by Wicked Wager
“Nay, the gent only paid me to transport ye here. Out, or I’ll have to pull ye out.”
“Don’t you dare touch me,” she said, clutching her reticule and feeling for the grip of her pistol. Avoiding the man’s hand, she swung down, scanning the scene outside.
They had stopped before a well-kept country manor bordered by a small wood that obscured the drive as it stretched away from the house. Allowing an occupant to hear approaching vehicles before those within it could observe him.
In addition to the hackney driver, two burly men approached from the house, their mounts tethered nearby. Even if she made a dash for the box and tried to drive away, on horseback they would swiftly overtake the carriage.
No, for the moment she must acquiesce. “Who are you?” she asked. “You—you had better do me no harm or my cousin, Viscount Fairchild, will see you hang!”
One of the men laughed. “Feisty little filly, ain’t she?” he asked the other as he paced closer.
She backed away with a strangled sob. “P-please, I beg you, do not h-hurt me!”
“No need to turn on the waterworks,” he said, stepping by her to pay the driver, who quickly remounted the box and set his team in motion. “Ye’ll be safe here. Fact is, yer cousin hired us to protect ye. ’Twas why he had you removed from London, he said.”
“Why did my cousin say nothing to me of this?”
“Didn’t want to frighten you, I suppose. Come in, now. Inside there’s food and a woman to wait on ye.”
“When will I see my cousin?”
“I expect he’ll be along directly,” the man replied.
Which cousin? Jenna wondered as she followed him. Had she been sent here in someone’s misguided attempt at protection—or so she might fall victim to a conveniently fatal accident, far from the interested gaze of the ton?
Far from the friends who might help her. Like Nelthorpe, she thought despairingly, whom she had forced from her side.
For a moment, panic seized her, but once again she called on anger to loosen its grip.
It appeared she would not be bound or molested. She would have time before her cousin—whichever cousin—arrived to assess her surroundings, the number and intent of her captors. And to prepare for the confrontation to come.
About midafternoon, as near as she could tell by the position of the sun outside the room to which they conveyed her, a knock sounded at the door. A moment later, Lane Fairchild strode in.
“Jenna, you are safe,” he cried, advancing toward her. “And not too frightened, I hope. I apologize for removing you so…abruptly from London, but given the doubts you’d expressed about Bayard, I dared not let you remain. Should he have learned of your suspicions, I fear he might have made another attempt to do away with you.”
“So the accident was his doing! How can you be sure?”
“’Tis true, I’m afraid. I’ve just returned from tracking down the groom I’d dismissed. Under threat of the magistrate, he confessed that Bayard paid him to change you to a horse he felt certain would unseat you.”
Except, Nelthorpe had told her, the man had been dead for more than two weeks.
A coldness settled in her bones. Liar, liar, she thought contemptuously. Just what other lies will you spin to try to tangle me in your web?
“But that’s dreadful! What are we to do?”
He stepped closer and took her hands. It required every ounce of her soldier’s discipline not to snatch them away when he raised them for a fervent kiss.
“I know ’tis still so soon, but will you not grant me the privilege of protecting you forever? With us wed, I would be much better able to safeguard you. Together we could work to insure Bayard was held accountable for his dastardly acts, perhaps even force him to quietly renounce the title and live in exile where he could no longer threaten you.”
“You think you could manage that?” she asked, wondering how he’d planned to frame his hapless cousin.
“One way or another. Ah, the future we could have! Garrett chose wisely when he selected you to be his viscountess. Together, we can maintain the prestige and honor the ancient name of the Fairchild deserves.”
Lane was clever—so very clever. Had she not already discovered enough to see through his deception, she might well have been taken in by his accusations against Bayard.
But he had underestimated both her will to uncover the truth and, she thought, her eyes dropping to her reticule, her ability to resist.
“Flattered as I must continue to be by your regard, cousin, as you say, ’tis still too soon for me to think of marrying again,” she said, pulling her hands free.
