A Lady's Ruinous Plan

by Lora Darling

  “What does that—” Before he could finish, Sam ripped him away from the wall, kneed him in the groin, landed another punch directly to his jaw, then tossed him in the gutter where he proceeded to grind a boot heel into his damaged ribs.

  Mere de Dieu!

  “Consider this your last day among polite society, peasant.” For good measure, Sam dug his heel in deeper, then spit in Adrien’s face before stalking away.

  Adrien listened to the sound of Sam’s retreating steps as his vision swam and his mouth filled with blood. He rolled his head to allow the blood to dribble to the cobbles so as not to choke to death.

  Bloody hell, Sam had become a madman. He belonged in Bedlam, not roaming the streets threatening to force wealthy spinsters into marriage. Unsuspecting spinsters. Yes, he had warned Eirene about Sam’s intentions, but she had not appeared overly concerned. The vexing woman probably believed herself too well trained by her sainted grandfather to become anyone’s victim. Well, she was wrong. Sam would not rest until he possessed her wealth.

  Any doubts Adrien might have harbored to the contrary had been pummeled out of him. He needed to warn her, and this time she needed to listen.

  But first he had to get himself out of the gutter.

  He rolled back and forth in a wasted effort to gain enough momentum to propel himself to his feet. Winded, he ceased the rocking and gazed up at the gray sky. Tears burned his eyes. Brought on by the sharp smell of whatever offal he’d landed in, no doubt. If any of his acquaintances were to see him now, they’d believe he cried over the damage done to his coat. Though given Sam’s not so subtle threat, come morning, his acquaintances would know the truth. Benoit, the vicomte known for his dashing good taste and prowess with women and cards, would be no more.

  He might as well remain in the stinking gutter.

  ****

  Eirene, having completed her brisk turn about the block, paused a moment before taking the final turn, which would lead her home. A twinge of unease skittered up her spine, and she looked behind her, but there was no one and nothing. Her grandfather had always cautioned against ignoring the body’s attempts to sound a warning. One did not feel uneasy without cause, he would say.

  Despite Adrien and Mister Westhaven’s dire warnings and the sage advice of her grandfather, she ignored the brief moment of unease. She very much doubted Lord Petley would accost her in broad daylight. Assuming he meant to accost her at all. She simply could not imagine the man so desperate for her fortune he would take such extreme risks with his reputation or that of his younger sister’s.

  Adrien disagreed, but then, she and Adrien disagreed on much. Never before had that been more evident than when he had shocked her senseless with a marriage proposal. What could he have been thinking? Had she not made her stance on marriage perfectly clear? Did he truly believe a few mind-shattering kisses would alter her opinion?

  “Ha. Men and their arrogance,” she mumbled while gathering her hem to continue on her way. “It would take a great deal more than seductive caresses to convince me to marry.”

  “I do believe a gun might do the trick, my lady.” The threatening voice accompanied the feel of a hard object pressed against her lower back. “No, no, do not turn around and do not attempt to scream for help.”

  “Lord Petley, I presume?” So much for her believing the man too sane to attempt such a bold maneuver.

  “At your service.” He pressed close to her side, his cheek lowering to brush against hers. From the corner of her eye, she registered his dark coloring. “I have a carriage just around the corner. I suggest you do nothing that might force me to pull this trigger.”

  Eirene halted and turned to confront Petley head on. Her initial impression of his looks was favorable. In fact, he seemed quite handsome enough to secure a willing participant in the institution of marriage. Were guns really necessary?

  “Do you always follow directions so poorly, my lady?” He had no choice but to tuck the pistol into his jacket lest it draw notice.

  “I rather doubt you actually intend to shoot me. What would be the point? If it is my money you covet. My dead body would greatly hinder your quest. So kindly put that toy away and let us discuss this like two adults, hmm?” She crossed her arms and waited.

  Looking as if he wished to shoot her multiple times, Petley scowled at her logic and crammed the pistol into the back of his trousers. “Rumor has it you’re an unnatural woman, and for once, it seems the gossips were correct.”

  “Not unnatural, simply logical. Now, what is it you want from me, my lord?”

