The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

  “Who is that?” Marstoke pressed closer to the window, watching as Tru rode closer.

  “I don’t know,” his flunkie answered.

  “Of course you don’t,” the marquess spat back. “He looks familiar.” He yanked Callie closer to the glass. “Who is it?”

  Her mind spun. What could he be thinking? He wore his slouched hat, which helped to obscure his features a little, and he moved casually, as if he’d not a care in the world and no clue he was being observed. Dismounting, he hitched his horse.

  “Has he come for you?” Marstoke demanded. “Who is he?”

  “I think . . .” Callie paused. “I think . . . at least . . . He looks like Monsieur Chaput, an innkeeper in town.”

  “No. No, that’s not it.” He peered down, eyes narrowed in concentration, while Callie tried desperately to come up with a plan to avert the coming disaster.

  Tru disappeared beneath them as he stepped up to the door.

  Suddenly Marstoke’s head flew back. Revelation shone on his face. “The innkeeper? Is that who he looks like, indeed?”

  A knock sounded below.

  The marquess stared ahead until another pounding sounded on the door. “Come. We must prepare for our visitor. Here is what we will do . . .”

  * * *

  Tru knocked several times, with no result. The place lay deadly still. He’d left the horse a ways back and circled the place on foot before riding in, so he knew the back was just as quiet. It might have been a pretty little spot, were it not for the atmosphere. It felt as if the structure itself breathed silently, waiting.

  Enough foolishness. Pulling out his pistol, he turned the latch.

  The door opened on silent hinges. The small entry hall lay empty. A quick check through the public rooms on this floor revealed the same state of things. He stood at the foot of the stairway and debated—kitchen or top floors?

  Up.

  The second floor was as empty as the first. He’d just finished scouting when something sounded above him. A thud, slight and muffled.

  He took to the stairs again, pistol at the ready. He hadn’t reached the next landing yet when someone spoke.

  “I’ve another one ready, sir. Would you like me to tie it this time?” A male voice, coming from behind a slightly open door on the left.

  He waited, but couldn’t hear a distinct answer.

  “The scarlet waistcoat, my lord? Or the embroidered grey?”

  Tru froze. My lord? The words rang repeatedly in his head. Had Marstoke returned? He straightened, riding a fierce wave of triumph. This was it. The end of his exile. Fate had given him another chance. He could capture Marstoke and end this nightmare at last.

  He gripped the pistol tighter with one hand and eased his knife from his boot with the other—only to pause when another noise came from the room on the opposite side of the landing above. A quiet moan. A thump, then a short, sharp cry.

  Oh, hell and damnation. It was a woman’s cry. Was it Callie being held in there? Or the young girl Letty had wanted to help?

  He crouched down, right where he was. His temple started to throb. Triumph drained, turning quickly to dread reality.

  Had he forgotten? This was Marstoke he faced. The man who orchestrated violence and upheaval, small and large, in the name of the game to which he’d dedicated his life.

  Tru felt suddenly ill with the force of his fury. This wasn’t the end. Nothing could be taken at face value when he dealt with the marquess. He’d been presented with a choice. It was his turn to make a move in Marstoke’s bloody, benighted game.

  He began to back down the stairs. He’d be damned if he chose either option presented to him. Did Marstoke think he’d learned nothing in their dealings so far? Damn it all to hell and back, but he was going to forge his own path through this mess.

  When he reached the landing, he turned down the right passage, heading straight for the room on the end. A small, private parlor, it had a window that opened onto the back of the house. He eased it open and looked up.

  Yes. The struts supporting the balcony above were there, not quite in reach. He climbed onto the window frame, balanced for a second, and jumped.

  * * *

  Her arm was going to break.

  They stood behind the slightly open door, she and Marstoke. He twisted her arm higher behind her back. Callie clenched her teeth, but did as he wished and let loose a quiet whimper. It did no good to resist. She’d done so a minute ago, refusing to make a sound, and he’d merely called the other girl over. The vile man had been satisfied with the cry of pain that one had let out when he struck her hard across her already injured face.

