Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  Billy piped up. “I offered to fetch whatever it was for her, but she said she had to go herself.”

  “Do you have the note?” Dom asked. It might answer some questions.

  Marie shook her head. “I looked everywhere, but she must have taken it with her when she left.”

  “She never came back.” Lady Mildred ended the tale, her voice wavering again. “But soon after, a boy delivered another note.” She handed over a missive with obvious reluctance.

  Dom unfolded it, saw it was in Callista’s hand and initialed by her. Much like the note Anna had delivered, this one announced Callista’s elopement with Thompson to Gretna Green in a few brief lines. She asked for her family’s forgiveness and understanding and said she’d be in contact soon.

  “She sent me something similar,” he told them coldly. Only the aristocratic training of a lifetime kept him from howling out his rage and anguish. She had left him! “Do you see any reason we shouldn’t believe her?”

  “If Miss H. agreed to marry you, she wouldn’t go back on her word,” Billy said stoutly. “And she wouldn’t leave like this; she worries about us too much to just run off.”

  It did seem out of character. But he’d pushed Callista hard the last few months, in more ways than one. Perhaps this was how she’d broken.

  “I don’t believe she wrote this note at all,” Marie said. “She loves you, monsieur! I’ve known it for weeks—although she’s afraid to admit it to herself, let alone to you. She made those broadsides and took them to Edinburgh to protect you. She believed your life was endangered by the secret of your writing identity. To protect you she felt she had to expose that secret.”

  “But if she didn’t write this letter, then who did?” he asked.

  “I think it were that Thompson,” Billy said. “He’s seen her handwritin’ enough at yer house that he could have screeved it. I’ve seen him look odd-like at her, even before the conference. And didn’t ye yerself say it’s strange he hasn’t been around the last while, since ye’ve been back? I think there’s somethin’ dodgy with that bloke.”

  Dom thought fast.

  Who could have any reason to harm him, to benefit from his writing when its authorship had been secret? To his knowledge, Thompson had been the only person aware of his pseudonym until Callista had informed the world; Dom had shared his latest essay with the young instructor at Callista’s urging and taken him into his confidence some time ago. Thompson struck him as rather obsequious, but the man had given no indication of murderous intent. Yet if what Billy and Marie said was correct, it couldn’t be mere coincidence that Thompson was now his apparent rival.

  Then Dom remembered some words of good-natured critique Mr. Walpole, the senior tutor, had made of Thompson in the younger man’s hearing; Thompson had flashed between a look of terror and one of loathing so quickly Dom had been unsure he’d seen correctly.

  If the man were insecure about his work, claiming Amator’s essays as his own would have surely guaranteed his election as fellow and his lifetime tenure at Trinity College. In a flash, the threads fell together. Perhaps Callista had witnessed Thompson doing or saying something to suggest such a plot. To protect Dom, she’d exposed his writing in Edinburgh. But to protect Thompson’s reputation, she’d refused to explain her actions. Dom recalled she’d claimed it was “a matter of honor”—just as he recalled, cringing, how he’d mocked her for it in the hotel room.

  Thompson had written her a note to meet him across the street today. But if he’d been plotting murder before and now suspected Callista knew something about it . . . then she certainly hadn’t eloped with him.

  Which left only one option. The bastard had kidnapped her and intended her harm.

  “Billy!” Dom barked. “You’re with me.”

  Chapter 20

  They burst out of the house and scanned the square from the top of the steps.

  “How’re we goin’ to get her back, m’lord?” Billy’s worried voice came from Dom’s side. Oddly enough, Dom could imagine no more stalwart companion than this former street urchin to help him find Callista.

  Dom considered the crowd of early evening traffic and passersby. “Thompson doesn’t have the means to keep a horse or carriage. If he took her from here, they might have stayed on foot, but I suspect he’d want more speed and privacy than that. He probably hired a cab, a closed hackney most likely.”

  “There’s a cab stand”—Billy pointed north—“at the top of the square at Bedford Place. Let’s ask the waterman if he saw anything.”

