He had made decisions this night. He had heard the rumors running throughout London that Stanhope had murdered his partner. Gabriel knew exactly where those rumors had started, and so would Stanhope.
Monique was in deadly danger.
No doubt she had known that. So then why had she resisted the opportunity to leave? No theater engagement or contract was worth one’s life. Like it or not he was taking her tonight.
They both had started in motion events that could not be stopped. Stanhope was neatly trapped in a pincer movement. And there was nothing as dangerous as a trapped animal.
He looked at his watch. He’d sent a message to the captain of the Amelia that he might be late, but most certainly would have his passengers aboard before sailing time.
Thunderous applause ran through the theater as the play ended. He had seen it before, of course, and tonight Monique appeared as effervescent as previously. He stepped out the doors and went for his horse. He planned to wait until she left the theater and follow her carriage to her home. She was not going to be alone this night.
The air outside was damp and the first tendrils of fog crept along the streets. It would not be long before it eclipsed the carriages waiting outside the theater.
He watched from a side street as the carriages left one by one. His gaze was centered on the side door from which the actors entered and left. He finally saw her emerge. Lynch was at her side and helped her into the carriage.
Gabriel wanted to join her, but he wanted more to determine if anyone else was following her.
The carriage pulled out onto the street. Gabriel waited until another one pulled out, then followed.
The fog was growing dense. It blocked the streetlights and masked the people walking in the streets. They were little more than shadows, just as the carriages ahead were barely visible.
But he knew the way. He didn’t think anyone else was following, and he closed the distance.
Covered with a long dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, Stanhope studied Monique’s residence from the street. Lights shone from two downstairs rooms. Smoke curled from the chimney.
He had to get rid of the housekeeper first. Then he would wait for Monique and her maid to return.
He looked up and down the street. Residences more than one hundred feet distant faded away in the fog.
Stanhope waited as a carriage clattered by, then went up to the door and knocked loudly. He then quickly went down three stairs and flattened himself against the wall.
The door opened and he heard an exclamation from a woman, then, “Is anyone there?”
He made a small choking noise and bent over. She came toward him. He swung his arm, hitting her on the head. Unconscious, she sank down on the sidewalk. He lifted her, putting an arm around her as if helping, and dragged her through the still-open door into the residence, then down the stairs into the kitchen area. He tied her hands and ankles, gagged her, and pushed her into a storage area.
Everything was silent inside. A fire roared in the sitting room.
He looked around. He had sent flowers, but none were in evidence. Monique apparently had kept none of them.
The anger flashed again, then settled into stone-cold rage.
He thought about going up the stairs, but Monique’s maid always went to the theater with her. There had been no lights on above.
He looked through a cabinet, found some brandy, and poured himself a glass.
And waited.
Smythe was as frantic as he had ever been. He could not find his lord anywhere.
His family was packed and ready to leave. He knew the name of the ship, and Gabriel had given him both funds and letters to present to a shipbuilder in Boston.
But he felt responsible for Lady Pamela, and he worried about his master.
Servants everywhere were talking about Lord Stanhope and the possibility he might have killed his partner.
Smythe had left Lady Pamela at Miss Fremont’s residence under the care of Mrs. Miller. Miss Fremont would know what to do, and it was far better for Lady Pamela to be there rather than wandering the streets or staying in a male household.
He had gone to the clubs, then waited outside Lord Stanhope’s residence before going home to wait. Surely, his master would return before time to go to the docks; Smythe knew from Dani there was still the possibility that both would journey to America with them. If not, they would meet later.
He prayed they would go together. He had never thought to attract a young lady. That someone like Dani had evidently enjoyed his company was an amazing thing.
Smythe did something he seldom did. He paced. He gave himself another hour, and then he would go to Miss Fremont’s. He wanted this journey to America. It would give his mother, sister, and himself opportunities he never thought to have. But it would mean little if he lost Dani.
Monique and Dani alighted from the carriage and walked inside her residence. The door was unlocked, which was unusual. Even more unusual was the fact that Mrs. Miller did not greet them. Usually she was waiting at the door, wanting to know if Monique wanted tea or some refreshment.
An oil light flickered in the hallway.
Dani took her cloak and went up the stairs while Monique looked for Mrs. Miller. She wanted to tell the housekeeper that she may be leaving shortly.
If Gabriel still wanted her after he heard the truth …
In the past few hours of soul-searching she had come to the conclusion that nothing was more important than Gabriel, that, yes, she could rely on him to make sure Pamela was safe.
But would he feel the same once he knew …
Mrs. Miller was not down in the kitchen. Monique came back up the stairs and saw Stanhope blocking the front door.
She lifted her head slightly in puzzlement, a streak of apprehension running up and down her back. “My lord, I did not expect you.”
“No, I do not suppose you did,” he said. He was wearing a cloak much like she had seen Manchester wearing. His head was bare of any covering, and his hair askew. His eyes were glittering black pieces of coal.
“Where is Mrs. Miller?” she asked.
He shrugged, but his body was rigid with rage.
