A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  She tilted her head back to look into Geoffrey Morgan’s deep hazel eyes and gave him a slow smile, beginning to suspect his game. “You are ‘managing’ me, are you not, Mr. Morgan?”

  He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “I should have known better than to attempt such an obvious ploy.”

  “Which one of my friends are you after, sir?”

  “You do not know?”

  “I only know that you have a sudden interest in my circle.”

  “And I was thinking that your circle had developed a sudden interest in me.”

  Annica kept her bland smile in place. Geoffrey Morgan could not possibly have come closer to the truth. “One of life’s odd little coincidences, no doubt.”

  “Precisely.” He favored her with an amused grin. “’Twould be quite egotistical of me to think all your friends might have designs on me, would it not?”

  “Quite,” she agreed. “Not that you are not eminently suitable, Mr. Morgan. In point of fact, I can find nothing against you.”

  “Shall I assume you have tried, Lady Annica?”

  She winced. Mr. Morgan was a worthy opponent. Precisely who was the hunter and who was the prey here? “Were you following me Saturday when we ran into one another?”

  “I wondered the same thing, Lady Annica.”

  “Why would I follow you, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Why would I follow you, Lady Annica?”

  Stalemate. “I have no idea, sir. I simply thought there were rather too many coincidences to be mere…coincidence. Do you have a theory as to why I would follow you?”

  “Like you, Lady Annica, I have no idea. I do not flatter myself that you are interested in me, thus I am left to conclude that you have another motive. I am a very simple fellow. If there is something you wish to know, you need only ask.”

  Very simple fellow? A bald-faced lie! “Which of my friends are you interested in, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Perhaps I am interested in all of you,” he said.

  She looked again into deep hazel eyes that gave nothing away. He could have meant anything by his innocent comment.

  The music ended. He led her back to her friends and bowed low, a cynical smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. They were not done playing cat and mouse, she suspected.

  “I wish we could emasculate him,” Annica sighed after informing Charity of Roger Wilkes’s admission in the garden the night before. She stood on a stool at Madame Marie’s, inching her way through a slow turn as the modiste pinned her hem.

  “That would be a fitting punishment, considering the crime,” Charity said. “But I thought we agreed—”

  “If ever a situation warranted an exception, this is it. Still, I cannot see you and Sarah holding Mr. Wilkes down whilst Connie and Grace remove his…Well, as appealing as the thought may be, I believe we lack the necessary savagery.”

  “Not I,” Charity denied. “I would cut the man in a trice. Men like Wilkes must be stopped.”

  Madame Marie spat a mouthful of straight pins into a little dish, shaking her head in disagreement. “Eef you please, chéries, I must disagree from you, eh? The man ’oo rapes women ees not a sexual man, no? ’E ees a cruel, violent man. ’E will continue to be cruel and violent, even weethout ’ees testicles, no? So, emasculate ’eem eef that will pay ’eem back, but not to stop ’ees cruelty. For that, there ees only one cure.”

  Annica gulped. Only one cure. “And what would that cure be, madame?”

  “You know as well as I, Lady Annica. We shall not speak eet aloud, eh?” But madame drew her finger across her throat in a classic gesture that could not be misunderstood.

  “Thank you, Marie. As always, you have hit the nail upon the head. I very much fear we are in too deep here. I am not certain any of us have the stomach for it.”

  Madame Marie shook her head. “You must not stop, or le bâtard weel not ’ave to answer for ’ees offense.”

  “I assure you, Marie, we have gone too far to quit.”

  “Bien.”

  “May we continue to use your shop as a meeting place? Will you receive and pass along information to our runner, Mr. Renquist? You see, Hodgeson’s concern for my safety has made him unreliable. I fear he is on the brink of speaking with Auberville or my uncle.”

  “Mais oui, chérie! Most happily.” She sat back on her heels and smiled. “Turn to zee mirror, milady, and see what we ’ave done. Voilà! A bridal dress!”

