by Olivia Drake
Hours later, he was jolted to realize that it was well past midnight. Ashraf must have left for the dhow in the harbor.
Over Yasmin’s protests, he stumbled out in a drunken haze and by some miracle found his way back to the inn. From the moment he stepped into the gloomy antechamber, he sensed danger.
His head reeling, he braced his fingertips on the wall. The rough clay bricks still held a trace of the day’s warmth. The wine, he thought fuzzily. What had been in that wine?
He blinked, struggling to focus, slowly making out the black shapes of tables and stools, the earthen water jar near the doorway. Nothing unusual. Yet his neck prickled.
Stealthily, he reached for his knife. His fingers met the smooth waistband of his breeches. He’d forgotten the weapon at Yasmin’s house.
Swaying a little, he walked toward the bedchamber. The place was silent. Too silent. The balcony doors were open, and the cool night breezes came through the moucharabie, a trellis of carved wood designed to protect the privacy of the room's occupants. Snakes of moonlight writhed over the darkened floor. The professor’s sleeping mat was empty.
“Henry?" he whispered.
No answer.
Gabe focused his bleary gaze on the corner. Through the gloom, he could just see the dark outline of the opened trunk. That niggling of alarm crept over him again. The statue. Was the goddess there?
As he weaved a path toward the trunk, he spied someone lying crumpled on the floor. He dropped into a crouch beside the man. Horror struck him in the gut.
Henry Talisford lay unmoving. Numbly, Gabe probed Henry’s neck, but couldn’t find a pulse. A dark puddle stained the floor beneath his head. Like a noxious vapor, the coppery scent of blood tainted the air.
Gabe cursed. Murderers!
A small movement in the shadows alerted him. Fists clenched, he sprang to his feet, his senses distorted by drink. The robed figure of a man stood in the gloom of the corner. In the crook of his arm, he held the small gold statue. Moonlight penetrated his hood to touch pale, aristocratic features. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
“Who the hell are you?” Gabe demanded.
The man merely laughed, a genteel disturbance of the air.
Seized by a lethal rage, Gabe leapt toward him. Then something struck him in the back. The searing pain made him stumble. Pivoting, he caught a glimpse of another man in the moonlight. A ruffian with the skull-like features of an Englishman.
The knife flashed, slicing into Gabe again. His legs buckled. Through the agony, he felt the trickling warmth of blood. His vision wavered like a mirage. The last thing he remembered was that elegant laugh...
Now, shaken by the memory, Gabe sprang from the chair. He stalked across the study to the window, threw open the casement, and gulped in lungfuls of cold night air. His fingers pressed against the white-painted sill. Staring into the darkness, he said flatly, “Yasmin was in league with the thieves. The wine she gave me was laced with opium. I was gulled.”
He heard the clink of glass as his brother refilled his drink. “Did you look for her later?” Michael asked.
“She was gone. The house was abandoned. None of the neighbors knew her. Apparently, she’d leased the place for the day.”
“And the murderers?”
“Vanished without a trace.” Gabe slammed his palm onto the sill. “Damn my idiocy! If I’d been there, Henry would still be alive.”
“You could have been killed,” Michael said. “I’m thankful you’re safe.”
“Safe.” Gabe drenched the word in the self-contempt that ate at him. Turning, he leaned against the window frame and regarded his brother. “I should have guarded the statue. And Henry.”
“Why? Did you mention the goddess to anyone?”
“Hell, no. But Henry did. He was far too trusting.” The professor had had a childlike enthusiasm for their discovery. If anyone showed an interest in their journey, he’d launch into a zealous account of finding the ancient temple. According to his last journal entry, he’d done so with Damson.
“The past can’t be changed. What matters is now. What you’ll do next.” Michael sent him a piercing stare. “I suspect you know these men.”
Gabe set his jaw. It was bad enough that Kate had learned the truth. “Yes,” he bit out. “I intend to make them pay.”
“Who are they?”
“Never mind. It’s my battle, not yours.”
“Don’t be pig-headed. I’ve a right to know. You’d feel the same if the tables were turned.”