  The girl had been knocked to the ground, but she’d scrambled back up and retreated to the bed, where she sat with the covers pulled up to her chin.

  Callie gasped when Marstoke pulled her arm high again.

  “Louder,” he whispered. “We must make sure your innkeeper knows you are here.”

  They waited in silence for a few moments, but there no sound came from outside.

  “Which choice will he make?” Marstoke whispered in her ear. “Not charging to your rescue, is he? Perhaps I was mistaken, after all.”

  They waited some more, all of them alive with tension and watching the door with anxiety, even the girl in the bed.

  “No signal from Anselm, either,” Marstoke mused. “Perhaps I did see something that wasn’t there.” He put his face close to Callie’s and sent a wash of slightly sour breath over her. “Or perhaps he just doesn’t care what happens to you.”

  “Or perhaps he merely changed the rules of the game to suit himself.”

  Callie’s heart sank.

  Tru stood in the balcony doorway, striking and tall, a heroic shadow against the bright morning sun. He had a pistol in his hand and an almost pained smile of pure determination on his face. “Let go of the girl.”

  Marstoke came abruptly alive. There was no other way to describe it. Held as she was against him, she could feel it. His posture shifted along with his focus. She felt his breath quicken, just the smallest bit. All along her back she felt his muscles tighten. She looked up, and then away from the light of anticipation and enjoyment in his face. His game was afoot. “I knew it was you,” he breathed.

  Tru merely waved the pistol, encouraging the marquess to move away from Callie.

  “We’ve played against each other long enough for you to know that I am not a fool. I’m keeping this one.” Marstoke let Callie’s arm fall and she gasped at the pain as the blood rushed back in. “She’ll be incredibly valuable as I take the level of play to the next phase.” He gripped her upper arm with one hand and casually reached out for the razor Anselm had left behind with the other.

  Tru stepped into the room. “You know, I’d far prefer to take you back in chains. It fair warms my gullet to think of you in Newgate. And imagining you facing a trial of your peers lulls me to sleep at night. Think of the broadsheets that will coat London. They’ll denude entire forests, printing all the caricatures of you and your nefarious crimes. How many women will line the halls of Parliament, gather in the streets outside, waiting for you to pay for your crimes?” He sighed. “It would pain me to give all of that up, I tell you.” He shrugged, then raised the pistol. “But I won’t mourn overmuch, I suppose, if I get to carry you back to England in a pine box.”

  He’d touched a nerve. Callie felt it in the tension all along Marstoke’s tightening frame. But the marquess kept his tone light. “You fascinate me, Lord Truitt. You always have. Even more than usual, in the last months. Because you’re intelligent enough to understand what a colossal fool you’ve been. How do you bear that burden, when you wake up to it every morning?”

  Tru was still advancing into the room. “Let her go.”

  “No. You had potential, I’ll give you that. But you’ve proven that you’ll never be a worthy player. And you have been a constant irritant, I’ll admit. So I won’t be letting you live, I’m afraid.” He stepped backwards, tug
ging Callie with him. “It’s time we were going.”

  “Wait. My lord! Wait!” The girl cast aside her covers and scrambled to the end of the bed.

  He didn’t even look her way.

  Callie’s attention was locked on Tru. He stood in the middle of the room, a pillar of resolution. She didn’t know how Marstoke was not shaking in fear.

  She was. Because she had the sudden certain feeling that there was no scenario in which all three of them could survive.

  Tru had not once looked her way. It was the smart, strategic move. She knew it was true. And yet, she wished she could tell him somehow, without words, how sorry she was. Sorry she wasn’t more help. Sorry she’d left that marker pointing him here. Sorry she’d let herself get so entangled with him that she’d let hurt and betrayal dictate her actions and put them both in danger.

  Marstoke reached behind him to open the door.

  It all happened so quickly then.

