About two miles east of the Academy, Victoria stopped at the top of a rise. The winding road looked clear and untraveled as far as she could see, and she took a deep, steadying breath. If they kept a good pace and the weather didn’t turn, she could be in London by nightfall. Her back didn’t relish the thought of riding sidesaddle all day, but neither could she stand the thought of being away from Sinclair and not knowing whether he was safe.
“Well, let’s go, Pimper—” Four riders came over the far hill, and her heart chilled. It was ridiculous, of course. As Emma had said, the school lay on Lord Haverly’s land, and the riders could be his men, or visitors, or travelers, or any number of things. They were too far away to make out more than their dark clothes, but something about the lead rider seemed very familiar.
Abruptly she realized what it was. One of Thomas Grafton’s sketches had been of Lord Kingsfeld on horseback. The horse looked the same, and so did the way the rider held himself. Her heart skidded and thudded against her ribs as ice-cold dread ran through her. If Kingsfeld was here, something had happened to Sinclair.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, all the blood draining from her face and leaving her feeling cold and dreadful and dizzy.
The riders didn’t pause at the distant crossroads but continued northwest along the rutted trail. The logical part of her mind acknowledged that they were heading for Althorpe, no doubt looking for her.
Cursing, Victoria wheeled Pimpernel and headed back down the rise in the opposite direction. She might not be at Althorpe, but Augusta and Christopher were—and they had no idea who Kingsfeld really was. Sinclair had lost his brother; it would kill him to lose anyone else. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
Since she was north of the meandering road, she and Pimpernel had a three or four mile lead on the horsemen. With luck, she could reach Althorpe ahead of them. Victoria kicked the mare into a dead run. She had to make it. She wasn’t going to let Sinclair, or herself, down.
Chapter 18
It was only because of Thomas’s sketches that Victoria knew when she’d arrived at Althorpe. The lake, the birch and pine trees, and the rolling fields seemed so familiar that she could almost believe she’d been there before.
Althorpe itself, white and sprawling and magnificent, was larger even than her father’s estate at Stiveton. She had little time to admire it, though, as she galloped up the wide front drive. “Hello!” she called, belatedly remembering they would only have opened the house yesterday and that very few servants might even be in residence. “Hello!”
The front door opened, and Roman strode out onto the steps. “Lady Vixen! What in God’s name—”
“Kingsfeld is right behind me,” she panted.
“Sweet Lucifer.” The valet hurried forward and helped her down from Pimpernel. “Is he alone?”
“No. I saw three men with him. Where are Augusta and Kit?”
“Inside, having luncheon. Did they see you, my lady?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m not certain. There are some long, flat stretches of road.”
“Aye. Let’s get you inside.”
She leaned on his arm, her legs wobbly and cramped. “How many servants are here?”
“Only half a dozen, including the cook and the upstairs maid. Not enough to hold off four armed men.”
“Do you think they’re armed?”
“I would wager so.”
Kit met her in the dining room doorway, his expression even more astonished than Roman’s had been. “Vixen! I thought—”
“Please listen,” she said, limping into the dining room. “Lord Kingsfeld is on his way here, with three men.”
“Astin?” Kit repeated. “Why is he—”
“My God,” Augusta whispered, her face going white.
“Your brother and I believe he may have been the one who killed Thomas,” Victoria said quietly, wishing she had time to break the news to them more gently.
“What? No! I don’t believe it!”
“Christopher,” his grandmother said, “for the moment we will take what Victoria says as fact. What are we to do?”
“Are there any neighboring estates where we might find help?”
Kit shook his head. “Not during the Season. They’re all closed for the summer.”
“I’ll get the coach, and we’ll go,” Roman said grimly, turning for the door.
“No,” she countered, putting a hand on his arm. “Even on tired horses, they’d catch us. Out in the open, we’d have no chance.”