“You did not harm her?”
“You should not worry about her,” he said.
Her eyes reflexively went to the door.
“Is your love expected?” Stanhope asked. “Then I will not have to ask you to write him a note.”
“No one is expected,” she said.
Stanhope laughed. “Now I know he is coming. You are quite an accomplished liar, Monique. But what I want to know is why?”
“I do not understand,” she said in a cool voice.
“You and Manchester. I can guess at Manchester’s reasons. But not yours.”
“You talk in riddles, my lord. There is no me and Manchester. He is merely an acquaintance.”
Monique played for time now. She wondered where Dani was, whether she’d heard voices. She could not get to the back entrance without coming down the stairs, and Stanhope was facing those.
Stanhope grabbed her arm. “You will tell me what I want to know. If you do not, there is your maid upstairs. Perhaps she can.”
The malevolence with which he said the words sent chills through her. She tried to jerk away from his hold, but it only tightened.
Two men were outside. The ones that were to take Manchester to the ship if necessary. She had to maneuver her way back into the window and signal them with the lamp. But how?
She looked back at her captor. Rage transfigured his face.
Only one thing might force him into letting her go for even a moment.
“I will tell you,” she said suddenly, going still. “If you wish to know so much, then let me go and I will tell you why I wanted to meet you.”
“You will tell me anyway.”
“No.”
“Damn you.”
She did not flinch. Did not move.
He suddenly r
eleased her hand. His eyes bored into hers.
“Do you remember a woman named Mary Anders?”
Recognition flickered in his eyes, then his face paled.
“Do you?” she insisted.
“Yes.” Stanhope’s words were little more than a whisper.
“She was my mother.”
Monique allowed the words to sink in.
His face went from white to gray. “She could not …”
“Why? Because you tried to kill her. And me. You thought she was dead.”
“Oh my God,” he uttered. “You … cannot be …”
“I am your daughter. My mother survived your attempt. But in doing so, she lost everything. Her dignity. Her health. Her life …”
He was staring at her as if she were a ghost. Then, “You are wrong. It was not me. My father … he told me she had died. I …” Then his gaze went to the bead bracelet on her wrist. His face hardened as he apparently understood what had happened.
“You,” he said. “Then it was you. How long have you and Manchester …?”
“It was not Manchester. It was myself alone,” she said. “I wanted justice. You destroyed her. Not immediately. It was a long painful death, instead. One man after another, each sapping her strength, brutalizing her. She lived in fear, and so did her family.”
His face hardened. “My father said it was best that your mother, and you, died. He was right, damn it.”
“No!”
Monique heard the cry from above and turned to look at the stairs. Pamela stood there. So did Dani.
Stanhope turned that way, too.
It was time enough to pick up a lamp. If only she could set it in the window. The two men she’d hired to kidnap Gabriel would go to the back and come in. They would be prepared to forcibly take a man to a ship.
But just as she moved toward the window, Stanhope grabbed her again with one hand.
The other held a pistol.
The fog cloaked much of the house. Gabriel had waited as the lights went on inside. Then he saw two men lurking across the lane. They were trying to look as if they were just talking, but they did not look quite right for this respectable section of London.
He moved closer. From an angle he saw Stanhope inside, a pistol in his hands.
Keeping an eye on the two men across from him, he went to the front door. He had his burglary tools with him, since he had not known whether he would need them to get inside Stanhope’s home.
Weapons. He had a pistol in the saddlebags of his horse, tied to a hitching post not far away. Did he have time to fetch it? He wasn’t going to risk it, nor the two men loitering nearby. He had a knife in a sheath in his waistcoat. That would have to suffice.
Using his back to disguise his movements, he tried the door, finding it locked. He reached inside his waistcoat, and in seconds the lock opened.
Straightening, he sauntered inside as if he had his own key and belonged there. His right hand was close to the knife. He saw Pamela on the steps. How in the hell did she come to be here? And Dani?
His gaze went to Stanhope, who turned in his direction, the pistol moving away from Monique and toward him.
Stanhope’s eyes were wild. “Manchester! I knew it. I knew you were in with the bitch.”
Stanhope’s pistol had only one shot. Gabriel would far rather he expend it on him than either Monique or Pamela.
“It took you a while, though, did it not?” he said conversationally. “You are not nearly as intelligent as you believe you are.” He stared at Stanhope. “There is evidence of your crimes now. Unless you flee now …”
Stanhope’s arm wavered slightly as it moved between him and Monique. It was difficult to determine which he wanted to shoot more.
“You have one shot in that pistol,” Gabriel continued. “You cannot kill everyone in this room. Even three women, I believe, can stop you, and you will hang. On the other hand, you can run now. You have a chance. You can leave the country.”
“Exile.” Stanhope spat it out.
“I expect that is better than a hangman’s noose,” Gabriel said calmly. He knew Stanhope’s fingers were itching to shoot. He was betting on the man’s sense of self-preservation.
“There is evidence,” Gabriel said again. “I expect authorities are checking the cargo of the Peregrine as we speak. You have little time.”
