Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  Nick stopped dead. His eyes flicked over Gabby once, then moved past her to Trent. They were suddenly black and shiny as pieces of jet.

  “Let her go.”

  Trent laughed. “My dear boy, you can’t be serious.”

  “You can’t get away.”

  “Well, now, you know, with Gabby here for a hostage, I almost think I can.” He pushed the mouth of the pistol so hard against her temple that it felt as if he might be going to shove it through her skull. Gabby whimpered. The small sound was immediately choked off by the tightening of his arm around her neck. She remembered then that Trent was cruel. That he enjoyed being cruel.

  She shivered. Her body was suddenly icy cold. Blind panic threatened to overwhelm her. She had to deliberately force it back.

  “If you hurt her I’ll kill you.” Nick’s voice held a deadly certainty.

  “Are you threatening me, Captain? Oh, I beg your pardon, it’s Major now, isn’t it?” The arm around Gabby’s throat eased its grip just the smallest bit, and she took a deep, shaken breath. Then it tightened again. It was torture, being able to breathe and then not, and she was certain he intended it as such. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. You do know he’s not your brother, don’t you, Gabby? Yes, of course you do. But do you know who he is? Major Nicholas Devane, Wellington’s premier spy catcher.”

  There was a sneer in the last words. Gabby’s eyes widened on Nick. He was working for the government? She had wronged him from the start.

  “And you’re the latest spy I’ve been trying to catch.” Nick’s voice was silky with menace.

  “You’re very thorough. I make you my compliments. I thought I had covered my tracks quite well. Actually, I’ve been watching you since you arrived in London. Pretending to be Wickham was quite a good trick, I must admit. It took me several weeks to ascertain that the real Wickham was truly, as he was supposed to be, dead.”

  “You had him killed.”

  Gabby could feel Trent’s shrug against her back. She could breathe again now, a little, as he was focused on Nick. “It went against the grain—the son of a friend, you know—but that idiot Challow sent a sealed letter Matthew had given him for safekeeping to the new earl, along with a box of other papers. That letter identified me as a spy for the French. Really, the knowledge that he had it was all that kept Matthew alive for so long. Matthew had many flaws, but he didn’t like betraying his country. Only the fact that he was in the direst financial straits enabled me to persuade him to allow Hawthorne Hall to be used as our meeting place. It was so remote, you know. And Matthew had lost all that money to me, and had no other means of paying. But he wrote that letter, and told me so. Of course, once it fell into the hands of Matthew’s son I had to retrieve it. I don’t believe it had been in his possession a week when I, er, got it back.”

  “You mean when you had the letter stolen from the house and Marcus killed on the off chance that he had read it.”

  Trent smiled. “That’s right. I couldn’t be sure, of course. But obviously he did read it, or you and I wouldn’t be here. He sent for you, didn’t he? But what puzzles me is how the devil he knew of your existence. Most don’t, you know. Even in the military. I pride myself on being one of the few.”

  “Marcus was my cousin. His mother and my mother were sisters. We grew up together in Ceylon. My father was a military man, his was an earl. Our paths diverged at a young age, but we remained close. I don’t mean to let you get away with killing him, you know.”

  “Ah,” Trent said, with something that sounded very much like satisfaction. “The weak link in the chain. There always seems to be one. You were hoping I’d think you really were Wickham, having survived the attack and come to London, weren’t you? Did you actually expect me to go after you without checking?”

  “One can always hope.”

  “One final question: What put you on to me?”

  “You did.” Nick smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “You should never have threatened Gabriella. That was your fatal mistake.”

  Trent laughed, and glanced around. “Well, I must say I’ve enjoyed making your acquaintance at last, but it’s time for me to go. I didn’t actually come here for Gabby, you know. I came to kill you. But she is a nice bonus. Matthew promised her to me years ago, actually, and I’ve always meant to collect.”