“Do you really think he means to harm us?” Kit asked, his face a mixture of anger and hurt confusion. She couldn’t blame him; five minutes ago, Astin Hovarth had been a dear friend.
“I can’t think why else he would be out here. Augusta?”
Lady Drewsbury slowly shook her head. “Neither can I.” She stood. “This is a very large house. I suggest we hide.”
“Hide? From the man who murdered my brother? I think not!”
“Lady Drewsbury’s right,” Roman broke in. “If they separate to find you, I’ll have a better chance against them.”
“And who in damnation are you, sir?” Kit demanded.
“He’s a former spy for the War Office. Like Sinclair.”
“A former…Good God, I’m losing my mind.”
“Lose it later, Christopher,” Augusta said crisply. “For now, see if you can find us some weapons.”
The distant sound of clattering hooves on gravel came to them through the half-open window. “They’re here,” Victoria said, panic pushing at her. “Upstairs, everyone. Now.”
Roman produced a pistol from his pocket. “I’ll go say hello,” he said grimly.
“You will do no such thing. You will protect Augusta and Christopher. Is that clear?”
“And who’s going to protect you, my lady?”
She gazed at him, daring the valet to contradict her obvious lie. “I am.”
He cursed, then grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the hall. “I’ll protect everyone,” he growled. “Upstairs.”
Althorpe looked quiet and deserted as Astin Hovarth pounded into the courtyard. A sorrel mare stood to one side of the doorway, her chest lathered in sweat. Whoever had arrived ahead of them was going to have no more luck than the rest of Sinclair’s family—especially his bitch of a wife, who had aimed all this mess in his direction in the first place.
“Don’t kill anyone until we have them all,” he ordered, swinging down from his bay. “Unless you have to, of course.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The front door was half open. Leaning into the entry, Astin nudged it wider. The foyer stood empty. He gestured his three employees inside, following them and closing the door after them. If anyone tried to leave, he wanted to hear it.
As soon as he’d learned that not only the Vixen but also Augusta and Kit had gone missing, he’d known. Sinclair thought he was so clever, asking for more clues about Marley when he was really looking to trap his late brother’s dearest friend. Marley’s arrest had surprised him momentarily, until the condition of his office had made it clear that Sinclair was only playing another game and trying to lure him into making a false step. It was an arrogant ploy, and it had almost worked.
Once he’d realized that Augusta, Kit, and that damned female must have headed to Althorpe, though, he knew what needed to be done. Sinclair still had no real evidence against him, or he would have made the arrest already. A tragic house fire would take care of his troublesome wife and would sufficiently distract Sin long enough for Astin to ensure that all remaining evidence against Marley was safely in place.
If he worked it well enough, he might even be able to suggest that the fire itself was Sin’s doing. The lad had been clearly distraught over his wife’s departure, and the ton already considered him a rather unbalanced menace. Astin allowed himself a brief smile. Yes, that would be a fine way to conclude this business.
“No one in the front rooms, my lord,” Wilkins said, returning to
his side.
“They seem to have known we were coming. That will complicate things, but not by much. Find them. We’ll gather the household in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen, my lord?”
“That is where most fires start, is it not?”
Victoria had never been so frightened in her life. At the same time, though, growing anger coursed through her veins. This was her house, by God, and those men downstairs didn’t have any right to be here. The people cowering with her in the connected bedchambers were her relations, and her servants, and protecting them was her responsibility. Hers and Sinclair’s.
He wasn’t here, and so it fell to her to keep his servants and his loved ones safe. Her heart beat cold and empty at the thought that something might have happened to him, but she couldn’t think about that right now. She would weep and mourn later. At the moment, she had a battle to plan.
“Roman,” she whispered.
The diminutive valet crept around the wardrobe to her side. “My lady, don’t be frightened. I won’t let those bastards near you.”
“Shh,” she murmured. “We need to capture them alive.”
Both of his thick brows lifted. “Alive?”
