by Brenda Hiatt
"I found it, actually, about half an hour since," Lady Hardwyck replied. "It was set at the base of the urn near the front door."
"To dissuade us from following, of course," Luke said brusquely, shooting a sympathetic glance at Noel. "I'm sure Richards planted it."
"Of course." Noel could not believe otherwise. He would not. "If you will excuse me a moment, I need to see whether my own man left any sort of message for me. I asked him to keep an eye on Richards as well."
Turning on his heel, he headed for the stairs. Surely, Kemp could not also have failed him? What he couldn't understand, the thing that gnawed at him most, was why Rowena agreed to go with Richards in the first place. She couldn't possibly still have any sympathy for him, knowing what he was, what a risk he posed.
Could she?
What they had shared yesterday had been real, heart-wrenchingly real. He knew that with every instict, every feeling, every bit of his reason. Emotion could never have clouded his judgement that completely.
He took the stairs two at a time and burst into his chamber —the chamber where he had shared such an incredible experience with Rowena only yesterday. It seemed eons ago, now. Scanning the room, his eyes lighted on a sheet of paper on the writing desk that he had not left there. He snatched it up and read what Kemp had written in a hasty scrawl.
Miss R gone in old brown curricle, chestnut pair, with BB. Following on horseback, will send word.
Thrusting the note into his pocket, Noel headed back downstairs. Kemp gave no clue as to whether Rowena had gone willingly or not, but at least she had someone beyond a street urchin watching out for her now.
"Has no other message come?" he asked the assembled group as he reentered the library. "My man followed them as well."
Four heads shook as one. "How—?" Lady Hardwyck began, when they were interrupted by a pounding on the front door. Disregarding all dignity, they hurried from the library en masse in time to see the butler, Woodruff, opening the door to a panting Stilt.
"Mr. . . Mr. Paxton," he gasped, staggering into the hall when Woodruff, after a questioning look at Luke, let him past. "I have a . . . a message from . . . Mr. Kemp."
* * *
"What do you mean he never returned?" Mr. Richards snapped.
Rowena sat in the one spindly chair her gloomy prison afforded, straining her ears to hear everything her captor and his unkempt confederate said, in hopes of learning something useful.
"Just what I said," the unsavory-looking older man repeated. "Eddie never reported back, so I dunno if he done the job or not."
Mr. Richards cursed, first in English, then in fluent French. "I'll have to keep the girl until we know," he finally muttered. "If Paxton survived, he'll be looking for her— and we can use her to lure him in."
It was all Rowena could do not to gasp aloud, but she dared not let Mr. Richards know she had heard. He had tried to have Noel killed— might even have succeeded! And her own life was apparently forfeit either way, though somehow she found herself worrying less about that than about Noel.
If he had survived, she would not allow herself to be used as bait to draw him to his doom, she was determined. She would contrive to kill herself first, if that was the only thing that could prevent it. Life would not be worth living without Noel, in any case. Living with the knowledge that she had caused his death would be far worse.
"We have lookouts posted about Lunnon. If Paxton returns to Town, we'll know it."
Mr. Richards snorted. "You and your cronies have not instilled in me a great faith in your abilities, Thirk. I should have handled the job myself."
The other man shrugged. "Mayhap you should. But mayhap you wouldn'ta had the stomach for it, neither."
"Fool!" Mr. Richards spat at him. "I've had more experience at—" He glanced at Rowena, who kept her eyes on the floor in apparent dejection, then lowered his voice so that she had to strain to hear it. "I've killed more men than you've picked pockets. One hundred times as many, if you count those the French managed for me during the war. Don't talk to me about 'stomach.'"
The ragged man Thirk backed away, apparently shaken. "Well, all ri' then. I'll, ah, just see if any of our lads have anything to report." He moved to the door.
Mr. Richards turned away from him with a sneer. "As you will. Miss Riverstone, why so glum? Did you not once express to me a desire for adventure?"
Rowena looked up, trying to keep both fear and loathing from her face. "I did, though I had hoped to be an active participant in it. Can I not help in whatever you are planning?"