  Dom mounted and pulled Billy up behind him for the short ride. The old-timer on duty hauling buckets for the horses was Mr. Yates, who’d held the post for thirty years. He knew Callista well; apparently “Miss H.” was a favorite with many of the servants and workers around the square.

  “Bless ’er ’eart, she’s not in any trouble, is she? A fine lady, that one. I did see ’er this afternoon. Must ’ave been about two hours ago, when she came by and got in a carriage with some gent. I didn’t know ’im by ’is face, but ’e was a young, thin man. ’E was holding ’er tight and pushing ’er along, like. ’E carried a greatcoat over ’is arm; I remember ’cause it did seem strange to ’ave a coat, it being so warm now.”

  “I bet he was holdin’ a knife or somethin’ on her, under that coat! She’d never’ve gone with him otherwise!” Billy sounded ready to rip Thompson apart with his bare hands.

  Dom gave Yates a silver crown. “Whose cab did they get in? Did you hear where the man directed the driver to go?”

  The waterman’s eyes widened as he pulled his cap in thanks. “Nay, my station’s ’ere at the end of the line; they went up to the front. But maybe one of the cabbies ’eard something,” he suggested hopefully.

  They wasted precious time asking all the drivers at the stand if they’d seen anyone of Callista and Thompson’s description, to no avail. Dom was hard-pressed to push down the fear roiling like acid in his gut. Thompson could have her anywhere in the city by now!

  “Excuse me, sir.” A filthy young boy approached Billy, hat in hand, reeking of mud and manure. He didn’t even look up at Dom. “Are ye lookin’ for that lady from number seventeen, in the square?”

  Dom twirled around; it was Callista’s address. “What do you know of her?”

  The boy shrank back, and Dom forced himself to take a slow breath.

  “It’s all right,” Billy said, “go ahead and tell his lordship what ye know.”

  “If you please, m’lord, I’m the crossing sweeper here, see?” The lad, eyes down on his grime-encrusted boots, pointed at the broom and dustpan by the lamppost where Bedford Place met Bloomsbury Square. “Earlier, I saw a man led a lady into a hackney. I was sweeping when he called me over. He gave me a note and tuppence and bid me deliver it right away at number seventeen. The lady was struggling some, but he jabbed at her from under his coat and said something nasty.” The sweeper boy paused and finally raised his eyes to Dom’s. “And I heard, m’lord, where he told the driver to go.”

  Dom’s heart skipped a beat. His horse could navigate the city much quicker than a hackney. If they knew where Thompson had headed, they’d have a chance of catching them before the bastard could hurt Callista. Dom pulled out a gold sovereign and squatted down to the boy’s level.

  The lad’s dusty face split into a huge grin, and he began to talk fast.

  Why she’d ever thought to protect this miserable excuse for a scholar, she couldn’t say. Thompson had proven to be a very unpleasant gentleman indeed.

  During the carriage ride, he explained with some pride how he’d enlisted Lady Barrington’s help and sent notes to Rexton and Lady Mildred announcing an elopement. “When you don’t come back, I’ll explain to everyone how you tragically drowned in a raging river on our way to Gretna Green and your body was swept away,” he said exultantly. “That was you in Edinburgh, wasn’t it? You thought you were so clever, but I saw through your grime.”

  Callista cast him a glance of u
tter disdain and said nothing; he was beneath engagement.

  The hackney finally dropped them off in a particularly squalid section of the docks, just past a rough tavern far south of London Bridge on the road toward Gravesend. Thompson grabbed her arm as they descended, pricking at her side again with the knife he held under the coat draped over his arm. Darkness was starting to fall; a rising full moon cast harsh shadows down the deserted side street where he dragged her toward some abandoned riverfront warehouses ringed by muddy fields.

  “You are a most despicable man,” she hissed as they stumbled along. “You must realize your plan will not succeed.”

  “What do you know of my plan?” He moved aside his coat to brandish the knife in the open.

  She straightened her shawl from his loathsome grip. “I should think it’s obvious: you mean to try to kill me here, dump my body in the river, and let the tide carry it out to sea. A rather typical murderer’s plot.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And are you not afraid?”