Lane gave her a deprecating smile. “I trust in time to inspire in you a tenderness as deep as that which I cherish toward you. I surely hope so, for in my haste to secure your safety, I’m afraid I’ve forced your hand. Cousin I may be, but once it becomes known that you are here in my company, you will be ruined if we do not marry.”
She shrugged. “As I have no desire to cut a dash among the ton, I care little for that.”
“Now I know you’re upset, or you’d not be talking such nonsense,” he said patronizingly. “Once you are calm again, you’ll realize you cannot risk exposing the Fairchild name to scandal.”
“Cousin, I’m afraid I care as little for the ‘honor’ of the Fairchild name as Bayard.”
Lane’s smile grew strained. “Why not rest now? I’ll rouse you shortly, and trust by then you will be reasonable again. Indeed, I am counting upon it, for I brought a special license with me and have summoned a vicar to attend us in an hour. I apologize again for the haste, but I promise, you may have a wedding dinner in London afterward that is as lavish as you could desire.”
She stared at him, amazed that he could possibly misinterpret her refusal. “Cousin, I have no intention of marrying you, in an hour—or ever. Would it not be even more an affront to the honor of the Fairchilds to have me repudiate you before the vicar?”
His smile vanished altogether. “I’m beginning to lose patience with these missish megrims, Jenna. Reconciled to it or not, in an hour we will wed. If you choose to resist, those two stout fellows below will assist you, even repeat the vows, if necessary.”
“I can’t believe any vicar would officiate at such a farce!”
“Not marry me to my poor widowed cousin who is so deranged by grief that I fear for her sanity? Whom I am marrying so I may assume responsibility for her care—in the best of asylums, if necessary? And who is being very well paid for his trouble?” He shook his head gently, smiling once more. “I don’t believe so. If you need more convincing, perhaps I should summon my assistants now.”
All at once she had a terrifying vision of what it appeared he was planning: to marry her, by force if necessary, declare her mentally incompetent if she resisted him and thus seize from her legal control over both her person—and her fortune.
If he were about to summon his thugs, she could wait no longer, hoping for a better chance for escape. She must deal with Lane now, before he brought in reinforcements.
Seeking to disconcert him while she determined how best to evade him, she said, “So I’m to be shuttled off to an insane asylum, rather than poisoned like Bayard?”
He looked surprised for an instant before that smile returned to his lips. “I thought you might have puzzled that out. Or been alerted by his clumsy valet—who, by the way, suffered a tragic fall down the back stairs this morning. ’Twas why I knew the wedding must be now. Can’t have you going to the authorities with some wild story of intrigue and ruining all my plans.”
“To murder my child, finish off Bayard and seize my fortune?”
He held up his hands. “I did no murder. Nor did I have any hand in arranging the accident.”
“But you put Lucinda Blaine up to it.”
He shook his head gently. “If Garrett had lived, none of these tawdry actions would have been necessary. He was an exemplary Fairchild, fully worthy of bearing the name. But after his death, I
could not tolerate the idea of Bayard as viscount, dragging the family honor into the dust with his odd behavior and bizarre schemes.”
“So you decided to poison him?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the revulsion in her voice.
“A sad task, but necessary. By the time I learned you were with child, I had become…reconciled to taking over the mantle myself. After all, ’twas no guarantee your son would have been as worthy as I of carrying on the honors. Nor could I allow you, my dear, to dispose of your person and your fortune outside the family—or squander your money assisting a pack of indigent vagrants.”
While he talked, Jenna covertly scanned the room. She dare not descend the stairs, where his two cohorts might capture her. Soon after her arrival, she’d seen out her window that the large wisteria had been trained against the wall, its sturdy branches growing up and around the ledge. If she could divert or immobilize Lane, she might scramble down it and make a break for the woods.
“So you tried to shoot me at Richmond Hill?” she asked, edging closer to the window.
“Had I wished to kill you, my dear Jenna, you would be dead. The shot was merely a warning—to frighten off the ubiquitous escort of that coward Anthony Nelthorpe. No, I envision you by my side, helping me maintain the grandeur of the Fairchilds.”