He narrowed his eyes at her through the gloom. "Do you really have no idea? Has Paxton said nothing to you?"
"Paxton?" she repeated with what she thought credible-sounding surprise. "Noel Paxton? What has he to do with this?"
"What indeed." A grim smile twisted his mouth. "If I believed—" He broke off at the sound of voices at the door. "Yes, what is it?"
"Blind beggar says he's heard something," Thirk replied, coming back into the room. "Someone telling someone else to take a message to Mr. Paxton."
Mr. Richards rounded on the other man at the door, the beggar Rowena had noticed earlier, in his tattered infantry uniform and day's growth of beard, the dirty red cloth bound around his eyes. "What did they say?" he demanded. "Their exact words!"
The blind man cringed away at Mr. Richards tone, but Thirk seized his arm to prevent him from leaving. "Just you up and answer," he told him.
"It . . . it was a man and a lad," he finally said in a weak, quavering voice that spoke of long illness. "The man did most o' the talkin.'"
"And what did he say?" Mr. Richards bit out each word.
"Lessee . . . 'Get you to Hardwyck Hall,' he said, 'and tell Mr. Paxton where they are. I'll go meself to Bow Street.' I'm guessin' he means to fetch the Runners," the old man added.
Mr. Richards cursed. "How long ago was this?"
The beggar shrugged his stooped shoulders. "Mayhap an hour? Mebbe less."
"Then we don't have much time. Even if Paxton is dead, the Runners could arrive at any moment. Come along, Miss Riverstone."
Rowena had been watching the blind beggar closely as he gave his account. Something, she was not sure what, seemed slightly off about him. At Mr. Richards' command, she rose and moved closer, covertly studying the old man.
His hands! she realized with a shock as she drew level with him. He twisted them together, and they were disguised by a thick layer of dirt, but they were not the wasted hands of an old man. Instead, they looked strong and smooth. She glanced up at his scruffy face and saw a wisp of chestnut hair peeping from beneath his knitted cap. Surely, it couldn't be—?
Quickly, she turned back to Mr. Richards. "Where will we go now? Have the Spenceans another meeting place, one the Runners won't find? We don't dare let them stop us now. Too many people stand to benefit by your success."
"Precisely," he agreed, giving her a speculative glance and a slight smile. "If no one is here when they arrive, they will have no evidence beyond a serving man's word. Which means you'll have to come with us, old man," he said to the beggar.
The old man shuffled forward most convincingly, barking his toes on the door frame, even though Rowena suspected he was no more blind than he was old. "But how will I find my way back?" he whined.
"That's none of my concern. Thirk, turn the horses around."
While the other man did as he was bid, Mr. Richards grasped Rowena's arm with one hand and the beggar's arm with the other and led them both from the room. Thirk made a difficult business of turning the curricle around in the narrow alley, while Mr. Richards looked on in growing impatience.
"Here, here, let me do it," he finally exclaimed. "You watch these two."
Thirk jumped down and Mr. Richards released his two prisoners. Rowena, alert for any move the false beggar might make, was ready when he acted. The moment his arm was released, he turned swiftly. Catching him totally by surprise, he knocked Mr. Richards to the ground. Rowena dove to
the side, evading Thirk's lunge in her direction.
"'Ere, now! None o' that!" Thirk cried, reaching inside his coat as Mr. Richards struggled to his feet. At the same time, the "beggar" tore the bandage from his eyes and pulled a pistol from beneath his rags.
Mr. Richards stared. "Paxton! How—?"
Before he could finish his question, Thirk pulled out his own pistol, leveling it at Noel —who fired without hesitation. Thirk crumpled to the ground. Richards lunged for Noel, but Rowena snapped out of her shock at the violence she had just witnessed and shoved him from behind.
"Good girl," said Noel in his normal voice, pulling a second pistol from his tattered coat. "You've just helped to apprehend the Black Bishop, one of the most dangerous men in Europe."
Mr. Richards glared up at him. "You've no proof. I made sure of that."
