The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  The man scrambled beneath him, but could not heave Rhys’ bulk off. He managed to get a hand to his boot, though, and pulled out a knife.

  Rhys knew he was in trouble. Welfield started to raise the blade. Malvi, still coiled around the pain in her gut, kicked out and knocked it from his hand. The knife skittered across the floor toward the doorway.

  Rhys followed its progress—and then frowned. The door stood open and a lad was silhouetted in the frame. At first he thought . . . but no, it wasn’t Flightly.

  “Geordie?” He frowned. Had his pounding head played him false?

  “Aye, yer lordship.” The lad picked up the knife and strolled inside. Casually, he stepped on Welfield’s wrist, pinning it to the floor. “Hold the rest of ’im,” he ordered. “And keep yer hands still.”

  The boy sliced Rhys’ bindings while Welfield wriggled and spit and cursed and threatened beneath him. Rhys shook his hands free and held one out. The boy slapped the knife into it.

  Rhys pressed the point to the man’s throat. “Be quiet!” he ordered. “I didn’t think my head could hurt any worse, but you are managing it.”

  “Good!” Welfield shouted. “I hope it hurts like hell. I hope it falls from your—”

  With a sigh, Rhys flipped the knife and struck the man in his temple.

  Welfield slumped and the flow of vitriol stopped.

  “I hope his head aches like the very devil when he wakes up,” Rhys muttered. He rolled off the man and touched the back of his head. His fingers came away covered in blood. “Grab that sack,” he ordered Geordie, pointing. “Rip some long strips from it.”

  He struggled to his feet, reached over and almost casually grabbed Malvi, who had begun to inch toward the door. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” he told her.

  She just sighed.

  “Francis,” he said to her, pulling her close. “She’s not truly missing, is she?”

  Malvi rolled her eyes. “No. She’s sitting in that ribbon shop, just as you were sitting and twiddling your thumbs in your studio. Both of you waiting for the other to leave the city before you moved on. So, I sped things up a bit.”

  Rhys breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How did you get here, lad?” he asked Geordie when the boy brought him a handful of ripped lengths of flour sack. He tied Malvi’s hands together and pushed her over to her abandoned chair.

  “I was at the livery when they called for the coach. I delivered it, then followed. I seen what they did to ye and knew they’d be lighting out o’ the city. So I sent word to Angus by one o’ the inn’s stable lads, then jumped on the back.” He grinned. “They never knew I was there.”

  Rhys nodded—then grimaced and made a mental note to never do that again—or at least until the drums in his head quieted down. He bound Malvi, hand and foot, to the chair. His head hurt so that he could scarcely think, but he knew that eventually Francis and Angus and his crew would track them down.

  For a long moment, he considered just leaving them all where they were. He could just take off, leave for Italy, leave it—all this mess and complication and the many emotional quagmires associated with it—behind.

  But looking around, he touched his head again and contemplated the lengths to which Marstoke and his followers were willing to go—and he knew he had to find out more.

  “When Francis and Angus and all of them get here, tell them what happened. Make sure Francis knows what they said about intercepting Hestia,” he told Geordie.

  “Why don’t ye tell them?”

  “Because I’m taking these two and heading out. This one,” he nudged Welfield with a foot. “This one I’ll leave with a constable at the next town big enough to boast one.”

  Geordie nodded. “Did ye want the laudanum he sent for? It’s here. I took it off the miller’s boy.” He shrugged. “T’weren’t a bad idea—and a sight easier than listening to him gripe.”

  Rhys considered. “Fetch it. I’ll take it, just in case.”

  The boy nodded and went out. Rhys bent carefully and began to tie Welfield’s feet.

  “Leave me here,” Malvi said quietly. “Don’t take me with you.”

  Rhys snorted. “What, after all that wheedling to get me to take you to London?”

  “It’s too late to go to London. It’s all happening now—and you’ll travel faster without me.”