Michael had a point, Gabe grudgingly conceded. Perhaps he could use an ally in case Kate or Grandmama proved troublesome. “The man who stabbed me is named Figgins. The other man, the one holding the statue, is his employer, Sir Charles Damson.”
“Damson.” Michael’s blue eyes narrowed as if he were looking into the past. “Foppish fellow, fair hair, glib tongue. A few years ago, he was embroiled in a scandal involving a young lady. He tried to dishonor her, then managed to convince people that she suffered from hysteria.”
“Like an alley cat, Damson always lands on his feet.” Gabe clenched and unclenched his fingers. “But not this time. He won’t get away with murder.”
His brother nodded curtly. “Describe this statue.”
“I’ll do better. If I may have paper and pen...”
Michael waved him toward the desk. “Help yourself.”
Gabe rummaged in a drawer and found a sheet of stationery imprinted with the gold Stokeford crest. Dipping a sharpened quill into a silver inkpot, he sketched an outline of the goddess, the oval face and lush mouth, the ponderous breasts and rounded hips.
Michael leaned over the desk to study the curvaceous form. “How big is the statue?”
“About twice the size of my hand. Here’s the most impressive item.” Gabe outlined the gemstone nestled at the top of the statue’s thighs. “The largest yellow diamond I’ve ever seen.”
Picking up the drawing, his brother whistled softly. “Your goddess is worth a tidy fortune, then. How do you know Damson hasn’t already sold it?”
“Money isn’t his purpose. He wants to add the statue to his collection.”
“Collection?”
Gabe tossed down the quill. “Damson owns a vast array of ancient artifacts. His particular interest is erotica.”
Michael grimaced. “I see. He gets his jollies from inanimate objects—as well as from misusing women.”
“Precisely.” Gabe’s blood ran cold at the thought of Kate in the clutches of that villain. If Gabe had to lock her up, he’d never let her within ten miles of Damson.
“Once you find the statue,” Michael said, “you’ll need a warrant to recover it. Have you contacted the local magistrate?”
“Damson is the magistrate.”
“Good God. Well, then, I’ll accompany you to Cornwall.”
Gabe shook his head. “Ashraf will be sufficient. He once served as guard to a desert prince.” Taking the drawing, he rolled it into a tube. “However, there’s one thing I’d ask of you.”
“Anything.”
“Order Grandmama to keep a close watch on Kate Talisford.”
“Let me guess. She wants to go with you. To avenge her father.”
His gut twisted into a knot. “She’s too blasted stubborn for her own good. She refuses to accept that such a dangerous mission is best handled by a man.”
Amusement shone in his brother’s eyes. “A feisty woman can be a handful. Yet a blessing, too. You could do worse.”
Gabe scowled. “Kate is my responsibility, that’s all. I want only to keep her and her sister safe from harm—” A small sound came from the corridor. The scrape of a shoe on stone. His senses snapped to alertness. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
Gabe didn’t answer. The door stood open a crack, and he sprang toward it. Yanking back the heavy oak panel, he peered out into the passageway. On a nearby table, the tiny flame of a candle wavered inside a glass chimney. The empt
y, shadowed corridor stretched out to either side.
To the right, the corridor turned a corner. He strode there and peered into the darkness of a long, seldom-used picture gallery where the furniture huddled like gloomy shadows. Nothing moved.
Michael appeared beside him. “What was it?”
“I heard a footstep.”
“A servant most likely.”
“Perhaps.” Gabe didn’t agree, but he held his tongue as they returned to the study. There was no point in arguing. Yet he was certain that someone had been out here.
Listening.
Later that evening, the three Rosebuds sat drinking sherry in the bedchamber of the dowager Lady Stokeford. Lucy had invited her friends to spend the night at the Abbey, and she’d just finished telling them the astonishing news.
“Really, Lucy, you should be ashamed of yourself,” said Olivia, Lady Faversham. “Spying on your grandsons.”
“Do loosen your corset, Olivia,” Enid said. “If not for eavesdropping, one would never know half of what goes on in the world.”
