They approached a maid who was busily dusting one of the wall sconces in the foyer. “Mademoiselle Bennett?” James inquired.
“The library, in the east wing,” she replied, gesturing toward a corridor on their right.
James moved down the hall with Clarissa struggling to keep up with his long strides. Pettibone’s disappearance had troubled James for many reasons, chief among them being he preferred to have his enemy in his sights at all times.
Pettibone’s disappearance had made it nearly impossible to ensure that the household was safe. James’s inability to identify the Les Moines agents within the staff was maddening. He’d almost hoped at least one of them would come forward with questions concerning Pettibone. After all, if James was correct in his assumptions, Pettibone had disappeared and left his agents without any indication of what to do next. But none had made an attempt to contact James. Not surprising, he supposed, as Pettibone had more than likely spread rumors concerning James’s place within the organization. If it were him, James would have kept his mouth shut, just as they were doing now.
He and Clarissa passed through the portrait gallery and continued on. “Remember, we’ve very little time, so be quick,” James reminded her.
“I believe it’s you who will need to be brief,” she replied teasingly. “Iris has formed quite an attachment to you,” she continued.
James grunted as they approached the library.
“James,” Clarissa pleaded, grabbing his arm and forcing him to stop. “All humor aside, I would ask that you be sensitive to the girl’s feelings. You saved her life—she’s not soon to forget that fact, nor how it’s made her think about her own life. Please …” She paused, looking deeply into his eyes. “James, be kind,” she finished in a hushed whisper.
He couldn’t refuse Clarissa—especially when he knew she was right. Over the last week Iris had demonstrated a marked change in her demeanor. She’d become a gracious, sympathetic, and sensitive young lady. She was thoughtful in her actions, considerate with her requests, and accommodating with not only Clarissa and James, but the household as a whole.
“I promise,” James agreed, then pulled her quickly toward the library. “But we must return as soon as poss—”
“I’m well aware of this,” Clarissa interrupted, gripping his arm to make her point.
“Your mother’s life depends on our actions,” he seethed in a strangled breath.
James couldn’t know if Pettibone had been in communication with his agency, but he felt sure that if he had not, the remaining agents had. Isabelle’s life was of little consequence to the organization, even less so once Durand suspected his loyalty. He had to return to Paris in order to bargain for Clarissa’s mother before it was too late.
“I know that,” Clarissa countered, a flicker of fear in her eyes. “No one knows it more than I—I’ve not had a letter in nearly a week. All I’m asking is that you simply listen. And be kind. Promise me.”
James grunted in agreement, noting that the large library doors were closed. He pushed Clarissa behind him as he opened one of the heavy panels and slowly entered the library. “Mademoiselle Bennett?” he called out.
“I’m here,” Iris’s voice responded from somewhere beyond the rows of leather-bound books.
Clarissa attempted to walk on in the direction of Iris’s voice, but James gestured for her to fall back behind him. She thought to protest until James glared at her with deadly seriousness. She hesitated briefly, then did as he’d asked.
James reached into his boot and withdrew his knife. Then the two walked slowly down the main aisle, the plush Kidderminster carpet absorbing the sound of their footfalls. James surveyed each row they encountered, first the one on his left, then the one on his right. There were only three rows remaining when he caught sight of something unusual.
He held his hand up in front of Clarissa then pointed to the floor, indicating that she must wait. She nodded in silent understanding and James turned down the row, inching his way toward what he’d seen. As he came closer, the shape of a slim hand came into focus. He reached the end of the row and peered around the corner, discovering the unconscious body of Maggie, the maid who’d taken up Daphne’s duties.
He knelt down and pressed his hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thudded slowly under his fingers and he sighed with relief. Standing again, he returned to Clarissa and gestured for her to continue on with him toward where he believed Iris to be. James hated the thought that he was dragging Clarissa into an ambush, but leaving her in the aisle could prove equally dangerous.
