by Sophia James
Her father laughed. ‘Do you think I’ve not already thought of that? How nice of you to offer yourself in exchange for my leaving. But I’ve already decided leaving is in my best interest. No deal, though. I absolutely do not promise to leave the young Earl alone.’
He leaned against the door jamb as if this were a pleasant conversation. ‘I have to say, I’m a little disappointed he didn’t come himself and give me the pleasure of shooting him for all the trouble he’s caused me. But…’ he brightened ‘…perhaps not all is lost. I would have hated to leave you behind, my dear.’ His eyes looked her up and down, appraising. ‘Even if your value to me is somewhat diminished. But no one in Russia needs to know that.’
‘Russia?’ Audevere glanced furtively towards the doorway.
‘We’re going east, to Russia. I have extensive interests there and I think the Baltic may be the next big thing, if southern Europe persists in its warlike tendencies.’ He crossed one leg over the other. ‘Do you fancy yourself a prince for a husband? I am sure we can find one willing to wed you and I can advance my position at the St Petersburg court.’ That explained the empty table tops. Servants were indeed packing. Her instincts had not been wrong. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, much of this will follow us once we’re settled.’ He was indeed leaving in a very permanent way. He levelled his gaze in her direction. ‘Inigo Vellanoweth has ruined England for me for a while. It seems you didn’t have him quite as much under your control as we thought.’ He lifted a brow in scolding inquiry. ‘Care to tell me what happened there? No, don’t. I can already guess. You fell for him, all that dark, persuasive charm. You thought you could escape me, perhaps even abet him in my complete ruin.’
Her father strode to the remaining decanter and poured a drink. But she was not fooled by his sangfroid. She was distressed by it. He was never more dangerous than when he was charming someone or acting as if he admired their cunning. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, we will find some way for you to make it up to me.’
Briefly, she wondered what her chances were of making it to the front door. Her father gave her a cool smile. ‘You won’t make the door. I have men already posted. You are not leaving here, except with me, tonight. Or…’ he sighed, affecting boredom ‘… I suppose, if Vellanoweth wants you, he can try to claim you.’ Her father mused cruelly, ‘Did he promise you marriage? Did you think he meant it or was he just playing with you? Perhaps some payback for his dead friend? Surely you weren’t stupid enough to fall for that? In the end he had to tattle to the King like a pathetic schoolboy.’
He tossed back the rest of the drink and poured another, emptying the decanter. ‘You can pack this now,’ he called to the butler.
‘So, Daughter,’ he said with feigned affability, ‘do you think he’ll come for you? I do. I am counting on it, in fact. The only question is how easy did you make it for him to find you? I hope easy enough before the boat sails tonight. I’d like a shot at him.’
Audevere stiffened. ‘It’s a long way from Boscastle to Truro.’ Perhaps that distance would protect him. Surely her father didn’t mean to kill him?
‘Then let’s hope he got an early start and let’s hope he’s smart enough not to go to Exeter or he’ll miss you entirely, early start or not.’
‘Why would he go to Exeter?’ The words left her slowly, a cold chill tightening her stomach.
Her father faced her. ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet? After all these years? That despite your disobedience, you’ve played into my hand spectacularly. Once Vellanoweth put his gambit in motion to stop me I knew it was only matter of time until you came.’ Her father wandered to the chessboard set laid out on a table against the wall and pushed a pawn forward. ‘He exposes me to the King, I am forced to defend my honour or admit to extraordinary guilt that will result in losing my title.’
He moved a bishop into play. ‘In a duel, Vellanoweth has the advantage with rapiers or with pistols. He’s one of the best swordsmen in the city and rumour has it he’s been shooting out centres of wafers ad nauseum at Manton’s.’ He moved a rook, creeping up behind the bishop. ‘But you know this. Perhaps you fear for your lover regardless of his expertise, or perhaps you don’t want to start the promise of married life under a cloud of murder.’ He shrugged. ‘So, once it became apparent that duelling was my only recourse, the trap for you was sprung. You come running to me, begging me to reconsider. Am I right?’