  “I want every last shilling of your fortune.” He possessed incredibly dark eyes, so dark, the iris nearly matched the pupil.

  Eirene refused to allow the man’s raven-like eyes to unnerve her. “That is unfortunate, my lord, for I’ve no intention of giving you a single shilling.”

  He stepped closer, forcing her to back against a neatly maintained hedgerow. “At one time you must have been willing to give me something, hmm? Why else send an invitation asking me to meet privately with you?”

  “You were one of five men to rec—”

  “Oh, aye, I am well aware of the others, and I had thought I’d made it perfectly clear it was in their best interests to drop out of the competition. Sadly, a certain Frenchman proved a tad stubborn, but I believe he has been shown the error of his ways after our little meeting this afternoon.” He flexed his right hand, drawing her attention to his bare skin. His knuckles were smeared with blood. “That’s right,” he sneered, following her gaze to his hand. “That is your lover’s blood.”

  Eirene’s heart thumped painfully as she dragged her gaze back to Petley’s face. The man did not have a mark on him, as if Adrien had been unable to defend himself. My God, had Petley attacked from behind? Or had he simply shot Adrien without warning?

  “I left him alive,” Petley said in response to her unasked question. “Killing him would have been too easy and would have denied me the pleasure of watching him fall into ruin.”

  She frowned at that. “What did you do?”

  “Besides rearrange his ribs and mar his pretty face? You will have to wait for tomorrow’s paper, for I refuse to ruin the surprise.” Despite the darkness of his eyes, they managed to glint with triumph.

  In that moment, she knew. Petley knew of Adrien’s secret, and come morning, all of London would know as well. How Petley was in possession of such knowledge, she had no idea, but she would stake her life that was precisely what the cad had done. She would also stake a goodly portion of her wealth that Adrien would see the article and believe her to be the source. After all, he had confessed she and Cyril to be the only ones privy to the truth and she doubted he would ever suspect his dear friend, Cyril.

  No, he would blame her. And then he would despise her for it.

  That alone was reason enough to attempt to wrestle Petley for his pistol so that she might put a bullet in the fiend’s gut. How dare he orchestrate such a disaster? What right did he have and how did he believe it would somehow lead to the acquisition of her bloody fortune?

  She asked as much.

  “I do not have to explain my actions to you.” He glanced both directions then took firm hold of her arm. “I might not shoot you here and now, my lady, but I strongly suggest you cooperate and allow me to escort you to my carriage.”

  “Or what?” She struggled to pull her arm free, but Lord Petley was a rather tall, strong male specimen.

  “Take a look across the street and tell me what you see, my lady?”

  The command was so unexpected it took her a moment to process it and obey. “What am I supposed to—” She bit off the rest of the question as her gaze zeroed in on the one thing that did not belong amongst the Georgian architecture. The rough looking man doffed his cap upon noticing her regard.

  “If I give the signal, he will enter your home and kill your staff.”

  Eirene tore her gaze from the ruffian across the street and stared in horror at Lord Petley.
“Why are you doing this?”

  “It is rather simple, really.” He began to lead her down the walkway. “I find myself in great need of your wealth, and I mean to have it.”

  For the sake of Hamish and the rest of her staff, she hiked up her hem and kept stride with Petley. His carriage awaited them around the corner, and as he opened the door and shoved her inside, she did nothing to thwart him. He climbed in after and slammed the door. As he banged on the ceiling to order the driver to go, she stared out the window and began to strategize an escape.

  ****

  The patter of footsteps echoed up and down the alley, rousing Adrien to semi-consciousness. They drew closer, and before he could attempt to lift his head, the steps halted and deft hands flitted across his body. He swatted as best he could, but there seemed to be dozens of fingers.

  “Leaf off, damn it.” His command carried a lisp as he forced the words past his throbbing lip.

  The hands stilled but did not vanish. “Bloke’s not dead. Be quick, lads.”

  On the heels of that order, Adrien was aware of a hand rooting deep into his waistcoat to relieve him of his watch. Another hand fumbled at the waist band of his trousers. Bloody hell, did they mean to strip him bare all while he lay helpless as a beached fish? A shrill whistle rang out from the end of the alley, and the hands and the bodies they were attached to scattered like a flock of crows.