  Annica turned to face the large cheval mirror in one corner. The ivory silk dress shot with gold threads she had commissioned before Auberville’s proposal had been transformed into a gown suitable for a wedding. Madame Marie had added an edging of exquisite ivory lace and a matching lace chemisette to adapt the evening gown for a morning wedding. Now she placed a lace-trimmed bonnet adorned with tiny gold beads on Annica’s head and stood back with all the pride of a sculptor finishing a marble statue.

  “Ah,” she sighed, “perfection, n’est-ce pas? You, chérie, are zee most beautiful bride I ever see. Your ’usband weel not be able to take ’ees eyes off you.”

  Annica stood very still, looking at her reflection. It could not be her in a wedding gown! The woman in the mirror was ethereally beautiful. Her skin glowed, her slender figure curved and swelled in all the right places and her eyes were enormous with wonder. The gown shimmered just enough to give the impression of angelic origin. Marie had wrought a miracle! Annica looked like an angel, and she knew nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Très bien,” madame pronounced. “Next I bring your masquerade costume, eh? I go ’urry the silly girls ’oo sew eet.”

  Alone in the little dressing room with Charity, Annica was nearly overcome with panic. “Oh, Charity! It has just suddenly come to me! The marriage could actually take place. By making his proposal public, Tristan has made refusal more difficult. I could refuse him now, but not without making us both look ridiculous. I really could become Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville.” Tears filled her eyes and threatened to run over.

  “There, there, ’Nica.” Charity gave her a hug. “’Twill come aright. Lord Tristan is a good man. Julius has said so.”

  “But do you not see? Once the words are spoken, nothing will ever be the same. I will be bound for a lifetime to a man I barely know. What if…what if he decides he does not like me? What if I cannot be what he needs? He will be angry. He will…strike me.”

  “Balderdash!” Charity exclaimed. “Why, you are perfectly wonderful, and Auberville is not the sort of man given to abuse. I can vouch that you are the best friend anyone could ever have. I have seen you meet every challenge ever put before you. I’d wager you will exceed even Auberville’s highest expectations. You are simply overwrought. Between Mr. Bouldin and Roger Wilkes, you have had quite enough to sort through. Add to that Geoffrey Morgan’s teasing, Constance being peeved and Auberville’s proposal—well, no wonder you’re falling apart.”

  “Yes.” Annica nodded, grasping at this rational explanation for her irrational emotions. She wiped at her tears with the back of her hands. “Yes, that must be it. I am unstrung and fatigued by everything that has happened this past week.”

  “Once you are settled in with Auberville, ’twill all seem quite ordinary. You shall see.”

  “If I settle in with Auberville.” Annica sighed, taking a tenuous grip on her emotions, dreading the evening ahead.

  The scar beneath the patch over his left eye looked somehow fitting for a pirate, Annica decided. His full white shirt was edged with a narrow band of lace and tucked into snug leather breeches. Tall buccaneer boots gave him a rakish look and added to his reckless swagger. Yes, Tristan’s costume was utterly appropriate. A thick shock of burnished golden hair fell over his forehead as he bowed over her offered hand.

  “I see you have caught your true spirit, Auberville,” she teased.

  His voice was a low caress. “And this is how I always envision you, sprite. Fresh, original, elusive, breathtaking.”

  Diap
hanous layers of flesh-pink chiffon alternately clung to her limbs and floated freely around her, lending her the illusion of near nudity. Freshly cut ivy spiraled around her body from her low bodice to the floor. An ivy crown was perched atop her head, and her dark hair was loosely braided in back to fall to her waist. Little crystal droplets fastened to the garlands sparkled like dew, completing the illusion of enchantment. She had dressed as Tristan’s woodland sprite for Aunt Lucy’s masquerade.

  His warm lips lingered longer than proper on the back of her hand. Her heart leaped into her throat when he suddenly turned her hand over and kissed the palm, trailing his lips upward to the inside of her wrist, tickling it with his tongue. “Auberville!” she gasped. A queer tingling began somewhere in her lower abdomen and her knees went weak.

  “How long do you think I will wait to claim what I have already tasted, my dear? I am a man, not a stone. I pray you will give me an answer soon.”