“We can’t be sure that Sinclair has all of the evidence he needs to convict Kingsfeld.”
“Begging your pardon, but I really don’t give a hang about that right now. He told me to take care of you, whatever the cost.”
“He did?” My goodness, she loved him. “And I intend to take care of him, whatever the cost. He doesn’t just want revenge, Roman. He wants justice.”
“He wants you to be safe.”
She scowled. “Don’t argue with me, Roman. I need your help.”
The valet sighed. “I hope Sin has the chance to kill me for this. What’s your plan?”
“I told you—we need to capture them alive.”
With a brief chuckle, Roman shook his head. “We need a bit more than that.”
“Well, I’m new to this. You’re the expert—what do you think?”
The adjoining door creaked open. Victoria gasped, clutching her chest. When a white handkerchief fluttered low in the opening, she could have fainted from relief. Kit’s head followed. “I want in on this,” he muttered, crawling across the short expanse of floor toward them.
“You heard us?”
“No, but I know you’re planning something. I owe Kingsfeld as much as Sin does. More, even. Right after the funeral, he told me he knew he could never replace my brother, but with Sin gone as well, he would be honored to substitute as best he could. I took him at his word. I let that bastard write me a letter of recommendation to Oxford.”
“All right,” Victoria murmured, taking his hand and squeezing his fingers. “You may help us. As long as you’re careful.”
Kit smiled grimly. “Fair enough.”
“Just a damned minute,” Roman protested. “I am not going to allow—”
“You have two options, Roman. We can either get in your way, or we can assist you,” Victoria snapped.
“Bloody hell,” the valet said. “If we want them alive, we need to get hold of them one at a time.”
“Alive?” Kit repeated, scowling.
“Evidence,” Victoria whispered.
Sinclair’s brother nodded. “Oh. Right.”
By the time Augusta joined them and they had explained everything yet again, footsteps had begun creeping up the near staircase. Victoria didn’t feel easy about including Sinclair’s grandmother or Kit in the venture, but she wasn’t about to tell them they couldn’t participate. She knew all too well how that hurt.
The bedchamber in which they had positioned themselves lay seven or eight doors distant from the top of the stairs, with the rest of the household at the far end of the hallway. As she heard the fifth door softly open and bootheels slowly tapping down the hall, Victoria wished she’d been in the first room. She could barely stand waiting ten minutes. But Sinclair had waited and watched and listened for over two years.
“Ready?” Roman mouthed from behind the door.
She nodded, her mouth dry. This was for Sinclair as much as it was for her. She couldn’t make a mistake. There would be no second chances today.
The door handle slowly began to turn. Victoria held her breath. She was seated on the bed, and if Roman didn’t pounce quickly enough, she would have nowhere to run. The door inched open. A large, stocky man stepped into the room, a pistol in his hand.
“What the…,” he said, as his gaze found Victoria.
“Hello,” she said softly, smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He took another step forward, the pistol lifting in her direction. One more small step, and they would have him.
“You’re the Vixen, ain’t you?”
“Yes, I am. Would you like to know why they call me that?”
“Sweet—”
A stout fagot of firewood came down on the back of his head, and with a grunt he dropped heavily to the floor.
“They call her that because she’s smart as a fox,” Roman muttered, taking one limp arm while Kit emerged from beneath the bed to grab the other and pull the man away from the door. Augusta slipped out of the wardrobe and gently closed the door again.
“One out, three to go,” Kit said grimly, using the curtain pull cords to bind the man’s arms behind his back.
Roman examined their attacker’s pistol and turned to Kit. “You know how to use this, Master Kit?”
“Of course.” Kit pocketed the weapon. “Do we just wait here for the next one to come by? It could be hours.”
The door slammed open.
Shrieking, Victoria dove sideways off the bed as Kingsfeld launched himself at her. His hand closed viselike around her ankle, and she kicked hard with her other foot. He grabbed that leg too, and yanked her back onto the bed, her skirts sliding up above her knees.
