“Hartley, catch me,” Alethea whispered as blackness flowed over her.
He leapt forward as she slumped, and Germaine staggered, nearly dropping her. Everyone rushed to his side, but all of his attention was fixed upon Alethea. Blood soaked the front of her gown, her breathing was rapid and uneven, and she looked so pale, too pale. He wanted to bellow out his rage. If Alethea did not recover from this, Claudette and her allies would discover that he knew how to hunt and kill as well, if not better, than they did. He would make every one of them pay and pay dearly.
Chapter 12
Hartley paced his drawing room, ignoring the other three men who waited there with him. Germaine and Bayard sat close together on the settee, pale and silent. He had not even talked to Germaine about what had happened yet, although she had tried to catch his attention several times. He knew he should be over there trying to reassure them, but he was incapable of doing so. His every thought, every emotion, was fixed on what was happening to Alethea.
The doctor and Mrs. Huxley were taking too long, he decided, but fought the urge to race up to his bedchamber where Alethea had been taken. He had been firmly ushered out once already. The scream that had escaped Alethea when the doctor had begun to dig the bullet out of her had maddened him, and he had tried to force the man to stop. Foolish but understandable, but the doctor had not seen it that way. His promise of better behavior had not been enough to get the doctor to allow him to stay, however. The man had refused to continue unless Hartley left. His only revenge for that had been to leave Kate there, watching the doctor’s every move and making her opinions of his skill or lack thereof very well known. Afraid he might yet give in to the impulse to go back up there, he fixed his gaze upon a pale Iago and hoped the diversion of talking to the man would calm him. He suddenly recalled something Iago had said when he had looked down at the bloody form Germaine had been holding up.
“What did you mean when you said we would soon have help whether we wanted it or not?” Hartley asked.
Iago grimaced and combed his fingers through his hair, which had come loose of its tidy queue long ago. “When you consider who and what we are, Hartley, it should come as no surprise that the Vaughns, and to some extent the Wherlockes, are closely bonded. In many ways. Alethea is in pain, and she is in grave danger. That will draw at least some of our kinsmen here.”
“There are others in your family who have visions?” asked Aldus.
“Some, but mostly it is a bonding we share.” Iago shrugged, his face revealing his difficulty in trying to find the right words to explain himself. “The moment Alethea was shot, I promise you, several members of our family knew it. How many will come to London or come here from their homes in the city will depend upon who is close at hand when those who do sense something is wrong make their way here. Modred, the Duke of Elderwood, will definitely know, but I do not believe he will come. He will send someone in his place. He finds such crowded places a torment.”
“He is that uncomfortable around other people?” asked Hartley.
“It can be a sheer hell for him to be amongst so many people, with all their emotions tearing at him and thoughts like discordant, unconnected shouts in his head,” replied Iago. “There were times when we feared he would go mad. He has learned how to shut himself away from the cacophony, that constant barrage of others’ emotions and thoughts, but it is difficult. It requires constant control, constant concentration. We have others in the family who are very empathic, but not in the way Modred is.”
“He can actually hear what people think?” Hartley noticed that his niece and nephew looked intrigued and wondered what Alethea had told them.
“Some. Mostly he just catches pieces of a thought, but at times there is much more. He can be at ease around most of our family. We think that is because we are all so tightly bound together, by blood and our varied gifts. It could even be that our gifts are the reason we have these, well, shields against such an intrusion. There are also some people who are naturally shielded. Modred has several servants who are. In such cases he can sense their feelings only when the emotion is fierce, strong enough to break through those inner shields.”
“And he is close to Alethea?”
“He was, but they saw little of each other after she married. Her husband found Modred unsettling, he said, although I never saw that. I do not think Modred was fond of the man, either. Probably knew that the man was lacking in emotion, but I do not think he ever told Alethea so. Alethea and Modred have kept up a regular correspondence, however. Forced into seclusion as he is, Modred is very fond of letters.” He grimaced. “The two of them have always shared a special bond. You see, his mother was as terrified of him as Alethea’s mother was of her. She fled, just as Alethea’s mother did. Our aunt Dob has had most of the raising of Modred, and the pair of them often visited with Alethea and her brothers.”
