Dearest Rogue

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Time t’ get out, m’lady,” one of the kidnappers said. “An’ don’t you think about makin’ any noise.”

  She noticed that he made no such admonishment to Mr. MacLeish.

  They seemed to be in a different place from the last one she’d been taken to. Phoebe lifted her head, sniffing the air. She smelled rotting vegetables and the stink of gin, very nearby, before she was hustled inside what seemed to be a cellar.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived,” a cultured voice drawled. She didn’t recognize it, but she did recognize the scent that went with it: amber and jasmine, exotic and rare.

  The last time she’d smelled the exact same scent was outside Eve Dinwoody’s house.

  “IT ISN’T YOUR fault,” Jean-Marie said soothingly as he and Eve rode in a carriage through London. “You have no control over him.”

  “He used me, Jean-Marie,” Eve said, watching the streets anxiously. “Again and again. He lied to me, telling me he’d given up his insane scheme—and I fell for his tricks. I’m a fool, and if I don’t do anything about it, it will be my fault. Here! Here it is.”

  The carriage halted even as she said the words and Eve scrambled from it in unseemly haste.

  Jean-Marie strode ahead of her and raised his fist to knock upon the boardinghouse door, but then he paused, glanced over his shoulder at her, and pushed the door. It swung open, unlocked.

  Eve hurried forward past him, hearing raised male voices as she found the stairs inside. Jean-Marie was close behind as she ran up them.

  “Damn it, I thought you said she was safe, that the kidnapper was in Newgate!”

  Eve made the first floor and found that the voice belonged to Lady Phoebe’s guard. He was facing the Duke of Wakefield, and she halted at the sight. She’d come for the guard, for she knew he’d found and rescued Lady Phoebe the last time. She hadn’t counted on the duke as well.

  Wakefield turned, a tall commanding presence. “Who are you?”

  “Miss Dinwoody.” Captain Trevillion stepped around the duke. “Why are you here?”

  “Because,” she said firmly. “I can’t let him do this, not again. He’s kidnapped Lady Phoebe and I won’t stand for it. Please believe me, if I’d known what he intended I would’ve warned you from the start.”

  “Who?” both men said as one.

  “Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery.” She raised her chin, her gaze steady, though her lips trembled as she betrayed him. “My brother.”

  TREVILLION RODE THROUGH the darkened streets at full gallop, leaning forward over the back of the horse, urging the valiant beast to go faster. Maximus was behind him somewhere. Trevillion had taken one of the horses the footmen had ridden to tell them the news of Phoebe.

  Now they both rode hell-for-leather through London in a desperate attempt to get to Phoebe before it was too late.

  All Trevillion could think about was what Miss Dinwoody had told them—that the Duke of Montgomery was behind all the kidnapping attempts, every one. That he wanted to marry Phoebe—not to himself, but to Malcolm MacLeish, whom he had some kind of hold over. That Montgomery had blackmailed the man Wakefield had had arrested to confess to the kidnappings, though he’d not been involved at all.

  That Eve Dinwoody had no idea why her brother would make such a convoluted plot or why he’d targeted Phoebe.

  Damn Montgomery’s insanity and damn MacLeish’s cowardliness. That they thought they could use Phoebe like some crown jewel to fight over made his chest tighten with rage.

  He leaned forward, clenching the mare’s sides with his thighs as he urged it to jump several barrels in the lane. Behind him Maximus shouted, but Trevillion didn’t turn. Phoebe was being held in St Giles of all places—the very seat of vice in this foul city.

  When he found Montgomery, he’d wring his duplicitous neck, duke or no duke.

  Trevillion leaned to the side, guiding his mount down one of the narrow alleys that ran toward the rabbit warren that was St Giles. After years patrolling these streets as a dragoon he knew them as he knew his own hand.

  Miss Dinwoody had given them an address—a place where Montgomery had once done business. She’d thought her brother might bring Phoebe there, but she hadn’t been sure.