  “Travel faster into what?” he asked. “You dragged me into this, damn you. Now you can help me get through it.” He cocked a brow at her. “You can be my ticket into Marstoke’s little club. You might even get credit for it.”

  “You’re the prodigal son—you won’t need a ticket. And if the truth comes out . . .” She shrugged.

  “I need to know what’s going on. You can share your insights.”

  She laughed. “How much do you think I know? You were my first real test. Luring you there, all unsuspecting, that might have won me a place in the game.” She looked away. “But helping you to thwart him? It won’t go well with me.”

  He knew enough to know she was right. “I could arrange protection.”

  “For the rest of my life?” she scoffed. “That’s what it would take. He never forgets an enemy.”

  Rhys knew that was right too. It was only one of the many reasons he’d tried to avoid both of his parents. “Tell me what you know, then, and I’ll consider leaving you here.”

  “You mean letting me go, do you not?” she asked silkily.

  “I do not. Francis will be along soon enough. I’ll let her decide what to do with you.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “Hestia’s girl,” she said with scorn. And perhaps a bit of . . . wistfulness?

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll just let me go. She’s too soft-hearted to do anything else.”

  “It’s likely.” Eventually. But she’d probably hold the girl until this mess was settled.

  “You might as well save her the trouble.”

  He didn’t respond, just tied off his knot with a flourish.

  Malvi tilted her head. “You know, I’ve met your mother.”

  Rhys stilled. Then he grunted and stood, reaching for more fabric so he could bind Welfield’s hands.

  “I was a naive fool, just like any other,” she said dispassionately. “Pretty enough to know I was meant for bigger things than small village life. But stupid, like so many others. I answered an advertisement for an opportunity in London, wiping the country dust from my feet and leaving with a small case and two shillings to rub together.” She sighed. “They were long gone by the time I discovered the agency wasn’t truly looking for girls to train up to serve in great houses. They took one look at me and hauled me off to Mother Gretel’s.”

  He could well imagine the sort of place that was.

  “They locked me in the basement along with the other new, recalcitrant girls. Softening us up, so we wouldn’t balk at the sort of clientele Mother Gretel catered to.” She shuddered. “We’d only been down there a couple of days, hardly long enough to get really hungry, when Hestia and her people raided the place and set us free.”

  Pausing, she looked him over. “People talk, but she truly is a beauty. Breathtaking.” She nodded. “I can see her in you.”

  He folded his arms. “Have you changed your mind? Shall I haul you out to that carriage? Or are you going to tell me what I need to know about Marstoke?”

  “I’m getting there.” She looked away. “Hestia gave me a bit of money and offered me a place at Half Moon House. I told her I’d consider it.”

  His lip curled. “And yet you ended up with her enemy.”

  “Yes. He does that sometimes, did you know? Approaches those that Hestia has helped, tempts them away or subverts them to his cause. He gets a perverse pleasure out of it.”

  “I hear that’s the least of his perversions.”

  “True enough,” she said simply, and with the tone of one who knows.

  “So why choose him?”

  “Why not? You heard that one enth
using.” She tossed her chin toward Welfield. “Intrigue. Adventure. The trappings of old money. Entry into a new world and a game played by the highest and wealthiest. How can hard work and learning and the service of others compare to that?”

  “You chose poorly,” he said with a significant glance at their surroundings.

  “At least I picked a side,” she shot back. “You think you can skate through life tasting only the beauty—the art, the food, the wine and women. You think you are safe that way?” She laughed. “There’s always a price to pay. That red-haired chit got her claws in deep enough to hurt, didn’t she?”

  The truth of it slammed into his chest, but he batted it away. “None of that is your business. Just tell me what I need to know.”

  “No. You two were clearly made for each other, but you were too stubborn and afraid. We might both be defeated and miserable now, but at least I had the stones to reach for the brass ring.”

  “Malvi.” Her name emerged a harsh warning.

