A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  The storm had passed, and the waning night was moments from fading to dawn. The clean, rain-washed air was bracing, clearing away the remnants of the passion they had so recently shared. Aware that they had dallied longer than was safe, he now faced a greater problem—how to get her inside without notice.

  He hurried her around back to the garden wall. At the gate, he looked down into the sultry features he had learned to read so well in the last hours. The softness in her eyes pleased him best. That was a new look—the look of a well-loved woman—and he had put it there.

  He pulled her short cape closer around her in a protective gesture that surprised him. “Go in, Annica. Rest. I shall come to you in late afternoon, depending upon how many favors I must call in.”

  She sighed, fatigue written in every line of her body. “I am numb, Tristan. I cannot even think. Did we have an appointment this afternoon? Another specimen?”

  “Not another specimen, m’dear. Business of another kind.”

  The muffled clank of pots from the kitchen interrupted them, and Tristan shook his head. “Damn. Too late. I suppose we shall have to pay the piper now.”

  Annica reached up, laid a finger across his lips and smiled. “I do not use the kitchen door,” she whispered.

  He grimaced. “You would not walk boldly in the front door?”

  “Good night, Tristan. Keep well.” She slipped from his arms and ran silently across the lawn to the thick ivy vine growing against the walls and along the eaves.

  He wanted to call her back when she began to climb toward an open window on the second floor. She was absurdly reckless and obviously needed a much stronger hand than that of her uncle Thomas. And as for her assessment of risks…

  She was halfway up the vine when her foot slipped and she dangled for one tense moment before she gained purchase again. He heard a soft giggle before she turned to wave at him and continue her climb. He held his breath until she disappeared through an open window.

  How many times had she made that particular ascent? He made a mental note to instruct his gardener to remove any vines and trellises outside the bedchamber windows at Auberville Hall. Thank God there were none outside Clarendon Place, his London house.

  Chapter Nine

  Nervous chatter followed Annica into the conservatory. The members of the Wednesday League had all arrived at once, anxious to hear the reason for Annica’s urgent summons.

  “Heavens, ’Nica, you look at sixes and sevens! What is wrong?” Grace asked.

  “Mr. Bouldin is dead!”

  “What! How do you know?”

  “I was supposed to meet him at a tavern in Whitefriars. He had got some information and needed to see me at once.”

  “What was it?” Sarah asked, her eyes wide.

  Annica pulled the conservatory door closed and led the women toward a grouping of chairs by the fountain. “I do not know. He did not come. Mr. Renquist, his partner, met me instead.” She sat down, her copy of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park in her lap.

  “Well, then, what did Mr. Renquist report?” Charity asked.

  “Mr. Bouldin…Harry—” Annica’s voice broke “—was murdered just before he was to meet me.”

  Stunned silence met this announcement. Constance leaned forward and took Annica’s hand. “I am sorry, ’Nica. I know how much you liked him.”

  “The killer left this note.” She took the bloodstained missive from between the pages of her little book and read it to the women. “Mr. Renquist was certain the murderer was one of the men I asked Mr. Bouldin to investigate.”

  “One of the men? I knew about Roger Wilkes, but who else did you set him on?” Grace asked.

  “Geoffrey Morgan,” Annica admitted in a soft voice.

  “Geoffrey Morgan?” Constance shrilled. “Who gave you the authority to investigate Mr. Morgan? You exceed yourself.”

  “Come now, ladies. We must keep cool heads,” Grace intervened. “’Tis done, and cannot be undone.”

  “I am sorry, Constance.” Annica sighed. “Mr. Morgan was not quite what he seemed. I feared you might come to harm.”

  “You had no right!”

  “None but my affection for you,” she agreed.

  “He…he is a most unusual man. Very mysterious,” Charity interjected. “His family connections are unquestionable, but his past is obscure.”

  “In view of recent events, Constance, I, for one, am interested in the results of that investigation,” Grace said, smoothing one chestnut curl into place.