  It had not escaped her that Tristan had not taken advantage of their new relationship. She had hoped—no! She could not think of that. Every time her mind wandered in that direction, she lost sight of her original objective—to remain unwed.

  Music swirled around them as dancers chose their partners for the opening march. Tristan led her onto the ballroom floor with a proud step. She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. He was remembering. She could see it in his gaze as his unpatched eye swept her appreciatively.

  “Once we are married, Annica, you will not be able to leave the house dressed as you are.”

  She bristled at the proprietary threat. “Why?”

  “Because the moment I see you, I will escort you back to our chamber and we shall find our entertainment there.”

  “Oh.” She was momentarily nonplussed, then she remembered her own plans to teach the arrogant lord a lesson. “I was not certain you would like my costume, Auberville. After all, ’tis neither red nor blue.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “Those are your favorite colors, my lord. Indeed, I’ve gone to my modiste and ordered dozens of gowns in blue. I shall be having fittings for months to come.”

  “Ah, yes.” Tristan’s smile stayed in place, but it had grown stiff and formal. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Eberhart, is quite anxious for your answer. She says she would like a woman to ‘do for.’ Are you certain you need more time, Annica?”

  “Another week or two, I should think.”

  “You are waiting to see if our…interlude has produced fruit, eh? Will your answer be negative if there are no consequences?”

  She glanced up at him again, startled by the hard edge to his voice. She had wounded his pride, and that had not been her intention. “That has nothing to do with my delay. It is just that there is so much to consider. For instance, my position as Lady Auberville.”

  “Ah. Your position.” Tristan nodded.

  Her husband-to-be had the look of a much-beleaguered man. Too bad. He’s in for a long siege. She vowed not to relent until he showed signs of regretting his trickery. Thus, the game was in his hands.

  “Aunt Lucy has been giving me such excellent advice on being a proper wife. I am ashamed that I scoffed at her for so long.”

  “I’d prefer you to ignore her, Annica. I courted you, not your aunt Lucy.”

  “Courted? Did we court? I do not recall that. I was under the impression that we had a business arrangement that had turned into a friendship when you interfered in my affairs and we got ourselves into a pickle in Whitefriars.”

  “That is a gross oversimplification.”

  “Is it? Would you care to explain where I have erred?”

  “Trust me—there’s more to our relationship than that.”

  “What?”

  “This is not the time or place to discuss this, Annica.” He was closer to looking angry than she had seen him since that night in Whitefriars when she had refused to tell him what she was up to. Unflinching, she turned her face up to his. “When shall we discuss it? After a wedding? When it is too late to take back ill-advised vows?”

  Tristan’s grin was not in the least apologetic. “It is already too late for that, Lady Annica. The die is cast, the walls are breached.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the veiled reminder. “If you wish to cry off, I will not stop you. I cannot imagine anything worse than a reluctant husband.”

  Tristan threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Not even a reluctant wife—which is what I appear to have? I begin to see what you are doing here. You are afraid. This may be your last chance to break free and remain a spinster the rest of your life. ’Tis no use. Give it up.”

  He was doing it again, Annica thought—reading her mind, seeing inside her. Damn the man! She shrugged to indicate her indifference to his advice, and moved on to the next topic she had prepared in order to confound him.

  “I went to the printer this morning to order new calling cards, Auberville, but I simply could not decide upon a design. I have brought some samples home for you to see. I thought I should select a design that would be compatible with yours, should we actually marry. Could you decide, Auberville? ’Tis confusing when there are so many choices.”

  “You cannot make a decision regarding calling cards?” he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “No. You see, there was a lovely design with a gold fleur-de-lis, and one with a simple gold border. But I got confused when I saw a very pretty flower design. Then, when I tried to remember the emblems on the Auberville coat of arms, well, that’s when I became muddled. I was terribly pleased to have you to fall back upon. You are going to be such a boon to me.”