  He began to move backward, dragging Gabby with him. She clawed at his arm to no avail, choking as her breath was almost totally cut off again. The pistol ground into her skull, hurting her. Despite the cold, she was sweating with terror, both for herself and for Nick. The time for conversation was over, she feared. Trent was the only one with a weapon, and he was unlikely to let either of them live. She guessed he was only drawing Nick as far away from the house as possible before he shot him. Gasping for breath, heart racing, she stumbled as much as possible to slow Trent down, but he was surprisingly strong.

  If Nick realized what Trent was up to, he gave no sign. He kept pace with them, step by step, drawing, Gabby thought, steadily closer to her by the smallest of degrees, his focus all on her captor now. His face, as a shaft of moonlight struck it, was utterly expressionless. His eyes were black shards of ice, and they never left Trent’s face.

  “You can’t get away, you know. By now the courtyard will be surrounded.” Nick’s voice was almost conversational.

  Trent chuckled. “You’ll find I don’t bluff that easily.”

  “No bluff. I’ve had someone following you since early yesterday. By now, there are a dozen of my men on the other side of that hedge.”

  “I seriously doubt it, Major.”

  “Let Gabriella go, and maybe you and I can do a deal.” To Gabby’s ears, Nick’s voice was harder than before, with a fine sharp edge to it that reminded her of a knife. He didn’t sound like the charming, mocking Nick she knew. He sounded like—a man as cold and ruthless as Trent. The thought made her shiver. It also gave her hope.

  If anyone could stop Trent, it was Nick.

  She realized that Trent had dragged her almost all the way to the east corner of the garden, where there was a gap in the hedge.

  At the thought that she might soon be alone with Trent, and at his mercy, panic once again threatened to overwhelm her. Her chest tightened. Her stomach churned. She could feel cold sweat breaking out all over her body. . . .

  But no, she told herself, no. She must just trust Nick.

  Gabby’s heart pounded like a kettledrum as she realized that, very soon now, Nick was going to have to make his move, or one or both of them would be lost.

  “I may be mistaken, but I believe I hold all the cards in this hand. No deal, Major.”

  “Now, Barnet!” Nick barked the command. Gabby’s heart leaped into her throat with a combination of hope and terror before she remembered that it was the same toothless ruse he had once used on her. . . .

  43

  Nick dived for Gabriella just as the pistol went off. At such close range the explosion was deafening. The bullet whizzed harmlessly past his ear as he fell with her to the ground, twisting to take the force of the landing on himself. Just as he’d expected, Trent had fired at him instead of Gabriella. Thank God he hadn’t miscalculated. At the thought of what could have happened had Trent not reacted as predicted, Nick began to shake.

  From all corners, his men rushed to surround Trent. They were quiet, efficient, well trained. Trent fought, tried to break free, but was quickly overpowered and bound. A few guests began to emerge from the house, drawn no doubt by the shot. They were peering in the direction of the disturbance. Nick, lying on the cold hard ground with Gabriella’s warm, soft shape in his arms, left the whole group of them to do what they needed to do. He’d been searching for Trent for months, ever since it had become clear that a spy with access to top secret government papers was passing details of Wellington’s army’s movements to the enemy. Ironically enough, he’d gone after Trent for Gabby. He wouldn’t have looked at him else. But in digging into Trent’s backg
round, he’d discovered enough information to convince him that the duke was the man he sought.

  His focus now was all on Gabriella.

  Her silky bare arms were locked around his neck as if she would never let him go, her delectable breasts were snuggled close against his chest, her face was buried in his shoulder, and, like him, she was shaking.

  “Oh, Nick.” Her voice trembled, too.

  His name on her lips was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. He hugged her tight, kissed her ear, which was all of her his mouth could reach, and inhaled the sweet scent of vanilla.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her shivering seemed to be lessening by degrees, he thought. His had almost stopped. It had been entirely on her account, anyway. He had been more afraid for her tonight than he had ever been for anyone else in his life. Now what did that tell him?

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Besides losing about ten years off my life when I thought he was going to shoot you before I could get to him? Fine.”

