by Emma Wildes
The flash of fury in the face of the woman before him was unmistakable. Not bound in any way, Eloise slowly got to her feet and took several small, graceful steps. She said softly, “Ah, but we are at war, are we not? How can the death of an enemy be considered murder? If so, you are as guilty as Jack, are you not? Did you never fire a weapon or use your sword while in Spain?”
Alex still thought it a mistake to not lock this woman away under bars and guards. He’d been told that Newgate Prison, however, was considered out of the question. The general still strove for as much secrecy as possible. He parried smoothly, “Face him across a field when he is holding a musket in his hands, kill him fairly, and then it isn’t murder. Lure him to his doom with seductive smiles and erotic promises, and that, my dear Eloise, is being a cutthroat.”
Her china blue eyes were wide. “Do I look like a cutthroat?” She swayed closer. The subtle scent of her perfume drifted through the stifling air, even after hours in custody. Petite, lush and overtly sensual, she gave him a siren’s smile, seemingly oblivious to the young man still watching them both, quill poised.
Picturing the portly, aging Pickford under the pressure of that enticing advance, Alex felt a small wave of pity for the man, even if he had wanted to slip from the grace of his wedding vows.
He, on the other hand, had every intention of keeping his promise to Jessica.
Her breasts were almost brushing his chest and Alex stepped back quickly, as if she were a viper. “Tell me”—his voice was curt and cold as he asked the question—”where your husband might have gone.”
Lips curled back over her white, perfect teeth, Eloise responded with vicious delight, “I don’t know, Colonel Ramsey, but I would watch my back if I were you.”
* * * *
The carriage lurched over a particularly rough patch of road, sending her almost ricocheting across the confined space. Jessica tucked her skirts around her ankles and tried to swallow the thickness in her throat, bracing her hands against the seat. Her discomfort grew by the second and had nothing to do with the bumpy journey.
Across from her, legs crossed at the ankle, Jack Rivers sat silent. She had changed and flung a few items into a bag, making haste to run out the door and leaving the staff in a state of confusion. Higgins, always so correct, had been the most rattled. The alarmed butler actually followed her out to the carriage with unanswered questions on his lips.
It would have been almost comical to see such a dignified man in such distress and disarray, except for the grim circumstances.
And now that they were underway, Alex’s old friend seemed disinclined to speak.
“Please, sir.” She cleared her throat finally and tried to control the wobble in her voice. Blinking fiercely to control the tears that seemed to irritatingly gather on her lashes against her will, she said, “I know you are fatigued from your journey and appreciate very much your concern and effort on my behalf, but could you now tell me exactly what has happened to my husband?”
“He fell afoul of his arrogance, madam.” Her companion folded his arms across his broad chest and looked at her impassively.
The cold words were a surprise and the last thing she would have expected him to say. Meeting that dark, hooded gaze, Jessica felt her lips part. “I beg your pardon?”
His smile was thin, doing nothing to lighten his bleak expression. “You will, knowing him so intimately since your childhood, admit Alex has always had an odd and somewhat brash sense of his own indestructibility, does he not?”
Images, unwanted, drifted back… Alex as barely more than a youth, challenging Robert to a race on horseback, both of them without saddles, standing upright on bare feet on the back of the charging horses.
Alex, young and gallant and charming, reportedly wooing married ladies under the noses of their husbands, proof of which she’d seen herself, unfortunately, firsthand.
Alex, flinging himself at the intruder in the moonlit gardens, armed with nothing more than a slim blade in his hand…
“Perhaps,” she agreed faintly.
Jack Rivers lifted a brow, giving his lean face a sardonic cast. “I think in his quest to discover the murderer that has been plaguing London society these past few weeks, he may finally have met his fateful match.”
Murderer? Her head spun in confusion, misery locked in every pore of her body. With a great deal of effort, she managed to murmur calmly, “You are being deliberately obtuse, Mr. Rivers, I assume to spare my sensibilities. Please do not dissemble further, I beg you. Not knowing what has gone before me will not prepare me to aid Alex. I give you leave to be perfectly upfront and forthright, leaving out no details. Why on earth would my husband investigate that which is better left to the police?”