  The marquess pulled Callie in front of him, a human shield to guard him as he left the room. Tru stepped forward, his pistol braced to take the shot. The girl perched on the end of the bed launched herself, crashing into Tru just as the pistol discharged.

  Callie flinched away as the doorframe beside her exploded. The door swung open and Anselm appeared, just outside, a pistol of his own held out in shaking hands. “Sir. The carriage is here.”

  Marstoke reached out and shoved the man forward, toward Tru, who struggled to extract himself from the girl.

  “Kill him,” he ordered.

  The pistol shook even harder. “But sir,” the other man whispered. “He’s the brother of a Duke.”

  “And you are the bastard son of a marquess! Now shoot him!”

  The pistol lowered. “This is not the same. He’s not even standing. His brother would hunt me down and kill me like a dog.”

  “You are a disappointment, Anselm.” Marstoke shoved Callie at the man and snatched the pistol himself. “What good are you to me if you can only hurt a defenseless girl? Now get that one down to the carriage.”

  He spun around and aimed at Tru just as he climbed to this feet. “I wish I had the time to enjoy this, but I’ll be satisfied with just removing the thorn from my side.”

  “No!” Callie gasped. Anselm had a hold of both of her arms, but an image flashed in her head suddenly. Tru’s patient lessons on the ship. She braced herself on her captor, bent her leg and kicked out with all her strength, rage and determination, striking Marstoke squarely on the back of his knee.

  He toppled forward. The gun roared. And inside the room, Tru jerked back, then sank slowly to the floor once more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I needed status, notoriety. I needed Power. But how to obtain it? Ruined as I was, no Great Man would marry me. What could I do? I moaned to Pearl that I was fit now to be nothing but a whore.

  --from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Chaos reigned on the small gravel courtyard in front of the cottage. A large, well-appointed traveling carriage was parked there. The dragon was back, barking out orders to Penrith and Rackham as they strapped luggage to the top. Anselm was talking, explaining himself endlessly, though no one was listening.

  Callie, too numb to fight his continued hold on her, saw it all through a blur of tears.

  Was Tru dead? Had Marstoke killed him with that shot? Was he finishing him off even now? The marquess hadn’t come down with them. Neither had the blonde. She stared listlessly up at the house, unable to do more than wipe at the tears streaming down her face.

  The bickering continued. None of it penetrated the cloak of shock and grief wrapped around her like a bubble.

  “Madame? Madame Chaput?” Penrith’s surprised voice finally struck her.

  “That is not her name,” Anselm spat. “You idiots let those innkeepers make fools of you.”

  Rackham paused to listen now.

  “They are working with Stoneacre.”

  The pair of lordlings exchanged worried looks.

  Marstoke exited the cottage, now immaculately dressed. “Stop standing about and finish quickly. Who knows who else will show up, or when. Let’s get on the road.” He stopped suddenly. “Where is the girl?”

  “Inside,” Penrith answered. “She is still drowsy. It appears she was drugged.”

  “Was she?” Marstoke turned to look Callie over, brow raised. “Get this one in the carriage with her.”

  “But sir,” Rackham protested. “There is no room. As it is, Anselm will have to be left behind.”

  “I, left behind?” Anselm demanded, outraged. “Do not think you can replace me, sir, just because you have a set of semi-valuable breeding stones.” In his excitement, he let one of Callie’s arms go.

  She came awake, suddenly. Pushed the fog of grief and uncertainty away, though she took care to continue to hang limp and listless. He held her only by her left arm now, and beneath her right garter was tucked her knife. And Letty was in that carriage.

  They all stilled as a shout rang out. It echoed strangely, until she realized it was coming from the back of the house.

  “My lord! Don’t leave me!” The poor, deluded blonde girl must be standing on the balcony, yelling for all she was worth. “Let me out! Take me with you! Don’t leave me here, locked in with this dead man!”

  Dead man. Dead man. Dead man. The words echoed, pinging about Callie’s chest, breaking her heart, loosening her fear and fury, setting her free from all normal conventions and constraints.

