by Reid, Stacy
“The Duchess of Hardcastle’s son has been taken.”
Jane gasped, and her hand flew to her lips. “Is…is Nicolas alive?”
“That is what I am trying to ascertain.”
Her face crumpled and tears slid down her cheek. “How was he taken?”
“While at Meadowbrook Park he disappeared.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said hoarsely, hugging herself. “That is why I left and hid myself away from everyone. I did not even tell my parents where I was…and in the cottage the squire set me up in, I went by a different name. I thought…I thought if he couldn’t find me and if I wasn’t there, no one else would help him.”
“Lord James?”
She nodded.
“Start from the beginning, and be quick. Time is of the essence.”
She hurried to speak, her words tripping over themselves, but Rhys got the gist of it. Lord James had been pressuring her to help him abscond with the young duke from the estate. She had been resistant, and he had gotten mean. In fear, she had accepted the squire’s protection as his mistress, hoping Lord James would then leave both her and the duke alone.
“Why did you not inform the duchess?”
Eyes wide with fear and guilt peered into his. “I…” She wetted her lips. “I simply thought if I disappeared, Lord James’s leverage would vanish.”
He stared at her coldly, picturing snapping her selfish, scrawny neck in his hands. “I’ll allow you to leave.”
She gasped in relief.
“If harm befalls the boy, you’ll see me again.”
Without awaiting a reaction from her, Rhys walked from the room and descended the stairs to outside the gaming club. He sifted through the information he’d gleaned on Lord James from when the earl had come to him. Lord James was heavily in debt, but he had still opened his townhouse in Mayfair for the season.
Less than thirty minutes later, Rhys was slipping through the small side gardens of the man’s townhouse. He tested the back door that led to the kitchens and found it locked. He retrieved a pair of picklocks from his coat pocket and slid them into the lock. They clicked a couple of times, to his satisfaction, and with a deft twist, he opened the door, and padded soundlessly into the house. He waited in the darkened kitchen, letting the still, warm night air wash across his senses.
His knife held low by his thigh, he moved through the house silently, checking a few doors and finding the sitting room and several other rooms empty. He entered what he thought must be the library and closed the door. The floorboard groaned, and a few seconds later the door to the library opened. A man strolled in, a candlestick in his hand, the light illuminating his dissipated features. His hair was disheveled, his cravat unknotted, his eyes darting around the room with a frenetic kind of worry. Lord James paced to the mantel, where he poured some liquor with strong fumes into a glass and swallowed. A cough jerked from him, and it was as he spun around that he noticed Rhys standing in the shadowy corner.
“Who the bloody hell are you, and why are you in my house?” Lord James demanded.
Rhys said nothing for a few moments, taking the lord’s measure. “You sent word you needed a man to take care of a problem you have,” Rhys said softly. “I’m that man.”
“How in damnation did you find me? My connection said when they found someone they would set up a meet at Vauxhall.”
“I always make it my duty to find out about my employers, to avoid being squeezed out of my blunt. It didn’t take much to find you. A word here and there, a coin here and there. The job promised two hundred guineas.”
The fear leaked from the man’s eyes to be replaced with hope.
“Thank God,” he muttered, sounding desperate, “I was beginning to worry I would have to do away with the blighter myself. Very unpleasant business.”
“Is it now?” Rhys said, a cold rage working though his bloodstream.
“Yes, nasty business, I fear I do not have the stomach for it. Come, he’s this way.”
The man led the way down the hall, and then down the stairs to what appeared to be the servant’s quarters, conspicuously absent of all servants. A door was pushed open, and atop a narrow bed lay a small boy asleep. He was curled on his side, a dark smudge that looked suspiciously like a bruise visible on his cheek.
“Who is he?”
“I’m not paying you to ask questions,” Lord James snapped.
“What exactly are you paying for?”
A breath huffed from the man, and he held the candle high, casting the light in Rhys’s direction. Lord James wetted his lips. “I…I want him to disappear.”