  Annica sniffled and sighed again, sorry for the dissension in their group. “The Morgan family is of minor nobility from Yorkshire. Geoffrey, the only son of Baron Alfred Morgan, will inherit the title and estates. He has one sister, who married some years ago and removed to Dover. There is modest wealth.”

  Constance buried her face in her hands. “I could have told you all this.”

  “Can you tell us where he has been since the completion of his studies at Cambridge ten years ago?” Charity asked.

  Constance looked up, her eyes wide.

  “Can you tell us where he disappeared to several months ago, and why he has shown up again?” Annica asked. She took a deep breath and plunged onward. “Can you tell us where he was last night after ten o’clock?”

  “This is preposterous!” Constance sputtered. “I would stake my life upon his honesty. And…and we could even make a case against your respectable Lord Auberville! He was in town when Sarah was raped, and then disappeared until just recently. Where was he last night after ten o’clock?”

  Annica dropped her gaze to her lap. Where had Tristan been before happening upon her?

  “I do not understand what you have against Geoff. He is simply a private man. He would not rape Sarah, nor murder a Bow Street Runner! You are completely wrong about this.”

  “I pray you are right, Constance,” Annica said.

  “I will not be a party to ruining Mr. Morgan!”

  “We are not asking that. Indeed, he is not our only suspect. There is still Mr. Wilkes.” Annica put the bloodstained note away in the folds of her book. “But there is, now, undeniable danger in continuing our investigation. The threat in the murderer’s warning applies to all of us. In the face of that threat, ladies, and bearing it in mind, we must decide if we wish to proceed—and if so, how?”

  “Aye,” Grace voted. “Continue.”

  “Continue,” Charity and Sarah agreed.

  “Nay.” Constance shook her head. “Drop this, Annica. You can only come to grief.”

  “I cannot drop it.” Annica’s voice was firm, denying any appeal. “I must continue. If not for Sarah, then for Mr. Bouldin and his family—and I shall do so with or without the assistance of this group. I have already decided to try my hand at following Mr. Wilkes during the day so that Mr. Renquist will be free to pursue other leads. According to Mr. Renquist, Mr. Wilkes visits his club every day at noon. I shall lay in wait for him there.”

  Constance glanced away, clearly angry. “Then go to it, ’Nica, since I shall not be a party to it at all. Instead, I shall use this interim to see if I can find Frederika.”

  “In view of the seriousness of this problem, perhaps we ought to meet twice a week,” Grace said.

  “Shall we say Tuesday at the Moores’ crush?” Charity suggested. “Ten o’clock at the folly in the garden.”

  “Yes. And Friday next at Aunt Lucy’s masquerade,” Annica said. “I’ve sent invitations to all our suspects. We shall have them all under one roof at the same time.”

  The ring of uneven footsteps on the tile floor alerted them to an intruder. Hodgeson came around a potted palm and bowed. “Excuse me, milady, but your uncle requests your presence in the library at once,” he announced.

  Annica sighed. “I hope he has not got a report of me.”

  “He and Lord Auberville have been closeted for the past several hours, milady. Drinking claret. No cigars that I could see,” he informed her with an inscrutable look. “Your aunt was sum
moned a few minutes ago.”

  “Please tell them I will be with them momentarily. And thank you for the warning, Hodgeson.” Annica’s stomach did a flip-flop. Surely Tristan would not have been so un-gentlemanly as to reveal their indiscretion? But what could he and Uncle Thomas have been discussing for so long? What would require Aunt Lucy’s presence?

  “Ladies, will you excuse me? It would appear there is something afoot, and I’d best face it as quickly as possible.”

  “Trouble, ’Nica?”

  Heat flooded Annica’s cheeks as she recalled Tristan’s passion—the warmth of his skin, the incredible intimacy of being physically joined, and the breathtaking delight of the sensations to which he had introduced her. “No. No trouble at all.”

  Tristan leaned one arm on the mantel of the fireplace and lifted his glass of claret with the other. If this was Annica’s idea of “momentarily,” he would be surprised.

