“I’d heard the duke was a silver-tongued charmer, ye ken—but no one warned me his butler was too.” Smiling, she bumped her shoulder into his.
Franklin grinned. “And from where do you think he learned it?”
They rounded the corner of the house, to where the light from the drawing room windows spilled out onto the lawn. With the moonlight flooding down from above and the golden rectangles angling out from the house, it painted the shrubbery and trees in sharp relief. But why was a shrub moving when there was no wind?
“What in thunder?” Franklin must have noted the same, for he let go her hand and put a hand on her arm, bidding her stay still. “You there! Show yourself!”
Lilias nearly rolled her eyes—he would have done better to remain still with her, and they could have crept up together, unnoticed. But no, at his shout there was further rustling in the shrubs, and a darting shadow. Franklin took off that way, but a frustrated “Blast!” soon sounded. “Lost him.”
“Did ye see him at all?”
“No.” He huffed back up to her, a hand at his side. “I saw only a clear reminder that I’m not a young man anymore and oughtn’t to be chasing intruders about just to impress you. Brilliant, aren’t I?”
She took his arm, rubbed a hand over it. But she stayed focused on where the figure had been. “Whoever it was, was watching the family. Is that Humphrey fella still locked up?”
Franklin shook his head. “He’d done nothing really, other than trespassing—for which he was fined. But we’ve someone keeping an eye on him, and he’s in Cornwall.”
The moon still beamed and the wind stayed calm . . . but Lilias felt colder. “Who, then? Who would be spying on them?”
Pressing his lips together, Franklin shook his head again and led her toward the rear door at a quick pace. “I certainly don’t know, my dear. But we’d better tell His Grace posthaste.”
Foolish as it was, she almost wished they could keep it to themselves. With such news, the laughter would die. The light would fade. And Rowena’s smile would turn to a worried frown again.
They were walking. Around and around the house, through the gardens, into the wood and back again. Rowena shifted her hand on Brice’s arm but kept her gaze locked ahead of them. Not that she really saw the lawn sprawling before her or the blue sky covering them above. Only the list in her mind with most of the suggestions already crossed out.
The problem was that they weren’t just trying to stop one villain—they were now forced to deal with two, who would be coming at them from different directions.
Well, hopefully not. If they could bring Catherine to justice quickly and efficiently, she might not have time to contact Malcolm. He might never know. Never enter the picture again. Never intrude upon the life she was building at Midwynd.
If only her breathing, quick and shallow now, would remember that.
“Do you need to rest?” Brice drew her to a halt, his brow creased more deeply than it had been a minute before, when merely talking about murderous men and thieving women.
“No.” She forced that old panic down and drew up a smile. “I think better these days when I’m moving.”
Brice lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, then replaced it on his arm. “I keep coming back to the same idea. But I don’t like it.”
She studied his handsome profile, but it gave her no hints. “And why is that?”
“Because it may require you going back to Catherine, to draw her here.”
The idea of facing the blonde again didn’t exactly please her—but it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the thought of facing down Malcolm. “I can do it. Whatever ye need me to do. Tell me yer thought.”
“We give her the jewels.”
Rowena’s legs froze, her feet rooted themselves to the ground. “We what? Have ye gone daft?”
Apparently not, given his grin. Or perhaps that was evidence that he had. “Well, not the jewels. Just . . . jewels. That could be mistaken for them.”
“Are there such things?” She still couldn’t quite wrap her mind around red diamonds. But oughtn’t any gem that someone would kill over be unmistakable? Oughtn’t anything worth so much, cursed so much, be identifiable at a glance?
“Rubies.” He said it calmly, evenly. Knowingly. “They have been mistaken for rubies for much of their existence, apparently. I can get some that are a close match in size and color and clarity.”
Her feet still weren’t inclined to budge. “You can get them. In three days?”
“In one.” He sighed and tilted his head back to watch a cloud scuttle by. “I have already done this legwork. They won’t be the closest match, but she’s never seen the real things. She won’t know that.”
