October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

  She pressed her lips together and studied him. Mark felt as though he were an open book to her. The intelligence in her eyes went far beyond book learning and experience. She knew him inside and out.

  She proved as much when she said, “That’s what that painting of yours is all about, isn’t it?”

  He looked away.

  “That painting Lord Shayles has. The painting you want back,” she went on. “That’s how you’re trying to reclaim yourself.”

  “It’s just a painting,” he lied. He’d never told such a blatant lie in his life. He couldn’t keep a straight face as he said it. Fight it though he did, his face pinched in a silent sob.

  “Did you paint it?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What is it a painting of?”

  Still, he didn’t answer.

  “It’s the woman,” she said. “The one who is in all the other paintings in your studio. What happened to her?”

  He couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. His throat closed up as guilt and misery ran riot in him, threatening to lock him in decades’ old madness.

  “You have to get her back,” she went on, her voice quiet but rock-solid with determination. “I don’t care what that solicitor says, or what Lord Shayles says. You have to get her back.”

  “I can’t.” The words burst out of Mark in a strangled sigh, in a voice that sounded like his eighteen-year-old self to his ears.

  “Why not?” Angelica shrugged. “You know where it is now. It’s at Lord Shayles’s estate, wherever that is.”

  “I can’t go there,” Mark hissed on. “I can’t get it back.”

  “You have to.” She rested her hand on his arm again.

  He shook his head, glancing up to the grey sky and blinking back tears that he didn’t have a right to shed. “I don’t deserve to get it back.”

  “You do,” she insisted.

  He twisted to meet her eyes, feeling like the worm everyone had always told him he was. “You, of all people, should know that I don’t deserve to get anything back.”

  She stared hard at him. “You cannot tell me that you put that woman in the same situation I was in.” It was a statement of fact instead of a question. “You don’t have it in you, Mark.” She paused, understanding lighting her eyes. “But Lord Shayles does.”

  He turned away from her, drawing his knees up and burying his face in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was that confused, frightened, grieving young man again. He was that man still.

  “You have to get it back,” she said, louder than before. In spite of her travel dress, she rolled to her knees, gripping his hunched shoulder tightly. “Now more than ever. That painting and all it represents is yours. You’ve let it go too long. Now is the time. You have to get it back.”

  “I don’t have the strength,” he said, echoing her story in the most pitiful way. “I never did have the strength. All my life, I’ve been the pitiful dog who continued to follow his master no matter how many times he was kicked.”

  “You put Lord Shayles in prison,” she insisted. “It’s not your fault if his sentence was too short.”

  Mark supposed Lavinia had told her all about that, not to mention what Dowland had said to her in London, but it didn’t change his cowardice. He shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said. “Shayles will be released from prison and he’ll come for me. I’m already dead.”

  “You are not,” Angelica insisted. “You’re only just born. It’s time you take back what is yours.”

  He sighed, turning to her, “Angelica—” he started.

  She cut him short by standing. “I understand,” she said with a determined nod. “You’ve never had anyone stand up for you or stand by you. Everyone has let you down. But not me.”

  “Angelica,” he started again, but wasn’t sure what would follow. His heart felt strangely alive as he stood with her.

  “You need to get that painting back,” she said, staring defiantly at him.

  “It’s at Shayles’s estate,” he reminded her.

  She went on as though he’d never spoken. “You deserve to get that painting back, and if you don’t have the strength to get it, then I do.”

  “Angel,” he said accidentally calling her the name he’d only ever uttered when on the verge of climax. “You can’t—”

  “Watch me,” she said, then turned and marched toward the house.

  Chapter 13

  Mark stood in baffled silence, watching Angelica stride determinedly away from him. His head couldn’t make sense of the conversation they’d just had, but his heart was on fire with it. Her life had been radically altered by the very thing that he had failed to stop so long ago. She should hate him, but instead it was as though she had taken up a sword and charged into battle for his sake.

  “Angelica, wait,” he called after her.

  He bent to scoop up the guns and boxes of bullets, losing precious moments as he emptied each revolver, then shoved them into his pockets so that he could run after her.

  “Slow down,” he called again when they reached the edge of the French garden. Angelica did no such thing, so he raced to catch up to her side, falling into step with her. “You cannot simply charge off to Ravencrest Hall to retrieve a painting.”

  “Ravencrest Hall?” She darted a quick, teasing glance to him as she dodged around a topiary. “So that’s the name of Lord Shayles’s estate.”

  Mark hissed out a breath and dodged with her. “I misspoke.”

  “So Lord Shayles’s estate isn’t Ravencrest Hall?” she asked, charging on.

  “It is, but—”

  “Good, then I should be able to find it without much difficulty.” A twist of a grin played across her lips.

  Mark ground his teeth in frustration. He couldn’t tell if she was goading him or simply enjoying her mad quest.

  “You cannot charge into the lion’s den,” he admonished her as they neared the house.

  One of the footmen must have seen them coming. He opened one of the French doors into the conservatory in time for Angelica to breeze through.