“St. Michelle, Rougier. Where are you?” Iris called out, the noticeably higher pitch of her voice confirming her fear and the impending danger.
Clarissa reached for James’s shoulder and gripped it tightly with trembling fingers.
He patted her hand with his and took a step forward. “So you’ve returned, Pettibone.”
“You had to know that I would.”
James reached the final row and stepped into the open space beyond, turning toward where he now saw Pettibone held a knife to Iris’s neck. “Naturellement.”
Clarissa gasped. “Let her go!” she demanded, making to push off from James then retreating back behind him when his outstretched arm blocked the way.
“I’m pleased to see that you’ve finally convinced Monsieur St. Michelle who is the boss,” Pettibone leered, pressing the knife against Iris’s neck. “It does give me hope that our negotiations will run smoothly.”
“Rougier, what does he want?” Iris croaked, terror dancing in her wide eyes.
“We’ll hardly ‘negotiate’ with the likes of you, monsieur,” Clarissa snapped, her body tense against James’s.
“If it’s money, please, my father will pay what you require,” Iris begged.
Pettibone tightened his hold around her waist, a venomous smile settling on his lips. “Oh, my little pigeon, if only it were that simple.”
James could not afford for Iris to be drawn any further into the grasp of Les Moines. As far as she knew, Pettibone was nothing more than a former servant turned violent would-be thief. If he allowed Pettibone to continue, he risked much more of the assignment being revealed.
“Let me be perfectly clear: You deal with me, Pettibone, and me alone. Now, what are your demands?”
The man sneered, clearly frustrated by James’s taking command of the situation. “First, drop your knife and kick it over to me.”
James obeyed reluctantly, shoving the weapon with his boot and sending it clattering in Pettibone’s direction.
The man adroitly kicked the knife with the side of his foot and sent it spinning even farther away from James and Clarissa, its final resting place against the woodwork along the opposite wall. “What is the girl worth? Hmmm?” Pettibone wondered aloud, turning his face toward Iris’s and eyeing her critically. “Nothing more than a spoiled Canadian heiress,” he asserted, his dismissive tone having its desired effect as Iris visibly paled.
James itched to wrestle the knife away from the cretin and cut his throat, but he waited, needing to be certain before acting. “I’ve no time for your theatrics, Pettibone. Tell me your terms.”
“You disappoint me. I’d hoped for a much longer siege—”
“Your. Terms,” James ground out, his control slipping.
Pettibone flinched. “Oh,” he replied, “d’accord. There is a bit of a ticking clock, isn’t there? I wonder, does the marchioness suspect that the end is near?”
A choked cry tore from Clarissa’s throat and she attempted to lunge again.
“Enough,” James insisted.
Pettibone captured James with a demented stare. “Very well, then. The key, s’il vous plaît.”
“How did you know of the key?”
Pettibone huffed with marked frustration. “Really, have you so very little faith in me? Who do you think mailed the missive to Edinburgh requesting the transfer of the funds?”
James clenched his teeth. “And in return you’ll release Iris
?” he pressed, hardly willing to give Pettibone an ounce of recognition.
“Without another word,” Pettibone replied.
James had no choice. He knew it, and so did Pettibone. “On the count of three,” he instructed, giving Iris a fortifying glance.
“Une—”
“You get ahead of yourself, Lucien,” Pettibone cut in. “You will set the key down there,” he instructed, pointing his knife at a marble bust stand that held a likeness of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.
James acquiesced, too busy judging the distance between himself and Iris to allow the man’s brusqueness to shake his concentration. “So be it.”
He pulled the key from his waistcoat pocket and walked to the stand, setting the small silver object down on the smooth surface. “Now hand over Mademoiselle Bennett.”
Pettibone forced Iris to walk with him to the stand, where he quickly pocketed the key. “Oh, come now, let us end with a flourish. On my count. One,” Pettibone began, lowering the knife from Iris’s neck. “Two—”
James widened his stance.
“And,” Pettibone continued.
