Texas Viscount

by Henke, Shirl

  “Make one more sound and I swear my next cut will be to that pretty white throat...or perhaps your face,” Sabrina hissed through gritted teeth. She had intended to catch the larger woman off guard and place the knife to her throat, threatening to kill her if she did not turn around at once. Then all she would have had to do was cosh her over the head with the heavy handle of the knife.

  However, things had not worked out quite so easily. The Russian had twisted away and nearly disarmed her—would have if not for the accidental slash of the knife across her arm when the two of them tumbled to the ground. Fortunately, the Russian had been taken in by Sabrina's feigned docility and had not even brought her pistol along.

  The sudden spurt of her own blood had had a surprising effect on the woman, who enjoyed inflicting pain on others but became hysterical when it was she herself who bled. That was when Sabrina had seized on the notion of threatening disfigurement unless her foe quieted. It had worked, but not before they'd made enough noise to awaken the dead. Where were those two inebriated “serfs”? She dared not take her eyes from Natasha to see if the men were crashing through the brush to rescue their mistress. Then she heard a familiar drawling voice and jerked about in shock.

  “Well, now, after all I sacrificed to get here, I reckon you don't even need my help.”

  She looked up at Josh disbelievingly. As she suddenly became aware of the spectacle she must look, all thoughts of Natasha's cohorts fled from her thoughts. “How did you get here?” she asked idiotically.

  “Darlin’, that's a long, sad story,” he said, holstering his Colt and reaching down to assist her so she could climb off the sobbing, cursing ballerina.

  He pulled her into his arms, and she went willingly. “Oh, there are two men—”

  He shushed her, brushing her tangled hair from her face. “Michael has them hogtied by now. Are you all right?” he asked, inspecting her to be certain the blood was indeed none of her own.

  “I'm uninjured, but I suspect Madame Samsonov will require some medical attention,” she said with a bloodthirsty relish that immediately appalled her.

  Josh laughed heartily, kissing her with a sudden surge of gratitude that made his eyes sting. How close he'd come to losing her forever! “Woman, I am never again letting you out of my sight,” he whispered as his lips brushed hers. Lordy, she tasted sweet.

  The look in his eyes made her dizzy with longing. He acted as if...as if he loved her! But of course that could not be. Should not be. He was a viscount. “Josh,” she said softly, her blood-smeared hand daring to caress the bristly black beard growing on his jaw line.

  The tender interlude was interrupted by a panting Edmund, who rushed toward them, calling out, “Coz, crikey, I'm that glad to see you're—” He pitched headlong over Natasha, who was trying to crawl on all fours into the brush to escape. She let out a curse and kicked him soundly in the ribs. With a moan, he rolled to Josh's and Sabrina's feet.

  “Whoa, there, princess,” Josh said, giving the ballerina a meaningful look.

  Natasha subsided, sullenly flopping onto the ground and cradling her bleeding arm as if it were a compound fracture instead of a superficial cut.

  “I've tied up those two louts inside. Where are Zarenko and his companions?” Jamison asked as he arrived on the scene.

  “Gone back to London,” Sabrina said with sudden alarm. What was she thinking, mooning over Josh while the fate of Anglo-Japanese relations hung in the balance? “They intend to assassinate Count Hayashi as he arrives at the Court of St. James's for a ceremonial dinner this evening!”

  “Crikey, how can we make it in time with the automobile dead?” Edmund asked.

  “The Mercedes? You rode it here?” Sabrina asked Josh.

  “Rode it and shot it dead,” Michael said with more than a hint of relish in his voice.

  “Shot it?” she echoed, puzzled.

  “To vent the radiator so the bloody—er, my pardon, Miss Edgewater—so the engine wouldn't blow us to kingdom come,” Michael replied.

  “Not the engine—the radiator. Then the engine finally locked up and quit on me. I was pushing her so hard her piston rods and cylinders plumb melted together from overheating,” Josh explained, although no one understood one word.

  But Sabrina understood one thing. “Oh, Josh, you shot your Mercedes for me?” she exclaimed. Suddenly giddy, she flung her arms around his neck.