Jenna felt behind her for her reticule. Under no circumstances did she intend to be coerced into delivering herself into the power of the man who’d set Lucinda Blaine to murder her child. Backing toward the window, she pulled the pistol from her reticule. “I believe I’d rather die first.”
Lane shook his head. “Jenna, Jenna, that was most unwise. I might have to gratify your wish.” With a sigh, he removed a pistol from his own pocket and leveled it.
NEAR NOON, A GLASS OF SHERRY untasted at his side, Tony sat tapping his foot in Lady Charlotte’s front parlor. What could be keeping them? he wondered for the thousandth time. He was about to abandon stealth and go to fetch Jenna himself when a maid entered to tell them Sancha just arrived at the servants’ entrance, accompanied by a large trunk.
Cursing a woman’s need to have to carry all her fripperies with her, Tony silently seconded Lady Charlotte’s order that Sancha be shown up directly.
A few moments later, the maid hurried in. “Mistress, all is ready!” she exclaimed, then halted, gazing around the room in confusion. “My mistress has been shown to a chamber?” she asked Lady Charlotte. “Why then did you summon me?”
Tony’s heart plunged to his boots. Before he could question Sancha, Lady Charlotte, her face looking equally stricken, said, “Lady Fairchild is not here. We thought you were to come together.”
“Madre de Dios, this cannot be!” Sancha cried. “I myself put her in a hackney three hours ago!”
Anguish scouring him, Tony jumped to his feet. Three hours. Somehow, Lane must have learned of their suspicions—and captured Jenna. And they had no idea even in which direction she’d been taken.
“Three hours!” Lady Charlotte exclaimed, echoing his thoughts. “How do we begin to try tracking her?”
Telling himself to calm, Tony started pacing. He must think clearly, devise a workable plan.
At that moment, another knock sounded and Tony’s pulses leapt. Dear Lord, let it be Jenna, he prayed, even if I will strangle her afterward for changing our plan and scaring us half to death.
But the figure that stood upon the threshold when the door opened was not Jenna Fairchild, but Lord Riverton.
“Mark!” Lady Charlotte cried, running to him. “Thank God you are here! The most dreadful thing has happened.”
“Jenna left London this morning in a hired vehicle?”
Shocked, Tony stopped pacing. “How did you know?”
“Come with me, all of you. I’ll explain as we go.”
After hurrying them to a traveling barouche that stood before the townhouse, horses at the ready, Lord Riverton gave orders to the driver and joined them in the coach.
“Tell me everything!” Tony demanded.
“First, let me explain that, on behalf of our government, for a number of years I have concerned myself with matters of…security.”
A spy, Tony translated. A quick glance at Lady Charlotte showed her face registered no surprise. She knows, he realized.
“When Charlotte confided to me Jenna’s suspicions concerning her accident, I was sufficiently alarmed to take the liberty of establishing a surveillance over her.”
Bow Street? Tony wondered.
“Unfortunately,” Lord Riverton continued with an expression of disgust, “I did not convey to my assistants the gravity of my concern, for they did not notify me until after my meeting a short while ago that they’d observed Jenna entering a hackney—which sped her out of London. I assume by your distress that she did not leave willingly.”
“You know where they’ve taken her?” Tony broke in.
“I’ve had a man trailing the carriage, yes, and expect to hear from him shortly. The coach took the Great North Road. There’s a tavern just outside the city where he will have left word for me.”
“Then let us spring the horses,” Lady Charlotte said.
Lord Riverton gripped her hand. “So we shall, as soon as we leave the city. We will get her back safely.”
Though Tony had kept his own counsel while he waited with Lady Charlotte for Jenna’s arrival, under the circumstances it only seemed prudent to share the information he’d gathered. After listening to the whole, Lady Charlotte gasped, “Mark, they intend to harm her!”