  “Oh, no. You won’t quiet me any more than that idiot did,” she pointed her chin at Welfield. “I know you are suffering from some fool notion that walking the middle between your parents will keep you from harm.” A corner of her pretty mouth lifted in a sneer. “You could not be more wrong. Do you want to know what Marstoke is up to?” She gave a bitter laugh. “If you will not join him, then you are of no use to him—and there exists the chance that you’ll join the other side. So he’s devised a way to make use of you.”

  “He cannot make me do anything,” he began.

  “You are a bigger fool that I thought, if you think that is true,” she interrupted. “You are going to end this long war for him, once and for all. And you are going to give him the ultimate triumph, too.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “He’s not going to ask you, dolt! Your fate was sealed the moment the idea occurred to him.”

  Rhys waited. And tried to imagine what the idea of ultimate triumph might mean to the man who was his father.

  Malvi stretched the silence out for a few minutes. Rhys finished tying Welfield, who had begun to moan a little. He propped open the door so he could carry him through unimpeded.

  “Oh, very well!” Malvi capitulated. “It’s not as if I can ever return, in any case.” She gazed pityingly on him. “I don’t even know very much. He knew where we were going,” she nodded at Welfield. “I only know that the timing is deliberate. Why do you think that Welfield is in such a hurry? Hestia Wright has been out of London, but she will return shortly. We have her travel plans. We were to arrive at the destination, sit tight and wait. Help the others set the trap. I know she will find she has to stop—and she will encounter you.” She looked away. “I don’t know the particulars, but the end result is to be her death. And you are to take the blame for it.” She tossed her head. “And doesn’t that sound like Marstoke’s idea of a great victory? The sensational murder of his oldest enemy—and at the hand of the son she spent her life protecting and pining for.”

  His breath caught. His heart clenched. It took a moment before he could swallow against bile and denial and horror.

  His father would frame him for foul murder? Only because he might, perhaps, someday turn against him? Francis had been right all along. The man was a monster.

  He refused to consider what this made him.

  Too, the thought of anyone harming Hestia—he shied away from it with a shake of his head that set the drums to throbbing again. Rhys might harbor a noxious mix of hurt, anger, longing—and yes, a bit of ridiculous jealousy towards his mother—but he’d be damned if he let anyone hurt her. Especially Marstoke, who appeared to have made a lifelong habit of it.

  And Francis—she would be gone as soon as she got wind of this. Where Hestia was, she would be. And Rhys would be thrice damned before he let his father’s taint harm that girl. His bright, hopeful, generous, maddening girl.

  Damn it all to hell. Francis had been right about this too. Sometimes one must step into the fray. And this was more his fight than hers.

  Malvi watched him closely. “You should run. Leave quickly. Go to Italy. It’s what you had planned already, is it not? It’s your best hope of escaping his clutches, at least for a time.”

  Rhys sank down onto a stack of flour sacks and rested his aching head against the wall, considering her words.

  “He’ll still kill her, won’t he?”

  “Yes. But that’s always been her fate. You cannot change it. You can only save yourself.” She grinned suddenly. “I could go with you. It’s warm in Italy, is it not? And there is a good deal less rain.”

  A month ago, he might have taken her up on that offer.

  Now. He stared at her for a long moment, the wheels in his brain creaking slowly. Now, he wasn’t the same man. Flightly had got under his skin. Her voice whispered in his aching head.

  He closed his eyes. There were times, when he painted, when he would come to a moment that he knew was vital. Chose one angle of light or depth of color and get one image. Choose another and he would find himself with a completely different result, in the end.

  He was there. He’d reached just such a defining moment in his life. He could continue on as he’d come, treading the same path. Safe. Uninvolved. Unfettered.

  Or he could shift his thinking. Embrace the difficult and the unknown and allow himself to truly feel.

