Jilted by a Rogue

by Cheryl Holt

  Hastings tossed Holden to John Dunn, and suddenly, John Dunn was dragging him away from the road and farther into the trees.

  Holden started to struggle as he demanded, “Where are you taking me?”

  “We’ve decided you’re too wicked to wander freely in civilized society. You’ve hurt too many people, and you’ve never paid a price for any of your sins.”

  “I don’t recognize your authority over me.”

  “We don’t care,” John Dunn said.

  Dunn was so strong that Holden’s feet were barely touching the ground. He was wrestling, trying to break away, and kicking at Dunn—but without much effect. When he finally delivered a satisfying blow to Dunn’s shin, Dunn whacked him alongside the head so hard that he saw stars.

  They didn’t halt until they were deep in the forest, and Lord Benton grabbed Holden away from Dunn.

  “I imagine it’s futile to ask about Jo’s dowry,” he said, “but I’ll ask anyway. Did you spend it all?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Holden heatedly contended.

  “I hate many things in this world, Cartwright,” Benton sneered, “but I hate liars most of all.”

  Then he took a turn, punching Holden so fiercely that he flew through the air and banged into a tree. He crumpled onto his back and stared up at the sky. He was in an enormous jam, and he needed to leap up and defend himself, but with him being so thoroughly assaulted, he couldn’t string two coherent words together.

  Usually, he could wheedle his way out of any situation, but he was extremely befuddled and terribly worried they might murder him. He didn’t know about Benton, but Hastings and Dunn were trained soldiers. They were bigger, tougher, and stronger than Holden, and they wouldn’t blink an eye over committing a homicide.

  If they proceeded, who would realize he was missing? Who would suspect foul play? His mode of carrying on was to vanish when he was weary of his circumstances. If he disappeared, why would anyone deem it to be odd?

  He thought he might have been unconscious for a bit, and when he roused, he couldn’t guess how long he’d been out. The three men were hovered over him, glaring down and impatiently waiting for him to awaken.

  “We’ve discussed you amongst ourselves,” Hastings said as he yanked Holden to his feet.

  “What have you decided?” he spat out.

  “We could hand you over to a magistrate, but the legal route can be so lengthy and unreliable. You might escape your jail cell or weasel out of a prompt hanging. Nor can we allow you to be transported to the penal colonies.”

  “I’d be happy to wind up in Australia! I wouldn’t argue about it.”

  “Yes, but once you were in Australia, you’d simply commence your mischief again, wouldn’t you?”

  “I command you to convey me to the authorities!” Holden said.

  “How convenient for you because we’re on Denby land, so that would be me. I am earl here so I’m the law. What should I do with you? Please share your opinion. I’m dying to hear it.”

  “You should let me go. I’ll stop my tricks and schemes. I swear!”

  The trio chortled gleefully, and Hastings glanced at his partners. “I don’t believe him. How about you?”

  They shook their heads, and Hastings released Holden’s coat. He couldn’t stand on his own, and he plummeted to the ground. He was in a trance and couldn’t focus on them. For some reason, he was fixated on his diamonds. It seemed so unfair that Brinley might have them.

  “My diamonds…” he muttered.

  “What did he say?” Benton asked.

  Hastings replied, “He mumbling about…diamonds?”

  “That’s it,” Dunn fumed. “I’m killing him. We’re finished debating.”

  Vaguely, Holden remembered that he’d glommed onto the diamonds when he was swindling John Dunn. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned them, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “You and Brinley took up residence in Denby Manor,” Hastings said. “Whose idea was it?”

  “Brinley’s! Who would you suppose?”

  “I figured as much, but I wanted to have you verify it.”

  “Your sister is insane.”

  Hastings smirked. “I feel compelled to point out that she’s only my half-sister.”

  Hastings peered over at Benton. “Peyton, why don’t you leave? In case there are questions later, you shouldn’t be involved in the conclusion.”