“Even so, aren’t rubies of such size and clarity rather dear? Too dear to just toss willy-nilly into the hands of a criminal?”
A fortnight ago, she would have considered the quirk of his brow condescending. Today it looked merely amused. “Well, I don’t intend to let her keep them, darling. The whole idea is to have the constable there to arrest her whenever she takes them.”
Of course. Though if something went wrong . . . Well, they wouldn’t be as dear as the actual Fire Eyes. “So we put rubies in a hiding place. I go to Catherine and tell her I’ve found them but can’t bring them directly to her for some reason, that she must fetch them herself—and for some other reason, she must be the one to do it, not some hired lackey. But of course, we’re lying in wait. When she steals, she’s arrested.”
“Exactly. Simple, safe, and effective.”
Hopefully. Though she wasn’t sure it was enough to break the curse. Rowena tugged him onward again, toward the paddock where the horses were being put through their paces. She wasn’t much of a rider, but she did enjoy watching the creatures leap and trot and turn. “We have only to determine those reasons. Why would I not be able to bring them? And how do I convince her she must, herself, be the one to get them?”
Brice rocked his head back and forth in thought. “Well, with our happy news, you can claim to be constantly watched. That I or Mother or Ella are always at your side, and that they’re stashed in a place you can’t easily get to—which has also yet to be determined.”
“True. Though wouldn’t a letter be more believable then?”
Brice’s countenance went contemplative. “That would be my preference. It is just that I fear that she won’t take a letter seriously enough. Perhaps a trusted courier?”
Which would involve finding one. “One of the Abbotts?”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps. I daresay Geoff would appreciate the chance to help.”
“As for the other—how to convince her to come herself . . . Will greed suffice? Reminding her that if she entrusts the task to anyone else, they could make off with them?”
“I should think so. And there we have it. She’s arrested, and we have a few years at least before we have to worry with it again—time enough to get a story in circulation about selling them far, far away from here, so that if and when she wins her freedom or someone else looks for them, they follow a trail to the other end of the earth. It’s all finished before Annie arrives.” Brice traced his fingers over hers.
Oh, to be able to think of other things. Of Annie, of the coming wee one . . . of the fire his kisses had begun to ignite inside her.
As if reading her mind, Brice drew her to a halt under the boughs of a wide tree and aimed a warm smile into her face. “You’ve blossomed so, these last two months. When first I met you, you would sooner have cowered in a corner than face down a woman who would insult and threaten and steal.”
Or a man who could ignite passion within her. She returned the smile. “I’m sure I’ve much healing yet to do. But I—”
A crack shattered the air, and bark flew from the tree. Then came shouts, shoving, a whirl she couldn’t begin to process. Brice’s voice, yelling something about down. Another, calling their names. Hands pushing, shoving her to the ground.
“Notti
ngham!” Footsteps, swift and heavy. She could see the feet, recognized the polished but inexpensive shoes. They matched the voice.
“Abbott! No, don’t—”
Another crack . . . a thud. She craned her head around, then wished she hadn’t when she saw the blood gushing from Mr. Abbott’s head.
An animalistic keen rent the air, and she didn’t know if it came from her own throat or someone else’s.
“No. No!” Brice took only enough time to shove Rowena behind the tree before diving for the bloody, still form of his oldest friend. “Geoff! Geoff, speak to me!”
But Abbott made no reply. He didn’t twitch. The only movement was the spurting blood, drenching his friend’s face in crimson.
“Brice, get down!”
He heard Rowena’s frantic cry, of course, but the words meant nothing. He reached Abbott, touched a hand to his face, his neck. Was that his pulse or Brice’s, thundering so hard he could feel it in the tips of his fingers?
“Brice!”
But the air was still. Of those earth-shattering shots anyway, though now footsteps pounded from every direction. Brice rested a hand on Abbott’s chest, trying not to look at the terrible wound on his head. Trying to focus on whether there was the faintest rising and falling, a beating of the heart.