“What is your aunt’s gift?”
“Knowledge.” Iago smiled faintly at the brief looks of confusion Hartley and the others gave him. “Aunt Dob has a true understanding of it all, some natural insight. She knows ways to help one control the gift, to harness it in some ways. Her empathy is boundless, as is her patience. I truly believe she is the reason poor Modred has not gone the way his father did. The man came home from a local gentlemen’s gathering one night, walked into his library, and shot himself. He left a note saying he could no longer abide the noise.”
“It does not sound like much of a gift, does it?” said Germaine.
“No,” Iago replied. “The whole family holds its breath each time a child is born, fearing the babe will have the gift poor Modred is cursed with. As I said, there are a number of us who are empathic, but it is not the crippling gift that it can be for Modred.” He grimaced at the sound of voices arguing in the hall, the sound drawing ever closer to the drawing room. “I believe at least one of the family was in the city and very close to hand.”
Hartley frowned when a small, dark-haired woman marched into the room. On her heels were a tall, dark-haired man he faintly recognized and a young, fair-haired boy. Neither the males with her or his softly protesting butler, Cobb, did anything to halt or slow the intrusion. Hartley wondered if that was because the woman was very, very pregnant as his friends, nephew, and Iago scrambled to their feet.
“Ah, so ’tis not you who was hurt,” said the woman as she stopped in front of Iago.
“No, Chloe, not me,” replied Iago and kissed her cheek. “Before I explain, allow me to introduce you, Argus, and Anthony.”
The moment Hartley heard the name Kenwood, he knew whom he was politely welcoming into his home. The scandal of the Marquis of Colinsmoor’s wife and uncle trying to kill him and his son had rocked the ton three years ago. Even in his fear and worry over his niece and nephew, he had heard all the sordid details. He had occasionally wondered if that was why one rarely saw the marquis and his new wife. Looking into Chloe Wherlocke Kenwood’s inky blue eyes, he changed his mind. The marquis obviously had all he needed in his wife and growing family.
Sir Argus Wherlocke’s name was also familiar. Hartley was not quite sure what the man did for the government, but his name was often whispered through the ranks of one of the groups Hartley had been briefly connected with. Those whispers had held a note of awe. Hartley was beginning to think that the Wherlockes and Vaughns were already proving their worth to the government. He was surprised that Aldus had not known of the man and then realized it could be just a matter of Aldus not mentioning what he knew. Aldus did not freely share all of his knowledge.
“Julian will not be pleased about your rushing over here,” said Iago as they all sat down again and Alfred and Cobb hastily brought in trays of food and drink.
“I will deal with my husband,” Chloe said. “He will understand. Eventually. Tell me what has happened, Iago.”
Iago succinctly explained, and Chloe looked at Germaine and Bayard. Germaine and Bayard met her unwavering gaze with a calm that surprised Hartley. There was a lot he had to learn a
bout his niece and nephew. He was distracted from that thought when every hair on his body suddenly began to stand on end. He looked at Iago, only to find him and Chloe glaring at Argus.
“Calm yourself, Argus,” said Chloe. “Alethea will be fine.”
“Are you certain?” asked Argus.
Chloe closed her eyes for a moment and then looked at Argus and nodded. “Very certain.”
When the hair on his body went flat again, Hartley fought against the urge to ask Sir Argus exactly what his gift was. He saw Germaine look from Sir Argus, to her arm, and then back at Sir Argus again. When she opened her mouth, he made a quick slashing gesture with his hand that caught her attention, and then he shook his head. She closed her mouth and, for just a moment, looked like a disgruntled young girl. His heart ached for her when the hard, seasoned-warrior expression returned to her delicate features.
