Tom glared at the footman who had dared suggest such a craven act. “We’re armed, and I’m in the mood to kill somebody.” As soon as they were through the gates, he broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Risky on such uneven ground, but he’d honed his reflexes, and he was on an excellent bay. Briefly he made a mental note to make Winterton an offer for the beast. Then he put his mind back on the task in hand and prayed he was in time.
Although the ground sped under his mount’s hooves, everything went too slowly. Except for time. Dusk had settled in by the time they reached the far gates, and still they were behind.
He sent the two men with him to the local inns and he took the other. At the first one he reluctantly left his horse behind and had a fresh one saddled and two for his companions. Otherwise, he drew a blank there. They had not called at the inn, or the landlord had missed them. He was wondering whether to try a smaller establishment, when Worthing galloped toward him.
He drew his gray to a halt, the horse’s flanks heaving with exertion. “My lord, they were at the Hawk in Hand.”
“You’re sure?”
The man leaned across and handed him a card, a cream board gleaming warmly in the orange-yellow lights emanating from the lanterns in the nearby tavern. The calling card was one of his own, the corner turned down and a rough scrawl on the back with, he guessed, a piece of charcoal from the fire. He tilted the card. Numbers.
The normal way of telling a person that the owner of the card was waiting for an answer, rather than leaving the pasteboard was to turn down the right corner. Lamaire had turned down the left, which meant he had not waited. They had moved on.
Those numbers marked a time! That meant two things. Lamaire was still with her, and he had the means to leave a trail. Grim-faced, he shoved the card in his pocket. “Did you question the landlord?”
“Yes, my lord. He was distressed to discover his part in the abduction.”
“You told him?” Tom wanted to strike the idiot.
Worthing shrank back in his saddle. “He knew, or he’d guessed, but I told him this was your card. He doesn’t know who the young lady was. She went inside while they changed to a chaise and came out again. He sent men in to guard her.”
Otherwise, she’d have run away. A chill ran through his veins when he thought what Everslade would do to her if she tried to run and he caught her. The suspicion that he had only begun to uncover a truly sinister hidden life crept over him. Everslade had been a part of the London scene for years—suave, wealthy, considerate, and popular with the ladies. Not all females, it appeared. What Winterton had said before Tom had left in haste chimed with a few rumors he’d heard, but like many people, Tom had dismissed the stories as malicious gossip. Especially the one about Everslade being banned from the House of Correction in Covent Garden for flogging a woman half to death. He’d actually laughed at that one.
In a flash, he knew what Lamaire was telling him. “They went east. They’re not taking the usual route to the Great North Road. Do either of you know this area?”
“My aunt used to live around here,” Manning said. “I used to come here for weekends when I was little, when my parents were busy. They ran a city inn.”
Thank Christ for London servants. “East. We need to find an inn with room for a chaise, preferably with more chaises to hire. My guess is that he will change the vehicle as often as possible, in an attempt to throw us off the trail.” He spurred his horse, murmuring under his breath, “He’ll have to try harder than that.”
Once they stopped for the night, Everslade would not hesitate to make her his own. In any way he had to. He would delight in the scene if Helena fought back; that would give him the excuse he wanted. He’d brutalize her.
Fury and grief warred within Tom as he rode, but he had to fight his emotions down. He would be no good to her if he acted impulsively. He barely knew himself. He’d faced life-changing peril with hardly a qualm, and he was falling to pieces at the thought of Everslade even daring to touch Lady Helena Vernon. How he wished he had made her Lady Alconbury in truth.
Although that blissful outcome was not possible, he would never leave her again. He would always watch over her, care for her.
If she lived.
Chapter 12
Everslade had provided a variety of garments for Helena’s use. One traveling gown, a plain brown one, but well made, jostled for space in the small portmanteau with a lighter gown, no doubt for the evenings, and a collection of clothes she doubted she would ever wear. The night rail was far too thin for any use, the fabric so fine it would tear if she turned over in bed. It had an equally thin robe to go over the top.
He meant to visit her tonight. He’d said as much. He’d mauled her so much in the carriage that she had almost been sick, but she had kept to her resolve and offered him no resistance. She was alone now, but not for long, she guessed.
She put on the night rail but added the traveling gown on top and kept her cloak handy. She had no clean shift, so the night rail would serve until she could find something more serviceable.
When a knock sounded on the door, her heart leaped to her throat, but she had barred it as securely as possible. Unfortunately the window was too high up for her to risk jumping. She would most likely break a limb if she tried. Neither was there a tree within jumping distance.
Only fighting held the answer. She could not let him do any more to her. She had discovered her limit about half an hour ago, when he’d fondled her between her legs and pinched her painfully. Would he know that she was no longer a virgin? He had treated her carefully, saying he would breach her there with the appropriate part of his body.
Perhaps she could offer to kiss it for him and bite it off.
Before today, Helena would never have thought herself possible of dreaming of such a thing. She spared a thought for the girls who arrived in London to become maids and ended in a stew or bagnio, serving several men a night, after having been raped into subservience.
