Crouch crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, m’lady, but who’ll keep ye safe from ’im once ’e discovers ye there?”
“Testicle!” Charles shouted suddenly, tugging at the pirate’s sleeve. “Testicle, Mr. Crouch. Look, over there, testicle!”
“Why the devil are ye yammerin’ on about yer cods?”
Charles danced up and down before Crouch’s unbelieving eyes. Was the man actually wringing his hands?
“Testicle! Look, coming down the street — testicle!”
Crouch suddenly remembered the watchword and spun around, his eyes narrowed, looking for any threat to his mistress’s safety. A carriage was speedily bearing down on them, the horses lathered and wild-eyed. Immediately footmen began running to and fro, stumbling over each other, over the dogs, and over their own feet. Crouch shouted orders to form a circle around Gillian, but the orders were lost in all the noise and confusion.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Gillian said, shaking her head as she stepped over a prone footmen. She grabbed Nick and pushed him up the stairs. “Quickly, Charlotte, before they regroup. Oh, I do hope the mistresses have seduced all the men by now.”
Charlotte panted behind her as they dashed up the steps. “I’m sure it takes more than two minutes to seduce a man, let alone a whole room full of them. Even Lord Weston must take longer than two minutes to be seduced.”
Gilian recalled several occasions when Noble had proved that statement false but kept that bit of news to herself, concentrating instead on how they would stop the ridiculous boxing match. They paused at the top of the second flight of stairs to catch their breath.
“I still don’t understand why you want the mistresses to seduce every man present, cousin. Other than for the sheer pleasure of watching their expertise in action, of course.”
“Charlotte!” Gillian scolded, and tucked several strands of hair back into her chignon. “They are there for distraction. You don’t think we’re just going to be allowed to stroll into Mr. Jackson’s rooms without being questioned, do you?”
Charlotte tugged at her gown and pinched her cheeks. “Certainly I thought so. Why shouldn’t we?”
“Because ladies are not allowed in. Hence the mistresses. Nick, darling, you have a bit of dirt smudged on your chin…yes, thank you, that’s got it. Are you ready?”
Nick squeezed her hand. “I’m ready.”
“Excellent. Char, ready? Oh, blast, that would be Crouch and his reinforcements. Shoulders back, everyone. This is a glorious cause we fight for!”
“Lord Weston?” Charlotte asked as Gillian pushed open the door. “Glorious? Good-looking, I’ll admit, but glorious? I — oh, my! Will you look at that gentleman! He is bare-chested! What a magnificent figure of a man! Beverly, you cannot possibly want that gentleman, he’s much too young for you. I’ll take care of him for you, shall I?”
Gentleman Jackson’s rooms were in an uproar. Several gentlemen of the ton had arrived to watch the battle royal, and they had made themselves quite comfortable as they strolled around the outer room, carrying out loud conversations with each other over the deafening noise of the other gentlemen gossiping, arguing, and wagering over the outcome of the duel. Into that sea of masculinity the mistresses had sallied, flags flying and sails unfurled. The result was utter pandemonium.
“Excellent!” Gillian cried upon viewing the chaos, her hand tight on the back of Nick’s jacket. It wouldn’t do at all to lose him in this crowd of hot bloods. “Look, Char, the mistresses are a smashing success!”
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Charlotte muttered, quickly donning an expression that pronounced her a shy, frightened, innocent young maiden who suddenly found herself in an unsuitably masculine environment. “Why, Lord Beckman, what a surprise to find you here!”
Lord Beckman looked equally surprised to see two ladies push their way through the crowd. He stuttered an excuse and slunk away.
“Hrmph. What a weakling Beckman is. Never did have any backbone. Oooh, look, Gilly, Anne is sitting on the Duke of Firth’s lap! How very clever of her. I wonder how she did it?”
“Excuse me,” Gillian said politely as she slipped past two men. “Char, come along. Stay with me lest you be confused with one of the ladybuns.”
Charlotte’s eyes glittered as she followed reluctantly behind. “Do you think there’s a chance of that?”
