“Then I came along and said there were questions in the matter of the deaths.”
She nodded. “It upset Benny that there might be more to it than we’d thought. He decided to look for me, so we could consult on how much to reveal to you. But when he found me at my current post, he was alarmed to learn I was working for the Rawdons again. He worried that they were involved in the deaths. He considered it suspicious that the Rawdons wanted to keep their presence in England secret, yet they’d sought me out to hire me.”
“He probably suspected, as do I, that they wanted to keep you—and whatever you knew—under their thumb.”
“Benny begged me to leave with him that very day.” She cast Jackson’s aunt a furtive glance. “I told him I wasn’t the sort to run off with a man alone, sweetheart or no. Besides, I wasn’t giving up a well-paying post on such flimsy evidence. So he went without me.”
An anxious expression crossed her face. “But my master saw him leave, and afterward he asked me all sorts of questions—why Benny had come, what it was about. It spooked me. I got through it as best I could, pretending it was merely a social visit, but after everything Benny told me, it made me quite nervous. That night after everyone was asleep, I packed up and left.”
“And you never saw Benny again.”
“No. I thought I might catch up to him on the road, but I never did.” She stared into his face, her eyes troubled. “You don’t think the captain killed him, do you?”
“Someone did, and it’s looking more and more as if it were one of the Rawdons. Just consider yourself lucky that you escaped.”
“I told my parents not to give anyone my direction, so you can understand my shock when you turned up here.”
“I explained to them that you might be witness to a murder, so they thought it best to cooperate. Especially since I said you might be in danger. I asked them not to tell you of it, however.” He flashed her a wan smile. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t take the chance that you were involved.”
“I understand.”
“So you still don’t know for certain whether the captain and Lady Stoneville were engaged in an affair.”
“No, but Benny told me that he’d seen the captain return very agitated late in the afternoon the day of the picnic, around dusk.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned what horse he rode.”
That seemed to perplex her. “I’m sorry, but no.”
It didn’t matter. Jackson was nearly convinced that the mysterious man on the horse had been Captain Rawdon. But if that were the case and Rawdon had killed them, why had Desmond seen the man riding toward the lodge?
Unless Mrs. Rawdon had fired the shots.
He sat back and mused aloud. “What I don’t understand is why the Rawdons returned to England in the first place. If they were afraid of being suspected of murder, why come back at all?”
“I heard them argue once about their being here. I gather that he didn’t really want to stay. He wanted to go back to Portugal to live, but she was tired of foreign climes, and—”
“Back to Portugal?” he asked, a chill running down his spine. “They lived in Portugal at one time?”
“Oh, yes. The captain’s grandmother was Portuguese. He has family there. During the war in Portugal and Spain, I’m told he helped to train a great many Portuguese troops, since he spoke such fluent Portuguese. I believe there’s even some obscure title in his family—”
“Sweet God,” Jackson said hoarsely. “The Portuguese viscount. Captain Rawdon is the Visconde de Basto.”
CELIA STARED AT the viscount, shocked by his assertion. “I heard Mama agree to meet you at the hunting lodge. If it wasn’t you who killed her and Papa, then who could it have been?”
A shuttered look crossed his face. “I do not know. I arrived there after it happened, to find them dead.”
Should she believe him? His arriving afterward did fit with the information Desmond had given them, but it also meant they’d been entirely wrong about Captain Rawdon being Mama’s lover. The viscount had been the one to meet Mama at the hunting lodge.
Yet something wasn’t right. If Mama had been so closely involved with a Portuguese viscount as to have allowed him into the nursery, how could no one have known about it? He must have been a guest at the house party, and surely someone would remember him. Gran might not, because she had arrived late, but Oliver and Jarret would have seen him. Wouldn’t they have found it odd that two Portuguese gentlemen had moved in the family’s sphere?
Besides, she could swear that Mama’s lover hadn’t had a foreign accent. Then again, there was that blasted phrase. “One thing puzzles me about that day in the nursery,” she ventured. As long as she was trapped with him, she should find out all she could. “Why would you call Mama the same thing in Portuguese that Papa always called her in Italian?”
He stiffened. “It was a joke between us. I used to say that he was my wicked twin, that he loved her for her money and I loved her for herself.”
“It couldn’t have been much of a joke: she didn’t seem to like it when you called her that.”
A frown knit his brow. “Your mother hated to be reminded that her husband did not love and respect her as he ought. I should not have said it. I never meant to hurt her.”
Celia remembered what Jackson had said: She was feeling guilty over what she’d been doing, so she lashed out at Oliver to cover her own guilt. Oliver might not have been the only person she lashed out at.
But that brought to mind other things: what Mrs. Rawdon had done that day, what she’d said to Mama, Mama’s reaction. Why would Mama have been envious of Mrs. Rawdon if the woman’s husband hadn’t been her lover?
Unless…
Celia stifled a groan. What if Oliver and Jarret hadn’t recognized the Portuguese lover because that had been the disguise? The heavy beard, the accent … the dyed hair to change his age.
A chill crept over her. What if the viscount was Captain Rawdon?
But then why persist in the disguise now that she had remembered him from the nursery? Why continue this strange masquerade?