Despite Enid’s defense, Lucy felt rather mortified by her actions. She hadn’t intended to spy. She’d gone to bid her grandsons goodnight—and to feast her eyes once again on her darling Gabriel. She couldn’t believe her youngest rapscallion had grown into such a tall, handsome, masterful man.
When she’d heard him speaking about the death of Professor Talisford, why, she hadn’t been able to help herself. To her shock, she’d learned that Kate’s father had been brutally murdered during the robbery of an ancient statue. After a while, her limbs had gone stiff from standing so long, and she’d shifted position, inadvertently scraping her slipper on the stone floor.
“I nearly suffered an apoplexy, hiding in the gallery like one of Bonaparte’s spies,” she told her friends. “Though perhaps I should have stood my ground. Gabriel ought to have confided in me.”
Olivia snorted. “Men never confide in women. They’re too certain of their own superiority.”
“Or afraid that we might talk sense into them,” Enid added, bobbing her head. In the privacy of the boudoir, she had removed the ubiquitous turban, revealing an unkempt mop of graying ginger hair.
“Which is why we must resort to stratagems,” Lucy concurred.
“This is by far the most harebrained scheme that Gabriel has ever concocted,” Olivia stated. “It’s worse than the time he took Joshua’s dare, climbed to the roof, and almost fell to his death.”
“Gabriel always did love adventure,” Enid said with a sigh. “But going after a murderer is far too dangerous. We must find a way to stop him.”
Gazing at her longtime friends, Lucy didn’t hide her sense of helplessness. “Alas, I can no longer force my grandsons to behave. Nor can I fault Gabriel’s intent. He believes a wrong has been done, and he wishes to right it.”
“But he can’t possibly succeed,” Olivia pointed out. “Sir Charles Damson is a member of the best circles. His family can be traced back to the Conqueror. No one would believe him capable of such a foul deed.”
“There was that incident three years ago,” Enid ventured.
Lucy sat forward. “What incident?”
Enid wriggled into a more comfortable position on the overstuffed rose chair. “At the Abernathy’s ball, a young lady claimed that Sir Charles lured her into a deserted bedchamber. Fortunately, they were discovered before he could dishonor her. He insisted she was mistaken as to his intent, and she later recanted her story. The dash of impropriety only made him more popular with the ladies.”
“Hmph,” Olivia said. “If Gabriel is caught thieving from Sir Charles, he’ll go straight to Newgate. And thence to the gibbet.”
Enid gasped. “Surely the Kenyon name would save him.”
Olivia dourly shook her head. “Not in these times. People still remember the bloody revolt of the French peasants. A noble-born thief would be judged even more harshly than a commoner. Any leniency due to rank might well start a riot.”
Lucy’s hand quivered as she took a bracing gulp of sherry. When she could speak, she said, “I fear my grandson will take more than the statue. He’s consumed by a passion for justice. He’ll seek retaliation for the murder of Henry Talisford.”
A grim silence spread over the boudoir. For a moment, there was only the ticking of the clock on the bedside table and the snapping of the fire.
“Oh, dear,” Enid said faintly, “surely he won’t kill Sir Charles.”
Too distraught to speak, Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “We must act swiftly, then,” Olivia said, using the cane to lever herself to her feet. “We must hire the Bow Street Runners. They can retrieve the statue and see that justice is done.”
“Gabriel will never agree to such a course of action,” Lucy fretted. “He doesn’t trust authority.”
“And what of Kate Talisford?” Enid asked. “You said she intends to go with him.”
“She, at least, must be stopped,” Olivia said, pacing the bedchamber, her gray gown swishing and her cane thumping. “We’ll keep her here, as Gabriel asked.”
Distressed, Lucy reflected on the quiet strength she’d sensed in Kate Talisford. The strength to tame her youngest grandson. “She’s a very determined girl. And ... I don’t know that we should stop her.”
A clamor of protests broke out. “We must,” Enid said. “No lady should endanger herself so.”
“It would be the ruination of her reputation,” Olivia declared. “What can you be thinking?”
Lucy held up her hand. “Hear me out, Rosebuds. Did either of you mark the attraction between Kate and my grandson?”
