Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  She considered disobeying. If it was a choice of being shot on the side of the road or spending the rest of her life locked in an asylum with the likes of Mr. Hartsinger, she’d take the bullet.

  Fortunately, that choice wasn’t required of her. She need only bide her time until she had the opportunity to escape. Or until Whit came for her.

  Feeling determined about the first, and absolutely certain of the second, she climbed into the carriage.

  Whit had known fear before. He’d felt it the day Mirabelle had fallen down the hill. And the night she’d insisted on participating in the mission.

  As a soldier, he’d experienced that sick dread that proceeds every battle, and the weighted horror that comes as men die in the blood and gore of combat.

  But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the marrow-deep terror he felt now.

  He spurred his horse on, knowing it was dangerous to ride hell-for-leather with only the shadowed moonlight to show the way. He had no choice.

  How much of an advantage did Hartsinger have? Five minutes? A quarter hour? Even more? How long had they been in the stable, standing about, while Mirabelle was being dragged away?

  In a trunk.

  Was she still in there? Trapped and frightened?

  He almost preferred that idea over the alternative—that Hartsinger had taken her out and was now alone with her in the carriage.

  A man could do a great deal of harm to a woman when he had a carriage and a quarter-hour’s time at his disposal.

  He signaled to Christian to take the next turn left. It was another risk, using the narrow trail, but it was their best chance to pull ahead of Hartsinger and ambush him where the trail met the road. With any luck, they could take out the driver from the cover of the trees, avoiding an out-and-out chase that would further endanger Mirabelle.

  “There now, isn’t this cozy?” Hartsinger sighed as he settled on the bench opposite Mirabelle. Keeping the gun trained on her, he lifted a hand to knock on the roof, starting the carriage off. “Would you care for a blanket? There is a bit of chill to night.”

  If she could have risked opening her mouth without losing her supper, she would have gaped at him.

  Was the man being solicitous?

  “Oh my, you do look surprised,” he tittered. “And I suppose you have reason. Pity, though, this isn’t at all how I would have chosen things to begin. I’d envisioned a slightly less dramatic homecoming for you. But, well, needs must.”

  “St. Brigit’s is not my home,” she bit out between clenched teeth.

  “Certainly it is. The contract your uncle signed is legal in every way. You’ll be very happy there,” he assured her, growing excited. “I intend to give you your own room, you know, complete with window and fireplace. And a soft bed, as well…although, I’ll admit,” he added with another giggle, “when it comes to that, I’m thinking of my own comfort as much as yours.”

  Seeped in pain, her head pounding mercilessly, the meaning of that statement didn’t immediately register with Mirabelle. But eventually understanding dawned, and with it came revulsion—thick greasy waves of it. Her stomach spasmed painfully, until she feared that just keeping her mouth closed wouldn’t be enough. She pressed herself into the corner, taking shallow breaths until the worst of it passed.

  “But business before pleasure, I’m afraid,” Hartsinger continued, as if nothing were amiss. “Tell me what you know of this counterfeiting business.”

  Though the movement cost her, she shook her head.

  “You don’t mean to pretend ignorance, do you, because it will never work. I was eavesdropping on you and your uncle, you see.” He grinned broadly. “I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed watching you pelt the baron with his own effects. And I would have left you to it, if you hadn’t referred to him as…” He glanced at the ceiling, remembering. “A…despicable counterfeiting…and then you broke off, I believe. So tell me, my dear, whyever would you call him such a thing?”

  She had no intention of cooperating with the man. But she was in no condition to fight him either. She tried for distraction. “You’re an accomplice,” she accused.

  He frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think I care for that word. It has a sort of secondary ring to it. Let’s just call me the architect. Our little operation was my doing. Which still leaves the question of how you discovered it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Indulge me,” he suggested.

  “No.”

  “Tell me,” he repeated, raising the gun. “Or you go back in the trunk.”

  “I was snooping in the baron’s room,” she snapped. “I found the bills and plate.”

  His face went blank. Then cold and hard.

  “What plate?”

  Mirabelle wasn’t given the chance to answer. Seemingly out of nowhere, the sharp report of a pistol cut through the night air.

  The carriage lurched, taking on a sudden burst of speed, and the force of it threw Hartsinger into her. She shoved at him instinctively, using her hands and feet to knock him back…and knock the pistol from his hand. It bounced off the bench to land on the floor.

  There was a mad scramble as they both dove for the weapon. By virtue of being closest, she got there first, but the benefits of that were limited, as it gave him the opportunity to land on top of her.

  Even hurt and frightened as she was, the notion occurred to her that she had never experienced anything so repulsive as Mr. Hartsinger’s full weight squirming against her back. She threw an elbow out and caught him in the ribs, but that earned her little more than a grunt, and provided him room to sneak a hand under her to claw at the gun.

  Certain she wouldn’t be able to throw him off and knowing she hadn’t the space to aim the gun without hurting herself, she did the only other thing she could think of—she curled around the weapon, squeezed her eyes shut, and closed her mind against the feel of his grasping hands.