  He appeared to be waging a silent war with himself. When he spoke, his voice was tightly controlled. “Order the gold-bordered cards. And in the future, Annica, whenever you are in doubt, always choose the simplest course.”

  “Ah, the simplest course.” Annica smiled. “Like the truth? Or going straight ahead instead of zigzagging? What excellent advice. I wonder why did I not think of that.” She was pleased to note Tristan’s look of consternation.

  The processional music ended and the ball was now officially underway. Tristan bowed to her and made an excuse about having to discuss a matter of some importance with Julius Lingate, but she knew he was making an escape before he lost his temper. She could not help but admire his control, and wondered how much longer he would be able to maintain it.

  With Tristan safely dispatched to wherever it was that men went to escape their women, she hurried from the ballroom and down the corridor to the conservatory.

  Pale moonlight filtered through the glass walls and ceiling transoms. The sound of faint voices muffled by the splash of the fountain drew her toward the far end of the room.

  An outraged squeak warned her that all was not as it should be. Annica lifted her pale pink skirts and hurried toward the sound. As she came into the small clearing around the fountain, she was alarmed to see a shepherdess trying to fend off an insistent highwayman.

  “Please!” the woman cried, pummeling ineffectively at the highwayman’s chest. “Leave me be!”

  “You asked for it,” a hoarse voice returned. “I’ve been watchin’ you all evening. You want it.”

  “No! I swear it! I came here to—”

  “For me. You knew I’d follow. Well, I did, and now you’re going to get what every slut craves.”

  “No!” Sarah protested.

  Annica felt sick to her stomach. The drunken, slurred voice of Sarah’s assailant was an echo of her father’s voice. She rushed forward and grabbed the man by his arm, tugging him away from her friend. “Stop it! Stop at once!” she cried.

  “You!” the highwayman sneered.

  Annica was not surprised when she recognized Roger Wilkes behind the mask. She smelled whiskey on his breath, and he made no attempt to hide his malevolence. “Take hold of yourself, Mr. Wilkes. You cannot accost Lady Sarah again.”

  “I c’n do whatever I please! I know about you an’ your friends, an’
I know what you did to the others. How long did you think you’d get away with it, Lady Annica?”

  She moved between Sarah and Wilkes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Wilkes. I only know that Sarah’s fear speaks for itself.”

  Her protective gesture did not escape the drunken man. “Think anything you c’n do will make a difference now, Lady Superior? Think you c’n save her from what she is—a slut who’s been used by me an’ m’ friends?”

  “Raped, you mean,” Annica corrected. “You and your friends raped Lady Sarah.”

  “Who’s gonna stop us?” Wilkes snickered.

  “You are unconscionable, Mr. Wilkes. Lady Sarah was innocent as a babe. As a result of the harm you and your friends did her, she has been afraid to come out in public, let alone entertain the notion of marriage. Leave at once!”

  “She lied. She wanted it.”

  “No, Mr. Wilkes, she did not. I found her when you and your friends discarded her. You committed a malicious rape, and you stopped just short of murder.”

  “Then why have you not told someone?”

  “You know the answer to that, Mr. Wilkes.”

  He gave an evil grin, certain he was safe from prosecution. “Afraid for her reputation, eh? Well, no matter. She’ll never be able to marry. Should count ’erself lucky that I still would have anything to do with her.”

  Sarah began to whimper, and Annica was anxious to dispose of Wilkes as quickly as possible. “Leave before I—”

  “You? What c’n you do, you arrogant little harridan?” He laughed again, at her outrage and anger. “Y’ can’t do a damned thing to me without ruining Lady Sarah, too.”

  Tristan stepped out of the shadows with Geoffrey on his heels. Annica had not heard them approach over her argument with Wilkes. He shot her a reassuring glance before he turned his attention to Wilkes, and she felt relief wash over her.

  “What is going on here?” he asked.

  “Your piece o’ fluff misunderstood my attentions to Lady Sarah. Isn’ that right, milady?”

  Sarah clung to Annica’s arm, her eyes wide with fright and humiliation. “’Nica.” She buried her face against Annica’s shoulder and began to cry softly.