  Heavy footsteps approached. “Monsieur?”

  Adrien rolled his head and blinked toward the figure crouched by his side. Red hair. Hard jaw. Hooded eyes. Wild brows. “Hamish?”

  “Aye.” Eirene’s butler frowned heavily as he swept his gaze along Adrien’s prone form. “Those ruffians worked you over g—”

  “No. It wasn’t them.” Adrien attempted to push his weight onto his elbows, but his ribs would have none of it. Mere de Dieu! Had they moved? Had his ribs actually moved? He fell back with a sickening thwack of his skull against cobbles.

  “Easy, monsieur, you’ll do my ladyship no good if you stain this alley with your brains.”

  “Your ladyship?” Somewhere amidst the fog of pain, his mind began to piece together the obvious. Hamish, Eirene’s butler, was at his side, looking as if he’d been running from the devil. Why?

  “I’ll spare you the need to ask, your lordship. He took her, he did. To the casual observer it weren’t a kidnapping, but I know what I saw and I know my lady. She’d not go with the likes of him. Not willingly.”

  “What?” Adrien fought against the pain and managed to shift most of his weight upon his left elbow. The alley spun behind Hamish, but he fixed his gaze on the man’s light brown eyes and ignored the tilting world. “What are you saying?”

  “My lady has been kidnapped.”

  Eirene. Kidnapped. “When?”

  Hamish shook his head. “Not more than an hour ago. I’d have been quicker if I hadn’t wasted time trying to hail a cab. Decided just to hoof it instead, but you weren’t in. Butler said you’d gone for a ride, suggested I check the mews, seeing as how he figured you might have returned. So I did.” He spread his hands and arched a brow. “I guess you returned.”

  “No. I never went on the damn ride.” Adrien glanced at the sky and the position of the sun. It hung low, an indication he’d been lying in the gutter far too long. “Help me up, Hamish.”

  He extended his left hand—his right still lacked feeling—and did what he could to aid Hamish in the task of pulling him to his feet. If Eirene’s butler noticed the moisture on Adrien’s face or the gasps of pain punctuating each shallow breath, he gave no indication.

  Cyril nearly dropped dead upon seeing Adrien as Hamish all but carried him into the house. “My God! What the devil happened? Did Chevalier throw you?”

  Adrien shook his head and extracted himself from Hamish’s supportive body. “Thank you, my good man. Lady Rowe-Weston is lucky to have you in her employ.”

  “Speaking of my lady, my lord—”

  Adrien held up a hand to silence the butler, then gave his attention to Cyril. “Chev did not throw me. I was attacked on my way to the mews.” At least he could now speak without lisping or spitting blood all over the place.

  “Attacked? I’ll have the ruffians hanged, I will!” Cyril drew a great breath as if to yell for Bow Street right then and there.

  “It was Sam who attacked me, Cyril.”

  Cyril’s mouth slammed shut with enough force to vibrate the loose skin about his jaw line. “Sam? Why the devil would Sam attack you in the mews? Are you quite certain? Is it—”

  “I am, without a shadow of a doubt, certain as to the identity of my attacker. He did not merely throw punches. He also announced his intentions to wed Lady Rowe-Weston, whether the lady agreed or not—”

  “He’ll take her to Gretna, he will,” Hamish put in, earning a confused look from Cyril. “Begging your pardon, sir, but your cousin took my lady. ’Tis why I was racing to reach his lordship. I thought perhaps the viscount—”

  “As to that,” Adrien interrupted with a painful sigh, “Sam means to expose me.”

  Cyril gaped at Adrien. “Expose you? You mean—”

  “Oui.” Standing had become rather taxing for Adrien of a sudden, and he found himself swaying toward Hamish. The butler caught him before he could crash to the floor in a pile of indignity.

  “Perhaps we should adjourn to the parlor?” Cyril led the way, glancing over his shoulder every half step to ensure Hamish was handling Adrien with care. It took a lifetime, but finally, Adrien was ensconced in a comfortable chair, his feet propped upon a low stool. “Is that better?” Cyril hovered like a nursemaid. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I would very much appreciate a drink.”