She hated that for all her efforts to be free, she was more enslaved than she’d ever been. His next words froze her. ‘I don’t mind the shooting,’ he said casually. ‘I only mind when someone can shoot back. I hope he comes for you. I hope you’re right and that he does love you. Nothing will keep him from you then; he’s the sort of man who is willing to die for a woman he loves and that will be his undoing. We’ll be waiting for him and we’ll be ready. By the end of today, Inigo Vellanoweth will be dead and his last thought will be that he’ll wish he had never crossed Sir Gismond Brenley. He might succeed in taking my title, but I will succeed in taking his life. I wonder if he will consider that a fair trade?’ He nodded towards a footman. ‘Help Miss Brenley to her room and make sure she stays there. She might enjoy the company of a maid while she waits.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Would she never learn? Audevere stared at the street from her bedroom window with morbid fascination, wanting to see Inigo the moment he arrived, yet hoping for his own sake he didn’t arrive. This was Collin all over again. She had tried to save him by breaking with him. She’d tried to save Inigo, too, by running from him, but it had only served to create a trap for him. If he knocked on the town-house door now, he would be shot the moment the door opened. Would he be so bold as to simply stroll up to the door? Or would he effect reconnaissance? Would he suspect anything? How could he suspect anything?
She had tried to help, tried to protect him, and she’d only made it worse. The one consolation was that the hours ticked by and there was no sign of Inigo. He wasn’t coming. Either because he’d guessed her destination incorrectly or because he’d decided it was over, that she was too much trouble, or that she didn’t want him after all.
The downstairs clock, which wasn’t going to travel with them, it seemed, struck four and her door opened. It was time to go. The ship was waiting. Inigo was nearly safe. Once the ship was out of the quay, he would be. Going peaceably with her father bought Inigo’s safety. The faster they embarked, the better in that regard. But her heart was breaking all the same and she knew her father had devised this dilemma on purpose to teach her a lesson. Only once the boat was out of the harbour would she have to address the question of why Inigo hadn’t come.
There was a cloak waiting for her and she threw it on against the late afternoon chill. She went to put the hood up, only to be stalled. ‘No hood, let him have every chance to see you.’ Her father smiled coldly. ‘Although I must say I’m disappointed. This leave-taking is far less dramatic than it might have been. I feel robbed of my due, don’t you, my dear?’
More than that. She felt robbed of what might have been. She’d had a real chance to trust, to love, to have a family, and she’d lost it, all to her own machinations. She had done this to herself. She’d got exactly what she’d deserved.
* * *
Inigo banged on the town-house door. He’d ridden hard through mud, stopping in Bodmin to change horses, knowing time was against him. Boscastle was not an easy ride to Truro and now at the end of the journey there was no one to greet him. The town house, in fact, looked deserted. It had a closed-up feel to it, which made no sense since it had been clear from his letter that Brenley was in residence. Finally, he stood in the street and called up, ‘Audevere!’ But there was no answer to that either.
‘Sir, there’s no one home. They’ve gone, an hour or more ago.’ An apple vendor took pity on him. Inigo stared. The boy must think him a lunatic.
‘What do you mean gone?’ There were all types of gone.
There was paying calls, there was going shopping, and then there was gone as in fled, gone beyond reach.
‘Trunks have been leaving the house all morning and then a girl showed up and more trunks left, and then at four, they left,’ the vendor recited, holding out his palm.
Inigo pressed a coin into it and then added another. ‘Any idea where they went?’ There were only two ways out of Truro, the road or by sea.
‘I’m guessing they went to the quay. There’s a ship that’s been loading all day and is set to sail on the tide. There were too many trunks for a carriage.’
Inigo nodded his thanks, already leaping back into the saddle of a tired horse and putting his heels to its sides. Another twenty minutes and the tide would be in, boats would sail and he’d be too late despite his best efforts. He’d cursed himself the whole way. Why hadn’t he woken up sooner? Why hadn’t he set out sooner? Why hadn’t he seen this coming and stopped it? Why hadn’t he ridden faster? A few minutes might make all the difference.
