How the Earl Entices

by Anna Harrington

  “An’ plenty big ‘nough,” the second—and smallest—piped up.

  The third one knew to keep silent.

  “Perhaps…” She drew out the word, letting her doubt register in her voice.

  “We can do it, ma’am. Ain’t nothin’ but a little play o’ tag wi’ th’ guvnor,” the oldest boy assured her. He held out his hand for prepayment of services, his expression suddenly all business.

  She nodded as she placed a coin onto the grimy palm of each boy. “And another coin for each of you when you complete your task.” She pointedly jingled the pouch so they could hear that she had coin left. “Fail, and you’ll get nothing more. Understand?”

  All three boys nodded with stubborn boyish pride, and she fought back a pleased smile. Raising Ethan had taught her that getting what she wanted from young boys required a combination of reverse persuasion, bribery, and old-fashioned threats.

  “I’ll be waiting over there with your payment.” She pointed toward the corner of a narrow alley that cut through the stretch of terraced houses and gave access to the service yards behind. “Go!”

  With excited grins, the boys ran away, laughing as they charged up to the front door of the grand townhouse. Grace watched as the two smaller boys stood to either side of the doorway and crouched down, hidden just out of view from the sidelights. The oldest grabbed the brass knocker and began to beat it furiously, as if he were attempting to wake the dead.

  The butler opened the door and scowled when he saw the boy. Even from this distance, Grace could see the venom with which the paunchy servant began to berate the lad, moving to yank the door closed as quickly as he’d opened it.

  But the boy lowered his shoulder and plowed into the door, shoving both it and the startled butler out of the way as the two smaller urchins jumped to their feet and ran inside the house, setting a merry chase. Shouts went up throughout the townhouse as the butler raced after them. But they were too fast for him to keep up.

  Stifling a smile, Grace calmly strolled down the street to the alley, as if she were just another household servant, coming and going for work. She waited out of sight around the corner.

  Less than ten minutes later, the three boys came running up to her. They laughed so hard that they nearly doubled over from their glee and giggles. After their sprint through the house, the three weren’t even winded, although she was certain they’d worn out the servants who’d chased them. In the distance, she heard a fierce shout from the butler and a slam of the front door. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

  If what she was about to do wasn’t so dangerous, its endgame the only thing that would save Ross’s life, she would have taken a moment to enjoy it. But too much depended upon every step she made now, and there wasn’t a minute to spare.

  “You did as I asked?” she pressed.

  All three boys nodded.

  “Aye, ma’am.” The oldest held out his hand for the promised coin. “The first door i’’ th’ side garden.”

  Her belly tightened. It was her turn now.

  Doing her best to press down the nervousness that rose so intensely that her hand trembled, she paid out the promised coins. The boys clutched their booty tightly in their fists as they ran away, down the narrow path toward the rabbit warren of back alleys and side streets that filled this part of Piccadilly like a maze. In a matter of seconds they were gone.

  She inhaled deeply for courage and set off.

  Unhurriedly, she strolled her way down the alley to the back of the terrace houses, looking for all the world as if she belonged right there. Anyone who saw her wouldn’t think to question her presence, not in a dress that four days of travel and sleeping in a doorway last night had dirtied to the point that she could have passed for any common lower-class laborer simply going about her morning business.

  But the alley was mostly empty, except for a groom who was too busy flirting with a scullery maid taking out a bucket of slopes to notice her. Yet even then she kept her face lowered, her scar turned away.

  When she reached the end of the terrace, where Wentworth’s townhouse mansion capped the row, she slowed her gate just enough to take a casual glance into its service yard, to make certain no one was there when she unlatched the garden gate and let herself inside.

  Now—she hitched up her skirts and ran, to duck out of sight behind the outbuildings.

  She crouched low and circled the perimeter of the service yard to arrive at the wooden gate that separated the yard from the formal side garden beyond. The same garden whose three sets of French doors had been thrown open wide for the partygoers the night of the masquerade. Their grandeur was impossible to miss that night, and she prayed that they would be her way back into the house this morning.

  She slipped through the gate and closed it silently behind her.

  Behind the cover of flowered bushes and thick arbors, she finally let herself pause, to catch her breath and steady her nervous shaking.

  She thought of Ross and pushed on toward the house. Careful to keep out of view of the windows, she reached the set of doors that she’d instructed the boys to unlock in their chase through the house. She whispered a prayer and reached for the handle—

  It turned. The door swung open. She slipped inside the grand drawing room, then silently closed the door behind herself.

  The house seemed so much bigger without the crush of hundreds of guests. And terrifyingly silent, which only made each faint footstep she took register in her ears like the sound of cannon fire. But she tried to take courage in that silence. It meant that Wentworth and his cronies were in Westminster, just as Christopher had predicted, gleefully relishing Ross’s downfall, while she was here to stop it.

  She carefully moved through the house. As she did, she sent up a silent thank you to fate that she’d been at the party and so knew the layout of all the rooms and where little alcoves and corners were located where she could hide if someone happened upon her. But so far, there was no need to hide, the house remaining silent and still around her.