Because he really does want to marry you. And he doesn’t know that we suspect the Rawdons.
The ramifications of that hit her. He couldn’t possibly know. They’d never spoken of any details around him. He might not know about Mrs. Rawdon seducing Oliver to strike back at Mama either. Surely the woman wouldn’t have told her husband. And if the captain believed that the family knew nothing to connect the Rawdons intimately with Mama and Papa, then he would think himself able to keep up the masquerade indefinitely.
But then what about his wife? Where was she? Could she be dead now?
Then it hit her. The invalid sister, of course, whom he’d never introduced to them. Perhaps his wife really was an invalid. Or perhaps he just feared she wouldn’t be as good at masquerading as he was.
That’s why he spent his evenings in town, too. His wife might have agreed to let him “court” Celia to find out what she knew, but the woman would never have let him too far out of her sight. Not if she knew he’d strayed before.
So if he truly intended to marry Celia as the viscount, even though he had a wife, it made sense that he was maintaining the masquerade. And it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for Celia to let him know that she’d realized who he really was. As long as he thought there was a chance of his marrying her, he had no reason to kill her.
That left her with no choice—she had to let him keep up the façade until she could catch him with his guard down and get the pistol. Or until Jackson found her. Because she had to have faith that Jackson would find her somehow.
She just hoped he found her in time.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Jackson had left his aunt in charge of arranging for Bow Street officers to be sent to Bedford Square, where the supposed viscount’s town house lay.
Elsie had also mentioned that the Rawdons had a family town house in Paddington, but it had been closed up for years.
Jackson would have preferred to send men there, too, but Paddington was out of Bow Street’s jurisdiction. Besides, Rawdon surely wouldn’t go there if he was trying to keep his identity secret.
With any luck, the Bow Street officers would find Rawdon at home in Bedford Square with his wife. If not, Jackson hoped to catch up to him at the manor, perhaps even before Celia saw him. It was early still—during the house party, the guests had all risen late.
The “viscount” sometimes came early, but if no one was up, he’d be forced to cool his heels. And the man had apparently been there all day yesterday without once approaching her. As long as he didn’t realize anyone had guessed his true identity, she might remain safe.
Or so Jackson kept telling himself. Because the alternative—that the bastard would get his hands on her somehow—was too chilling to contemplate.
The first sign Jackson had that something was wrong came as his carriage raced up the drive at Halstead Hall. Far too many people rushed out to meet the coach, and far too many of them were the family—Mrs. Masters and the wives of the Sharpe brothers along with Mrs. Plumtree and General Waverly, her suitor. Since none of them was Celia, his pulse began to thunder in his ears.
As soon as the carriage slowed, he leapt out. He barked an order to the grooms to change out his horses, then turned to Mrs. Masters. “Where’s Celia?” he demanded. “Why have you all come to greet me?”
Wearing a concerned expression that struck him to the heart, she said, “One of the grooms thinks he saw her being forced into the Visconde de Basto’s carriage an hour ago.”
His heart plummeted into his stomach. He couldn’t believe it. “I’m too late.” He stared at them in a daze as his world crashed before him. “Oh my God, I’m too late.”
“Don’t worry, Pinter,” General Waverly said. “As soon as the groom told us of it, we sent the guests and the Plumtrees home so the Sharpe brothers and Mr. Masters could ride out after Basto and Celia. Mr. Masters went the nearest route to Gretna Green, and the brothers headed for his address in London, in case he went there.”
“He didn’t go there,” Jackson said hoarsely. “The man’s not stupid. He’d know that we’d go first to his house in town. Or what we believe is his house in town, anyway.”
That made Mrs. Plumtree blink. “What do you mean?”
Jackson glared at her. This was her damned fault, for forcing Celia into seeking out suitors. “I have reason to think that Basto is actually Captain Rawdon,” he said, refusing to mince words with her. “And since one of the Rawdons may very well have killed your daughter and son-in-law…”
The color drained from her face, and she staggered back with a little moan. Waverly caught her, supporting her with an arm about her waist. “Are you certain that Basto is Rawdon?” he asked.
“Certain enough,” Jackson bit out. God, how he wished he weren’t. “I just spent an hour interviewing his wife’s former lady’s maid, whose tale convinced me that he’s been courting Celia all this time to determine if she remembers seeing him with her mother. So this abduction isn’t about a marriage; it’s about eliminating the last living witness to acts that either he or his wife almost undoubtedly committed.”
Mrs. Plumtree gasped, but he had no time, and even less inclination, to comfort her. Casting her a withering glance, he said, “I have to go.”
She cried, “Wait, where are you going?”
The grooms weren’t yet done changing the horses, so he spared a moment for her. “Elsie mentioned that Mrs. Rawdon’s family has a town house in Paddington. On the slim chance that he might go there, I’m headed there.”
“Let me go with you.” Mrs. Plumtree pushed away from Waverly. “Please, Mr. Pinter, if I stay here with no news, I will go mad.”