  “What trouble could there be?” Benton inquired. “Who would bestir themselves over this gutter rat?”

  John Dunn stepped in and said to Holden, “Have you ever wondered what happened to your great chum, Freddie Townsend?”

  Freddie Townsend? Freddie Townsend?

  Holden searched his mind, then recollected that he and Freddie had engaged in numerous cons together, some successful, most not.

  “Freddie was an incompetent ass,” he forced out.

  “Yes, he was,” John Dunn agreed, “and I killed him—just like I’m going to kill you.”

  Up until that moment, Holden hadn’t truly understood how much danger he was in. It was unfolding like a peculiar dream. Yes, he’d been pummeled, and yes, the men were very angry. But two of them were aristocrats and the third—John Dunn—was a renowned landowner in Cornwall.

  Such respected citizens wouldn’t commit cold-blooded murder. Would they?

  “I demand to speak with a lawyer,” he said. “I demand to be arrested and taken to a jail where I can have a trial in front of a judge. This is England. This isn’t some native country run by savages. I should be treated as I deserve to be treated!”

  After he voiced the statement, he recognized it to be incredibly misguided. His tormentors chuckled, and Hastings said, “I am delighted to grant you your wish.”

  John Dunn lifted Holden and held him upright, as Hastings and Benton moved closer.

  “I accuse you of absconding with the dowry of Josephine Bates,” Hastings said. “How do you plead to the charge?”

  “I don’t know the woman,” Holden said, “and I didn’t do it.”

  Hastings continued. “I accuse you of breach of promise for your jilt of Winifred Watson Dunn. How do you plead?”

  “The accursed girl was bankrupt!” Holden complained. “Who could have expected me to proceed?”

  Hastings again. “You kidnapped and ruined Miss Ellen Dunn. You stole the money in her purse and abandoned her at a coaching inn. How do you plead?”

  “She went with me willingly, and she wanted me to have the money—so I could pay our expenses.”

  Hastings jumped in again. “I accuse you of breach of promise regarding Miss Amelia Boyle. I also accuse you of theft of her mother’s wedding jewelry. How do you plead?”

  Holden had forgotten the pearl necklace and earrings he’d pilfered in Amelia’s London home. He’d given them to Brinley, and she still wore them occasionally.

  “Amelia gave me that jewelry,” Holden fibbed. “It was a gift!”

  “Where are they now?” Hastings asked. “Did you sell them?”

  “No, no, Brinley has them. She was wearing them when I saw her earlier today.”

  “I accuse you of dragging John Dunn into one of your schemes. Your despicable actions cost him his career in the army, destroyed his reputation, and nearly got him killed in a duel. I charge you with attempted murder.”

  “I didn’t attempt to murder John Dunn!” Holden fervidly declared. “He got himself into that stupid duel. It wasn’t my fault.”

  Dunn glared at Hastings and said, “If he speaks again, I’m gagging him.”

  Hastings kept on. “I accuse you of trespass, of stealing from me, and incurring debts in my name. I accuse you of corrupting my sister, Brinley Hastings.”

  “She’s a monster,” Holden said. “If you think I—or any man—could corrupt her, you obviously don’t know her very well.”

  John Dunn whacked him alongside the head again and wa
rned, “Shut up. I’m tired of listening to you.”

  “Finally,” Hastings said, “I charge you with massive fraud on behalf of the merchants in Gibraltar.” Hastings nodded to Dunn and Benton. “That’s just the list with which I’m familiar. You two are my jury. What say you?”

  Benton replied, “Guilty on all charges.”

  Dunn added, “Guilty, and I’m sure he’s participated in a thousand other crimes we’ll never unravel.”

  “Holden Cartwright,” Hastings dramatically announced, “as Earl of Denby and lord over this sorry piece of property, I accept the jury’s verdict. I sentence you to death—with the punishment to be carried out immediately.”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Holden frantically said. “Are you mad? You can’t simply kill a fellow in the woods. There are laws against it. You’ll all be hanged.”