Noel raised a brow. "I believe I have more proof than I need, actually. Your man Eddie is in the custody of the Foreign Office even now, along with that poor coachman you duped. Unfortunately for you, he seems a patriotic sort. And then there are your letters, to your father and to Miss Riverstone. Remember, we have several you sent during the war, when you were pretending to work for England."
"And there was his plot to kill you, as well," Rowena added. "I heard him discussing it with Thirk, here."
Richards shot her a venomous glance. "I should have known better than to believe for a moment you were sympathetic to my cause. Women can't be trusted, especially women who fancy themselves clever."
"In Miss Riverstone's case, I'd say it's a good deal more than fancy," Noel said with a smile for her that set her heart racing, despite the grime and stubble marring his face. "She's the most intelligent woman I've ever known. Indeed, one of the most intelligent persons I've known, of either sex."
"There's plenty you don't know," Mr. Richards spat. "I have friends, supporters. Your life won't be worth a fig if you kill me."
Noel shrugged. "Oh, I don't plan to kill you myself. Kemp should be arriving momentarily with a contingent from the Foreign Office. I rather doubt you'll escape the noose, however. As for friends, you've killed several of mine. I consider myself finally avenged."
"Several?" Mr. Richards looked genuinely curious, though not at all repentant. "I heard you knew Geraint—"
"And Burroughs and Thompson —perhaps better known to you as Greywolf and the Red Boar." Noel's expression was grimmer than Rowena had ever seen it, his eyes bleak with remembered grief.
Sudden understanding broke across Richards' face. "Puss in Boots!" he exclaimed. "I should have guessed it."
Noel sketched a cynical bow. "At your service. Or, rather, at my country's. Ah, here they come now." He turned to greet his manservant Kemp, who rounded the corner just then with six sturdy, uniformed men behind him.
"All's well," Noel told them. "Take these two in and I'll join you once I've had a chance to get Miss Riverstone safely home and clean myself up."
He supervised the binding and bundling of Richards and Thirk into the curricle, then turned to Rowena.
"Are you certain you are all right?"
"I'm fine," she replied, staring at him with wonder. "You . . . you were a spy during the war?"
He nodded, meeting her eyes with a crooked grin. "And never set foot in Canada, I fear. I apologize for the falsehoods I told you."
"It seems they were justified." She could not stop staring at him as she fit all the pieces together in her mind. She remembered how deftly he had unlocked the ballroom door yesterday —was it only yesterday?—and another suspicion formed.
Lowering her voice, she asked, "Might you also be the Saint of Seven Dials?"
"I did say you were the most intelligent woman I've ever known." His grin widened.
Now it all made sense —his evasiveness about the investigation, the return of her mother's jewels, Noel's irritation when she had praised Mr. Richards for his daring as the Saint.
"So I can now give credit where credit is due," she said, smiling back at him. "It appears I have a debt of gratitude to repay."
He leaned down to brush her lips with his. "And I believe I know just what payment I will demand. But first, let's get you back to Hardwyck Hall. We both have some explaining to do— and an announcement to make."
EPILOGUE
Rowena wondered whether anyone had ever been happier than she was today —her wedding day. Noel's estate of Tidebourne was charming, similar in size to River Chase, but far more welcoming, in her opinion. When they had arrived at the rambling manor house yesterday, she had instantly fallen in love with it.
Now, less than an hour before the wedding, she was attempting to give a truncated version of the events of two weeks ago to Noel's twin sister Holly, who had traveled from Warwickshire with her husband, the Marquess of Vandover, to attend her brother's nuptials.
"So when he arrived, Kemp had already persuaded a blind beggar to exchange clothing with Noel. His impersonation was flawless —I did not recognize him myself for a full five minutes, though I was in the same room with him."
Holly, a handsome black-haired woman, laughed. "Yes, Noel always loved disguises, even as a boy —we both did, actually. I believe it's the main reason he was so determined to become a spy during the war. So now this traitor is under arrest?"
Rowena nodded. "He will stand trial soon. Had I known the full measure of his crimes, I confess I would never have been so foolish as to go driving with him that day—though I suppose that helped to speed his capture."