  They’d all turned toward the house to listen as the shouting continued. Anselm’s grip was slack. Marstoke stood mere steps away.

  It would be so easy. He was vulnerable and it would only take one simple thrust. One strike and she’d rid the world of a great evil. Letty would be free. Hestia would be free. The Prince Regent and the country would be safe from his machinations. No more young girls would be abused, abandoned or twisted like that sad girl upstairs.

  She did not stop to consider it any further. She pulled up her skirts, grabbed her knife, yanked away from Anselm and swung.

  Time stood still and sunlight flashed off the blade.

  At the last second, just before the knife plunged into his back, Penrith pulled Marstoke clear. Her former guest stared at her in shock. She glared back in frustrated fury.

  “Madame Chaput,” he said in disapproval and disbelief.

  Ignoring him, she raced for the carriage door. Pulling it open, she found Letty curled on a bench.

  “Letty,” she whispered. She shook her sister, trying to wake her.

  Letty’s eyes fluttered.

  “I love you, Letty.” She had to tell her one last time, before they killed her.

  Letty roused, barely. “Callie?”

  Rough hands pulled away from the coach. Marstoke stared down at her, his towering glower of rage fading into interest.

  “You see?” Rackham stabbed a finger at her. “You cannot bring her along. She nearly stabbed you in the back! We would all have to watch ourselves without ceasing, be on our guard every minute of the day until we reached London.”

  Callie looked up. They were going back to England?

  “That is enough out of you, you fool,” Marstoke snapped.

  The dragon spoke up from the back of the coach. “You only need one girl,” she said calmly. “The other one knows more.”

  “And might still be useful,” Marstoke said. He growled in frustration. “Damn it, but I want this one, too. So many uses for her . . .” He shook his head. “She’s wily. I’m afraid she might be too much for you alone,” he said to the woman.

  Glancing from one of the men to the other, he struck the coach with a fisted hand. “She puts you all to shame. Not one of you to be completely trusted! How has this come to pass? Why am I surrounded by weaklings and hindered by something so simple as a lack of traveling space!”

  He stared upward for long moments, not moving, but holding her tight.

  Suddenly he exploded into motion.
“Anselm, you will ride up with the driver. Penrith, you will stand up in the back where the footman should ride. Get it ready to go. Now.” He strode toward the house, dragging Callie with him. When they reached the front stoop, he turned her to face him.

  “Lord Truitt Russell is dead.”

  She started to shiver. How was she to survive the jagged pain tearing a path through her chest?

  “I want you to tell the Duke of Aldmere that I killed his brother.”

  She bowed her head to hide the hate that blazed in her. It quivered under her skin, making her shiver even more violently. When she looked back up, he was glancing in contemplation between her and the coach.

  “Do you know what I like?” he said casually.

  She bit back several caustic, likely unwise, responses.

  “I like secrets. Other people’s secrets. Most people never know what real power is, do you realize that? It’s far less to do with armies and artillery than it is to do with knowledge. It’s standing in a crowded room of diplomats and dignitaries and seeing the truth beneath the glittering surface. It’s truly knowing the people around you, and the people who command. Understanding all the hidden currents and connections.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m going to let you live, Miss Grant—and I am going to learn all of your secrets.” He smiled then, and Callie knew that it was possible for true malice to exist in the world. “And you are going to wish that I hadn’t.”

  Over at the carriage, the luggage had been tied on. Everyone was aboard, save for Penrith, who waved the marquess over.

  Marstoke leaned close. “One last thing. I want you to tell Hestia Wright that I know her secret.” He placed his hands on both of Callie’s shoulders and pushed. She went sprawling over the step and into the gravel. “And she, too, is going to wish I didn’t,” he said, walking away.

  As the carriage pulled out, she sat up and watched it go. She started to call out after it, but only a gasp emerged. She choked on it. And then the first sob caught her, squeezing her chest.