  “You’re an evil coward and a pitiful thief.” She threw the words at him with contempt. “I no more fear you than I would a yapping dog.” All right, that was rather an exaggeration. Truth be told, she was terrified, not even so much for herself, strangely, but for Dominick, whom she feared—hoped?—would be deeply hurt by the notes Thompson had sent. She was furious, too: at Thompson and at herself for not exposing the blackguard when she’d had the chance. Even more, her gut gnawed with anger and shame at how she’d been holding back her love for Dominick. Were she to die out here, he would never know how much she truly loved him, all because she’d been afraid to fight for that love. No point calling Thompson a coward if she wasn’t prepared to correct her own failure of courage.

  Strange how a kidnapping at knifepoint taught one such quick lessons about what really mattered in life. To her core, she suddenly knew she was not prepared to die at the hands of this worm. She had a betrothal ball to attend, wedding vows to declare, and a good man to love.

  When he loosened his grip to pry open the door of one of the ramshackle buildings, she saw her chance. She shoved against him hard, wrenching her arm away. He fell backward, smashing his elbow through a small window next to the door and cursing as blood began to ooze down his forearm. “Look what you’ve done!” he yelled, lunging for her. She took off, but her speed was slowed by the layers of petticoats and tight corset into which Marie had laced her, and she hadn’t gotten far before his hand twisted viciously into her hair. Her piled-high ringlets tumbled askew. He spun her around, then slapped her hard across both cheeks. She fell heavily against a bench alongside the building, jabbing her side into its corner.

  Stars swam before her eyes, and the breath left her body as the world began to go black.

  The gelding was dripping sweat from the two riders and the speed Dom coaxed from him, but they made excellent time. Dom only prayed it was enough. Billy knew the area where the crossing sweeper had sent them and directed Dom to the old warehouse buildings south of the Hammer and Spike tavern.

  They dismounted and split up to search the side streets. Dom’s heart leaped when he heard Billy hiss his name. Rejoining the boy, Dom followed the direction of his chin jerk, toward a building whose door hung open on broken hinges.

  “Look,” Billy whispered. “It’s Miss H.’s shawl!”

  Dom swallowed hard when he lifted the wrap into the moonlight. Fresh blood stained the gray wool.

  It was then he noticed signs of a struggle outside the warehouse: an overturned bench, a window’s broken glass, a trail of blood leading into a nearby weedy field.

  If it was her blood, he’d rip Thompson apart himself.

  He and Billy started for the field at a run. When they rounded the corner of the last warehouse, they saw their quarry, outlined in the moonlight.

  Thompson had an arm around Callista’s neck and over her mouth. He was dragging her backward and held a long blade in his hand; she was clawing and kicking wildly.

  “Stop!” Thompson yelled when he saw his former patron coming at them. “Stop or I’ll slit her throat!”

  Dom and Billy skidded to a halt. Dom held up his hands in surrender but kept walking very slowly closer. “Take it easy, Thompson.” He pitched his voice quiet and soothing, as he would with a badly spooked horse. “You don’t want to hurt her and you don’t want to make this worse. Why don’t you put the knife down so we can talk, like rational gentlemen?”

  Callista twisted her head free. “Don’t trust him, Dominick! He planned to kill you for your essays!”

  “I know, beauty”—Dom kept his eyes on Thompson as he answered Callista—“but don’t worry. He’s not going to kill you.”

  “I have to! I have to kill you both—all three of you!” he screamed with a desperate sob, his gaze going to Billy as well. “She found out my plan, damn her! She saw me copy the recipe for poison and knew I was after your essays!”

  Poison! So that had been Thompson’s plan, the ingrate. “But she said nothing. She wouldn’t have. She still won’t,” Dom assured him calmly. “You can let her go. She’s willing to protect you and keep your plot quiet, to give you a chance to redeem yourself.” Dom kept his hands up as he slowly advanced.

  “I don’t believe it! She’s a liar and a whore!” He looked a madman, eyes shining white in the light of the moon.