“Here’s a door. Nick, stay behind me. Charlotte, you’re responsible for keeping him safe.”
Charlotte saluted and put a protective arm about the lad.
Gillian threw the door open without preamble and stood staring at the sight within. There were several men inside, one of whom was a tall, burly fellow who could only be the famous Gentleman Jackson himself. He was talking with Noble, while Lord Rosse and Sir Hugh stood nearby.
Noble was in the act of removing his upper layers of clothing, his back to the door. Directly in front of Gillian was Lord Carlisle, handsomely garbed in a colorful kilt. She spent no time in admiring the attractive ensemble, for he was in the act of removing his hand from his hose and looking toward Noble. In his hand he held a small dagger, which he hefted in a manner that clearly indicated he was going to throw it.
At Noble.
In his back.
The result of such a heinous act being that her beloved husband would surely die.
Not if she had anything to say about it! Gillian thought as she leaped toward the Scot. Just as she did so, he stepped forward, her hand just missing his arm but ending up with a handful of woolen kilt. She didn’t hesitate even a fraction of a second — Noble’s very life was at stake, and only her actions could keep him from coming to harm. She took a firm grip on the material with both hands and yanked as hard as she could.
“I would say that answers the question of what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt,” Charlotte said over her shoulder, her eyes wide and sparkling.
Nick pushed his way into the room. “He’s not wearing anything,” he said, puzzled, looking up at Gillian.
“Exactly,” she answered, distracted by the scene before her. It wasn’t the horrified look on Lord Carlisle’s face that worried her. It was the steel-blistering scowl on her husband’s handsome countenance that suddenly made her wish she were miles away.
“Good afternoon, Noble,” she said with a weak smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“It won’t happen again, Jackson, I can assure you of that. If I have to lock my wife away, I will make sure she never comes here again.”
Gentleman Jackson was adamant. No matter how important Lord Weston’s patronage was, he couldn’t be having a repeat of the day’s chaos. “I’m sorry, my lord. It would be best if you found another of the boxing schools to patronize.”
Noble glanced around at the debacle. While most of the bloods had left after it had been made clear the duel was off, they had not left peaceably. Chairs had been smashed against the floor, cups of wine and other libations had been dashed against the walls, occasional tables were thrown through the windows, and the famed gold curtains had been ripped down and thrown out to the crowd gathering below the windows. In the midst of this destruction, what looked to be a full phalanx of his footmen were milling around the remains of the crowd. Gillian’s two dogs were running from man to man conducting their own investigation, while his ex-mistresses — he didn’t want to even begin to ponder what they were doing here, although he knew Gillian had a hand in it — were busily chatting up the remaining gentlemen present. He wished them well. Perhaps if they all found the protectors they sought, they would be out of his life once and for all.
“Papa?” His son tugged at his hand. Noble put the hand on the boy’s head, surprised at his lack of surprise at seeing him. Why should he be surprised? Hadn’t Gillian included Nick in every other of her harebrained schemes?
“Not all of them, Papa,” Nick answered solemnly. “She didn’t let me meet your ladybuds.”
“Ladybirds,” Noble said without thinking. “Er…that is…oh, hel
l, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Where is your mother? I don’t see her anywhere.”
“She went out the door with that man who didn’t have anything on underneath his skirt.”
“Kilt,” he replied absently, then suddenly grabbed Nick by both shoulders. “She what?” he bellowed at the boy. “When did she leave?”
Nick’s face turned pale. “Just a few minutes ago, but Papa, I want to tell you about—”
Noble was off before Nick could finish his sentence.
“—the man who hurt you,” he said softly.
“McGregor!” Noble roared as he pushed his way through the remaining gawkers, his heart feeling as if it was going to burst out of his chest. “McGregor!”
He’d done it; the bastard had done it. He’d taken Noble’s soul and crushed it to a lifeless pulp. If he’d done anything to harm her…Noble choked on the thought. He rounded up his men and, after giving them a brief tongue-lashing for letting Gillian out of their sight, raced down the stairs and out onto the street, the entire population of Jackson’s following swiftly on his heels.