  “Shayles threatened you,” Mark admitted in as hushed a voice as he could manage in his state of agitation. The servants didn’t need to hear everything. “You cannot fly off to the home of a man who has hellish designs on you.”

  “Lord Shayles is in prison,” she reminded him, glancing over her shoulder as she swept through the conservatory, into the hall, and on toward the stairs. “He can’t raise a finger against me when he’s all the way in London and his estate is in remote…where is it again?”

  Mark scowled at her as they started up the stairs. “I won’t tell you.”

  “I’ll find out some other way,” she said.

  “I’ll instruct the servants not to tell you,” Mark said, more desperate by the moment. He couldn’t understand why she would willfully charge into danger when she knew full well what it felt like to be the target of that danger.

  Angelica paused at the top of the stairs. “I don’t know what is expected of British ladies, but I am far more resourceful than you seem to think. I have assisted in the running of a business in spite of intense pressure not to. I know how to gather information and accomplish many things, even in the face of resistance.”

  She marched on, head held high and shoulders squared. Mark squeezed his hands into frustrated fists at his sides and followed her. On any other day and in any other circumstance, he would have pulsed with admiration for her. Even now, her fierce, independent spirit stirred lust in him in a way he hadn’t ever experienced. But the very thing that caused him to ache for her could be the end of her.

  “This insanity must stop,” he said as they marched into the room across the hall from his bedroom that was ostensibly hers, even though they’d been sleeping in his room since their wedding night.

  Lucy was still in the process of unpacking Angelica’s things from their trip to London—with Styx standing b
eside the trunk, looking on—and she looked ready to jump out of her skin in fright when Mark and Angelica barged in on her. She dropped what she was doing and dashed toward the door, but Angelica stopped her.

  “There’s no need to unpack, Lucy,” she said in a commanding voice. “I will be leaving again before nightfall.”

  Mark’s head swam at the suggestion Angelica was leaving and his stomach twisted into knots. “Lady Gatwick will be doing no such thing,” he told Lucy, failing to keep an even tone. Poor Lucy went white with fear. “Please leave us,” Mark managed in a fractionally kinder tone.

  Lucy was only too happy to obey. She bolted toward the door, but Mark stopped her with a gesture and reached into his pockets. For a moment, he was certain Lucy would pass out as he withdrew the guns.

  “Please take these to Mr. Baxter,” he said, handing the guns to her, handles first, then giving her the boxes of bullets.

  Lucy took the items and fled at last. Mark whirled back to face Angelica. With Lucy gone, she had taken it upon herself to repack her trunk. Mark strode over to the folding table where the trunk sat, opened, and scooped out an armful of dresses. Styx joined the flurry of activity by leaping into the trunk and swatting at a chemise with his clawed paw.

  “Stop that,” Angelica scolded him. “You aren’t helping the situation.” She glanced to Mark as though speaking to him as well.

  Part of Mark wanted to laugh. He eyed Styx warily, then glanced to his wife. “This isn’t a situation that should exist to begin with.”

  “No, it’s not,” Angelica said, startling him. She faced him, planting her hands on her hips. “Lord Shayles should have given your painting back years ago. He never should have taken it in the first place.”

  “Saying so isn’t going to change the fact that he has it,” Mark argued. “It’s not worth the risk of charging into hell to get it back.”

  “I think it is,” she said, eyes wide and fiery. “I think getting that painting back means everything.”

  “It’s a painting,” he growled, surprised at the ferocity and volume of his voice. He didn’t yell. He never raised his voice.

  “It is so much more than a painting,” Angelica said, matching his tone and intensity. “That painting is you, Mark. That painting represents everything Lord Shayles took from you. Getting it back is a matter of principle.”

  Frustration grated its way down Mark’s spine. He shoved a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps to expend the wild energy that had built up in him. Styx poked his head up over the edge of Angelica’s trunk as if to see what had him so upset. “I don’t care about the painting,” he lied. He couldn’t help but feel the look Styx gave him was one of recrimination. “I don’t care about reclaiming what is mine. It’s too late for me anyhow. I’m never going to get that back. All I can think about now is keeping you safe, and this is not going to keep you safe.”

  Angelica threw a pile of underthings that Lucy had set on the bed back into the trunk. Styx took it as a personal affront and leapt from the trunk and dashed into the hall. “Do you plan to charge off on your own to face Lord Shayles then?” she demanded. “Is Styx supposed to guard me? Because he seems as irritated by the situation as I am.”

  Mark huffed an impatient breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “Please do not reduce a matter of life and death to a farce with a cat.”

  Angelica glared at him. “Lord Shayles is in prison,” she told him in slow, staccato tones. “He can’t touch me or you as long as he’s there, even if we were standing in the heart of his estate. But he will be released soon. This opportunity won’t last long, and so we must grab it.”

  “To what end?” Mark argued, stepping closer to her and grasping her upper arms. “So that we can get our hands on a piece of canvas covered in paint?”

  “So that you can prove to Lord Shayles that he no longer has a hold on you,” she countered.