“We don’t know that,” Riverton said soothingly. “The sudden disappearance of a peer’s widow would not go unnoticed, making it much more difficult for someone to profit from arranging her demise, as her abductor must surely realize.”
Tony had a sudden image of Jenna rising from her bed, pistol trained on his chest. With just such skill and daring had she dealt with his threat long ago. For the first time since he’d heard of her disappearance, a small bubble of hope buoyed his spirits.
“Her abductor will find Jenna Fairchild is not so easily dispatched,” he said to Lady Charlotte.
Riverton gave him a long look. “Then may she shoot straight,” he replied.
To Tony’s relief, at the inn they found Riverton’s agent waiting. He had indeed trailed the hackney, to a manor not far north of their current location, he told them. Leaving Sancha and Lady Charlotte, over their strenuous objections, at the inn for safety, Riverton gathered Tony and his men and headed there on horseback.
The afternoon light was dimming when at last they reached a winding carriage road. “We’ll leave the horses here, approach the house from the shadow of the woods,” Riverton told him. “I’ll have my men creep in to ascertain her position and then bring her out.”
“No!” Tony said urgently. “Let me help. I’ll go mad if I can’t do something, and I know a bit about creeping into houses.”
Riverton studied him. “You will follow my orders.”
Tony nodded.
“Come along, then.”
After a nerve-straining interval advancing through the woods, they reached the manor, where a dark-clad man slipped up to inform Riverton he’d observed three menservants, a handful of maids and a lady, who’d been seen at the window of an upper chamber at the back of the manor. A well-dressed gentleman had arrived and joined her a short time ago.
Riverton motioned them to follow. As they rounded the corner, Tony’s breath froze and his heart skipped a beat.
Framed by the window, Jenna stood facing Lane Fairchild—both with pistols raised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“UP THE STAIRS!” Riverton ordered his men, who set off at a run.
“Too late,” Tony told him. “She’s close enough to the window to escape, but she needs a diversion—now.”
Without waiting for Riverton to reply, Tony launched himself toward a thick growth of wisteria that trailed up the wall and framed the window. Willing his knee to cooperate, he climbed swiftly upward
until he paused, his body parallel to the window, one foot braced at the ledge’s outermost edge. Then he pried free a sturdy branch and swung himself through the casement, booted feet first.
The window shattering before him in a hail of glass and splintered wood, he staggered to a landing between Jenna and Lane—as both discharged their pistols.
A searing tongue of flame blasted through his shoulder. Praying his rash action had saved rather than condemned her, he spun backward into darkness.
AFTER DINNER TEN DAYS LATER, Tony limped up the stairs to his bedchamber, glad of the returning strength that made such simple movement possible. After awakening the day after Jenna’s rescue from a hazy, pain-filled daze to see her face hovering over his, feel her hands wiping his brow, he’d made rapid progress toward recovery. But like a man who has supported a burden for so long that when it is lifted, he is more disoriented than relieved, he could not decide what he should do now that Jenna was no longer in danger.
Lane Fairchild was dead, she’d told him, her aim under pressure being better and her finger on the trigger faster than her cousin’s—fortunately, she’d scolded him, else she might have blown a hole through his back rather than Fairchild’s chest. In a final twist of irony, she added, the local magistrate had promised to put abroad the story that Lane had died in a hunting accident—so as not to tarnish the Fairchild name.
Over the days of his convalescence at Lady Charlotte’s country house outside London, where they’d brought him after the incident, Jenna tended him faithfully, seeming to enjoy his company, even with the physical pull that still buzzed between them despite his injuries.
He was terribly tempted to accept Lady Charlotte’s invitation and linger on for the holidays, to tease and cajole Jenna with enough evidence of his continuing need for character improvement that he persuaded her to renew the bargain she’d tried to repudiate. He no longer questioned the certainty of loving her or the knowledge that each day together was, for him, a gift.
But it was also torment. Torn between wishing he’d spoken to her the words of love that had trembled on his lips that night in her moonlit bedchamber and believing it wiser that he’d kept silent, he knew he soon must leave.