  If she was wrong…

  He rounded a corner and saw a carriage—one much too grand for St Giles. As he came abreast of it, a man emerged from a brick house next to the carriage. The man glanced up at the sound of the horse’s hooves and froze when he saw Trevillion aiming a pistol at his head.

  “Where is Lady Phoebe?” Trevillion growled.

  The man ducked back inside.

  Damn it, to attack a guarded door was suicide.

  Trevillion slid from the saddle, a pistol in each hand.

  He took two steps to the brick house and stood to the side. “Open the door!”

  A blast blew apart the wood of the door, sending splinters everywhere.

  Trevillion charged through the door, kicking aside debris, ignoring the pain that shot up his damned right leg. The interior was dark, but he saw a man turn, a pistol in his hand. Trevillion shot him in the chest, making the man fall back.

  “Don’t shoot!” someone called from the dark inside.

  And then Maximus rushed in, punching with his great fists, knocking men aside like bowling pins.

  Trevillion saw MacLeish cowering by a table and swung his pistol hard across his face.

  Blood splattered from the architect’s nose. “Where’s Lady Phoebe?”

  MacLeish didn’t say anything, but his eyes rolled, glancing toward the far corner. Trevillion looked and saw an inner door.

  He went to it and shoved his shoulder against it.

  It burst open, revealing an empty room.

  Someone tried to rush past him.

  Trevillion caught him by his hair, his bright-yellow hair, and pulled, putting the remaining loaded pistol to the Duke of Montgomery’s temple. “Where is she?”

  “Yield!” cried Montgomery, his hands in front of him, a smile playing about his mouth. “I yield.”

  “I said, where is Lady Phoebe?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Liar,” Maximus said, his eyes blazing. “You took my sister.”

  Montgomery’s eyes narrowed and he suddenly looked quite deadly. “Yes, I took your sister. I consider it fair trade for the wrong you did me.”

  Maximus blinked. “What wrong? I’ve never done anything to you.”

  “You shut down the gin stills in St Giles. This”—Montgomery waved his hands to indicate the building—“used to be a very profitable enterprise. Now it’s merely a pile of bricks. You took it away from me and so I took something—someone—away from you.” He smiled like a blond cherub with too many teeth. “I make it a point to never forget a slight and I certainly never let one go unavenged.”

  “You’re insane,” Maximus said, his lip curling.

  Montgomery cocked his head, his blue eyes glinting coldly in the lantern light. “One man’s raison d’être is another man’s madness.”

  Trevillion pressed the barrel of his pistol into Montgomery’s temple. “I don’t give a damn if you bark at the moon. Tell me where Phoebe is or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Montgomery opened his mouth, but MacLeish coughed wetly in the corner. “That Irishman.”

  Everyone turned to him.

  “What?” asked Montgomery.

  “One of your henchmen,” MacLeish said. He was attempting, not very successfully, to stanch the blood from his nose with his cravat. “He’s missing. I saw him go into the room we were keeping Lady Phoebe in right before they came charging in.”

  Maximus swore and caught up a candle, holding it high to illuminate the inner room.

  A hole in the back wall was clearly revealed by the light. A decrepit cabinet that must’ve been covering the hole had been pulled away from the wall.

  Montgomery chuckled quietly, and for a ghastly moment Trevillion thought he’d truly lost his mind.


  But what he said next was worse.

  “She was taken by one of my men, d’you believe it?”

  For a moment Trevillion only stared, his heart frozen. Phoebe in the sewers of St Giles with some criminal. Dear, sweet God. “What?”

  “Comes of hiring cut-rate help,” said Montgomery, which was when Maximus punched him in the mouth, laying him out flat on the floor.

  But Trevillion didn’t care.

  Phoebe was in St Giles, blind, and in the company of a criminal.

  And night had fallen.

  Chapter Twenty

  At last the day came when King Corineus knew he would soon breathe his last. He called for a chair and four strong men to bear him to the sea and then he bid them leave him there on the beach.