How did they stand it? She would not have lasted one night.
The key rattled in the lock, and the latch lifted. She waited, praying the chair she had hopefully propped under the plank holding the door together would hold. Tears rose to her eyes and her heart beat so hard she had to fight for breath.
The door held.
Someone knocked, three gentle taps, and the word, “Madame,” sounded softly.
It could be a trick. Lamaire could be a hired ruffian, bought to compel her into obedience or to fool her into trying a fruitless attempt at escape. Then Everslade could punish her. She had not missed the gleam in his eyes when he caused her pain. He liked it.
But what choice did she have? To wait here meekly like a lamb and allow the man who had snatched her off the street to rape her, or take a risk?
She went to the door. “I’m here.”
“Madame, open the door. We have but five minutes, perhaps ten.”
Helena made haste to move the chair away from the door. Lamaire barreled in on stockinged feet. “Collect your cloak, madame, you will need it.”
“What do you propose?”
“The inn is full. If we can get downstairs, we may have a chance, but do not raise your head or let anyone get a good look at you. Then, I am afraid we must walk, probably across the fields. How far can you walk?”
She found her outdoor shoes that she had donned that morning, so long ago now. The hat, too, much the worse for wear, but if she went out in public without a hat, people would stare, and that was the last thing she needed. She could feign a semblance of respectability by bundling her hair up in it, since she had scarcely any hairpins left.
Everslade had pinched and fingered her so much that walking hurt, but she could still manage it. He must have left bruises, though she had not dared to examine the area, lest she find more.
Every floorboard creaked outside her room. A man sat outside, his head slumped, his chin touching his chest. He had obviously been put t
here by Everslade, otherwise why else would he be on a chair by her door? She held her breath but he did not move. A bottle rolled under his chair, and she smelled the strong odor of red wine.
When Lamaire held out his hand, she took it, and let him lead her, tiptoeing, a careful tread at a time, down the landing toward the stairs at the end. The floor was bare wood, well polished, the nails sticking proud of the surface. Small casement windows, diamond-paned, looked out over the yard where horses nickered and ostlers yelled. From downstairs came the murmur of patrons in the taproom, and the glow of lanterns and tapers. The stairs were lit by tapers stuck out from hooks in the walls, holding them clear of the worst of the fire hazards, but at the height of a tall man, so still not entirely safe. The whole place stank of beer, that sweet, hop-laden unmistakable odor. This inn was out of the way of the main roads, nestled in a village that in its turn was off the main high street of the place. And this was where her abductor had brought her to be raped.
As far as possible she tried to use his footsteps and timed her steps to coincide with his. When he moved forward, so did she.
A door to the left opened just after they’d inched past it. A grunt, then a “What the—” came, followed by a curse and the thump of heavy feet.
Lamaire pushed her in front of him. “Run! Scream! Tell them you are abducted!” Drawing his sword, he turned to face her tormentor.
Helena hurtled down the stairs, but as she did so, the door to the outside world burst open, admitting three men, swords and pistols drawn and hats pulled low over their foreheads. From above she could see no faces, but she knew, deep inside, these were Lamaire’s men, sent to capture her and send her back.
The clash of swords sounded from above and then an explosion. A gunshot.
The man in front lifted his head. White-faced, his jaw spotted with the stubble of a day’s growth, the man stared at her.
She knew what that stubble felt like against her skin. With a choked cry, Helena hurled herself down the last half dozen stairs into the arms of her husband. Her true husband.
* * * *
Sobbing, Helena clutched him. Tom felt like sobbing too, when her warm weight fell on to him. He’d only just dropped his sword in time, and he still held his pistol, cocked and ready to fire. She could have killed them both, but he would be the last person to castigate her. A cloak and pair of shoes were lying on the stairs where she’d dropped them. He gestured for his men to go upstairs, because much though he would like to, he could not deal with Everslade himself.
He had his arms full.
Except that the man himself appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a positively garish banyan, and from what Tom could see, little else.
Tom did not stop to think. What was there to think about? Lifting his pistol, he fired.
The sound echoed around the restricted space and a few lights went out. So did the noise from the taproom, a moment of complete silence, before men cursed and the door was flung open.
Tom lowered his weapon and put his arms around Helena, who was still sobbing. He glanced at the men, who could not pass more than two at a time through the narrow archway that led from the public part of the inn to the residential part. Gesturing upstairs with his pistol, he said, as casually as he could manage, “Well, what did you expect me to do? The man is a positive disgrace. He attacked this lady and then threatened me.” Since Lamaire had appeared briefly behind Everslade, relieving Tom’s mind greatly, he knew he had a reliable witness.
His two henchmen rattled down the stairs. He paused for a word with one. “Get a coach and harness a couple of horses to it. Give the ostlers whatever they want.” The man touched his hat and disappeared into the yard.
“I will take my woman home,” he said, moving effortlessly from assassin to great lord. Swinging Helena into his arms, he tucked her face against his shoulder.
A man with all the pomposity of a magistrate came from the taproom. I am the coroner, sir. Pray, what has occurred here?”