“And never be found again?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “His body needs to be found. I need him to be declared dead. I would prefer if it looked like an accident and his body was dropped near where he was taken. Maybe a broken neck? Or just drown him. I will pay you when the deed has been completed.”
To speak so casually of taking the life of a child. Rhys stared at the man, noting his nervous tension.
“And if I insist on payment now?”
Lord James flushed. “I’m a gentleman, a man of honor. You will get your money and a bonus as soon as he is found. You have my word.”
A whimper came from the room, tugging their gazes to the bed. The boy stirred restlessly, but he still slumbered.
“Did you drug him?”
“Laudanum. I should have given him the whole bottle,” Lord James muttered. “Take him away and be done with it.” He scampered over to a small table wedged into a corner, grabbed a knife, and handed it to Rhys. “This is what I’ve contemplated using for the last few hours. If a weapon is more to your liking, have at it.”
A dark feeling stirred in the pit of Rhys’s stomach. “You’ll always be a threat, won’t you?” he murmured.
Lord James lowered his hand, the knife still held in a firm grip. “I beg your pardon?”
“Even if I whisk the boy away and return him home, you’ll keep trying. Even if you were called before the courts, what evidence is there to implicate you? The words of a blackguard like me over those of a gentleman of honor like yourself?”
There was a short silence. Fear settled on Lord James’s face as he recognized all was not as he expected. “Who the bloody hell are you and of what do you speak?”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Hardcastle, sends her regards.”
Lord James whitened and dropped the candle, dousing them in darkness. He lunged, slashing at Rhys’s throat, but he was already moving away from the arc of silver slicing through the air. The lord had some training, perhaps fencing, but Rhys had been fighting in the gutter most of his life. He blocked the stab at his gut, dipped low, and slashed his knife upward to sink it into Lord James’s stomach while slamming his forehead into the man’s face to prevent any possible cry of alarm. A groan tore from Lord James, and blood gushed from his nose. Without giving him the time to rally, Rhys clasped his hand over the man’s mouth and ended their affray with a quick plunge of the knife deep into his heart.
He slid soundlessly down the wall, and Rhys helped him down. He checked for a pulse. He was dead, and no remorse stirred inside for the man who would have callously taken a child’s life. Leaving his body, Rhys slipped inside the room, and shrugging from his coat, he bundled the boy inside. Rhys moved silently through the house to the back entrance he’d come through. A moment later he whistled low, and a shadow appeared from near a gas lamp.
Riordan prowled over. “You knew I followed,” he said flatly.
“There is a body on the lower floor, servant’s quarters. See that he is found outside his house, the victim of a footpad.”
Rhys didn’t need to wonder about his friend’s loyalty or love—their friendship was uncompromising and had traversed all roads. He’d known Riordan would follow, and Rhys had trusted his friend would protect his back without knowing the full of the situation.
“I’ll see it done,” Riordan said softly.
Rhys hugged
his cargo closer and hurried though the fog-filled night to the waiting carriage several houses down.
Chapter Nine
A few hours after Georgiana had arrived on Rhys Tremayne’s doorstep, she held her precious boy, sobbing, her relief so deep she was shaking. She had only been back at Meadowbrook Park for about thirty minutes before the housekeeper’s shout had Georgiana rushing down the stairs rather recklessly, to spy Rhys standing with her son in his arms. She hurriedly lifted Nicolas and carried him to his room, ignoring Simon, who reached for him. The weight of her son as she climbed the stairs did not matter. He was in her arms, alive. She reached the chamber, and a maid rushed ahead to open the door. She spilled into the room and laid him gently on his bed. The doctor rushed over.
“May I, Your Grace?”
She nodded mutely, unable to speak past the tears clogging her throat. A hand touched her shoulder gently, and she peered up at her brother. The relief in his eyes mirrored her own, and she offered him a wobbly smile.