  Cyril flitted away to see to the request, then returned with a lovely measure of whiskey, which Adrien drank without giving a moment’s consideration to his split lip. He nearly threw the glass into the hearth as the sting of alcohol set his injured mouth on fire.

  “Mere de Dieu!” He lowered the glass to his thigh and dropped his head back in the chair.

  “At least the wound is now clean,” Hamish offered.

  “Quite,” Cyril agreed.

  Adrien stared at the ceiling and moaned. “If you two are through, perhaps we should return to the small matter of Lord Petley’s nefarious deeds.”

  The chair opposite creaked, indicating Cyril had taken a seat.

  Adrien lifted his head to meet his friend’s gaze. “I’ll go after them, of course.”

  “The hell you will. You can’t ride in your current state. You’re mad to even cons—”

  “I will go after her.” Adrien glanced at Hamish who remained standing. “An hour, you said?”

  “Give or take, my lord.”

  Adrien returned his attention to Cyril. “Chevalier will have no trouble overtaking them.”

  “Aye, especially after you fall from the saddle and he leaves you behind.” Cyril sat forward. “You cannot be serious, Adrien. You’re moving about like a man with broken ribs. How can you spend any time in a saddle? What good will you do Lady Rowe-Weston if you do irreversible damage to your insides?”

  “Dammit, Cyril, what choice do I have?”

  “You could send someone in your stead? Westhaven is a good chap. Send him. Or Venton. That devil would love a reason to stomp Sam into the ground after their disagreement at the track last year.”

  “Disagreement?” Adrien shook his head and cautiously took a sip of whiskey. The sting was not quite so bad. “Sam cheated and Venton lost a fortune. No, if given the slightest motive, Venton will put a bullet in your cousin and you can’t possibly want that.”

  “No.” Cyril sat back with a defeated sigh. “He is proving himself to be quite a foul creature, but I’ve no wish to have him murdered.”

  “Then it is settled.” Adrien drained the rest of his drink, then attempted to push to his feet. Hamish rushed forward to help, but he waved him away. After a few steadying breaths, he managed to gain his feet. His ri
bs protested in earnest, nearly sending him back into the chair.

  “You’ll need your ribs bound if you mean to ride, my lord.”

  Adrien nodded at Hamish, too busy concentrating on not passing out to manage more.

  “Are you adept at such things, man?” Cyril demanded, and when Hamish indicated he was, Cyril rang for Sayers. “My man will see that you have what you need.” Then to Adrien, he said, “I still think you are mad to ride after them.”

  Adrien spread his hands. “Cyril, I—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You love her.” There was no mistaking Cyril’s tone.

  “You do not approve.”

  Cyril retook his seat. They were alone now, Hamish having gone out to confer with Sayers. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove, but have you told her how you feel?”

  “Oui.”

  “And?”

  “She wants nothing to do with marriage.”

  Cyril’s eyes widened. “You proposed?”

  “I did. She said no, and that, as they say, is that.”

  “Yet you intend to risk your well-being going after her. Why? What is there to gain?”

  “Must I gain anything? Can I not simply wish to see her safe?” Adrien shifted his focus to the fire. “Is that not the true definition of love, Cyril?”

  “Aye, I imagine it is.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eirene glared at Lord Petley across the dim interior of his carriage. Her hands lay atop her lap, tied together with silk cord. Initially, he had stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth, but he had removed it mere moments ago with a stern order for her to hold her tongue or she’d find the cloth stuffed down her throat once more. She did not doubt him. There was a disturbing darkness beneath Lord Samuel Petley’s handsome exterior. It promised unpredictability and hinted at a character lacking in remorse. Her grandfather would have referred to Petley as unhinged. An apt description and one that warned her to tread lightly.

  “If you’ve something to say, say it. Your staring grows tedious.”

  There were a great many things she could say to the man, but most of them would only incite his temper, and she had no way to escape if he decided to lash out physically. Thus far, he’d not done a thing to hurt her. She would like to keep it that way.