“That’s enough, Vixen!” he snarled and slapped her hard across the face.
She fell backward onto the bed, stunned by the blow. When he pulled her upright again, her hair loose and falling into her eyes, she caught sight of a second man in the doorway, his pistol aimed at Kit and Roman.
“All right! We surrender!” she screamed.
“You heard the lady,” Kingsfeld growled. “Drop your weapons.”
“Astin! What is the meaning of this?” Augusta stood beside the window, a vase gripped in her hands. Seeing the steely anger in the woman’s eyes, Victoria realized where Sinclair got his strength of character.
“The meaning of this, my dear Augusta, is that your grandson has become a raving lunatic, leaving me with no choice but to set things right again. Put that down. Now.”
Reluctantly Augusta dropped the vase onto the bed. “And just how do you intend to set things right, you murderer?”
“By cleaning up the mess I seem to have left.” He smiled grimly. Grabbing Victoria by the hair, he hauled her to her feet. “This way, everyone.”
Victoria was the first out the door into the hallway. She stumbled as the earl shoved her toward the stairs—and then froze. Sinclair stood there, his eyes dark with fury. For a moment she thought she must be hallucinating, until he uttered one quiet word.
“Duck.”
She dropped, and his fist shot out, catching Kingsfeld flush on the jaw. As the earl pitched sideways, she ran back into the room, throwing herself on the second gunman before he could do more than open his mouth. Kit hit him low in the legs, and with her weight on his back, he toppled forward, knocking Kit’s head hard against the nightstand.
The thug threw her off, and she smashed into the wardrobe, wrenching her arm. Shoving the dazed Kit aside, the man crawled toward her, snarling. At the last second Augusta stepped in front of her and slammed the vase down on his head. He collapsed amid the sounds of breaking porcelain.
“Splendid shot, Grandmama,” Kit complimented, unsteady as he picked himself off the floor.
“Thank you, dear.”
A shot rang
out, the ball whizzing past them to imbed itself in the far wall. With a gasp, Victoria ducked again. Sinclair slammed the spent pistol out of Kingsfeld’s hand.
“You are done with hurting my family,” he snarled, and hit the earl again hard.
They both went down, and Victoria crawled to the bedchamber doorway as they crashed down the hallway toward the stairs. Sin caught a fist in the face, and blood trickled from a cut lip. He didn’t even seem to feel the blow as he continued hammering at the stockier Kingsfeld.
Victoria wanted to shout at him to be careful, but she didn’t dare risk distracting him. Then the earl pulled a knife from his boot. “Sinclair!” she shrieked.
“I hope you know how to use that,” Sin snarled, dodging backward as Kingsfeld struck at him.
“Well enough to put you and the rest of your family out of my misery.” The earl lunged at him again.
At the last second Sinclair ducked and heaved upward, throwing the earl over his shoulder. With a cutoff shriek, Kingsfeld went down the first flight of stairs headfirst and collapsed on the landing. Sinclair was down beside him in what seemed like one leap, kicking the knife from the earl’s limp fingers.
Kingsfeld’s head lay along his shoulder at an impossible angle. Sinclair rolled backward on his haunches and sat, bone-crunching weariness and relief flooding through him. He’d been in time, thank God—or whichever deity looked after fools like him.
“Is he dead?” Kit asked shakily from the railing, rubbing at an ugly knot on his forehead.
“Yes.”
“There’s one more, Sin.”
“No. I found him in the drawing room; he won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
“Good.”
Slowly Sinclair got to his feet again, his body and mind exhausted. Victoria stood at the top of the stairs, gazing at him, her hair disheveled but her expression for once unreadable.
Part of him had thought he would never see her again, sure that he was never to be allowed the happiness Victoria gave him. Even now, he wasn’t sure. He’d lied to her and insulted her and manipulated her too many times. She couldn’t possibly forgive him.
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