  “Sabrina, darlin', I had to make a hard choice—you or my Mercedes. Now, she was a good ole gal, but I can buy me a dozen fancy automobiles. You're the one and only Miss Sabrina Edgewater.”

  With that, he kissed her. Edmund turned away, uncomfortable watching his proper cousin's most improper behavior.

  Michael rolled his eyes over Josh's Texas-sized flattery. “We will need horses for a hard ride to London, unless you've forgotten the mission your president sent you to England to accomplish,” he said dryly.

  Flushed with embarrassment, Sabrina broke away from Josh’s embrace. “Oh! There is a stable of sorts down that way.” She pointed to a faint trail through the brush. “That awful Zarenko and his friends took the carriage, but I believe there are more horses inside.”

  “Do you want to add her to your collection inside the lodge while I scout out a remuda for us?” Josh asked Michael.

  Jamison reached down and pulled Natasha Samsonov to her feet. She let out a yelp of anger at his cold professional handling, which he ignored, saying, “Come on now. Some agents will come calling in a few hours to collect you.”

  While he secured the three captives, Josh, Sabrina and Edmund made their way to the stable, where they found half a dozen fresh horses. All of good quality, Josh decided after inspecting them. He examined the tack, whistling low. “Some fancy rigging, to match up with prime horseflesh. Make yourself useful and throw a saddle over that gray for Michael,” he instructed Edmund.

  Whistledown's face turned bright red. “Uh, I—I, that is...”

  “Eddy dislikes horses, except for wagering on them. He never learned to ride, much less saddle one,” Sabrina supplied as she set to work bridling the gray. “If you'll assist me by throwing Natasha's sidesaddle over the mare, I can do the rest.”

  “Now, I don't mean to clabber up and churn all over your picnic, darlin', but Jamison and I are going to ride these critters till their legs near drop off getting back to London. We can't wait for a lady on a sidesaddle,” Josh said in his most placating voice.

  “I've been riding since I was a girl. I can keep up with any man alive,” she said stubbornly.

  “I'd never doubt it...only not on horseback, darlin'.”

  Sabrina gritted her teeth and ignored the gibe, striding over to the tack bench after she'd expertly bridled the gray he was saddling. Pointing to Natasha's saddle, she commanded Edmund, “Please swing this over that mare's back after I put the blanket on.” She pointed to a sturdy dun.

  “She's bested all three of her brothers on a fox hunt,” Edmund put in as he grunted, lifting the saddle from its resting place.

  “This is a skunk hunt, not a fox hunt,” Josh said as he tightened the cinch on the big gray gelding.

  “No one could be more aware of that than I,” Sabrina said sweetly as she smoothed the blanket on the dun mare and helped her nervous cousin position the saddle.

  As she worked, Josh stopped what he was doing and reached for her busy hands, pulling them free. He raised one and kissed it, sighing in defeat. “There'll be no stopping you, will there?” She shook her head, and tangled bronze hair shimmered around her shoulders. Bits of twigs and leaves were caught in it. She looked endearing...and very determined. “All right, Sabrina. I reckon you've earned the right to see this through, but at least make one concession. Ride astride.”

  “Astride?” she echoed, aghast.

  “You act like I was asking you to go stark naked like Lady Godiva...come to think of it, that's not a half bad—”

  “Wipe that lascivious grin off your face, you rogue,” she said in her ste
rnest schoolroom voice. “I have no suitable clothes. My skirt—”

  “I think I can fix it,” he interrupted, extracting a wicked-looking knife from his belt. When she blinked and jerked back a step, he laughed. “I'm not gonna scalp you, just give you some leg room. Edmund, why don't you mosey up to the lodge and see if you can help Michael with the prisoners?” It was not a suggestion. Eddy nodded, eager to get away from the contretemps brewing in the stable, not to mention the horses.

  Josh knelt in front of her and seized the limp fabric of her skirt, slicing it up the front. Then he turned her around and did the same for the back. “Now your petticoats should cover what's in between, and the skirt will rest over those beautiful legs.”

  “What will Mr. Jamison think?” she whispered, nearly undone when Josh stood so close and spoke of limbs no gentleman should ever mention in a lady's presence.