Noble paced back and forth in front of a house in Cheapside, muttering to himself just what he’d do to that murdering bastard McGregor when he caught up with him. He wanted nothing more than to be on the back of the nearest horse, hunting for his Gillian, hunting for the man who had spirited her away directly under his nose, doing something — anything — to find her.
“If he’s harmed a single hair on her head,” he threatened, shaking his fist at the sky, “by God, I’ll—”
“Tear his head off and spit down his neck, yes, Noble, we’ve heard that already,” Lord Rosse said as he strode down the front steps and toward his friend.
Noble spun around and took the marquis by the neck cloth. “What have you found out? Where did the devil take her? What did the murdering bastard’s man have to say?”
“Noble, calm yourself, you’re upsetting your son.”
Rosse waited until Noble released him before continuing. “Carlisle’s man doesn’t know where he’s gone, but he did verify that he had ordered a small case packed earlier, so evidently he’d planned this all along.”
“No, not this,” Noble said, resuming his pacing as his mind wheeled and turned frantically, trying to make sense of it. “He couldn’t have known Gillian would appear at Jackson’s. No, what he planned was something else, a plan he decided to abandon once he realized he could take advantage of Jackson’s madhouse to kidnap her.”
He combed an agitated hand through his hair as he stopped in front of his friend. “Where, Harry, where has he gone to earth?”
“I don’t know, Noble. I wish to God I did. I never thought — I was sure Carlisle was innocent — but I suppose you were right. My nose has gotten cold.”
Noble clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, then resumed his pacing. “It’s not your fault, old friend. She was my responsibility — what is it, Crouch?”
“M’lord, one of the Runners ’as returned.”
Noble raced over to where the Runner, still dressed in his livery, was jumping off a horse. “They’ve gone toward Colfax,” he said breathlessly. “We followed them to the east road. Davey’s on their heels, but I’d wager a year’s worth of blue ruin that they’ve gone to the Nag’s Head Inn at Colfax.”
Noble was in the carriage before the man had finished, ordering the coachman to spring the horses.
“Papa! Don’t leave without me!”
Noble swore and threw the door open, grabbing the small figure of his son and hauling him into the carriage just as the horses leapt off.
“We’ll be right behind you,” he heard Rosse shout as the carriage barreled down the road, the coachman bellowing oaths at the people who were foolish enough to block his path. Noble closed his eyes briefly against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him, pain at the thought of losing Gillian. She was his very soul, hers entwined so tightly with his that he didn’t think he could survive the separation. His mind repeated a litany in time to the horses’ hoofbeats, “Please God, let her be all right.”
A small, cold hand slipped into his. Noble opened his eyes and looked down at his son.
“She’ll be fine,” he said, wiping off a lone tear streaking down the boy’s cheek. “Don’t worry, son, we’ll rescue her.”
“Just like she rescued you?” Nick asked, squeezing his father’s hand tight.
A small smile flashed over Noble’s face. “Yes, just like that. We’ll save her and take her home and keep her safe for the rest of her life.”
Nick burrowed his head into his father’s side. “That man will hurt her like he did Mama,” he said into Noble’s coat.
“What man?” Noble asked, the idea of locking his wife away in a tall tower beginning to look very attractive.
“The man who hurt Mama. The man who hit you on your head when you came in to help me.”
Noble felt his blood turn to ice. Gently he pushed the boy back until he could see his face. Nick’s eyes — those eyes that made him feel he was looking into a mirror — gazed back at him filled with pain and worry.
“The man you saw who…” God, he hated to do this to him, but it was Gillian’s life at stake. “The man you saw shoot your mama?”
Nick nodded, a tear spilling over his brimming eyes.
“Where did you see this man?”
“At Gentleman Jackson’s. He was watching Gillian.”
The ice turned to fire deep inside him. “Was the man still there after Gillian left?”