“The devil’s own question, Mrs. Ramsey. I assume that old snake, Wright, has something to do with it.”
Not having the foggiest notion whom Wright might be and a little bewildered by her companion’s inscrutable expression and evasive demeanor, Jessica tried to stick to the question she needed answered the most. “Has Alex been shot?”
“No.” Rivers barely moved as they careened over a series of potholes designed to shake the very teeth from one’s head. He was so tall that his hair nearly brushed the ceiling to the coach.
“Stabbed?” There was the slightest sob in her voice, much as she tried to keep it steady.
“Not yet.”
“Yet?” She repeated the word faintly, frankly staring at the man seated across from her. “Please…I’m very frightened.”
“So you should be.” The dark eyes gleamed and sarcastic humor added an edge to his voice. Slouched in his seat, Rivers lifted a corner of his mouth in a humorless twitch. “Your husband has run afoul of the famous spy, El Diablo. In Spanish that means ‘the devil’.”
Jessica squared her shoulders. “I have never heard of this man. And why would a Spanish spy be in London?”
“Not Spanish, my dear. French.”
French. That hardly made for a better explanation. She shook her head in bewilderment. “The war is in Spain, sir. How could Alex run ‘afoul’ of anyone like that? I’m afraid you have my head spinning with confusion.”
“Let me see if I can clear the mists for you, Mrs. Ramsey. Wars are fought in many, many ways. Ridding yourself of your enemies is not as simple a task as picking up a gun and charging into the field. Some of those enemies—some of the most powerful of all, never get close to a battlefield. I am sure you can see that they must be dealt with in a different fashion.”
“Different fashion?” Her voice was hoarse inside the swaying carriage.
“Some call it murder.” Rivers smiled briefly again. “I have always thought of assassination as more like simple elimination. For instance, one does not murder a mouse that has stolen into the pantry. It is doing damage and one just eliminates it.”
Murder? Jessica blinked.
“Dealing with those types of foes, the ones that do damage, that is the specialty of El Diablo. And once this famous spy is assigned a task on the behalf of France, I promise you it is done. The trouble is, Alex was apparently given the duty of stopping El Diablo in fulfilling a direct order from the emperor himself. The recent killings in London have been the result of just such an order. Seven more to go and your husband had to interfere with the plan.”
The feeling of unease that had been growing inside her was reaching almost panic proportions. Not only was Jack Rivers acting very odd, she couldn’t decipher from his cryptic remarks whether or not Alex had actually been hurt. All she could do was sit there and try to tell herself that this man, so dark, so quiet and intense, was Alex’s friend.
Or was he?
Rivers said softly, “You can see, can you not, why this would be a problem? A very dedicated and loyal servant of France, circumvented in the duty which is almost sacred?”
Her brain was simply not working because of her worry. The recent murders? The man across from her was telling her that the recent murders that had London abuzz had been comm
itted by a French spy. In disbelief, she said, “How do you know all this?”
One brow elevated very slowly. Arms folded across his chest as they bumped along, Rivers asked, “Come now, you seem to be a very intelligent young woman. How do you think, my dear?”
She had to fight to swallow. Her ears hummed and the desperate feeling of fear for her husband that had gripped her was mutating, changing into a self-preserving kind of terror. The question had been a deliberate taunt; there was no doubt about his tone. Or about the flat and unemotional way he was looking at her. This man was no savior, no concerned friend. She managed to say, “You’re him, are you not? You are El Diablo.”
He instantly shook his dark head, his straight raven-black hair brushing his collar. “No, indeed. El Diablo, I am guessing, is right now under arrest and your husband a hero.”
The conversation was growing more bizarre with each passing second. Sucking in a deep breath, Jessica put her hands on the cracked leather of the seat. Her shoulders lifted a fraction.