“What are you doing to catch the woman who ordered this done?” Chloe asked, looking from Iago to Hartley and back again.
Hartley took over the explanations and answered her. As he did so, he found himself wishing there was more—more direct action, more proof, more chance of an immediate retribution. He was startled when Chloe stepped over to him and patted one of his tightly clenched fists. She looked at the small boy while continuing to pat his arm, and cocked her head toward Germaine and Bayard. Kenwood’s young heir hurried over to the siblings and began to talk about how he had once had pretty hair but his father had cut it. Hartley briefly wondered if there was a touch of madness in the Wherlocke-Vaughn bloodline, and then recalled that Kenwood’s heir had none of that magical blood in his veins. He met the laughing gaze of Chloe.
“Anthony is still sulking over losing the last of his baby curls,” she said and grinned, but she quickly turned serious again. “That woman will fall soon, but you must be especially vigilant in the days to come.”
“Why?”
Chloe shrugged. “She is coiled to strike.” She looked at Iago. “Modred comes.”
“To London?” Iago asked, shock roughening his voice.
“Yes,” Chloe replied. “He and Olympia. She was visiting him, so he knew immediately when Alethea was hurt, although I suspect he would have anyway. Someone would have immediately dispatched a message if naught else. He is the great gatherer of news concerning the many members of our clan. Use him.”
“Use Modred? No. He could be harmed. These are very dangerous and vicious people, Chloe. I have seen what swirls around them, seen the fury of the ones whose blood is on their hands. God alone knows what poor Modred would sense in them, would see in their black hearts. These sisters thought nothing of killing babes to further their need for the trappings of money and vanity. It would be too much for him.”
“Use him, Iago. One of the sisters is weaker than the other. Use Modred to get the truth from her. Argus could also help. But this is a chance for Modred to see that his gift is not just a curse, that it can be used to help people. He needs to see that.”
“I am sure he understands how—”
“He understands, but he needs to see how that works. Use him. He is expecting it.”
“Uncle,” said Germaine as she stepped up next to Chloe. “You need to listen to me. It was not Alethea who was in danger in the garden. She was not the one the man was aiming at.”
“Who else could it be? Claudette has had Alethea attacked once already and warned her there would be more trouble s-s-so…” He stuttered to a halt as he looked into Germaine’s eyes. “No, it cannot be. How could the woman have known, so quickly, that I found you and brought you home?”
“I do not know, Uncle, but it was me that man was aiming at. He smiled at Alethea, you see, a cold, vicious sort of smile, and so I thought he was after her. I believe she did, too, but something warned her who the true target was, and she pushed me out of the way just as he fired so that she was shot instead. There is no question in my mind that he was aiming at me at that moment.”
“Claudette must have men at the docks,” said Aldus. “It would make sense, for she needs to be in touch with France to send out any information and collect her blood money. It would also allow her to arrange a swift escape. And you have been looking for Germaine and Bayard for three years. It is no secret. She would also want to try and keep a watch on that, too. After all, they were on the beach that day. Germaine saw her.”
“She does not know that.”
“She does not need to. The moment word spread that you were looking for your sister’s children, that there was even a hint that they did not die on that beach, she would take action. Claudette would want to know for certain that there was no one who could bear witness to that day. She probably even contacted the men she had with her that day and was told that only two children were there. That is, if she actually left them alive after the murder was done.”
“Yes, she may have killed them, thinking she was leaving no witnesses.”
“That and out of habit. She appears to hire ruffians to do work for her and then use a rich lover to rid her of the ruffians. I am astonished that word has not spread through the various rat holes she gets her men from and made it difficult for her to hire anyone.” Aldus looked at Germaine. “Being trapped at that farm may well have saved your life, for I do not doubt for a moment that the very minute she heard a whisper you might have survived, Claudette would have begun searching for you as hard as Hartley was.”