  “Who would hang us?” Hastings asked. “We’ll swear to our dying day that we never bumped into you. Who would contradict us?”

  “But how will you dispose of my body? I’ll be found. I’ll be…be…”

  Hastings scoffed. “You won’t be found. You’ll rot in an unmarked grave here in the forest.”

  “If by some chance,” Benton said, “your corpse is ever discovered, we’ll all firmly state that you were probably attacked by bandits.”

  Hastings was very stoic. “Holden Cartwright, you’re about to leave this earth forever. Have you any last words?”

  Holden couldn’t wrap his mind around the bizarre situation, couldn’t figure out how to coax them down off the ledge where they were perched. He studied them, and they looked so determined to proceed.

  “This isn’t right!” he protested. “This isn’t fair! You’re all insane!”

  Hastings tsked with exasperation. “You’re about to meet your Maker, and that’s the comment you chose?”

  “May I do it?” Dunn asked Hastings. “I always told him—if I ever saw him again—I’d kill him. Let me make good on my vow.”

  “I’m fine with that,” Hastings said.

  Before Holden could blink, Dunn retrieved a huge knife from somewhere. Without a second of delay, he stabbed Holden in the chest as he proclaimed, “That’s for Winnie and Ellen, but it’s for me too.”

  Dunn released Holden, and he collapsed. He was gasping for air, his blood flowing into the dirt.

  They glowered down at him, blithely watching his ignominious conclusion. Holden yearned to jump up and shout, No, no, no, my life is not destined to end like this!

  But he couldn’t speak. He was paralyzed, his limbs numb, his pulse slowing.

  “Can you bury him for me?” Hastings asked Dunn. “I have to hurry to the manor to deal with my sister.”

  “You go on,” John Dunn said. “We’ll take care of this.”

  Then…Holden heard no more. His heart beat its final beat, and his eyes fluttered shut. Just like that, it was over.

  * * * *

  Brinley was loafing in the receiving parlor, enjoying an afternoon brandy and staring out at the park. It was a weedy, uncut mess, but she loved gazing at it anyway. Holden was off visiting, and none of their London guests had arrived, so she was relishing the peace and quiet.

  She wished Denby belonged to her. James didn’t want it, and she wondered if she could convince him to sign it over to her. The place called to her and made her eager to tarry. As she waltzed down the gilded halls and glided across the marble floors, she felt like a princess. What girl could bear to relinquish her reign as a princess?

  Suddenly, the front doors burst open, as if they’d been hit by a battering ram. Then—to her stunned surprise—James loomed in the doorway.

  “There you are, you deranged shrew!” he fumed.

  He started toward her, and she shrieked with dismay and leapt off the sofa, circling behind it, using it as a barrier between them. He was incredibly angry, but she wasn’t overly concerned. She’d frequently driven men into fits of rage, so his display of temper was nothing new. She simply needed to calm him down and all would be fine.

  “James! What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll wring your neck for this. How dare you move into this house! How dare you disobey me!”

  “I can explain!” she vehemently said.

  “I very sincerely doubt it.”

  He lunged for her, and she skittered away and raced for the foyer, hoping to reach the stairs so she could run up to her room and lock the door. She didn’t make it though. He seized her from behind, grabbing a fistful of her hair as leverage to force her to her knees.

  “You are insane, Brinley Hastings,” he seethed. “I officially declare it.”

  “Let me go!”

  She elbowed him in the thigh, but it had no effect. He merely shook her very hard, as if she were a ragdoll.

  “Be silent!” he roared.

  A few servants had heard the commotion, and they’d never met James. They rushed in, and they were nervously glancing from him to her, speculating as to whether they should intervene.

  “Help me!” she cried. “This man is a fiend, and I don’t know what he wants. He just barged in, and I’m terrified of him.”

  Two of the footmen tensed, as if they might march over and yank James away from her, but he quashed any attempt by bellowing, “I am James Hastings, Lord Denby.”