“Then…why? Why am I here? If Alex is unharmed and this…this terrible spy under arrest, what are you doing?”
“There is only one person I can see Alex trading for El Diablo, madam, and that is you.”
She asked incredulously, “Why would you want to free a murderous French spy?”
“Because, my dear Mrs. Ramsey, she is my wife.”
Chapter 17
It was late morning and Alex was exhausted, he was frustrated, and he was, apparently, missing one very willful young wife.
“She isn’t here. She left for Berkshire yesterday in the afternoon.”
“She what?” Alex rubbed the aching muscles in the back of his neck and felt deep disappointment settle in his chest like a lump of lead. He’d looked very much forward to seeing Jessica. And not just seeing her, needing her. To be able to touch her, bury his face in her silky hair, stroke her soft skin, kiss her sweet mouth until the ugliness began to fade away. He asked in weary resignation, “What do you mean?”
“As I said. She left.” Marcus looked more than a little tired himself, his face haggard and his shoulders slumped under the fine lawn of his shirt.
Alex felt a grudging sense of admiration for her nerve in defying him. If she wanted to send a message, she couldn’t have been clearer. He admitted, “Actually, Marc, I’m not surprised. I knew Jess was disappointed when I dragged her back here to London instead of taking her to Braidwood and I haven’t exactly been an attentive husband so far.”
“True enough,” his brother muttered. Seated at the table in the breakfast room, his half-empty plate before him, Marcus reached for the pot of tea. “Besides, the idea had merit, if you ask me. I told her to go and made Ariel accompany her. After the other night, I thought it would be best if our wives and the children were miles away from here. Why don’t you sit down, Alex, and have something to eat. You’ve literally been gone for a day and you look like bloody hell.”
“So do you, brother,” Alex countered, but he did reach for a chair, dragged it out and dropped into it with relief.
Marcus lifted a brow. “I’m not surprised, for I barely slept until dawn came, hence this late breakfast. Try getting even a wink of sleep when you know some madman is intent on wringing your neck. Somehow, I don’t fancy the idea of swinging naked in Hyde Park like poor Litchfield, even if I would be dead. Damned undignified, if you ask me.” A cynical smile curved his mouth. “Now, the cryptic note that reached here a few hours ago didn’t do much to enlighten me on the state of affairs. Did you or did you not capture this fellow?”
A footman had come into the room carrying a fresh rasher of eggs, sausages and toast. Alex waited until the young man set down the tray and left before answering. Lifting a steaming cup of tea, Alex admitted, “Captured, yes.”
“Excellent.” Some of the weariness seemed to lift from Marcus’s face. “This situation was turning into a true nightmare.”
The tea tasted wonderful but what he had to say still left a sour taste in his mouth. “Don’t be too elated, Marc.” Alex replaced his cup carefully in the saucer and stared at the plate of food in front of him. “He got away. We didn’t realize—I didn’t realize—he had another weapon hidden on him. In my hurry to apprehend his partner in this deadly scheme, I left him there being guarded by one of Wright’s operatives. Never mind that O’Brien had our murderer at the point of his pistol, he was still overpowered and gravely wounded.”
The brief recital quickly doused whatever joy had come into his expression, but Marcus still said quickly, “That’s unfortunate, but Alex, this still spells success, doesn’t it? You know his face, his name. He might be free, but he’s on the run.”
“Oh yes, I know his face all right.” A laugh, bitter and short, escaped his lips. “And it belongs to Jack Rivers.”
His older brother looked incredulous. “Rivers? Your old friend? A common murderer?”
“A common murderer, perhaps, but an uncommon French spy.” Bitter disappointment colored his comment.
“Rivers…a traitor? I must say I am as surprised as if you’d announced you committed those murders yourself.”
“Yes, well, his switch in loyalty is a tribute to the brutality of war.” As briefly as possible, Alex outlined what Jack had told him and the bits he’d gleaned from Eloise.
Marcus listened, his whole body tense and still. When the dissertation was over, he asked, “Do you think he’s still here in London?”