Iris was breathing hard, her eyes wild with fright.
Suddenly Pettibone yanked her backward by the hair, slamming her head into a library ladder that stood at the end of the aisle. He shoved her forward, sending her flying into James, the force of her body knocking the two against the opposite bookcase.
Clarissa screamed and rushed forward, pulling Iris off of James and into her arms. “Iris!” she called, but the girl only laid limply against Clarissa’s chest, her eyes closed and a trickle of blood beginning to pool at the back of her head.
James lunged at Pettibone just as the man ducked behind a Trafalgar chair.
“Think, first,” Pettibone began. “If you do not let me go, everything—and I do mean everything—will be brought to light. And how will Durand respond to such attention? Lady Westbridge, Clarissa, you—all dead. But he won’t stop there. St. Michelle and the Bennetts will be next.”
James gripped the arms of the chair, enraged. Pettibone was right. To apprehend him would all but guarantee a bloody and deadly retaliation from Les Moines.
“And what of your beloved Young Corinthians?”
James willed his face to show no surprise.
“Oh, yes. Your continued allegiance to the Corinthians was simple enough for me to puzzle out—unlike the rest of Les Moines. But this key will finally convince Durand of my worth.”
“So, this is it, then?” James asked, desperate to buy a few minutes’ time, as if that would solve this impossible predicament.
Pettibone smiled triumphantly. “Hardly. You still have a chance at beating me back to France. But if I were you, I would not hold my breath.”
He backed away from the chair, watching to be sure that James did not follow. Reaching the French windows, he turned the knob of one and pushed it open, offering James an elegant bow before he turned and disappeared.
James threw the chair against the wall and stalked to the open door, just catching sight of Pettibone as he climbed aboard a waiting horse and galloped off across the lush lawns.
* * *
Iris had regained consciousness by the time James returned from the terrace.
“Did he escape?” Iris asked, her voice hoarse.
Clarissa supported the girl’s head in her lap, dabbing at her wound with a handkerchief. “Oui. But do not think on such things now, Mademoiselle Bennett.”
“But the key. Did he make off with the key?” she pressed, ever the banker’s daughter.
Clarissa looked to James for direction.
“Non, Mademoiselle Bennett. Have a bit of faith in us,” he answered.
Iris smiled in response but her body continued to shake all over.
“I’ll alert Monsieur Bennett and send for the doctor,” James announced, the grim set of his features as he strode from the room only making Clarissa more desperate to cry.
But she bit the inside of her cheek instead, fighting off the tears until she had the liberty to let them loose.
“It’s all right, mon petit chou. Everything will be all right,” she murmured, saying this for herself as much as Iris—even if she didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Iris! Iris!” Mr. Bennett’s terrified shouts reached the back of the library shortly before he came running down the aisle. “Dear God, my girl,” he moaned in disbelief as he dropped to his knees at her side. “Who did this to you?”
Mrs. Bennett followed quickly behind, her face pale with shock and worry. “Iris, can you hear me?” she asked, inelegantly lifting her umber skirts, settling in beside her husband and clutching her daughter’s hand in hers.
“Yes, Mother, I can hear you,” Iris answered weakly. “Father, it was Pettibone.”
“The servant who disappeared last week?” he asked.
Iris nodded.
Mr. Bennett stood and strode toward the open door. “He can’t have gotten far. I’ll go in search of him myself.”
“No!” Clarissa argued, desperate to keep the Bennetts safe from harm. “You’re needed here, monsieur. With your family.”
Bennett turned back and looked at his wife and daughter.
“Come, my dear,” Mrs. Bennett implored as she reached out for her husband. “Monsieur St. Michelle speaks the truth. We need you here, not out chasing after this dangerous man.”
Mr. Bennett once more looked out the windows at the expansive lawn of Kenwood House and beyond to the heath, the realization that Pettibone had slipped from his grasp clearly settling in.