  “If you show a bit of leg, I'll threaten Jamison with a pistol whipping if he so much as glances your way.”

  Well, that certainly solved that.

  Michael strolled into the stable just as Josh and Sabrina finished saddling the third horse. “I dispatched Edmund on foot. With the map I drew for him, he should reach the Colchester constabulary about the time we're rounding up the Russians. Good heavens! I'm starting to speak in your peculiar cow-smasher's vernacular.” Jamison looked appalled.

  “Cowpuncher. And I'm not one anymore. I'm a stockman.”

  Sabrina let out a tiny chuckle, and all three burst into tension-purging laughter.

  “Considering your cousin's penchant for trouble, I felt it best to get him as far removed from Madame Samsonov as possible, lest she somehow induce him to release her,” Michael said to Sabrina.

  She nodded. “Eddy is quite gullible, I fear.” Then she noted the way Jamison's eyes strayed to her ruined skirt and felt her face suffuse with heat. “This was the viscount's idea. He insisted I ride astride.”

  Jamison's sangfroid deserted him again. “You can't come with us. I expected you to remain here with the prisoners until help arrives.”

  “You lose on that one, pard,” Josh replied.

  “Especially considering all the information I overheard about the assassination plot before Zarenko and his friends departed this morning,” she said.

  Both men stood with their jaws dropped as she bounded into the saddle. Her brothers could have told Josh that Sabrina never required a gentleman's assistance to mount a horse. As she waited for her bit of vital information to sink in to two befuddled male brains, she arranged the petticoat and skirt flaps strategically to cover her legs.

  “We can discuss a plan for countering them while we ride. Well, what are you waiting for? Time is of the essence,” she declared.

  Like two attendants to the late queen, they mounted up and dashed after her.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “All I know is gleaned from the bits and pieces I overheard at the lodge. Since they never expected that I'd escape, they spoke freely, but the plan had been formulated some time ago. I fear I don't have exact details, such as who this marksman is who'll be positioned in the park.” Sabrina outlined the gist of Zarenko and Valerian's conversation with Natasha.

  The three riders had ridden their mounts into the ground after leaving the cabin in Essex. Slightly past the halfway point to London, they had stopped to change to the three fresher horses they'd brought from the Russian's stable. As Michael and Josh switched the saddles, Sabrina talked.

  “I'd feel better if we knew who this sniper is,” Michael said as he tightened the cinch on a big roan. “St. James’ Park affords a splendid view of the Mall for quite a distance, and it's so overgrown, an entire regiment of Russian cavalry could hide in it. How the devil are we going to find one man with a rifle before he shoots that stubborn idiot Hayashi in his open carriage?”

  “They never mentioned him by name, but apparently he's considered their finest marksman for long distances. From what I could ascertain, he, not Zarenko, is the one responsible for this mission. Even Natasha did not quibble over who was in charge, although she acted a bit oddly about the mystery man.”

  “What d'you mean, ‘oddly’?” Josh asked, giving the black he would ride a pat.

  She shrugged. “She seemed to think it was...droll, for some reason,” she replied, groping for a better word, finding none.

  “Droll?” Josh echoed, scratching his head.

  “You know, old chap, amusing?” Michael supplied as he swung onto his new mount impatiently. Now that she'd told them what she knew, he had made it clear that he felt it would be better if she remained behind.

  But as long as she could keep up, Sabrina stubbornly insisted on riding with them; and Josh had reluctantly backed her, not wanting her wandering around the countryside alone. He looked up at Jamison with annoyance. “Far as I can see,” he said, giving her an assist into her saddle, “this is about as funny as a yellowjacket in an outhouse.”

  Sabrina gave him a censuring look for his vulgarity, but he winked at her and mounted up without apology. “At least we know where Zarenko and his pals are going to set off the diversion,” he said as they resumed their grueling pace once again.

  “I mislike the presence of explosives in a crowd, especially in an area as large as Trafalgar Square. That could bring on unforeseeable complications,” Jamison muttered, turning over in his mind various possibilities about how to handle the situation and net the conspirators.

  “The explosion will be set to go off at half past four, if they proceed as they said they would,” Sabrina assured him. “That is supposed to put Count Hayashi's progress halfway down the Mall to St. James' Palace.”