  Thomas shifted his weight in his chair behind the massive desk and cleared his throat. “I believe she had to take her leave of Miss Wardlow,” he explained.

  Tristan nodded, wondering at his own anxiety. His head had been whirling since leaving Annica this morning. He hadn’t slept—there wasn’t time. The trap was closing around the little sprite, and he was anxious to have it finished. The sooner, the better. She needed a man who could look after her properly, before she came to grief. And he needed to wrap this up so he could give his full attention to Kilgrew’s assignment.

  Lucille Sayles sighed and clasped her hands tighter.

  The library door opened and closed, and Annica came forward dressed in a becoming confection of grass-green silk embroidered with garlands of pink roses. Her glossy dark hair had been loosely pulled back and secured at her nape with a twist of pink and green ribbons. She looked fresh and innocent and, were it not for the pale violet shadows beneath her eyes, he could almost believe he had dreamed the events of last night.

  Ah, but no dream could have prepared him for the reality. He’d lost himself in her. The mere memory of her in the throes of passion caused an ominous thickening in his groin. He’d had enough women to have lost count long ago, but Annica was unique. She challenged him, engaged him, and she aroused him with the barest lift of an eyebrow. That she was not particularly capable no longer concerned him. The rest, however, was still unknown. Would she run? Was she trustworthy and steadfast?

  She glanced sideways at him, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. Her eyes had the woodland sprite look—half wild, half come-hither. He knew she was remembering last night, and his own body tightened with the memory.

  Thomas gestured to a chair. “Sit down, my dear. We have a matter to discuss with you. I know it is unusual, but Auberville felt this would be the best way to handle the matter.”

  “Ahh…” she said as she sat and smoothed her skirts.

  Tristan smiled, reading her nervousness from that single gesture. She could not meet his gaze.

  “We have had these discussions before, ’Nica, and your stubbornness is legendary. But now, you see, Auberville has made an offer. It is a generous one, and I hope you consider it more seriously than the others, as I believe it is time for you to quit playing coy. At your age, there will not be many more.”

  Annica turned in her chair to look at him, her eyes round with genuine surprise. “Offer?”

  “A marriage offer,” Thomas clarified.

  “Good heavens! Whatever for?” she exclaimed.

  Tristan coughed. This was not the response he had hoped for. Though, knowing Annica, he should not have been surprised.

  “For marriage,” Thomas repeated. “I must say how pleased I was, dear niece. I had hoped, when I sent him to you some time ago, that you might, well, take a shine to him.”

  “Yes,” Lucy interjected. “Annica dear, I am relieved that you are no longer allowing what your father did to taint—”

  “Friendship!” Annica interrupted. She turned to Tristan and blinked. “You amaze me, Auberville. Had we not agreed—”

  Tristan held up one hand to cut her off. “In view of recent events, Annica, I am surprised you did not expect this.”

  “How could I? I thought we would continue as before.”

  He had to stop her before she gave them away. “Thomas, Lucille, would you be so good as to excuse us for a moment?”

  The older couple stood and looked from Tristan to Annica and back again. Thomas nodded. “Needs a little urging, eh? This is where we lose ’em. Well, good luck, Auberville. You’ll likely need it. We shall be outside. Come along, Lucy.”

  “But Annica will need our support,” Lucille protested.

  “Auberville will need it,” Thomas corrected.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Annica came to her feet. “Tristan, this is completely unnecessary. I told you—I weighed the risks and—”

  “Found them acceptable,” Tristan finished. He placed his glass of claret on the mantel and went to her. “But I did not find them acceptable at all.”

  “You? What risk did you take?”

  He shrugged. “The risk that my child—my heir—might be born a bastard.”

  “Child? What child?”

  “Surely I do not have to explain physiology to such a charming little bluestocking as yourself?”

  Annica blushed. “Of course not, Auberville.”

  “And, though my intentions were good, sprite, you so enchanted me that I lost my presence of mind. I did not withdraw in time to spare you that possibility. You could be enceinte even now.” He touched her cheek in a familiar gesture, hoping that would warm her heart with memories of last night.