  When she reached the stair hall, that enormous room that stretched two stories tall and could have engulfed her entire cottage between its walls, she hesitated. She would be exposed here, with no way to hide as she ascended the stairs. But the only other choice—unless she wanted to scale the downspout, and who would be mad enough to do a thing like that?—was the backstairs. Not a choice at all, given that the servants would be coming and going in their duties. She’d be seen the moment she took her first step.

  No. It was up the grand staircase or nothing.

  Hitching up her skirt, she raced up the stairs. Dear God, how had she not noticed the night of the masquerade how tall these stairs were? It took an eternity to reach the top and duck into the second set of stairs that led up to the ambassador’s private rooms above, and to the study, where the journal waited for her.

  Although she’d not been into this part of the house during the party, the study was easy to find, because its door hung half off its hinges, the frame around it broken into shards. Good God, what had happened here with Ross that night?

  Her hands shaking, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her as fully as she could, shutting herself into the lion’s den. Every heartbeat made her wince with pain and terror, yet she forced herself to stop and take a moment to quiet herself, to look around the room and gather her bearings. No good would come of being panicked in her search. Calm, controlled…Just breathe!

  But the bell of a nearby church tolling the noon hour startled her. The morning was gone, and Ross would be facing the Lords even now. She had to hurry.

  Her gaze swept around the room and landed on the side table that Ross had described. She ran her fingers over it, testing every surface and joint, every hidden place where a latch might—

  Her fingertips found it, and she gave a soft cry of relief. She pressed it, and a front panel gave way, opening a hidden compartment. Her hand dove inside.

  Only to come up empty. />
  She bit back a frustrated cry and sank down onto her heels. No! To come this far, through so much—

  But the journal was here in this study. It had to be! And she wasn’t leaving until she found it.

  She pulled herself up to her feet and turned back to face the room, determined to search through every inch of the place if she had to. Then she saw the matching side table on the opposite wall and smiled.

  Shaking so fiercely that she could barely control her hands, she went to it and once more searched for the hidden compartment. Once more finding the latch. The panel fell open, and she reached trembling fingers inside—

  They brushed against something hard and flat. She pulled it out, blinking against the stinging in her eyes as she stared down at what she held in her hands.

  Wentworth’s private journal. Her hands shook as she opened it and flipped through the pages to make certain it was the proof she needed. Breathe. Each entry was meticulously dated and entered in an elegant but masculine hand, listing names and bits of information, places, favors granted, favors given. Her chest burned with each mouthful of air she forced herself to take. Just breathe!

  The journal. It was more precious than its weight in gold, and she could scarcely believe that she’d found it. Ross’s salvation. And hers.

  “Put it down,” a deep voice ordered.

  With a startled cry, she spun around. A man stood in the doorway—

  “Patton.” Panic spiked in her chest. Dear God, what was he doing here? Why wasn’t he in Westminster with the ambassador?

  “Put it down,” he repeated as he stalked toward her.

  She lifted her chin. “I’d rather die.”

  An evil smile tugged at his thin lips. “All right.”

  He lunged.

  She darted aside, with her hand clamped around the little book like a vise. He turned and charged back toward her. She snatched up a brass blotter from the desk and heaved it at him as hard as she could.

  The throw missed, but he ducked his head. In that moment, she turned to run. Her hand reached for the door—

  An arm clasped around her waist and tackled her to the floor. She slammed hard against the rug, the journal flying free from her grip and across the room. Large hands grabbed her shoulders and twisted her arms as he rolled her over and pinned her down. His heavy body straddled hers.

  “Well, well, Contessa,” he leered as he leaned over her. “You’ve returned. Looks like we’ll have that private party after all.”

  The sadistic look of violence on his face pulled a cry of terror from her lips. She struggled beneath him to free herself, but he was too strong, too heavy. Helplessness crashed over her in a terrifying flood.

  “That’s it, pet,” he purred as he pinned her arms over her head and reached down to grab up her skirt. “Fight your hardest. It’s always more fun when the lady struggles.”

  Bile rose in her throat, and a fierce hatred instantly flashed over her, pushing out all traces of fear and leaving only blinding fury in its place. She yanked her arms as hard as she could, and her right wrist slipped free of his grasp. Desperately, she flung her hand out around her, reaching for anything she could grasp. Cold metal touched her fingertips—

  The brass blotter! Her hand tightened around it, and with a groan of exertion, she swung. It struck him on the temple and knocked him off-balance, dazing him just long enough for her to swing again. Another strike against his head, and he fell over onto the floor beside her, moaning with pain as he reached a hand to the trickle of blood at his cut brow.

  She scrambled to her feet and backed away. The journal lay on the floor behind him, just out of her reach.

  “You bitch!” He climbed unsteadily to his feet. Stalking toward her, he circled her around the room.