  “We have to get there in time to stop half the police and agents assigned to protect him from rushing off to the explosion site,” Michael replied grimly.

  “I bet Uncle Ab’s fit to be hogtied over the route,” Josh said.

  “Lansdowne was no happier, I can assure you,” Michael said. “But Salisbury insisted upon it. It would seem that our new allies in the East have very set notions about being received in a manner befitting their imperial status. If they aren't given the full treatment afforded Europeans, they will, as they put it, ‘lose face.’ ”

  Josh snorted. “Face. If those Russians start shootin’, Hayashi’ll lose a hell of a lot more than his face, he’ll loose his as—”

  “Ahem,” Sabrina interjected with a meaningfully raised eyebrow at the viscount's slip into vulgarity.

  He subsided.

  * * * *

  The Japanese delegation had insisted on a procession from Downing Street up Whitehall and then down the wide thoroughfare to St. James’s Palace, where a formal state dinner with King Edward would set the stage before the Anglo-Japanese treaty was signed. Although the Prime Minister had informed the Japanese government about a potential Russian plot, there was no diplomatically acceptable way for Salisbury to once again cancel the ceremonial honors the emperor's government expected.

  To further complicate the situation, Lord Salisbury and Lord Lansdowne would be in the open carriage with Count Hayashi. Josh hoped, whoever this sniper was, that the fellow was a decent shot and wouldn't hit the English ministers instead. But it was his and Michael’s job to see that the shot was never fired...if they could find the assassin in over ninety acres of heavily wooded, hilly park alongside the Mall.

  The sun continued its descent toward the westward horizon as they rode. Jamison pulled his pocket piece out now and again to check the time. Josh could not imagine how the Englishman could read it from the back of a bouncing horse. After spending a lifetime on the Texas plains without the luxury of timepieces, he'd learned to use the sun to reckon time quite accurately. He figured they had no more than an hour to reach St. James’ Park.

  How the hell was he going to do his duty for the colonel and Uncle Ab—and see that Sabrina was out of harm's way at the same time? What a pickle.

  As it turned out, Michael Jamison solved the dilemma for him when they reach
ed the bustling crowds along the Strand. When they were forced to stop in the press of traffic, Michael scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and gave it to Sabrina.

  “I want you to take this to that shop,” he instructed her, pointing to a rather run-down-looking men's haberdashery just off the Strand. “Ask for Mr. Parker. He's always there. Certain to be today, as he's the chap who keeps track of all the agents' assignments during state visits. Explain everything you know about the situation, and he'll deal with the diversion Zarenko plans at Trafalgar. Tell him the viscount and I are going into St. James' Park to try to locate the sniper. Parker will have to seal off the whole of the park.”

  Sabrina nodded, stealing a quick look at Josh, uncertain about showing him that she was fearful for his safety. He took the decision out of her hands by leaning across his saddle and giving her a swift, serious kiss, before releasing her. “We'll talk after this is over, darlin’,” he murmured.

  “Be safe, Josh,” she murmured, unable to look at Jamison, knowing what he must think of their relationship. Clutching the note tightly in her fist, she turned her horse and headed to meet Mr. Parker.

  “Can this Parker fellow really find that dynamite in Trafalgar and seal off this place?” Josh asked dubiously as they approached the park.

  “I fervently hope so. Miss Edgewater's information was most helpful about the conveyance. They can easily search for a wagon loaded with turnips,” Jamison replied.

  “She had more information than a mail-order catalogue, that's for sure. We'd be up the creek without a paddle if not for her,” Josh replied.

  “You care for her.”

  Michael's tone was neutral, but Josh knew enough about the way the English mind—not to mention the class system—worked to realize what his friend was thinking. “I don't just care for her, I'm fixin’ to marry her,” he surprised himself by saying.

  Jamison's eyebrows rose. “My grandmother, as I may have mentioned, was American. Also possessed of quite a scandalous reputation as a libertine before she married the Earl of Lynden. Considering how very properly English and properly proper Miss Edgewater is, I don't imagine she'll have any difficulty being accepted in Society”