  The carriage was slowing. Wasn’t it slowing? Wasn’t the rattle of the wheels easing? Her heart leapt at the sound of hoof-beats at the side of the carriage, and the distant sound of Whit calling her name. If she could just hold on long enough…

  Hartsinger’s hand gripped the gun, slid off when she jerked, and then gripped again.

  Her heart sank as quickly as it had leapt. She wouldn’t be able to hold on. She wasn’t strong enough. Hartsinger would have the gun in a matter of seconds. And he wouldn’t use it to shoot his only bargaining chip. He’d aim for Whit.

  Without further thought, she twisted the gun, instinctively aiming to the side, away from her face, and with her last ounce of strength pushed herself back as far as Hartsinger’s weight allowed.

  Then she pulled the trigger.

  The sound was deafening, a painful blast that left her ears ringing. And the heat that seared along her rib cage had her crying out.

  But even over the noise and pain she could hear Mr. Hartsinger screeching. Had she shot him? Her purpose in discharging the gun had been to render it useless, but if she’d managed to wound him in the process, all the better.

  “Mirabelle!”

  She heard Whit call for her again and the unmistakable bang of a carriage door being flung open. Then came the blessed relief of Mr. Hartsinger being flung away. But she didn’t open her eyes until Whit’s strong, familiar hands lifted her up to a sitting position.

  “Where are you shot? Mirabelle, where—” His eyes found the rip in her clothing and the burn mark on her rib cage and he swore, low and viciously.

  “I’m not shot.” She glanced down and squinted. “Well, maybe a little.”

  He ran shaking hands along the wound. “It’s not bleeding. You’re not bleeding.”

  “No. I aimed away.”

  “You—?” He swore again and, though it was a bit hard to tell, she thought he shook his head. “Where else are you hurt? Mirabelle. Sweetheart, look at me.”

  She’d like to, she thought, if only he would be still a moment. But he kept moving, running unst
eady hands over her—her arms, her back, her face. And he kept shifting his head to kiss her—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. Because trying to pin him down made her dizzier, she simply wrapped her arms around him and burrowed in.

  He followed suit, gripping her so tight she might have protested if it hadn’t felt so right.

  “You’re all right,” he breathed. He lifted her up and out of the carriage, and pressed his face to her neck. “I heard the shot. Tell me you’re all right.”

  She nodded against his chest. “I’m all right.”

  She felt a tremble go through him before he pulled back and framed her face with his hands. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  He brushed his thumb gently beneath the broken skin of her cheek. “I was late.”

  “No, my uncle did that,” she explained, feeling a little steadier. “You were just in time—”

  “I was late,” he repeated, and she realized he wasn’t referring to just that night.

  “You’re here now,” she whispered. And because he was, and because he seemed to need it as much as her, she wrapped her arms around him a second time.

  “I want to go home, Whit,” she said into his coat. “My head hurts. Will you take me home?”

  “I will, sweetheart.” His fingers feathered gently through her hair. She felt him tense when he found the knot where the butt of the gun had struck her.

  “I am all right,” she assured him. “I just want to go home.”

  “And I’ll take you, darling, I promise.” He set her gently on the carriage step. “But I need just a moment. Can you wait just a moment?”

  She nodded, expecting him to do something with the horses and carriage. Instead, with rage in his eyes, and his features set in hard lines, he reached inside and grabbed Hartsinger’s weapon. “Stay here.”

  She didn’t stay. How could she, when Whit was marching off with a pistol in his hand? She followed him around the side of the carriage, annoyed that she needed to use it for support. In the dim moonlight she could make out someone standing over two men on the road. The first, whom she assumed was the driver, was holding a bleeding arm.

  And the second, whining loudly and dabbing at a nasty gash along his shoulder, was Mr. Hartsinger.

  “She shot me. The chit shot me,” he trailed off nervously as Whit strode past and retrieved fresh shot from the back of his saddle. “Miss Browning has been legally signed into my care. This isn’t your concern, Thurston.”

  Whit loaded the gun and stepped forward to stand over Hartsinger. “Do I appear unconcerned?”

  Though Mirabelle found the sight of Hartsinger cowering on the ground gratifying, the uncharacteristically frigid tone of Whit’s voice sent chills up her spine. He didn’t really mean to kill the man, did he?

  Hartsinger certainly seemed to think so. “Consider what you’re doing, man! It would be murder! You’ll hang—”

  “I’m an earl,” Whit reminded him.

  That gave Hartsinger pause. Peers of the realm weren’t sent to the gallows. “You’ll be banished!” he tried instead. “The authorities will—”

  “Difficult for a man to report murder,” Whit interrupted, priming the pistol and aiming it squarely at Hartsinger, “with his head stuck on a pike.”

  Mirabelle started forward. “Whit, no!”

  He flicked a glance in her direction. “Don’t you want his head stuck on a pike?”

  Oh, rather. “But he’s the accomplice.”

  “Is he?” Whit asked, but didn’t lower the weapon. “Well then, it’s not really murder at all, is it?”

  Hartsinger’s mouth began to work rapidly, though it was a moment before sound came out. “A lie. The girl lies—” he shrieked and ducked when Whit raised his weapon an inch. “A misunderstanding! The lady misunderstood! I implore you—!”