Just then a curly-headed toddler ran up. "Mama! Mama! Come see puppies!"
Holly knelt down with some difficulty, as she was in the latter stages of pregnancy. "Yes, Cliff, we'll go see them as soon as the wedding is over." She ruffled her son's hair.
Rowena watched with a lump —a happy lump! —in her throat. Three-year-old Clifton looked remarkably like his uncle Noel— like a child of her own might look one day. They had not yet spoken of children, but she was certain Noel would be a wonderful father, after seeing him play with his nephew last night.
Noel's mother and older sister, Blanche, bustled in then, along with Pearl, to help with Rowena's final preparations. Mrs. Paxton chattered in French-accented English with the occasional French phrase thrown in, while Blanche devoted herself to little Clifton, cuddling and cooing to him.
"You will wish to leave off the spectacles, non?" Mrs. Paxton asked as Pearl adjusted Rowena's veil.
She shook her head. "No, I promised Noel I would not. He says he likes them."
Mrs. Paxton clucked her tongue, but Pearl gave Rowena a quick hug. "You are a very lucky woman, you know," Pearl said. "You have found a man who loves you for yourself, and who will not attempt to change you into something you are not."
"Yes," Rowena said with a smile, "I know." Nor would she attempt to change Noel, as she had once thought to do.
It seemed but a moment later that she was entering the little village church where she and Noel were to be married by special license. He had not been willing to wait the extra week for banns to be read —and, in truth, neither had she.
Noel stood by the altar at the front, looking outrageously handsome in his tailored deep blue coat and breeches, his chestnut hair curling roguishly about his ears. His eyes met hers and he smiled, a smile of such infinite promise that it was all Rowena could do not to run down the aisle to him. Her stately procession seemed almost painfully slow, so eager was she to join him.
They repeated their vows steadily, gazing into each other's eyes throughout the brief service. The moment they were pronounced man and wife, Noel gathered her into his arms and kissed her, right there in the church, in full view of the assembly.
Rowena melted against him, but finally the tittering behind them pulled her to her senses. "Later," she whispered.
He answered with a suggestive wink. "I'll take that as a promise. You still owe me, you know."
"And I plan to pay you in full, in only a few hours." Anticipation made her giddy, and she knew she was s
miling like a fool as she proceeded back down the aisle on his arm.
She didn't care. The one man whose opinion she valued considered her the most intelligent of women. What others thought of her mattered not at all.
Once out on the lawn under the warm September sunshine, they were surrounded by family and friends. Sir Nelson came forward to embrace his sister, while Noel was congratulated by Lord Hardwyck, Lord Marcus, Lord Peter and Harry Thatcher.
"You're a lucky man," Lord Peter said, clapping Noel on the shoulder. "Now it only remains for Harry and me to find our perfect mates."
"Not I," declared Mr. Thatcher with a laugh. "You know my feelings about matrimony. I'll never marry, whatever the inducement. As for you, I can't imagine any woman living up to your exacting standards."
"Perfection or nothing," Lord Peter agreed with a grin.
"Then you're in no more danger than I."
"If you will excuse us, gentlemen?" Noel put an arm around Rowena's waist and led her away from the throng, toward the carriage waiting to take them back to Tidebourne. "Harry ought not to tempt fate like that," he said to her with a chuckle.
"Why?" she asked. "Did you once say something similar?"
He smiled down into her eyes and her heart turned over. "If I did, I was speaking from profound ignorance. Of course, how could I know I would meet the perfect woman, one who combines intelligence and passion in one beautiful package."
"Passion?" she asked, grinning up at him.
"Mm. Were you not passionate about all of the causes you espoused? You certainly sounded so."
"Perhaps," she agreed. "But I was still very innocent then. Now I intend to turn my passions to other things."
"Dare I hope I might be one of those things?" he asked, his hazel eyes darkening with desire.
"Indeed." She let all the love she felt for him shine from her own eyes, "I plan to adopt you as my pet cause."
"I believe I like the sound of that," he said, pulling her to him for a kiss that promised years of passion to come.