Voices joined the footfalls, shouting a dozen questions at once. As if he had any answers. As if he could do anything but fall back, impotent, when Old Abbott stumbled to his knees by his son’s still form. When Mr. Child put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “What happened, Your Grace?”
He could only shake his head. “I don’t know. We were walking, talking, and I heard—I could scarcely believe it—a gunshot. But not coming from where they had all been practicing. Bark flew from the tree. Then Geoff was shouting and running our way, trying to help, I suppose, and . . .”
“Brice.” Rowena crawled up to him, wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his shoulder.
His arms came about her without the need for thought. Thankfully, because he couldn’t think, could only stare at his friend with that terrible dark circle on the side of his head. Then something shifted, clicked, and he shook himself. “Run to the telephone, Mr. Child. Call the constable straightaway, and the doctor. Hurry!”
The butler rose and took off with a speed that defied his age. Others had joined them—grooms and stable hands, gardeners, servants from the house. Mother, Ella, and Miss Abbott, all of whom looked about to fall over. Especially Miss Abbott, who advanced on shaking legs and all but collapsed at her father’s side, over her brother.
Brice pressed a kiss to Rowena’s head and staggered to his feet, his wife still latched to his side. His gaze fell on Davis, just emerging from the rear door beside Cowan. “Davis—would you get the women inside? They shouldn’t—”
“No. I’m not leaving you.” Rowena’s arms went tight around him. “Not with someone trying to kill you.”
“You think it was on purpose?” Ella, eyes wide, gripped their mother’s arm. “Why? Who?”
Brice drew in a quick breath. “There were two shots—one too many to have been an accident, I should think. But it’s hard to say who the target was. The first bullet struck between us, on the tree.”
Rowena shook her head. “But I was already on the ground when the second one was fired. They must have been aiming at you, to have hit Mr. Abbott.”
She had a point. And in part it brought relief, to realize she wasn’t the target. Not that he particularly liked being in a gunman’s crosshair. But better him than Rowena and the baby.
For the first time, he prayed the child was a boy. That if something happened to him, Nottingham would live on through that tiny life inside his wife.
Was that why God had brought them together, and her already with child? Was that why He had insisted Brice understand, love her, accept the baby as his own? Was he destined to die for the sake of justice—or to protect his wife?
He stood up straighter, held her tighter. He prayed not. But if so . . . then so be it. So long as they lived on.
Ella shook her head. “But . . . but who? Who would do this? Humphrey?”
“No, not Humphrey. He isn’t in the area.”
But assuming himself the target didn’t exactly narrow it down. He was the one Catherine was after . . . though he was also the only one who knew where the diamonds were, so why would she risk silencing him before he could confide the secret? And he was also the one Kinnaird would be more likely to take a shot at, if he’d so quickly traveled from the Highlands.
Neither of which he particularly wanted to tell the entire household.
Old Abbott rocked back on his heels, drawing all attention to him and to the terrible reality, rather than speculation. “He is alive, at least. Barely, I think, but alive. Praise God for that.”
“We need to pray for him.” Brice lowered to his knees again, Rowena alongside him, and gripped Geoff’s hand. Still warm, promising life. Yet how would he have the strength to cling to it?
Brice closed his eyes, opened his lips, and prayed for a miracle.
Twenty-Four
How had it all gone wrong? Her brother lay in the hospital, unconscious, death looming. Unable to lift a finger. Unable to breathe a word. Unable to open his eyes and accuse. Clinging to life by the slenderest thread, but clinging.
Cling. Keep clinging.
He could live, that was what Ella had kept repeating all afternoon. Like Phineas Gage in America, who had taken a railroad spike through the skull and lived to tell about it. Like countless men in war. On and on Ella had gone, even dragging out some random book to show her the standard procedure for treating a bullet wound to the head—a procedure the medics wouldn’t bother with if survival weren’t possible.