  “Whit, please,” Mirabelle cut in, and wondered if she could walk the distance to where he stood without falling. “I just want to go home. You promised you’d take me home.”

  For the first time since leaving her beside the carriage, Whit turned and really looked at her.

  And lowered the gun. “So I did. Tie them up, Christian. See McAlistair gets them.”

  Unsteady, Mirabelle reached behind her to grip the carriage. “McAlistair?” She took a second look at the tall man standing beside Whit. “Christian?”

  “I’ll explain—” Whit broke off at the sound of approaching horses. “That would be Alex,” he commented and striding to her, lifted her off her feet into his arms. “With any luck, he brought a second carriage.”

  Alex had, as it turned out, and in short order Mirabelle was tucked warmly next to Whit and on her way to Haldon.

  The carriage rocked gently beneath her, lulling her into a lethargy that fear had earlier kept at bay. She stared unseeing out the dark window, longing desperately for sleep. But her mind refused to settle. Everything had changed. Her plans, her future, her hopes—all had been dashed in the course of a single day.

  “Mirabelle?” She felt Whit’s hand move from her shoulder to brush at her hair.

  “He took my dowry,” she said softly. “My uncle, he stole it.” She looked to him. “I don’t know what to do. I had it all planned. Now I don’t know what to do.”

  When the tears came, he simply gathered her in and held on.

  Twenty-six

  Haldon was a riot of noise and activity when they arrived.

  Nearly every servant had descended on the front hall looking for a way to help. Kate, Evie, and Sophie surrounded Mirabelle and bustled her off to her room. William Fletcher appeared from the library looking harassed, followed by Lady Thurston who looked to be doing the harassing.

  Mr. Lindberg returned from a second trip to the baron’s, carrying the contract that assigned Mirabelle to St. Brigit’s. And with the news that the baron had babbled an extended confession within minutes of being left alone with McAlistair. Lord Eppersly claimed to have been blackmailed by Mr. Hartsinger into using the bank notes after attempting, in desperation, to pass several off in payment to the asylum for Mirabelle’s future care. He denied all knowledge of a printing plate, and when asked how he’d come about the counterfeit notes, would only answer that it was meant to be a grand joke.

  Assuming that no other information would be available on that score until McAlistair’s return, Whit made his way upstairs and for the second time in a fortnight, found himself standing outside Mirabelle’s room, anxiously waiting for news. He refused offers of food and drink, and demands for explanations alike. The thought of eating made his stomach churn, and he couldn’t provide answers he didn’t have.

  The physician, paid handsomely to be available to the Cole family at a moment’s notice, arrived within a half hour. He spent what seemed to Whit to be an exceedingly large amount of time in Mirabelle’s room before finally emerging to announce that Miss Browning’s wounds were not life-threatening, though she would likely have a very unpleasant headache and a very unattractive black eye by morning. The physician then provided a list of instructions for dealing with a blow to the head that Whit passed on to Mrs. Hanson with the express order that every member of the house hold was to memorize its contents.

  Then he went in search of William. He found him once again in the library, and once again, apparently, being harassed by Lady Thurston.

  They stood in front of the fire, and barely spared him a glance when he entered.

  “You said she was safe,” Lady Thurston accused William in a voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Nothing of this sort was supposed to happen.”

  Whit came to a stop in front of a small reading table and glared at the pair. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, and was roundly ignored.

  “I never would have suggested the ruse if I thought for even a moment her safety would be compromised,” William replied defensively.

  “What ruse?” Whit demanded, for all the good it did him. Neither his mother nor William even flicked their eyes in his direction.
r />   “Mr. Lindberg and Christian should have informed us of the potential danger—” Lady Thurston began.

  “Neither have ever reported the baron becoming violent in their presence,” William cut in. “And none of us suspected Hartsinger’s involvement.”

  “How did you know of Mr. Lindberg—” Whit tried.

  “Have they had blinders on for all these years?” Lady Thurston snapped.

  “Lindberg and Christian are outstanding members of my—”

  “Enough!” Whit slammed his fist on the table. “That is bloody well enough!”

  His mother drew herself up. “Whittaker Vincent, I will not tolerate that sort of language in my house.”

  “Lady Thurston, it is my house, and at the moment, I don’t give two damns for your tolerance. Sit down.”

  “Well,” she huffed. She straightened her shoulders, indignant, but looked about her, found a chair to her liking, and sat on the edge primly. “Well.”

  William followed suit, taking a seat next to her, though his posture was of a man resigned, not offended.

  Whit stifled the urge to pace. “I want answers. William, you start.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” William reached up to tug at his cravat, but finding it already undone, yanked it off instead. “Your mother and I felt…No, no, I should start from the beginning, shouldn’t I?” He heaved a great sigh. “Seventeen years ago, I made a deathbed vow to the late Duke of Rockeforte. I was tricked into it, to be honest, but nevertheless—”

  “What vow?” Whit cut in.

  William shifted in his seat and the slightest trace of a blush rose to his cheeks. “I promised…I promised to see that his children…found love.”

  Whit scowled at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am,” William responded with a scowl of his own. “As he was—though I suspect he’s laughing over it even now—the blighter.”