  Never taking her eyes off him, she backed slowly away, matching him step for step, and waited for the shift of his body that signaled another lunge for her. How many times had she replayed in her mind the memory of Vincent doing just that, until she knew exactly when a man’s posture changed, when his shoulders stiffened and his thighs tensed, ready to spring? More than enough times to have imprinted that hard-learned lesson forever on her mind.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the fireplace behind her. A flash of dark memory—the hard shove, the fall, the sickening give of her cheek as it ripped open on the iron…barely inches from the flames, so close that her hair singed and her fingertips burned on the iron fender when she pushed herself away…The pool of blood on the floor, her face mercifully numb in her shock…And Vincent’s eyes blazing at her, black murder in their depths. He’d reached for her a second time, to grasp her dress and toss her into the flames. But her maid screamed from the doorway at the sight, of what she mistakenly believed was Vincent hauling her back from the fire, to save her—

  Her terror rose as the memories flooded back, until Patton’s face blurred with Vincent’s, until there was no difference between the two men who wanted to harm her.

  She’d died that day, as surely as if Vincent had managed to cast her into the flames after all. But from the ashes rose another woman, one so much stronger and more powerful than he would ever know.

  A murderous look blazed in Patton’s eyes as he reached up to touch the trickle of blood at his brow. “You’ll pay for this.”

  She took another step back, angling her body toward the marble fireplace surround, reached her hand back to feel for the set of iron tools—

  He pounced.

  Her hand closed over the poker. With a fierce cry, she swung with all her strength. The metal rod hit the side of his head with a dull thud. He froze, momentarily stunned, and then collapsed onto the floor at her feet, unconscious.

  “No, I won’t,” she muttered, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth .

  She hit him a second time. For good measure. Then she tossed the iron rod aside, grabbed up the journal, and ran.

  But the servants had been startled by the noise of the fight. Sounds of bewildered calls and running footsteps filled the house. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked behind to see the butler and two large footmen running toward her, anger distorting their faces.

  She ran on without hesitating into the entrance hall toward the front door and escape.

  But they were close on her heels, their pounding strides gaining on her. She grabbed at the lamp on the table as she raced past and flung it behind her, shattering glass across the floor in an oily mess. The men hesitated before following across the puddle of slippery oil, for only a few precious seconds, but that was all she needed to open the door.

  Her feet hit the footpath at a dead run. Not glancing back, she darted down the street and away from the house, turning randomly down street after street, alley after alley, and paying no attention to the strange looks the pedestrians and carriage drivers gave her. Behind her the two footmen gave chase. She ran on, propelled by panic and her fear for Ross’s life, going deeper and deeper into the maze of back alleys and narrow streets, until she had no idea in which direction she was heading, how far she’d run, or if the men were still chasing her.

  When she could run no longer, her chest heaving and her side twisting into an agonizing knot, she stumbled to a stop and sank to the cobblestones beneath her. Resting on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her belly and gulped in large mouthfuls of air. Her stomach roiled from exertion and from the terror she finally let come over her, unable to tamp it down any longer now that she clasped the journal so tightly in her hands that her fingertips turned white.

  She staggered to her feet and limped painfully down the street until she reached a wide avenue. It took the last of her strength to raise her arm to signal for a hackney.

  A black carriage stopped at the side of the street, and she bit back a cry of relief.

  “Westminster—Parliament,” she rasped out, her throat raw. “As fast as you can!”

  With a knowing look at her disheveled and filthy appearance, the coachman held out his hand fo
r payment up front. Panic seized her as she frantically searched her pockets. Dear God, she had no more coins! She’d given the last of them to the boys.

  With no choice, she pulled the ruby ring from her finger and placed it into his palm.

  “As fast as you can,” she repeated in a whisper, blinking hard to keep back her tears. Then she climbed inside, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed.

  Chapter 26

  Ross gritted his teeth as he gazed out over the chamber, not knowing whether to shout in anger or laugh in bitter amusement. The House of Lords had erupted into chaos and confusion already, after only two hours of a trial that was expected to last at least a fortnight before the verdict was pronounced. Just long enough to have every embarrassing bit of his life—and then some—flayed open for public scrutiny.

  Good Lord, he’d rather be hanged now than suffer a moment longer of this.

  The Lord High Steward pounded the end of his white staff against the floor, but none of the men paid him any mind. They were too busy squabbling and arguing amongst themselves, with the solicitors and barristers doing the same right there before the bar. The Duke of Wembley nearly came to blows with Lord Houghton, their fisticuffs broken up only by the quick action of the chamber guards, one of whom lost his hat in the scuffle.

  “Point of order!”

  The trial had turned into a debacle. Because not one of the so-called quality wanted to miss what was certain to be the trial of the century, peers filled the chamber to overflowing. Including some who rarely attended the sessions, some who had been far into their cups only a few hours earlier, and all of them loudly opinionated on whether Ross had actually committed treason, petty treason, or simply espionage. As if any of it made a difference to how tightly the noose would fit around his neck.

  Then, there was Wentworth.

  Ross slid a murderous gaze sideways to where the ambassador sat, surrounded by his cronies. A smirk on the man’s face showed how much he was enjoying bearing witness to Ross’s downfall.