“I’ll head downstairs and deal with Tremayne,” Simon said gruffly. “I hate to ask this now, but what did you promise him?”
She squeezed his fingers and looked back at her son. Her brother seemed to understand, and he waited by her side while the doctor removed her son’s dirtied clothes and stripped him. Her Nicolas was then tenderly examined.
“Why isn’t he awaking?” she demanded hoarsely.
“It seems he was given laudanum, Your Grace. The gentleman who brought him told your housekeeper.”
A cry slipped from her, and she hurried over, clambering atop the mattress, to place her son’s head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, before pressing a kiss to his brows.
“He will be well, Your Grace,” Dr. Monroe said kindly. “His heart is steady and strong, and he is only sleeping. He will be disoriented when he wakes and may suffer from a mild headache and be very thirsty, but my experience tells me he will be asleep for at least another few hours.”
She wanted to keep on touching him, assuring herself that he was here.
The doctor spent several more minutes with him before he went down to the dining room for supper. Dr. Monroe would be her guest for the night so he would be available to check upon Nicolas when necessary. With his nursemaid’s assistance, Nicolas was washed and dressed comfortably in his sleeping apparel and settled into the center of his bed. His chest rose strong and sure as he slept soundly. A fierce rush of love clutched her as she watched her child slumber. “Ensure several candles remain lit,” she ordered.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Someone will sit with him at all times, except for when I am here with him. I do not want him to awaken and be frightened.” Georgiana knew the doctor had said a few hours, but she was taking no chances.
About an hour after her son’s return, she faced her brother. “I will see Mr. Tremayne now.”
“Not alone. There is blood on his shirt,” Simon growled, and she knew nothing she said would dissuade him.
Several minutes later they entered the library. Rhys stood near her desk, bracing his hand on the windowsill. From the light cast by the fireplace, she caught a glimpse of his harsh, unyielding expression.
“How is your son?” he asked without turning.
She walked slowly across the carpet to stand behind the chair in front of her desk. “Sleeping. He didn’t wake, but Dr. Monroe believes he is safe.”
“We are in your debt, Tremayne,” her brother said guardedly from where he leaned casually against the door.
At that pronouncement, Rhys faced them. He took Simon’s measure, and without speaking, Rhys leveled his gaze on her. Silently, he communicated that if there was a debt, it was between her and him.
“The men who took him?” she asked, needing to know what happened to those vermin and who they were.
“Dead.”
“I…I beg your pardon?”
Simon had stood to full attention.
“You heard me, duchess.”
She felt a cold, prickling sensation on her skin. She couldn’t seem to find her voice. “How?” the hoarse question ripped from her.
“Painfully.”
“Was…” Her throat worked on a swallow. “Was his uncle a party to this act of cowardice?”
Rhys’s eyes shadowed. “Yes.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth, but her cry of horror spilled forth.
A snarl of rage slipped from Simon, and he prowled over. “Where is the bloody bastard?”
Rhys considered them both, a dangerous gleam in his icy stare. “You won’t hear from him again.”
“Your threats won’t keep him away, Rhys. Lord James is in debt for thousands of pounds. He will keep trying to take my son away so he can steal what is his.”
“As I said, he won’t be bothering you and your son again.”
A shadow crossed Rhys’s face, and Georgiana faltered. Her heart raced at the sudden knowledge that bloomed within her. Surely, she was mistaken. “I…what do you mean?”
“His body will be found and footpads will be blamed.” Rhys was, frankly, terrifying in this moment.
She stumbled back, staring at him helplessly. Somehow, she had thought Lord James would have been handed over to the authorities and then they would face the pain of a public trial as a family. Now…her mind scrambled to accept what he had done. “How did you know he was involved?”
“Lord James sent word to the underworld seeking an assassin to do what he could not. Slit your son’s throat. I arrived at his townhouse in Mayfair under the pretext I was there to do the job. He had your son bound and gagged. Lord James handed me the knife that I was to use.”