  And when he was alone once more he faced the waves and called in a quavering voice, “Morveren!”…

  —From The Kelpie

  “Pick up yer feet or I’ll pull you by your hair,” growled the nasty man who had Phoebe.

  Phoebe struggled desperately against him, despite his threats. He’d dragged her out of the kidnappers’ den, but this was certainly no rescue.

  In fact she very much feared what he had in mind to do with her. The nasty man wasn’t very big, but he was strong, as she had cause to know. He kept a hand clamped painfully around her wrist, pulling her bodily along a lane or street or some such. She didn’t even know exactly where she was. There were uneven cobblestones beneath her feet—she’d fallen twice already—and a stinking channel in the middle of the lane. She could hear laughter nearby and now and again voices raised in argument, even a yell that sounded like her name. So far she’d refrained from calling for help, fearful of who or what might come to her aid.

  The nasty man was muttering now, either to himself or to her, she couldn’t tell. “A nice piece like you, I ought to be able to get a pretty penny. Might even ransom you after a bit. ’Eard you was from some fancy family.”

  “I’m the Duke of Wakefield’s sister,” she said clearly. “If you let me go, he’ll pay you a fat purse.”

  The nasty man stopped so suddenly she ran into him and for a moment she thought he’d take her up on the offer.

  Instead he drew her against his malodorous body. “Nah. I ain’t never porked an aristo.”

  Which was when Phoebe decided it was past time to scream.

  TREVILLION LIMPED OUT of the cellar into St Giles, Wakefield behind him. Phoebe was nowhere to be seen. It was dark and since this was St Giles the usual lanterns that householders and shopkeepers put by their doorways were sparse and dim.

  He’d left his cane in his rented rooms, he had only one loaded pistol, and he had no idea in which direction she’d been taken.

  “He could’ve taken her in any direction,” Wakefield said, echoing his thoughts.

  Trevillion fought down panic. He was a soldier. He’d been in any number of hopeless situations and prevailed.

  Every one of them were but dress rehearsals for this. “You check that lane”—Trevillion gestured to the right—“I’ll go this way.”

  Wakefield didn’t even balk at taking the order from him, just turned and strode into the darkness.

  Trevillion turned to the left. “Phoebe!”

  Dear God, the man who’d taken her could already be streets away by now.

  “Phoebe!”

  She might be lying in an alley, unable to hear or respond to him, hidden by the labyrinth of lanes and the darkness.

  “Phoebe!”

  She might be dead.

  His boot caught on a loose cobblestone and he staggered and fell to his knees, cursing his leg, cursing Montgomery, cursing his own pride in leaving her at Wakefield House. He should’ve damned Maximus and taken Phoebe with him. Made her his wife at once.

  She’d be lying in his bed now, safe and warm and in his arms, if he had.

  Trevillion set his hand flat on the cobblestones and heaved himself upright. His leg felt broken anew.

  A scream tore through the night, high, shrill, and terrified.

  Phoebe’s scream.

  Trevillion ran. Ignoring pain, ignoring his leg altogether. Fear and horror for Phoebe raced through his veins, pushing him on. He crossed a street, peering into the darkness.

  Another scream.

  He turned a corner.

  There she was, struggling wildly in some brute’s grasp. The man reared back, his hand raised to strike—

  And Trevillion caught it in his fist, twisting it up and behind the man’s back until something popped.

  The brute screamed.

  “Let her go, you piece of shit,” Trevillion snarled into his ear.

  The man staggered against Trevillion as Phoebe pulled free.

  Trevillion struck him across the back of the head anyway, letting the brute drop to the ground unconscious.

  “James?” Phoebe called, her face pale and frightened, her hands outstretched. “James, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he said, and she rushed to him.

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his heart where she was meant to be. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She pulled away enough to put her palms on his face. “He meant to hurt me, but you came in time.”

  “Thank God,” he said, kissing her, running his hand over her cheeks, her hair, her nape. “Thank God.” He pulled her close again, burying his face in her neck. “I thought I’d lost you forever, Phoebe.”

  “Well you haven’t,” she whispered to him. “I’m right here. You saved me, James. You saved me.”