  “I was afraid he was going to shoot you.”

  Now that was promising. He smoothed a hand down her back. The lacey dress she was wearing left her shoulders and most of her shoulderblades bare.

  “Gabriella.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Look at me.”

  She was still trembling, long fine tremors that chased each other through her limbs, but she did as he told her. Her eyes were mysterious dark pools in the moonlight. Her lips were parted as she looked up at him. He had to distract himself from those lips. He focused on her eyes instead.

  “Remember what I said before you slapped me in the ballroom?”

  Her brow darkened, and she frowned at him. “Yes, of course I remember.”

  “Something about thinking you were madly in love with me?”

  Her frown grew more pronounced. “You don’t need to repeat it,” she said with faint hauteur.

  He smiled. He couldn’t help it. That innate high-and-mightiness of hers was just about the first thing that he’d noticed about her. He had discovered, to his own surprise, that he liked pride as well as courage in a woman. Especially when they came all wrapped up in delicate bones and porcelain skin and eyes the color of rain. . . .

  “Are you smiling?” Her tone was ominous.

  “The reason I said that,” he continued hastily, before she could get mad at him again, “is because I’ve discovered, to my own everlasting surprise, that I’m quite madly in love with you.” As he said it, he knew that he meant it more than he had ever meant anything in his life.

  Her eyes widened. Her breath seemed to catch. The hands that were still linked behind his neck tightened. She tilted her face up toward his.

  “Oh, Nick.” She smiled at him rather tremulously. All of a sudden her heart was in her eyes. “I do love you, Nick.”

  His back, thankfully, was to the growing crowd. They lay on the short prickly grass, deep in the shadow of an overhanging bush, wrapped in each other’s arms. Her frothy gold skirt was all tangled around his legs, her half-naked bosom was pressed firmly against his chest, and he felt not the smallest inclination to change a thing. Neither, apparently, did she. Thinking about it, Nick supposed with a dawning grin that the presence of the crowd that was even now spilling out from the ballroom was reason enough to get to his feet and pull her up with him: if he and Gabriella were spotted, their guests would be even more scandalized than they were already. As far as they knew, what they were seeing was the earl of Wickham lying in the grass kissing his sister; who had, moreover, not thirty minutes earlier in the middle of a crowded ballroom, already very publicly slapped his face.

  He didn’t give a damn. He kissed her anyway.

  “Cap’n! Cap’n!” Barnet was calling him, his voice urgent. Nick registered that, glanced around, and came rolling to his feet quick as a cat as he saw the stranger rushing toward him in a low murderous streak across the grass. Clad all in black with a mask over his face, the man could only be an assassin. Nick’s senses went on high alert. Barnet was pounding behind the attacker, running like a horse for the finish line, but it was all happening too fast. Crouching, cursing under his breath, Nick faced the assailant unarmed. Thank God Gabriella was behind him. . . .

  It was the last logical thought he had. A pistol exploded, and something hit him hard in the chest. Looking down, he saw a bright blossom of crimson staining his waistcoat right in the middle of his chest.

  He groaned.

  Behind him, Gabriella shrieked.

  He was still staring stupidly at the spreading stain on his waistcoat when at least four of his men tackled the assassin and brought him down. Barnet reached him half a heartbeat later.

  “Cap’n! Cap’n!”

  Nick looked up at his longtime henchman in stunned disbelief. “Not now,” he said unsteadily, his voice already beginning to slur. “I’m not ready. There’s Gabriella. . . .”

  “Ah, Cap’n.” Barnet wrapped his arms around him tightly as Nick’s knees began to collapse. With blurring vision, he registered that his unit, bearing Trent and the assassin with them, had already melted away. Like shadows in the night . . .

  “No,” he managed one last protest.

  “Nick!” Gabriella’s horrified scream broke through the buzz that was beginning to fill his ears. “Nick! Nick!”

  “Get her out of here,” he breathed. Then, as blackness rose up to claim him, he took a final shuddering breath and collapsed.