  That last was too much for Billy, who’d paced Dom silently as they approached. “Don’t ye dare say such grot about her! Yer the lyin’ whoreson ramper!” The boy started forward with angry fists.

  Time slowed as Dom saw Thompson panic at Billy’s threat. The young instructor pulled back his knife to plunge it at Callista. She screamed and twisted hard in his grip. Dom launched himself at them, stretching out to reach the blade. He fell heavily into Thompson, rolling them to the muddy ground and knocking Callista aside. A hot burn flashed along his upper arm. The wet of blood seeped through his jacket as they wrestled for the knife, but the relief of freeing Callista from Thompson’s grip canceled any pain. Another slice of the knife burned his shoulder before Dom found an opening and smashed his fist hard into the man’s face. Thompson dropped the blade; Dom landed two more fierce punches, glorying in the satisfying crunch of bone as the bastard finally grew still.

  He was out cold. He couldn’t hurt Callista anymore. She was safe.

  Dom staggered to his feet, breathing hard, and went to help her up. “God, Callista, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled up her skirt and began to rip French silk and Alençon lace into bandage strips. “You’re the one who’s hurt!”

  He laughed shakily and pulled her into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck to inhale her sweet perfume. “I know you were trying to stall our wedding, beauty, but did you have to take it quite this far?”

  The Hammer and Spike held a certain rough charm, if one didn’t look too closely. But with Callista at his side and both of them alive, the whole world looked blooming gorgeous, as far as Dom was concerned.

  They’d loaded an unconscious Thompson onto the horse, and Billy held the reins as they walked to the tavern. The constables were soon fetched to take Thompson into custody. Dom and Callista would have to make more detailed statements at Scotland Yard tomorrow but were free to leave for now.

  Dom had yet to let go of Callista’s hand; he’d come so close to losing her. “Why did you meet that fool this afternoon?” He sat her gently at a trestle bench, where he’d ordered them a carafe of the tavern’s best wine; Billy was across the plank table, already wolfing down a thick slice of mutton pie.

  She waved her free hand in dismissal. “It was another of his lies. His note said he realized I had suspicions regarding him, but they were all the result of a horrible misunderstanding. He was too embarrassed to call at the house and had a copy of Plato’s Republic bound by Roger Payne to offer me, as proof of his innocence and best wishes for our marriage.” Her voice turned indignant. “Payne is England’s finest eighteenth-
century bookbinder, and Thompson knew I’ve been trying to get my hands on one of his books for ages! I felt I owed Thompson the chance to explain.” She shrugged before looking up at Dom shyly through her lashes. “And I thought to present the book to you this evening as an engagement gift.”

  “You’re all the gift I need.” He cupped her face, stroking gently across her reddened and battered cheeks. “God, I’ll see that wastrel deported to a penal colony for what he did to you.”

  She rubbed into his touch like a cat. “I’m sorry, Dominick, I didn’t tell you earlier my suspicions about Thompson and why I published the broadsides—I didn’t want you hurt by his betrayal. But even more, I’m sorry for holding you at bay and ashamed for not trusting our love. Can you forgive me?”

  “I can forgive anything, beauty, as long as you’re still marrying me.”

  She pressed a shy kiss into his palm. “I wouldn’t miss our wedding for all the books in the world.”

  “Speakin’ of plans for gettin’ hitched,” said Billy, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, “ye two have to get back for that ball. Everyone’s got to know the weddin’s still on—includin’ that Lady Barrington,” he added with a sneer. “Otherwise, they’ll gossip bad about Miss H. Lord Rexton, if ye take her up on yer horse, ye can get her back to Bloomsbury in time to clean up and still make it to the ball. Those nobs never get goin’ till late at them parties anyway. If ye leave me a few deaners, I can make my way back from here easy enough.”

  Dom consulted his pocket watch.

  “Billy’s right,” he told Callista. “We could probably make it for the last half of the ball. But gossip be damned, I’m not putting you through any more turmoil tonight.” Far from looking hysterical however, Callista appeared quite calm and composed. “Do you feel up for it, beauty? I can certainly take you home instead for a hot bath and bed. We can plan another ball.”