  “I’m not letting you go after this.” He raised his head. “Marry me, Phoebe, please. Damn the courtship. Damn your brother. Damn the waiting. I can’t… I can’t breathe when you’re not with me. I love you with all my cynical heart. Be my wife and teach me to laugh and let me buy you beer and ride with me on the beaches of Cornwall. Be my love and my wife forevermore.”

  “I will,” she whispered to him. “Oh, James, I will.”

  Epilogue

  At once the waves began to churn and up from the depths rose the sea maiden Morveren. But how strange! Though many years had passed and King Corineus himself was now a bent old man, the sea maiden was just the same. Her skin was smooth and clear, her eyes sparkled green, and her hair still flowed white and otherworldly beautiful.

  At the sight of her, King Corineus became aware of how foolish he must look—an old man calling to a young girl. But as he started to retreat, Morveren called to him.

  “How now, my lover? Will you turn from me yet again?”

  At that King Corineus straightened proudly. “You mock me. How can you want anything to do with me, bent and withered as I am?”

  She smiled then, sweet and gentle. “I think you know little of a woman’s mind, King. Will you come with me?”

  “Will you take me as I am now?” he retorted bitterly. “I am no longer a handsome young man.”

  She simply held out her hand in reply.

  And though once he’d laughed at her offer, now he took her hand gratefully.

  “Come,” she whispered. “The sea is truly a wondrous place. Time passes very differently there.”

  Morveren held his hand as King Corineus stepped into the foaming waves, and as the water began to rise a change came over the king. His bent limbs straightened, the wrinkles smoothed from his face, his withered flesh filled with strong muscles, and his white beard darkened until it was black as pitch once more.

  King Corineus looked down at his body made youthful again and exclaimed in astonishment, “How is this possible?”

  Morveren merely shrugged. “A gift from the sea and me. Even if you return to land now you’ll retain your youth. Do you still want to come with me to my sea home?”

  Corineus looked at her and grinned. “I had everything I had ever wished for in my life. A kingdom, wealth, respect, and power. And yet I feel that I missed many things when I refused your offer. If you’ll let me, I will be your husband and st
ay with you always.”

  “Then come with me,” Morveren said, “and I’ll show you all the things that you’ve missed—including this one.” And she pointed to a small boy frolicking in the waves. He had hair as black as pitch and eyes of deepest green.

  Corineus took the little boy’s hand and together all three dove into the waves.

  And what became of Corineus then? Well, that I cannot tell you, for no mortal returns from the sea. And yet there are tales told by sailors of a glittering kingdom lying far, far beneath the sea, made of seashells, whale bones, and pearls. ’Tis said that Corineus ruled there for many, many years with his wife the sea maiden Morveren and their son.

  And who knows? Perhaps he rules there still.…

  —From The Kelpie

  TWO WEEKS LATER…

  Eve Dinwoody sat in bed reading a book about beetles. She wasn’t particularly interested in beetles, but Val had given her the book several years ago and she was feeling a little nostalgic. The hand-tinted drawings of the insects were very beautiful.

  She sighed as she turned another page. The book was probably worth an outrageous fortune.

  The candles beside her bed flickered and when Eve looked up, Val was standing at the foot of her bed.

  Slowly she closed the book.

  “I have to leave England,” Val said, his petulant look heightened by his bottom lip, which was two times its normal size.

  Eve winced. Val also had fading bruises on both cheeks and one eye was spectacularly blackened. The Duke of Wakefield really had not been pleased by his sister’s kidnapping. “You kidnapped a peer’s sister, Val. He could’ve had you thrown in prison or even hanged. I think you got off rather well with an informal banishment from Wakefield.”

  Val threw himself moodily onto the foot of her bed, making the whole thing shake. “He couldn’t have hanged me—I’m a peer myself. ’Tisn’t done.”

  “Neither is kidnapping.” She sighed. “Whyever did you do it, Val? Lady Phoebe is one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever met. You would’ve ruined her life.”