Tom did not stop to answer him. He would have faced the man if it had only been him, but he could not bear Helena to be distressed any more, and the man emerging from the tap-room had the swagger of a pompous magistrate determined to make the most of the fracas. If it came to a court appearance, he could swear that he was rescuing Lady Helena on behalf of her brother, and Everslade had threatened him with his pistol first.
This affair would cost Tom a pretty penny, because he would pay anything to keep her name out of the scandal. They had a lot to manage, he and Winterton. He resented none of it, because he had her back in his arms.
Before anyone could protest, he had backed out of the inn.
He had them out of that place before the magistrate had thought of a way to detain him.
He and Winterton would have to put their heads together and devise some reason why Everslade had snatched Helena off the street and later had turned up dead in an obscure country inn, and why Tom had rescued her, and not her brother.
Sitting in the gig, which was all his servant had managed to find in time, swaying toward the Heath, Tom cradled Helena as she sobbed out her story. He bit his lip several times to keep from uttering curses that would not do anything to her peace of mind.
Until she looked up at him with reddened eyes and a tear-streaked face and said, “I hope you’ve killed him.”
So did he.
* * * *
Tom waited two days before he visited. He needed the time to rationalize his thoughts. Goddamn it, he ached for her. Every part of his body, every pore of his skin longed to take her. Keeping away from her, praying his inconvenient fever for her would abate had done no good at all.
Repeating to himself that he was her brother did absolutely no good. His body did not care who she was. It still wanted her under him, wanted to thrust into her until neither of them could take any more. Telling himself that love could take many forms helped not a whit, either.
But eventually he found a pair of breeches roomy enough not to give away his deeply inconvenient secret and made his way to the house in Brook Street, ordering Lamaire to accompany him. He had made a few discoveries that might not mean anything, but he needed to discuss them with his reluctant ally. But his first thought was for Helena. It always was, and he had resigned himself to the fact that she would always be his first concern.
Tom gained some amusement by the expression on the face of the man who opened the door to him. His face stiffened in shock, and then a resigned expression entered the dark eyes. “I will inform his lordship that you have arrived, my lord.”
Tom handed his card to the man. “How is her ladyship?”
The man regarded him, all the expression drained from his face. Tom would appreciate a butler as good as this one. He glanced around, and beckoned to Lamaire. The Frenchman, smartly but inconspicuously dressed, bowed to the butler. “I have returned,” he said.
“But not for good,” the butler said, sounding, if anything, relieved.
“No, Watson, not for good,” Tom said. “Lamaire is with me now.” Without turning around, he added, “He always was.”
“And you think I am unaware of that?” Winterton stood at the top of the stairs, hand on hip. Although at home, he was dressed immaculately, as always, with the touch of elegant extravagance that marked his personal style. “Come up.”
Turning, he led the way to an elegant drawing room, throwing open the double doors with a flourish.
His mood far too eager, Tom followed him in, to find the owner of his heart sitting on a forget-me-not upholstered sofa in a gown of white sprigged with tiny blue flowers. A blue blanket was carelessly tossed aside, and she had found a book, the leather-upholstered volume propped elegantly between her carefully manicured hands. The nails were noticeably shorter than she usually wore them. But otherwise, she appeared as poised as her brother. That was, except for the tense lines around her mouth and the sadness haunting the deep blue of her eyes.
He
basked in her presence, longed to seize her and kiss her, cradle her close and keep her safe. Instead, he took a seat by the fire and accepted the dish of tea the maid brought him with a gentle smile. Thus did enemies meet, parlay, and realign their allegiances. He had no idea if that would happen today, but they had to talk.
Gently he asked after Lady Helena’s health, and equally smoothly, she assured him she was perfectly well. But her lower lip was thicker than usual, no doubt still swollen from the blow Everslade had dealt it.
The maid left the room. Julius took the matching chair to the one Tom occupied, on the other side of the fireplace. He sipped his tea before placing it on the small round table by his side. The delicate flower-sprigged china barely chinked as he laid it aside. He folded his hands together, the sapphire ring on his forefinger winking in the light from the windows behind Tom. “Did you call just to inquire after my sister’s health?”
“I would appreciate knowing the truth.” Tom addressed her directly.
“Only my mouth, and a few bruises” she said. “I slept for most of yesterday. Julius would not allow me out of bed.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Tom nodded to his temporary ally. “I have made what inquiries I can.”
“And do you have any conclusions?” Winterton picked up his tea once more, holding it in precisely the correct manner.
More than once Tom had wondered what lay beneath that perfect exterior. Now he knew some of it. Julius Vernon was a sensitive, deeply caring man who loved his new wife to distraction and would never allow any of the people he considered under his care to come to any harm. If they did, the perpetrators would not go unavenged.
They were oddly alike.
Winterton spared a glance at the manservant standing impassively by Tom’s chair. “Sit down, do. And have some tea. It appears you are not the excellent valet I thought you.”
“He is the best valet I have ever encountered,” Tom said, “but from time to time he undertakes a few extracurricular tasks for me. He is devoted to me, not my family.”
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