When do you expect your apprentice back here?”
“Not until tomorrow. Delivery was in Leicestershire.”
“Send the lad to me as soon as you see him. Time is of the essence.”
“Ja,” Schweiber said serenely.
“Thank you, Hans.” Beau headed for the door, but he paused before going out. “Your boy was sure that Nick didn’t realize he was followed?”
The old gunsmith nodded shrewdly. “Michael prides himself on stealth. Wishes he could become an Order agent.”
Beau crooked a sardonic brow at him. “Talk him out of it.”
Schweiber smiled and reached for his polishing rag once again.
Beau gave him a slight nod of farewell, then he went back out into the darkness.
Chapter 22
That night, Carissa was sitting around in the drawing room with the other ladies. Thomas was delighting them all, rolling a ball back and forth with each one of them in turn and ignoring his mother’s repeated assertions that it was time for the tiny lordling to go to bed.
“He’s our entertainment,” Daphne was explaining as she rolled the ball back to the tot.
The ladies had had a nice evening supper, followed by a stroll through the gardens at sunset and a halfhearted game of croquet on the green. But the most interesting part of Carissa’s introduction to the Order’s estate—aside from seeing her friends—was the tour of the property with an explanation of all security procedures from Sergeant Parker.
The Order’s trusty warhorse had been assigned as their chief of security, with a dozen more men under his command. The rugged, sun-weathered soldier was much tougher, she suspected, than his stocky, compact frame would suggest at first glance. Parker showed her three different escape routes from her chamber, depending on from which direction any threat might arrive.
He pointed out the several locks on her chamber door; he gave her a loaded pistol to keep in the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed; he showed her the rope ladder stored in her closet if she should need to escape out her third-story window. He then explained the haversack of basic supplies they had prepared for her to grab and go if they should come under attack for any reason.
She was fascinated. The pack contained some money, a water canteen, a small supply of dried foods, a pair of sturdy shoes, extra bullets for the pistol, and a compass.
“Understand, of course, my lady, this is all the last line of defense. The Prometheans have never discovered this place, but one must always be prepared.”
“Of course,” she had answered faintly though she wasn’t quite sure who the Prometheans were.
“Good. Now you’ll know what to do if the worst were ever to happen—if we ever came under attack here, and my men were overwhelmed. There’s no need to worry, mind you. I’ve no reason to believe we’re in the least danger of that at this time, but these are our procedures, and I’m showing you all this now because the Order believes in being prepared for any eventuality.”
She nodded uneasily.
“Now, in this situation, if you hear me or one of my men give you the signal to run, you take your pack, use your ladder, and climb down. Leave your finery behind. You’ll want to blend in with the surrounding folk. Lots of jewelry will make it easy to tell which woman’s the aristocrat.”
“You make it sound as though they would actually hunt me a-and the other ladies?”
“Aye, ma’am. As the wife of one of our agents, you’d be a very valuable hostage.”
Oh, dear God, she thought.
“Has His Lordship ever mentioned what you should do if somebody grabs you?” Parker asked.
“No,” she answered, wide-eyed.
“Right. Groin. Throat. Eyes. Close range, those are your targets if you can’t get to your weapon. Just so you know.”
“Ah,” she murmured in amazement.
“So, then,” he resumed his explanation, “if you hear the signal from me, you go. Don’t wait to hear it twice. Flee into the woods and try to meet up with the other ladies but don’t wait around. It’s important to keep moving. If you become separated from the others, you must follow that stream—you saw it from the garden?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a path alongside it. Follow that brook downstream about two miles until you come to the coaching inn at the edge of the village, with carriages for hire. We prefer you hire a post chaise and drive yourself if you’re up to it. It’s better for you to leave the area at once. But if you’re not comfortable with that, you can use the gold in your pack to buy a ticket on the stagecoach to London. Either way, get to Dante House as quick as you can. You’ll be safe there. Don’t talk to anyone along the way if you can avoid it. Have you got all that, milady?”
“Yes. Thank you very much, Sergeant. I daresay our husbands chose the right man for the job.”
He had dropped his gaze with a modest smile. “They do their part, ma’am. I do mine.”
“Well, I appreciate your dealing so openly with us about it and not simply trying to shield us from the reality.”
He smiled ruefully. “Some of these things, I know, are hard to hear and frightening to imagine. But I’ve noticed in my years of service, ma’am, if I may say so, that Order men don’t marry namby-pambies.”
She was still musing on her lesson in personal security as Mara captured her son on her lap and tickled him. “You need to go to bed, sir!”
Thomas giggled happily. “No! I stay!”
“What’s that you’re looking at?” Carissa asked Kate, nodding at the magazine the young duchess was idly riffling.
“La Belle Assemblée. It’s a
ctually quite silly, but they’ve got bits about all the attractions of the Season available in London right now. Honestly, I live there half the year and had no idea there was quite so much to do! Now I really appreciate it, after being stuck out here for weeks on end. All these entertaining plays and concerts and diversions right under my nose, and I’ve never gone to see them.”
“Like what?” Daphne asked.
“Kew Gardens, for one. It’s open to the public every Sunday, but I have never been there. And Vauxhall.”
“You’ve never been to Vauxhall?” Daphne exclaimed.
“No! I grew up in Dartmoor, remember?”
“You’re so deprived!” Mara teased.
“What’s wrong with Dartmoor?” Daphne protested. “It’s very picturesque!”
“Yes, well, it might as well have been the far side of the moon. There’s nothing to do but either read or watch the wild ponies.”
“We have got to take her to Vauxhall when all of this is over,” Mara declared. “You’ll love it, Kate. Music, fireworks, everything.”
“Don’t forget the trapeze lady,” Daphne reminded her.
“Oh, this one sounds eccentric!” Kate tapped the page. “A waxworks museum! ‘The Gala of History.’ Have any of you ever gone there?”
“Isn’t that in Southwark?” Mara asked.
“Yes! Just on the other side of the river, it says. Have you been there?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered wryly. “Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking it would be a suitable amusement for my son. And I’m sure it will be. When he’s fifteen.”
Kate arched a brow, peeking over the edge of her magazine. “Was it risqué?”
“No, it was altogether gory!” she exclaimed. “You and your Gothic novels, of course, you’d probably love it.”
Kate sat up straighter. “Really?”
“ ‘Guaranteed to send a chill down your spine.’ They have a sign over the door that promises as much,” Mara answered.
Daphne shot her a quizzical look. “And you brought a two-year-old there?”
“It was Jordan’s idea! Honestly, we didn’t know what we were getting into. There were supposed to be historical figures. I thought it would be educational.” She feigned a shudder. “Well, it was a history lesson, all right. All the most horrible scenes from human history on display. Roman Coliseum . . . Spanish Inquisition . . . French Revolution.”