* * *
The quay was bustling with activity, the crowd working against him. There was more than one ship and no way of knowing which one they would be on. How would he find her in this crush? How did he free her from Brenley? Inigo grabbed a carter by the coat sleeve. ‘That boat there, where is it going?’ He pointed to the largest ship in the harbour.
‘It’s going through the Channel up to Denmark and then through the Baltic. It won’t be back for a year.’ That was the ship. Inigo knew it in his gut. Brenley’s holdings, Brenley’s dealings with the Russian court. He would take refuge far from England until the scandal blew itself out. At the ship, a sailor was untying mooring lines.
Inigo raced towards it, looking for signs of Audevere, trying not to trip over coils of rope, trying to dodge the crowd. He caught a glimpse of golden hair at the railing. There she was! ‘Audevere!’ he called her name, waving frantically. It only mattered that he got her attention, that he could get her off the ship. He reached the gangplank, yelling for the men to hold it. He bounded up the ramp, his pistol drawn, only to have his way barred by Gismond Brenley and a loaded gun. They levelled their pistols at one another, locked in a deadly stalemate. To shoot at this range would be certain death for either of them.
‘I’ve informed the captain you are not to board this boat. I will shoot you if I have to.’ Brenley’s eyes locked with his. ‘Do I make myself clear? Try to board this ship, try to take Audevere from it, and I will shoot you dead where you stand.’ Inigo knew when to take a threat seriously. Brenley wanted an excuse to shoot him. It would be an expedient remedy to the situation.
‘No!’ There was a cry behind Brenley as Audevere flew towards them, her face pale with panic and fear—fear for him as she put herself between him and her father. Inigo’s heart was in his throat at all she’d risked for him, to save him, misguided though it was. What was she thinking, to put herself between hot tempers and primed pistols? But he knew what she was thinking and he knew, too, that he’d been right to come, right to believe she’d thought to protect him with her flight. Had anyone ever risked so much for him? That it should be the woman he loved touched him more than he could find words to express. But today was his day to save her. If only he could get her to stand aside.
‘Aud, get out of the way,’ Inigo warned.
‘No, I will not step aside and let him kill you.’ She did not turn to look at him, but spoke directly to her father. ‘I offer you my deal once more. I will go with you, do what you want, if you let him live. Let him go.’
‘No, Aud!’ Inigo growled.
Brenley’s lip curled. ‘But will he go?’ he mused out loud. ‘I wonder, Audevere, if he will take that deal? Will you, Tintagel? Will you walk away and leave her? Tsk, tsk, I see you’re already looking for ways to circumvent the terms. Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ve always been interested in the things we do for love. So, I’ll take that offer. I’ll let you live, Tintagel. Now, walk away.’
‘I will not leave her. You don’t deserve her.’ Inigo was already wondering if he could make the shot over her shoulder, just enough to incapacitate Brenley, enough to get her away.
She turned and walked a little way towards him. Inigo, go, she pleaded with her eyes.
‘I’ll make it easy on you, Tintagel,’ Brenley called, lifting his pistol once more. ‘I only promised not to shoot you. I said nothing about her.’
‘Aud!’ Inigo yelled the warning, his body gathering into motion, but he was too late to stop the shot. Brenley’s pistol fired, catching Audevere in the shoulder, the force of it knocking her off balance, sending her into the depths of the cold waters of the harbour.
From a crouch, he raised his own pistol, his mind a riot of thoughts: disarm Brenley, prevent him from shooting again, dive in after Audevere, bring her to the surface… But the ship’s captain was already ahead of him, moving to detain Brenley. ‘Go, get the girl!’ the captain yelled. Inigo didn’t wait to pull off his boots, he dived into the water after her, but she’d disappeared from sight.
The harbour water was dark and cold as it closed over his head. Inigo forced his eyes open. There! He caught a glimpse of floating fabric, dark and colourless as the water, but the golden hair was a beacon. He swam towards it, the form limp, as the water pinkened about her. She was bleeding and unconscious. Fear gave him strength. He could not be too late! An edge of her heavy cloak was trapped in some rocks. He tore the cloak from Audevere’s still form and hooked an arm about her waist before beginning the long rise to the surface. Men were waiting, drawn to the commotion. Hands reached over the dock to pull them out of the water, Audevere first, still lifeless, still bleeding.