  Fifteen minutes later, with Barnet forcibly holding a hysterical Gabriella at a decent distance, Nick’s men long gone and the entire population of the ballroom now gathered around, a hastily summoned surgeon pronounced Marcus Banning, seventh earl of Wickham, dead.

  44

  Fittingly enough, that year it was cold in June. It didn’t matter: Gabby spent as much time outdoors as she could, wrapped up against the chill, walking, endlessly walking, over the moors. She walked so much her leg ached continuously, and then she walked some more. She walked until she was exhausted, until she had to knead her thigh before she could move properly in the mornings, until her limp became pronounced. She walked because it was the only way she knew to extract a few hours peace from the long stretch from midnight to dawn when she was haunted by nightmares, and aching, poignant dreams.

  She was thankful, in a way, to be back at Hawthorne Hall. Out of the whole rest of her life she had just this little time left to spend at her childhood home. Cousin Thomas—the eighth earl of Wickham now—had allowed them to travel back to their former home to pack up their personal belongings before he took permanent possession of the estate. They had to be out for good in three more days.

  Despite the scandal that she had brought down on them all, Aunt Augusta had offered her and Claire and Beth a permanent home with her in town. And the scandal was huge. Mr. Jamison had withdrawn his offer; Gabby had suffered several cuts direct from people she had considered friends; and everywhere she went there were those who would look at her with contempt, then whisper behind their hands. She couldn’t really blame anyone: all of fashionable London believed that they had watched her falling in love with her brother, and then witnessed his subsequent murder by an unknown gunman in the courtyard of Wickham House. Gabby had told no one, not even her sisters, anything different, but at least her sisters, in the matter of her supposed love affair with their brother, seemed willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Barnet had come to see her on the day after Wickham’s death, along with a high-ranking official from the war department. They had asked her, in the interests of national security, not to reveal the true identity of the man who had died that night. She had agreed never to do so.

  Sometimes she wondered, in passing, if she would have been killed if she had not agreed.

  Nick was dead, only no one knew it. Everyone, her sisters, her aunt, the servants, everyone except Jem, thought she mourned so for her brother Marcus, with whom, in the court of popular opinion, she had been convicted of conducting an illicit love af
fair. It would have been almost funny, if in the aftermath of Nick’s death she had not felt so terribly forlorn.

  She could not share the depth of her loss, or the degree of her pain, with those she loved best. So she walked the moors alone, and grieved.

  “Miss Gabby, it’ll be gettin’ dark soon. You need to come back to the house now.”

  Gabby looked over her shoulder, and smiled at Jem. He was worried about her, she knew. His voice was gentle whenever he spoke to her now, and his eyes when he looked at her had an almost grim expression that she had seen in them only once before, right after she had broken her leg and it had become apparent that it was not going to heal properly. He had taken to following her about, too; not that he let her see him, much, but whenever she was out close to dark, or near a bog or some other potentially treacherous place, he always seemed to turn up. She knew what he was doing, and appreciated his care of her.

  Claire and Beth were worried about her, too. Gabby knew it, and tried her best to act as if she were in reasonable spirits while in their company. They mourned the man they had known as Marcus, too, but not like she did.

  She didn’t grieve for a charming but only recently met brother. She grieved for the man she loved.

  At the time, she had thought the funeral was a nightmare. Nearly a thousand people had turned up in Westminster Abbey to pay their last respects, or to gawk and gossip, she hadn’t been able to decide which. And she hadn’t cared.

  Now she knew that the real nightmare was living on after the funeral. Her world had turned to ashes and was peopled by shadows; she felt as though something inside her had broken—her heart, perhaps?—and would never again be whole.

  And no one knew.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m gettin’ cold.”

  Gabby turned, summoned a smile for Jem, and, walking at the old man’s side, headed back toward the house. A brisk wind carried the scent of gorse on it. The setting sun was reflected in the lake near the house. Hawthorne Hall itself brooded against the skyline, looking as dark and gloomy on the outside as she felt inside.