“During dinner, he watched her like a sultan with a new concubine,” Enid said. She poured herself another draught of sherry from the decanter on the table beside her chair.
“Just as we couldn’t keep our eyes off her great-uncle. Did you see the way his eyes twinkled?”
“Nathaniel Babcock is a rogue,” Olivia said sourly. “His eyes always twinkle whenever he meets a rich widow. Especially an exceedingly silly one.”
Enid put her nose in the air. “You’re still jealous about the Christmas ball fifty years ago,” she said, wagging a plump, beringed finger at Olivia. “You’ve never forgotten that Nathaniel danced twice with me and only once with you.”
“Poppycock. He danced three times with Lucy, and I was happy for her—”
“Ladies, please,” Lucy broke in. “We were discussing Kate and my grandson.”
Olivia curled her thin fingers around the knob of her cane. “If this is another of your schemes, Lucy, I would beg you to recall the near disaster when we interfered with Vivien’s life.”
“And look at how well things turned out for her and Michael,” Lucy said.
The Rosebuds shared a smile. The friendship between them had never been stronger than in old age, Lucy reflected. Always before there had been children to tend to, husbands to appease, households to run. But now they had the leisure to spend most days together, and they’d grown closer than sisters. She knew Olivia and Enid as well as she knew herself. And she also knew they would support her scheme no matter what.
With renewed resolve, Lucy leaned forward in her chair. “Gabriel has promised not to depart until three days from now. So let us put our minds to fostering a romance between him and Kate Talisford.”
“But he’ll never settle down with one woman,” Olivia stated. “Some men are like that.”
“I must concur,” Enid fretted. “I fear he’ll break poor Kate’s heart.”
“He won’t,” Lucy said with more hope than confidence. “I fear she’s our only chance to reform his adventuresome nature.”
Pistols at Dawn
The next morning, Kate awakened early after a surprisingly restful sleep. At first, she blinked in puzzlement at the blue arch of the canopy and the magnificent four-poster bed. Then she remembered. She was a guest at Stokeford Abbey. It was the first time she’d slept anywhere but her tidy little chamber at Larkspur Cottage. There w
ere no chores to be done, no sewing or cleaning or baking. Like a lady of leisure, she could lie abed for as long as she liked.
Indolence lasted all of half a minute. Gabriel. What if he’d left for Cornwall without her?
She splashed cold water on her face and hastily donned her second-best black gown. Running out of the chamber, she nearly knocked down Betty, who was toting a pile of linens. Kate muttered a swift apology, then said, “Have you seen Lord Gabriel this morning?”
The maid peered around the towering stack. “Aye, miss. He was talkin’ to Mr. Ashraf downstairs.”
“When?”
“Why, ’twas nigh on half an hour ago. I heard ’em mention the stables.”
The stables. Dear heaven, Gabriel must be intending to order the carriage. If he set off without her...
Kate scurried downstairs, past the tall Ionic columns and the classical statues in niches along the walls. The scuffle of her slippers on the sand-colored marble echoed in the vast corridor. As she headed toward the rear of the house, room upon opulent room unfolded on either side of her.
She glimpsed a piano and a harp in one, a soaring library in another. There were antechambers and sitting rooms, and a dining room with a table so long it surely seated fifty guests.
Then the corridor split into two and, guessing which turn to take, she found herself in the ancient part of the house, where stone archways led to smaller, monastic rooms, including a lovely old chapel which she might have explored had haste not been crucial.
While she wandered around, lost, Gabriel might be leaving her behind.
As her frustration reached a zenith, she came upon an obliging footman who led her through a maze of passageways, then directed her down a small corridor, at the end of which stood an outside door. These were service rooms, she realized, storage for dishes and silver and crystal. As she reached for the outside door handle, she glanced into the last room.
Along the paneled walls stood massive, glass-fronted cabinets that held an array of weapons from old-fashioned muskets to modem rifles, hunting knives to wicked-looking swords. A man stood by the window with his back to her. The early morning sunlight glinted off his dark hair and powerful physique, his broad shoulders clad in a forest-green coat and his long legs in tan breeches with gleaming Hessians.