“Good!” Bitter words rose in his throat, threatening to choke him if they remained unsaid. “You deserve it. She probably didn’t survive ten minutes in his presence. Why should he let her live after he’s killed her parents and Benny? After he shot at us on the road?” The thought of Celia dead drove a dagger through his heart, sparking more angry words. “And it is all your doing. You forced her into seeking suitors she didn’t want and thus threw her into his clutches. She would have been safe, living her life, if not for you.”
“Pinter, that’s a little strong, don’t you think?” Waverly said gruffly.
“It’s not strong enough.” Jackson strode up to Hetty, unable to restrain his fury one moment longer. “Do you know why she’s been encouraging the viscount and the earl and the bloody duke? Because she was sure you believed she couldn’t marry.”
He thought of how insecure she’d been, how badly she’d wanted to show her family that she was a woman they could be proud of. It made him want to strike out all the more at the obstinate matron before him.
“She hoped to garner such impressive offers of marriage that you would finally accept she was marriageable and would let her out of your ultimatum. That was her plan. Until she fell in love with me. Apparently she made a bad choice there, too, since I have failed her. And now the only woman I have ever loved—”
He broke off with a choked moan. “I have to go. I have to try to get her back, even if there is small hope of it.”
If he hadn’t been such a fool yesterday, if he’d made his “proper proposal” then, they could have sent the damned viscount away, and he wouldn’t be in agony now. But he’d had to cling to his stupid pride instead. He would never forgive himself for that, never forgive himself for putting her in danger.
How would he live if she died?
As he turned for the carriage, Lady Gabriel called out, “She carries a pistol, so there is some hope.”
He nodded as he jumped into the coach, but her words offered little reassurance. Rawdon knew that she carried a pistol, so he’d probably relieved her of it the moment he’d gotten her into that carriage.
Still, perhaps she had it and would get to use it. Jackson had no choice but to pray that she would. If he didn’t hope for something of the sort, he would go stark raving mad. Because life without Celia wouldn’t be worth living.
The irony of that struck him as the coach pulled away. How foolish he’d been to worry about his ability to provide her with suitable gowns and servants and all that rot. How could he have contemplated for even one moment throwing her away for such trivial reasons?
Right now, only one thing mattered—that Celia stayed alive. Because if he ever got the chance to hold her in his arms again, he wouldn’t give a bloody damn about the rest of it.
CELIA HAD TO get the pistol away from Captain Rawdon somehow. It was her only chance for survival. If she could get him to stop the carriage, preferably where there were people around, she might manage it, but though she’d asked him a couple of times to stop on the pretext of needing to relieve herself, so far he’d refused.
Blasted scoundrel. How far did he mean to travel? It seemed as though they were avoiding the city, for they’d taken a different road than the one leading into town that the Sharpes always used. Was he carrying her straight to Gretna Green?
That was the only place they could go to marry—she might be of age, but marrying in England, even with a special license, would require her consent, and he had to know she wouldn’t give it. It would be much easier to find someone who would marry them without that in Scotland.
“Almost there now, my love,” he murmured. He seemed distracted, absorbed in some private world to which she wasn’t privy.
“Where?”
He didn’t answer. Oh, Lord, did he mean to shoot her somewhere outside of town and bury her?
The second she was out of this carriage, she would fight. If he meant to kill her, he’d have to shoot a moving target. Of course, his manservant was probably armed as well, and he had other men. …
Despair gripped her. How was she to get out of this?
They halted abruptly. His servant stepped out, looked around, then motioned the viscount out. Two of the manservants grabbed her between them and
carried her kicking and screaming in the back entrance of what looked like a perfectly respectable house on the outskirts of London.
There were no other houses directly nearby. Blast it all, where had he brought her? And why? Wherever it was, no one had been here in some time. The inside of the house looked deserted. All the furniture was shrouded in canvas covers, and there seemed to be no servants about.
His men released her inside what looked like a large study with only one door. After barking some orders to her captors in Portuguese, Rawdon shut the door and stepped in front of it to block it.
She flew to the one window, but it was locked, and all she could see outside was a garden. Screaming would do her no good. No one was close enough to hear her.
Whirling on him, she cried, “What are we doing here? Where are we, blast it?”
He shot her an irritated glance as he paced before the door. “Leave me alone. I have to think.”
“About what?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you mean to keep me here? And for how long?”
“Quiet!” he roared. “Let me think!”
She shrank back. Best be careful of provoking him. And what did he have to think about?
As he continued to pace, obviously agitated and muttering to himself, it dawned on her. He must not have planned this abduction. When he’d suggested that he marry her, he’d seemed as surprised by the idea as she.
If he had planned it, surely they would already be on the road to Gretna Green. He would have brought supplies and made provision for stops along the road.
Dear Lord. He had come to court her—or to find out how much she knew about her parents’ deaths, more likely—but when she’d recognized him, he’d made a spur-of-the-moment decision to abduct her. Which meant he had no idea how to proceed.
That could work in her favor. She could guide him in a direction that better suited her. Or at least that better slowed him down until she could find a way to escape or grab his pistol, whichever came first.
Deliberately she softened her tone. “My dear Lord Basto, I realize that you have much on your mind at the moment, but I have certain needs. If there is a retiring room…”
A Lady Never Surrenders Page 28