  “Oh!” She turned away, blushing crimson.

  “So you see, I must insist upon marriage,” he concluded. He caught her chin on one crooked finger, lifting her face to look directly into her eyes. “It is impossible to know everything about a potential spouse, but I know your basic character to be honest and intelligent. I admire your commitment to those less fortunate than you, though I sometimes take exception to your methods. On the few occasions when we have been at odds, you have not been given to hysterics and were open to reason. Add your propensity to heat my blood, and we have an ideal match.”

  “Thank you, milord.” She smiled sweetly.

  Tristan felt the short hairs on the back of his neck prickle—an instinctive warning that something had gone wrong in the negotiations. Though she was smiling, he detected an edge of anger in her voice. “Have you found some fault in my reasoning?”

  “Just one, Auberville. It does not take into account my own wishes.”

  “You allowed me to make love to you.”

  “Yes, but I did not weigh marriage as a particular risk of that venture. I was informed recently that a romance needn’t always end in marriage. I know you’ve had mistresses before, so I concluded that such an arrangement must be agreeable to you.”

  He was surprised by this statement and the fact that it rankled him. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Though it is not spoken of in polite society, it is well known that you have had mistresses in the past. You yourself told me you had practice in those arts. Since you did not wed your mistresses, I concluded such things were acceptable to you. I did not ever imagine you would insist upon marriage.”

  He could not think how to defend himself against such a logical argument. “You misjudged me. Did you weigh getting with child as a possible risk of our little interlude?”

  Annica sat heavily, looking down at her clasped hands.

  “You have not thought this out, have you? It would be best if you tell me right now what is stopping you.”

  “I am afraid,” she said without hesitation. Her eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, lifted from her lap to meet his.

  Tristan was torn between sympathy and exasperation. How could she possibly fear him? “I would never hurt you, Annica.”

  She hesitated and her gaze darted to the door, as if measuring her chances of escape. “I…I have grown ac
customed to my life. I do not want to forfeit my friends, my beliefs, my activities. I am afraid a husband would curtail them—”

  “You are bloody right, madam. No more midnight rendezvous with Bow Street Runners in Whitefriars. If you have a problem, I will expect you to come to me.”

  “—or…or that I’d be subjected to a husband’s temper and control. Be at his mercy,” she finished, as if she had not been interrupted.

  “I do not have a temper, Annica, but I am accustomed to running my own household. I will not be henpecked or harangued, but neither am I inclined to be controlling. I have never struck a woman in my life, nor will I ever. And, since you mention it, there are no tenderer mercies upon which you could be thrown.”

  Thrown! Into marriage! Good Lord! Her worst nightmare! Annica watched Tristan as he began to pace. She realized that, unlike her father, he was nervous, not angry. Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville, was apprehensive! The diplomat who negotiated truces with pirates and cutthroats in the palaces of emirs was unsure of himself in her library! That endearing fact brought a cautious warmth back to her heart.

  But marriage? No. Impossible. She trusted this man more than she’d trusted any man in her life, but marriage was beyond the scope of her wildest imagination. She’d seen marriage. She knew better.

  Without thinking, she began a long-practiced, oft-delivered speech. “My lord, I…I thank you for the great compliment you have paid me by your proposal, but I believe I am not suited to the married state. ’Twould distress me, m’lord, to find that you, as all men do, told me lies and made promises you could not keep in order to persuade an affirmative answer. I would only feel betrayed in the end, and disappoint you as a result. And you would soon tire of—”

  “Stop right there, Annica. I deserve better than that. And I deserve better than to have you make a mistress of me.”

  Annica’s mouth dropped open. Was that what she had done—used Tristan the same as men used the women she avenged? Was she as guilty as they? She had not suspected for one moment that such an arrangement would not be acceptable to the discreet but somewhat licentious lord. “My lord, I value your friendship far beyond a mere convenience, but—”