Inigo scrambled to her side; she was so pale, so cold. He lifted her in his arms, calling orders as he went. ‘Get a blanket, get a doctor! She’s been shot, for heaven’s sake!’ Her bastard father had shot her to prove a point, to win a game. This could not be how it ended. It couldn’t be. He loved her. He tore at his sodden cravat and pressed it against her wound. He had to stop the bleeding, had to make her breath. So much to do, so little time! How long could a person live without air? How much blood could a person lose? How long would it take for a doctor to arrive? In his despair, he rocked her against him, holding her upright. Suddenly she coughed, harbour water gushing from her lungs as she fought for air in panicked gasps. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ Inigo repeated the inane words and held her tight until the spasms subsided.
Someone brought a blanket and he drew it around her. ‘Aud—oh, my sweet Aud. I thought I’d lost you. What a foolish thing to do, my love. A doctor is coming, you will be fine.’
Inigo looked up to see Brenley being shackled and led away.
* * *
The doctor arrived at last and did a cursory examination of the wound. ‘The bullet has passed through, we just need to stitch her up and keep the wound clean. Can you get her to the inn? They’ll have a room ready.’
She was shaking from cold, from shock, from the wound, as he scooped her up in his arms, his own strength running on reserves because she required it of him. At the inn, someone pressed a hot drink into his hand and offered him dry clothes, but he would not leave Audevere, never mind that she drifted in and out of consciousness as the doctor stitched her shoulder. She needed him to hold her hand, to murmur comfort, to see her into dry clothes and a warm bed. Then, and only then, did Inigo see to himself.
Only after that, when he was able to lie next to her in the bed, did he let the horror of the day have its way with him. Now that she was safe, it was his turn to shake with the horror of the last few hours. He held her a long while as she slept. It was what he wanted to do, to assure himself that she was alive, that they were both alive, his mind fixated on one awful refrain: the woman he loved had stood between him and a bullet today. And they still weren’t out of the woods yet.
The fever started at midnight. The doctor had alerted him to the
possibility and Inigo strove to control it with wet rags and by throwing off the covers. This was a likely and natural course of events, he told himself as he laid another cool cloth over Audevere’s forehead. He would bring the fever down and it would be gone by morning.
But the fever continued to rise, battling back against his efforts with cold cloths.
By dawn, Audevere was burning and restless and Inigo worried for her shoulder. When the sun came up, he sent for the doctor, wanting answers and fixes and getting neither while Audevere burned.
‘Fever means inflammation,’ the doctor told him as he checked and redressed Audevere’s shoulder, ‘although I don’t see any sign of it. The wound looks clean and the bullet went through. The other possibility is a fever from her fall into the water. She was under long enough, the water cold enough, to give her quite a chill.’ The doctor put his instruments away and snapped his bag shut. ‘There’s nothing to do now but wait for the fever to break.’ He put a bracing hand on Inigo’s sleeve. ‘She’s already delirious. If it continues to rise, it will burn her alive.’
Inigo nodded. He didn’t need to be told how dangerous a high fever was, how it could damage the brain, the heart. Even if one woke up, one could be severely impaired for life. He’d seen two infant siblings slip into fever’s grasp. But Audevere wasn’t an infant and she was young and strong. Surely a fever could not take her, not after all she’d endured? He thanked the doctor and sent down to the taproom for more cold compresses before he shut the door behind him. He faced the bed, hands on hips, his sleeves already rolled up, prepared to do battle.
He laboured through the morning with cold baths administered with chilled rags, sips of water and with his words. He talked non-stop. He remembered his mother doing that when the babies had taken ill. She’d rocked them and talked to them endlessly, hoping the sound of her voice would keep them anchored to this world. He hoped for that now with Audevere, that the sound of his voice would reach her, would draw her back. He told her everything he could think of: how her father was even now chained up in jail and would be put on trial for his crimes, how he’d felt when he’d discovered she’d fled, how much the girls had exclaimed over her pink ribbon.