But Stella cared little for whether the silver coin even now bound to the wound on Geoff’s skull would keep infection at bay. The how didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he lived. He had survived the operation to remove the bullet, so perhaps there was hope. There must be hope.
“Oh, Geoffrey,” Father mumbled, his voice barely piercing the shadows that clung to the room. “Why? Why you, son? Not that I would have wished such a thing on His Grace, but why did you have to be there?”
Why indeed? Stella pressed her fingers to her eyes to try to make the images go away. It had all gone so wrong. Never, as the plan formulated, had it occurred to her that someone else might arrive to intervene. An oversight. A grave one.
No, not grave. Don’t think about dying. Pull through, Geoff. Pull through.
Father looked up, and their gazes tangled. He sighed. “You ought to head home, Stella. I’ll stay here with your brother. The duke said there would be a carriage waiting for us.”
The duke. Eyes sliding shut, she shook her head. It had all gone so terribly wrong. That first miss . . . but he had acted so quickly. He’d pushed Rowena down, out of her sights, and the look on his face—not fear, not for himself. His every movement had been to protect her.
The rage had shifted, then. Turned, twisted.
She shouldn’t have pulled the trigger again. She’d known it the second she’d done it, had nearly let loose a scream of dismay. Killing him was never what she’d wanted. Rowena must be removed, yes, but she never should have let herself grow angry with Nottingham. Even if he had spoken words of love to the sniveling twit. Even if he had forgiven her betrayal. Even if he had barely so much as glanced at Stella in the last week, nor said how-do-you-do.
But she hadn’t meant for it to affect Geoff. Her father. Her family.
Geoff. Cling to hope. Cling to life. Fight. Fight!
Her eyes slid shut. Geoff had never been one to fight. Not in life—but for it, surely he would. He must. Just like all those other lucky men Ella had been so quick to find examples of.
Because if he didn’t . . . She muffled a sob with her fist. He shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t her fault he’d come running up as he’d done. She hadn’t meant to hit him. Hadn’t even see
n him there, not through the rage that had greyed out her vision. But it hadn’t been aimed at him, not at Geoff.
“Stella. My dear, please. It’s growing late. Go home. Update the Nottinghams and your grandmother.”
Stella grimaced. Grandmum would spend the evening fretting and lecturing, berating Stella for not being at her brother’s side, for being in the manor with Ella instead of among her own. And she wouldn’t be able to retort, would she, and say she hadn’t been with Ella?
Because it was even more her fault than Grandmum could know. Than anyone could know. Because if they did, if they ever found out . . . if they somehow found the pistol she’d stashed in the shrubbery and not yet had time to fetch . . . She buried her face in her hands. She could be arrested. Go to prison, all hope of a life with Nottingham gone. All hope of any life gone. And if Geoff died—but he mustn’t. He mustn’t. “Please, Father. Just let me stay here.”
“Stella.” He sighed, sounding so very old. “Geoffrey wouldn’t want you to neglect yourself, or for your grandmother to be kept waiting for news. Eat. Rest. One of us should, and Geoff would want—”
“Will you stop it?” She lurched to her feet, spun away but then back to face him, her back to the door. Her brother had a private room solely because Nottingham had insisted on it. Otherwise they’d be in the ward with all the other patients. “Stop talking about what Geoff would want, as if he were the perfect, selfless child. He wasn’t, you know. He was— Isn’t, I mean. He isn’t.”
Father rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head in his hand, as if merely talking to her wearied him. “I never said nor thought your brother was perfect. But will you really argue with me right now about whether or not he’s always wanted the best for you? For all those he cares about?”
Of course not. Sainted Geoff, always putting everyone else first. How was anyone to compare to him? To live up to the standard he set? But he wasn’t so perfect. He wasn’t. “He resented the duke, did you know that? Resented him for his faith, when he’d never studied as Geoff had. Is that what a perfect child would do? Hate someone for being good?”
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