“I most certainly do not wish to be grateful to the Moynes for anything,” said Germaine, her voice tight with anger. “Mayhap, if you are right and she wishes me dead, I could be used to—”
“No,” said Hartley. “You will not be used as bait.”
“Uncle, I am certain I would be well guarded.”
“I suspect a lot of the people she has murdered considered themselves well guarded.” He cursed when she paled and knew she was thinking of her family. “I am a clod,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I am also determined to keep you safe. Claudette has murdered men well trained in deceit and intrigue—neatly trapped them and sent them to their deaths. She has seduced God knows how many men of power and importance, and stolen secrets from them. I do not know how many people she has had killed and doubt we will ever know, but she is not a woman to be tricked by a tasty piece of bait left unprotected and apparently just waiting for her to collect it.”
“No, of course not. It is just maddening that she continues to walk freely. She should be waiting for her hanging. Damnation, she should be naught but a rotting pile of bones and rags in a cage at some crossroads by now.” She bit her lip when her uncle admonished her with one lift of a brow. “My pardon.”
“Very understandable sentiment,” murmured Iago.
Hartley scowled at Iago, but he just shrugged. “When Claudette gets the news that the attempt on Germaine’s life was a failure, what do you think she will do?” Hartley asked Argus.
“Bolt,” said Sir Argus as he helped himself to a blackberry tart. “She will know that there is only one person who could be looked at for such an act. Herself.”
“How so? I think she believes us ignorant of all she has done. And what information we have about the blood on her hands comes from sources we cannot lay claim to—Iago seeing the ghosts and Alethea seeing the visions.” A quick glance at Germaine and Bayard revealed no surprise on their faces at what they were hearing, and he knew Alethea must have told them something of her gift and made them believe her.
“She does not know that. There is none so suspicious as one who has committed a crime. She will see enemies everywhere and capture round every corner. It is what makes some criminals so difficult to catch. On the other side of the coin are the ones who are so foolishly arrogant they believe they can never be caught—right up until they hang. Which do you think she is?”
“The former, I should think,” replied Aldus, “or we would have her by now.”
“Alethea believes Claudette begins to be more like the latter,” said Germaine and shrugged
when the men all looked at her. “She has gone unpunished for so long, you see, that she thinks herself so much cleverer than we are, so much better.”
Sir Argus nodded. “Very possible.”
“She said that Claudette’s weaknesses are vanity and greed. She also spoke of the woman’s overwhelming sense of invulnerability. Said those things would make her act recklessly—those and a need for revenge when her well-constructed little life began to fall apart.”
“Smart girl, our Alethea. That is exactly what will bring that murderous viper down.” Sir Argus looked at Hartley. “Do you happen to know which men she entrapped? Who was seduced and may have inadvertently or knowingly betrayed his country?”
“We have made up a list,” replied Iago.
“Then give it to me,” said Sir Argus. “As soon as the doctor says how Alethea is doing, I will go and talk to some of the fools. Mayhap one of your friends will accompany me.”
“Gladly,” said Aldus.
“You think you can get them to confess something?” asked Hartley. “We have been trying, but they are very closemouthed.”
“They cannot remain so with me,” said Sir Argus. “I will get the truth from them. It is my gift. I can make them tell me what they know and what they have done. There may be some that will find themselves facing charges of treason, however.”
“You can make them put their own necks in a noose?”
Sir Argus smiled and looked at Hartley. A moment later, Hartley felt himself falling into the man’s eyes. He tried to fight the pull, but a strange lassitude came over him.
“Stop it, Argus,” snapped Iago, and he leapt up to put his hands over Hartley’s eyes.
“It happened again,” muttered Germaine, staring at the fine hairs on her arms, all of them standing up. “Just what do you do?”
“I make people feel compelled to tell me whatever I want to know,” replied Argus and smiled when Hartley shook off the last of his bemusement and glared at him. “I can even make them forget they did it.”
If He’s Wild Page 17