Nick nodded again, looking even more worried. He twisted the material in his short pants between nervous fingers. “Did I do something wrong, Papa? I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Noble hugged his son fiercely. “No, son, you didn’t do anything wrong. Now, I want you to tell me from the very beginning when you first noticed that man at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
Lord Rosse, riding one of the Black Earl’s horses, was surprised to see Noble’s carriage suddenly stop. He rode up and leaned down to ask if everything was all right.
Noble stepped out and handed Nick up to John Coachman. “You can ride up there with John for a bit, son. If you’re good, he’ll let you handle the whip.”
Noble turned back to his friend. “Tie him off.” He nodded at the horse as he climbed back into the carriage. “We have to talk.”
“What’s all this about?” Rosse asked a minute later as the coach once again started off at a fast clip. “You’ll have to change horses at Rowley at the rate you’re pushing them.”
Noble ignored the comment, his face hard and bitter. “It’s Tolly.”
Rosse stared at him, not understanding his cryptic comment.
A spasm of pain swept across Noble’s face. “God help me, I thought the man was my friend, but it’s been Tolly all along. He’s been behind McGregor’s attacks on me, I’m sure of it. Tolly was the man who killed Elizabeth.”
“Tolly?” Rosse asked, disbelieving. “Our Tolly? Are you sure? He’s the one who told us to look at Carlisle’s house…oh.”
“Exactly. Nick identified him, right down to those blasted seals and fobs he always decks himself out with. He told me…” Noble’s voice choked to a stop. It took him a few moments before he could continue. “He told me how Tolly would visit Elizabeth and they’d play their little games in front of Nick. My God, Harry, how could she do that to him? How could she hate him so much that she’d want to see him suffer like that?”
Rosse swallowed back his own lump. “She never liked him, Noble, you knew that.”
“I knew it, and I thought I’d protected him from her wrath at not being able to have children…but I didn’t. I failed him, Harry, and that thought will haunt me till the day I die. And now—” Noble stared blindly out the window. “What if I fail Gillian, too?” he whispered.
“You won’t,” Rosse said in a hearty voice. “We’ll stop at Rowley and change horses, and see if the Runner left any message about their direction. We’ll fin
d them.”
“You know what he did to Elizabeth,” Noble said hoarsely. “He beat her. He cut her. He abused her in ways no man should abuse a woman. He must be mad — mad with jealousy or hate or — God knows what. What’s to stop him from taking out his rage at me on Gillian? What’s to stop him from doing the same inhuman things to her that he did to Elizabeth?”
His last words were almost a sob. Rosse put out a hand and grasped his friend by the arm. “Noble, stop torturing yourself. It won’t do you any good, or Nick, or Gillian. Now get hold of yourself, man, and let’s consider all the places Tolly might have gone.”
Gillian was not amused. When she had spied a familiar wizened figure beckoning her, she’d followed without hesitation, leaving her apology to Lord Carlisle half-finished. Noble was busy raging at an ill-looking Crouch, and Charlotte still had Nick in her grasp, so she left Lord Carlisle and Sir Hugh and slipped out through the door to a small anteroom.
“Palmerston, I’m surprised to see you here. I wouldn’t have believed that you would be interested in such goings-on.”
The old man slowly lowered himself onto a bench with the aid of his stick. He wheezed a chuckle at her. “Now, gel, you don’t expect me to let my godson do battle for his honor without being present, do you?”
“Your godson?” Gillian exclaimed, seating herself next to him. “I didn’t know he was your godson.”
“Aye, godson and great-grandson-by-law.”
Gillian raised her eyebrows. “You’re Elizabeth’s greatgrandfather?”
“Aye.” A look of distaste crossed his face. Gillian was reminded of an ancient wrinkled and brittle parchment that she had once seen. Like it, Palmerston’s face seemed to have survived more than its fair share of years.
“Elizabeth, now there was an evil gel. Truly evil.”
Gillian stared in surprise. “Your own great-granddaughter? Evil?”
“Aye, that she was. She’d liked to hurt things, ever since she was a little gel. Cruelty was a sport to her. Caught her more’n once tormenting my dogs. Took a switch to her for it once, but she just moaned and squirmed and begged me to thrash her again.”
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