  He frowned at Malvi. She was nothing like Francis. She was cynical, like him. He’d always thought love was a dark emotion. Something that would restrict him, tie him down, keep him from tasting the joy in life. But it hadn’t been like that with Francis. She exuded joy and light. Francis wouldn’t be a burden, would she? She’d be someone who would share it all—the fun and experience and adventure—and the hard times too. Yes, she’d left emptiness and aching when she’d gone, but this time it had been his choice.

  Why hadn’t he seen that?

  He stood. Bending, he hoisted Welfield, tossing him over one shoulder. He stalked out, threw the bastard into the same carriage he’d meant to confine him in, and threw the bolt.

  Geordie approached, watching in awe. “Here’s the laudanum.”

  Rhys paused, and then unlocked the bolt again. “Get a dose down him, lad, and then hitch up the horses. I’m going to travel fast and I’ve no wish to delay to deal with that buffoon.” He walked back toward the millhouse. “Don’t choke him, now,” he called back. “I want him to live to face justice—and his father’s wrath.”

  He stood on the threshold of the storage room. “Goodbye, Malvi. Hestia gave you a second chance and you wasted it. Now, it seems you’re getting a third. I hope you will use it wisely.” He turned to go.

  “Wait! Untie me before you go, Caradec!” She made a sound of frustration. “At least tell me what you are doing! Where are you going?”

  “I’m following your very good advice, of course, and I’m heading south.” He walked away, gave Geordie a few more instructions, and then climbed up on the box of the carriage. Picking a side, he thought as he shook out the reins and urged the horses on.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wiltshire

  We never showed my face or full form. The moon was a beauty mark, a reflection in the mirror. Always there. The unveiling of each painting brought men flocking to the courtesan’s salon. My fame—if not my name—spread beyond Vienna.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  A graveled path led from the Duke of Aldmere’s stables. Francis’s footsteps crunched loudly as she ran, taking the offshoot that wound through the kitchen gardens.

  She still felt as frantic as she had when Geordie’s message had arrived at the shop, as she had when they’d found the old mill and she’d forced Malvi to tell her everything.

  Where was Rhys? Malvi had laughed in her face when she’d asked. The maid might not have been able to tempt Caradec, she’d gloated, but Francis hadn’t been able to keep him.

  Was it true? Francis had been so angry
after their last argument. The man was good for a laugh, she’d told Mrs. Spencer. No one better for a witty conversation and a thorough knowledge of the best food in the city.

  She hadn’t told the older woman that Rhys made for a stupendous lover in bed—but was too emotionally stagnant to allow himself to be more.

  Lesson learned.

  Her first heartbreak earned.

  But her anger had faded when she realized what had happened to him. Had he run away to Italy as Malvi insisted? Had he chosen to stay distant and unattached behind his cursed line and abandoned Hestia to her fate?

  Francis pushed away the sudden rise of unshed tears—again. She could not believe it of him. But where was he? And where was Hestia?

  Without pausing, she burst through the servant’s entrance, taking the stairs two at a time and startling Billings, the Duke of Aldmere’s staid butler.

  “What’s this, then?” he exclaimed, curving a protective arm around a bottle of wine. “Oh, Flightly.” He frowned. “Wait. I thought it was Miss Headley now? Are you not supposed to be in skirts?”

  “Not tonight, Billings. I’ve no time, although you know I dearly love to shock your sensibilities. Where is the duchess? I need to see her right away.”

  He shook his head. “Already gone to see to Half Moon House, and the duke with her. Your note arrived today—as did a visitor—who is likely awaiting you, upstairs.”

  Her eyes widened. Hestia? Could it be? She flew past the butler and up the servant’s stairs, emerging into the main corridor, where she paused. The formal parlor lay dark. The door to the library stood closed, with no light showing beneath it.

  “In here, Miss.” Further down the passage, a footman bowed. He stood outside the morning room and opened the door. She hurried through to find—

  “Isaac?” She stopped, her mind whirring faster than broken clockwork. “What are you—? How did you—?”