  “But he does,” Mark said in a hollow voice. “As long as he has it within his power to reach you and harm you, he will always control me.”

  The truth hurt far more than he thought it would. After decades of trying in vain to convince himself that he was removed from the situation, that he wasn’t truly a part of Shayles and his madness, it was agony to realize that he was no more than a pawn in Shayles’s power games, he was no more than another kitten the bastard delighted in torturing before throwing into the river.

  “You overestimate Lord Shayles’s power,” Angelica said, “because you underestimate mine.”

  Mark sighed, letting go of her, his shoulders dropping in defeat even as his skin prickled with frustration. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face. “You do not know what kind of evil you’re up against.”

  “Do you think I’ve never seen evil?” she asked, gaping incredulously at him. “Do you think I haven’t known first-hand all the ways men seek to enslave those that they believe are lesser than them?”

  Mark’s gut lurched. He’d forgotten about Angelica’s roots far too quickly in the face of her beauty and her boldness. Her complexion was light enough that someone who didn’t know better wouldn’t think twice about where she’d come from, but the legacy she carried within her shone through in the determination she possessed and in her indomitable spirit.

  She stepped into him, resting her hands on his chest and gazing up into his eyes. “What I have or haven’t seen is irrelevant. This is about you, Mark. It is about the suffering you have been through at that man’s hands. I don’t know all of what he did to you and I don’t think I want to know the full extent, but I can see the shackles he put on you. And it breaks my heart to see you—a strong, intelligent, talented man—brought low by treachery.”

  “You think too highly of me,” he said, glancing to the side, unable to stand the kindness in her eyes.

  “No, you don’t think highly enough of yourself,” she insisted.

  “I stood by for years and let Shayles get away with horrors,” he said.

  “I’m not saying you didn’t.”

  Her answer surprised him. He turned back to her with a confused frown.

  “Maybe you could have stopped some of what he did,” she went on. “But I suspect you couldn’t have if you’d tried. You were young and without guidance.”

  “No,” he corrected her, “I was a grown man who knew exactly how much evil he was mired in.”

  “Fine.” She grabbed the lapels of his jacket. “You failed. You were an accomplice to horrible things and you remained silent when you should have spoken out.”

  Mark’s brow inched up. His soul writhed in pain at her words, and a voice in the back of his mind instantly protested. He had been powerless to stop Shayles. He’d done what he could when he could. The mountain of evil whose shadow he’d lived under had been too great for him to even know where to begin to fight back.

  A spark of knowing came to Angelica’s eyes, and her mouth twitched into a grin. “Accept it,” she said. “You were a bad man, Mark Pearson, Earl of Gatwick. You did terrible things and allowed terrible things to happen.”

  He swallowed uncomfortably.

  “But those days are over,” she went on. “You are a new man today. You are the man who caused Lord Shayles to be sent to prison. You are a husband, an artist, and with God’s blessing, someday you’ll be a father.”

  “I don’t deserve to be,” he mumbled, the flood of his emotions rushing to the surface with alarming speed and potency.

  “That man didn’t deserve to be,” Angelica insisted. “But you are not that man anymore. You are the man from before again.” She let go of his jacket and took a half step back, her eyes narrowing. “I think that’s what this painting is about. I’m guessing it’s something you painted early, something from before Lord Shayles got a grip on you.”

  Mark said nothing. She was right, but his heart wasn’t prepared to talk about Kitty.

  “Getting that painting back isn’t a retrieval,” she went on. “It’s a rescue mission. It’s rushing in t
o save someone who hasn’t been strong enough to stand up to monumental evil without help.”

  Her expression shifted to the same single-minded determination she’d worn after their conversation in the meadow. She returned to the pile of clothing on her bed and brought another handful back to the trunk.

  “This is something that has to be done before Lord Shayles is released from prison,” she went on. “Because if you don’t get back that piece of yourself that he took so long ago you truly won’t have the mettle to fight back when he comes to murder you.”

  Her words took a moment to sink in, but as soon as they did, alarm rang through him.

  “So you believe that Shayles will come to kill me, then?” he asked.

  “I do,” she answered grimly. “Because you say so. I believe he’ll try. I don’t believe he’ll succeed.”

  “Then you have to see that it is utter madness to fly off to his home turf like this.” He stepped toward her, grasping her arms once more. He wanted to draw her into his embrace and shelter her from danger forever.

  “I see that if I want to have any sort of happiness in my future, if I want to have a husband I am proud of and children I can adore, I have to take a stand,” she said. She rested a hand on his cheek, sending swirls of guilt and longing through him. “You are worth fighting for.”

  Mark’s chest squeezed. More than that, her words seemed to echo through his head in his father’s voice. A long-forgotten memory stirred. He was a boy and his father had arrived at Eton to demand action be taken against an older boy, the son of a duke, who had bullied him. He’d been mortified by his father’s intervention and insisted that he could have handled the situation himself. But his father had shaken his head and told him that he was worth fighting for and that there was never any shame in showing adversaries that one was not alone.