The rage that burned through her blood felt cold and vicious. If he weren’t already dead, she would have done the deed herself.
Peering into his flat gaze, she instinctively understood the man standing in front of her had saved her son for her, had killed for her. She blinked warily. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He canted his head left, his hands thrust deep into his trousers. “I bid you good-bye, duchess.”
“I will escort you out, Tremayne,” Simon said stiffly, clearly picking up on the undercurrent of tension arcing between them.
No, she cried silently. Inexplicably, she did not want Rhys to leave. She flushed and glanced at her brother. “I will speak with Mr. Tremayne in private.”
Her brother stiffened.
“I was not asking your permission,” she said firmly before he could protest.
He faced her, and she wasn’t sure what he saw in her gaze, but his eyes narrowed.
“Is this your choice?” Simon queried gruffly.
She understood he wasn’t just talking about now, but the man overall. “It is.”
He closed his eyes briefly before they snapped open. “I will leave you to your meeting. I will call upon Mother to inform her of the happy outcome.” He nodded toward Rhys, and then her brother exited.
She turned to Rhys to see him watching her with an expression she could not decipher.
“I will leave,” he said.
“No…stay. I…I need to go be with my son for a bit. I just want to lie beside him and hold him, but I want to talk to you after.” She took a bracing breath. “Will you stay…as my guest for the night?”
Something raw and powerful flared in his eyes before he hooded his gaze.
Say yes…
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Please stay…promise me you’ll not leave until we have spoken.”
“You have my word, my lady.”
She offered him a small smile, then turned and walked away, knowing he would be waiting.
…
Almost two hours after he had delivered Georgiana’s son to her, Rhys was still unable to sleep. The brutal way he had pushed himself and the way he had manipulated his connections had been worth the relief in her eyes. She clearly loved her son with painful depth, enough to place herself in Rhys’s debt. He clenched his jaws until they ached. He
was a damn idiot. He had wanted her beholden to him…and now that she would clearly be, he didn’t want it.
Joanna, Lydia, and Grace.
He said their names silently, hoping they would ground him against making any foolish decisions.
Thank you. Please stay…promise me you’ll not leave until we have spoken. He braced his elbow against the glass of the window overlooking one of the most opulent estates he’d ever seen, wondering what the hell he was still doing there. He had been fed, given a room with such luxurious decor he had almost been speechless. His bloodied clothes had been taken away to be cleaned and pressed, and a banyan had been provided. A bath had been delivered, and he had been attended by hovering servants whom he had tersely ordered away. Why was he still waiting? Despite the fact she had asked, he should have bloody well left so she could be with her son. With a scowl, he turned from the window and faltered.
The duchess entered, and the breath punched from his chest. She had bathed and was only clothed in a silk banyan, though it was wrapped tightly around her body, from neck to toe. But the fact she was barefoot had his mouth drying. “Your Grace…”
“Don’t,” she said hoarsely, and he could tell she had been crying again. “I do not know how to thank you…but thank you.”
He nodded. “I…damn it, you don’t…you do not need to be in here, dressed like this. I don’t require payment for finding your son,” he said gruffly.
He was a goddamned fool.
“Do not insult me,” she said softly. “You did me an unmatched service, and I will repay you. What do you want?”
You. He reined in the urgent demands of his body, knowing such a thing wasn’t possible, even if it was for one night. “Your Grace—”
“Tell me, Mr. Tremayne, what is in my power that I can grant you? Please do not quibble.”
After a slight hesitation, he replied, “My sisters.”
Her eyes widened. “You have sisters?” she demanded with such incredulity, a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
“I do. Three.”
“I see.”
“I would see my eldest, Lydia, wed to a lord. I require your help in sponsoring her into society. You have the power to see her connections and slight imperfections overlooked, and her beauty and dowry will take care of the rest. Though your guidance in the type of gentleman she could hope to secure would be welcomed.”