  The servants blanched, being as astonished as Brinley to have him show his sorry face.

  “This interloper,” he told them, pointing to Brinley, “has no right to be in my house, and she has no connection to it. She is a liar, a trespasser, and a thief.”

  All of them took a hasty step back—as if she had a disease that was catching.

  “You will return to the kitchen immediately,” he said to them. “I will be there to confer with you as soon as I’m finished with her.”

  They hemmed and hawed, but James was so commanding; it was impossible to ignore him. An older maid gestured for them to follow her.

  “Please!” Brinley beseeched them. “Don’t desert me! I have no idea what he plans!”

  She flashed her most pathetic expression, and he roared again, “Be silent!”

  “I won’t be! Help! Help!”

  The servants hesitated, torn over how to react, but James glowered so dangerously that they darted out.

  “You can’t treat me like this,” she insisted as their strides faded. “I’m your sister! You can’t abuse me.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No. You don’t own me. You don’t support me. Leave me be.”

  She elbowed him again, which only fueled his fury.

  “You are in my home,” he charged, “stealing from me, ruining my good name, and you can’t figure out why I don’t claim you?”

  “I traveled here with Conte Corpetto!” she said. “You must remember the Italian fellow in Gibraltar. He made me do it.”

  James smirked. “Really?”

  “Yes! When he discovered this house was just sitting empty, he forced me to bring him to Denby. I didn’t want to!”

  “Nice try, Brinley, but I already talked to Mr. Cartwright.”

  She was so flummoxed that he’d unmasked Holden’s true identity that she forgot to maintain the pretense. “You couldn’t have talked to him. He’s out visiting the neighbors.”

  “I bumped into him on the road, and it appeared he was abandoning you. Did you realize he was? He had his trunks packed and loaded in a carriage.”

  “He wasn’t departing!” she asserted. “We’re friends. We’re a team.”

  “Yes, you’re a team, all right, a team of degenerate criminals, but your felonious spree is over. I intend that you will never engage in mischief ever again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have to be locked away from decent people.”

  “Locked away where?” she snidely inquired. “You’d never have me publically accused or jailed. Don’t think you can scare me because you can’t.”
r />   “I’m tired of listening to you.”

  From somewhere, he produced a kerchief, and he stuffed it into her mouth. His brazenness enraged her, and she started to fight in earnest, but she couldn’t match him in physical power or strength.

  She’d been on her knees, and he pushed her to the floor and straddled her, his larger body pressing her down as she bucked and cursed and struggled to pitch him off.

  He whipped out a length of rope, and he bound her hands and ankles so she was stretched out on her stomach, hog-tied like an animal. She was sputtering invectives, calling him every foul epithet she’d ever learned, but of course, she was gagged so none of them had any effect.

  “You’re correct that I won’t have you jailed,” he said.

  Prick! She wished he was staring into her eyes so he’d see how much she hated him.

  “It’s occurred to me that you manipulate men and coerce them to assist you, so you shouldn’t be around any men in the future. It’s why I won’t have you prosecuted and incarcerated. I’m betting—before your first month of imprisonment was through—you’d convince some poor sap to let you escape. No, Brinley Hastings, there will be no jail—or male jailors—for you.”

  She scowled, not able to unravel what he was telling her.

  He leaned nearer and grinned. “I am locking you away though—in a convent.”

  She gasped, then shook her head. She couldn’t go to a convent! It was too cruel an ending, but then, cruel men constantly sent troublesome women to convents. Or mental asylums. It was a convenient method for getting rid of a female who was vexing them.

  “There’s an awful one in Scotland,” he continued. “It’s run by the Sisters of Mercy, and the fanatic wing of their order is in control of the facility. It’s all bread and water for meals, combined with ceaseless prayers and chanting. It will drive you mad—as you’ve driven me mad. I’ll deliver you there myself, and I’ll clap with glee as the gates clang shut behind you.”