“You’re right, of course,” he replied, then walked back and took his wife’s offered hand. “Never fear, my girls. The doctor is on his way.”
James reined the gray gelding around a cart carrying cabbages as he and Clarissa rode through the southern end of the city of Dover. It was early evening yet still light, a salty breeze wafting in from the Channel. The cry of gulls overhead alerted him that they were nearing the harbor. He squinted into the distance, the telltale sight of masts bobbing into view just beyond a hodgepodge row of buildings giving him at least a bit of relief.
He offered Clarissa a small, encouraging smile. “We’re nearly to the port,” he assured her, hopeful that the news would cheer her. She’d been unusually quiet for most of their long journey from London to the coastal town, which had been just as well, James thought. They’d pushed their horses at a staggering pace, stopping only to sleep at the posting inn before returning to the road.
Clarissa had done as well as any Corinthian agent would have, not complaining once nor asking for stops along the way. On more than one occasion, James had noticed her standing in her stirrups to relieve what must have been sore muscles in her inner thighs and backside, but she’d pushed on, her commitment to her mother clearly strengthening her resolve.
James had been thankful that Clarissa hadn’t inquired as to whether or not he felt they could catch up to Pettibone. By the time they’d seen to Iris and accepted Mr. Bennett’s offer of the horses, it had taken over an hour to extricate themselves from Kenwood House and set out on the road toward Dover. With more than an hour’s lead, capturing Pettibone was not completely beyond the realm of possibility, but it was hardly helpful.
Clarissa pointed ahead. The road split off, one track leading toward the outskirts of the city while the other dipped gradually and disappeared between a hulking pair of warehouses. James nodded toward the first one and she frowned, looking ready to argue.
“Cooper’s Livery Stables is this way,” James said in quick explanation. “We’ll have word sent to Bennett that the horses will be waiting for him there.”
Clarissa’s brow cleared and she nodded without comment. They continued on at a trot for a short ways before reaching Cooper’s. James stepped out of the saddle and handed the reins to the stable boy who’d come running the moment they arrived. Clarissa dismounted and stood at Winston’s head, cooing softly in his ear while James went to make the necessary arran
gements. She talked to the horse till James returned, then kissed Winston gently on the nose and turned over the reins.
He pointed at the coastline. The port was straight across from where they stood, separated only by the shipbuilders that marked the line between the merchant area of Dover and the wharf. “We’ll walk from here. It shouldn’t take long.
Clarissa nodded and followed as James led them down a walkway that ran between two businesses.
They reached the usually bustling port within minutes, the working day nearly at an end and the piers largely deserted.
He pointed down the docks, past the naval frigates and ships of the line, to where the privateers anchored. “There,” he said. “We’ll inquire after suitable transport there. I’ll do all of the talking, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Clarissa replied, eyeing the ships in the dimming light. “Are those privateers?”
James quickened his pace. “Yes.”
“Pirates, then?”
James turned and looked at Clarissa, noting her apprehension. “They’ve no interest in you or me beyond money,” he reassured her, adding, “and do not refer to them as pirates. Actually, do not refer to them at all.”
“Then we’ll follow the original plan,” Clarissa answered sarcastically.
The small spark of her spirit returning pleased James more than he could say. “Precisely. Come along, now. I’ve pirates to parley with.”
Their footfalls on the wooden pier alerted three men who stood just at the end of the gangway to their approach. The men, who’d looked to be deep in conversation, stopped talking and turned to eye James and Clarissa with suspicion as they made their way nearer.
“Gentlemen,” James began with confidence. “Might I have a word?”
He’d made use of pirates in the past. Their knowledge of the comings and goings—both legal and otherwise—of the ships in port had proved invaluable to him on many previous occasions. Even still, he knew to trust them no more than was necessary.
“Depends,” one of the men answered, his full black mustache and beard obscuring his mouth as he spoke.
“On?”
“On who you are,” the man replied, his companions staring stonily at James and Clarissa.
The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 21