“You did this,” Stanhope said in a forced whisper.
“I did. And alone. Oh, Miss Fremont was a convenient foil, but I have planned this for years, my lord,” he said mockingly. “Everything. Even as I captained an American ship during the war. I wonder if I sank some of your ships.”
“God damn you.”
“Go, if you want to live,” Gabriel said in a low singsong voice. “Go.”
“Not before I kill you,” Stanhope said, steadying the barrel of the pistol in Gabriel’s direction.
“No!”
He heard Monique’s voice at the same time he saw her lunge toward Stanhope. She literally flew the few feet to knock his arm just as the pistol discharged. Pain ripped through Gabriel’s arm even as he lunged for Stanhope. The man avoided his grasp and slipped away from him toward the door.
Gabriel went after him, slowed by the pain.
He caught him at the door. Stanhope whirled around and hit his wounded arm with the butt of the pistol, dropping the weapon as he did so. Stunned, Gabriel sank to his knees as Stanhope tore open the door and fled.
Monique rushed to him, but Gabriel shrugged her aside, rose, and staggered to the door, only to see Stanhope mounting Specter and disappearing into the fog.
Home. The man had to be going home. He would need money. Weapons. Clothes.
Gabriel ran to the corner, searching for a hackney. Blood streamed from his arm. He felt it dampening his clothes and running down his arm. But he refused to allow Stanhope to escape.
He was only partially aware of the two men he glimpsed earlier coming toward him, and he heard Monique scream out, “No!”
He pushed past them. Monique followed. He turned. “Send someone for Baron Tolvery. On Greene Street. Tell him to go to Stanhope’s.”
“No,” she said. “Your wound …”
But he ignored her words. Instead, he stood in the way of an oncoming carriage. As it stopped, he opened the door and peered inside. An obviously inebriated lord stared back at him.
“An emergency,” he mumbled to the occupant of the carriage. “Lord Stanhope may be in desperate danger. Take me there.” He said it with such command that the man stuttered through the window to the driver.
Monique had reached the door. “Tolvery,” he shouted again at Monique. “Reach him.”
The carriage lurched forward before she could answer. The jolting of the carriage caused more pain to shoot through him. Blood, he noted, was dripping on the floor of the coach, but the lord was so drunk that he did not seem to notice. “By Jove! Stanhope, you say?” his startled host said.
“Aye,” Gabriel said, wishing he had more than the knife with him. Stanhope had left his pistol in Monique’s residence, but he undoubtedly had more weapons. He was not going to get away, though.
“I’m Ridley,” his host said. “Don’t know Stanhope well.” He looked down at the floor. “Say, you are bleeding, sir.”
“It is nothing,” he said.
But the young lord looked less in his cups now. His eyes went to the blood puddling on the floor of his obviously expensive carriage. “I think I should find a police officer or a Charlie.” He started to rap on the back of the carriage, then saw Gabriel’s face and sat back.
Seconds later they pulled up in front of Stanhope’s town house. “Now you can get a magistrate or police officers,” he said and jumped out.
Stanhope had a lead of perhaps ten minutes if the earl had raced Specter.
Gabriel didn’t see the horse in front. Stanhope had probably ridden into the mews. To go to the front would mean awakening the servants.
Only one light shone from the house,
and that was in Stanhope’s study. Ignoring the growing pain in his arm, Gabriel strode to the back of the house. His horse was there. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He moved inside and went to the study. The door was closed.
He opened it as quietly as possible and heard the sound of drawers being pulled out. Gabriel stepped inside and saw Stanhope going through the drawers. A valise sat at the doorway.
Stanhope whirled around. “You!”
Gabriel looked at the bottom drawer, where he had placed the forged papers. It had not been opened.
Then he saw a pistol on the desk.
Just then he heard the shouts from outside. Time to gamble a little, to gamble for time.
“It is over,” he said.
“I can take you with me,” Stanhope said.
“Then you most certainly will have a public hanging.”
A pounding was heard at the door. “You have no friends now,” Gabriel said. “Just like my father had none. You drove them away. Do you know Baron Tolvery? He is at the Peregrine now.”
Stanhope reached for the pistol and Gabriel lunged for it as well. But he was weaker than he thought, and Stanhope reached it first.
More pounding at the door. Alarmed shouts of servants.
Clutching the pistol, Stanhope looked toward the door. It opened. Anxious and frightened faces peered in.
Stanhope stood there. Pistol in hand. His eyes fixed on the servants staring at him from the door, then at Gabriel.
The pounding outside was louder.
Stanhope lifted the pistol to his temple. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirty
Gabriel leaned against the wall.
The scene was familiar. It had haunted so many days and nights.
He wanted to feel satisfaction. He did not.
Then men pushed inside. Stanhope’s hand was still around the pistol. His eyes were open and appeared to be staring.
One man, obviously in charge, stepped forward, “Wha’ ’appened ’ere?”
“His lordship shot hisself,” a footman, a long shirt hanging outside his trousers, said in awe.
Dancing with a Rogue Page 40