Alex speared a piece of bacon and eyed it with cynical detachment. “I can’t say. He’d do best to quietly sneak aboard a vessel bound for some foreign port, but then again, his wife has been arrested.”
“Surely he has enough sense to know the game is up?”
Looking his brother in the eyes, Alex said directly, “I don’t know him, Marcus. I thought I did, certainly. But apparently I didn’t. He once risked life and limb for England. Now he strangles men he barely knows for the flag of the enemy. Who am I to analyze this man?”
In the slanting sun from the open window, Marcus looked unsettled. “Surely, after all the years—”
“One would know whether a friend was capable of murder? For the Lord’s sake, Jack was witness at my wedding. Don’t expect me to understand anything about this.”
“I suppose not.” Marcus unhappily fingered a piece of toast and then apparently decided to leave it on his plate, dusting off his hands.
“Lord Alex?”
Alex swiveled in his chair, not aware that someone had entered the room. Behind him stood Heath, the elderly butler, an apologetic look on his wrinkled face. “I’ve just learned from one of the footman that you’d returned home.”
For the stolid Heath to interrupt his employer at breakfast certainly spoke of something urgent. Alex frowned, dropping the bacon back to his plate, untouched. “Yes, I just came in a few minutes ago. What is it?”
“I’ve a message for you.” Plump and white-headed, Heath looked disapproving. “I must say, sir, the gentleman that left this called very late last eve. I was hesitant to allow it, but seeing as he’s quite a friend of yours, I promised him I would deliver it the moment you came in. He seemed very anxious I give it to you and specified only you.”
A friend? Marcus obviously reached the same conclusion instantly, his breath going out in an audible whistle. In the morning sunshine, the room seemed suddenly very quiet.
Jack.
I’d watch my back…
Almost feeling as if he’d fallen into an extension of a nightmarish dream, Alex slowly extended his hand. “Perhaps I’d better see this message then, Heath.”
* * * *
The plan was a bit foolhardy but then again, when one was kidnapped by the self-confessed accomplice to a cold-blooded, murderous spy, perhaps whatever spur of the moment device that might set you free was warranted.
Her companion was finally dozing. As Jessica watched, his head dropped forward, those unsettling black eyes shut at last. At a guess, he must have been awake al
l night, for his rumpled appearance and unshaven jaw suggested it. He slumped there, large and imposing, but…half-asleep.
It was better than nothing and she could hardly afford to pass the opportunity by.
As unobtrusively as possible, she edged toward the door of the carriage. The seat creaked, but luckily, the sound of the old vehicle rattling down the road covered it fairly well. The closer she was, the better chance she had of success.
They hit a particularly nasty rut and she froze as Jack stirred, but apparently even traitorous blackguards had to eventually succumb to exhaustion for he seemed to settle immediately back into an uneasy slumber.
She braced herself, wishing she had the slightest idea just where they were, and took a deep breath. If half of Jack Rivers’ bewildering story was true, the sooner she could get away, the better.
In one swift movement she got up, wrenched the door open and jumped.
The road was narrow, and as it happened, she landed in a small thicket of brambles, the thorns grabbing at her clothes and stinging her hands and arms. The pain the least of her concerns, she scrambled to free herself and her tangled skirts, hearing a shout with a surge of panic. Casting about for cover, she saw a small wood to her left, separated by a meadow dotted with grazing sheep.
Alex had once called her a hoyden and perhaps she was even guilty of it, but at this moment, she was glad of all those times she’d indulged in less-than-ladylike pursuits. Jessica tore up a small embankment and was over the stone fence in a moment, hitching up her long skirts as she ran.
“Stop!”
She ignored the furious order, reminding herself that if she could just find help, she was the sister-in-law of the very important and influential Duke of Grayston and his name alone could probably get her to London even if she didn’t have any money.
Under her feet the ground was a little soft and she stumbled once but recovered, fighting the urge to look back and see if Jack pursued her. The sheep lifted curious heads as she dashed past, and then scattered in a burst of noise.
