by Gaelen Foley
Bloodwell waited for an answer.
Albert faltered, scratched his temple, searching for courage, rested his hands on his waist, and braced himself. “No.”
Displeasure radiated from the strange assassin. “You were at Carlton House tonight?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t find it.”
A silence.
“Was there a problem with the key I gave you?”
“No, the key worked fine, but the paper wasn’t in there.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you sure it was sent—”
“Don’t question me,” Bloodwell cut him off. “My source on this is a hell of a lot more reliable than you. Of course, that isn’t saying much.” Dresden Bloodwell sat down where he pleased, right on Albert’s favorite chair.
Did he plan on staying long?
Heart pounding with anger and humiliation at how thoroughly frightened he was of this man, Albert managed to lift his chin. “It’s not my fault,” he clipped out. “I was looking for it. But I was interrupted. Some woman came banging on the door. She didn’t realize I was there.”
Bloodwell looked at him for a long moment. “You really are a waste of oxygen, aren’t you?”
“You ask the impossible of me!”
“That is not my problem. Time is short, Alby. When I ask you to do something, I expect you to carry it out.”
He threw up his hands. “I tried!”
“Try harder. You owe me that, don’t you? After all I’ve done for you…You are still enjoying your new station in life, aren’t you, Your Grace?”
Albert checked his fury. “I’ll get your damned list.”
Bloodwell’s wolfish smile flashed in the dark as he stood again. “That’s more like it. When is the next time you’ll see the Regent?”
“A few days. The weekly card game.”
“Very well.” Bloodwell nodded slowly. “I’ll give you a fortnight to get back into Carlton House and try again. But the next time I call on you, Albert, you’d better have it for me. By Lucifer’s beard, you’d better. If you don’t produce results, I shall have no further use for you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
Albert swallowed hard. “Yes—sir. Perfectly.” Bloodwell’s stare alone was enough to make him feel as though his own cravat was strangling him. His heart pounded so hard, he was feeling slightly faint.
He would’ve liked to believe he was too valuable for Bloodwell to dispose of, but there was no compromise in the killer’s stare. “Good,” he murmured at length. “Now, then. Anything else I should know? News from court?”
Albert shrugged and told him what he’d learned about the place and time of Princess Charlotte’s wedding. At least it was something, enough to mollify the monster.
Bloodwell nodded. “Possibly useful. I shall bid you a fond good evening, Your Grace. See you in a fortnight.”
Go back to hell, where you came from, Albert thought, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. His eyes wide with fear, he watched the tall, lean, black silhouette move toward the open window.
He slipped past the curtains billowing on the night breeze, exiting by way of the balcony. In the next moment, Dresden Bloodwell had vanished once again. Like a foul smell.
Two weeks. Albert let out a shaky exhalation and lowered his head, raking his hand slowly through his perfect curls. Dear God. What am I going to do?
Chapter 12
Drake had suffered an excruciating headache for two days, taking very little food, barely stirring from his room, where the drapes remained closed to shut out the light. On the third day, after the worst of his headache had passed, he had sat all day in a chair staring out the window, brooding and uncommunicative.
As strange and remote as he had been since the moment he had arrived, not until now had he gone completely silent.
Emily was worried.
She was not about to give up hope, but Drake was so different now from the man she had adored since childhood. Nor was he a very compliant patient. She had tended wild animals that were easier to work with than the earl.
All she wanted was to nurse him back to health, as she had done for a few wounded foxes, assorted birds with injured wings, and a baby fawn she had once rescued. It had been grazed by the same hunter’s bullet that killed its mother. She had raised the deer and set it free, but it still wandered the parklands of Westwood Manor. It would still come to her hand if she offered food.
Unfortunately, the only treatment she had for Drake at the moment was a simple headache tonic. She wished she could do so much more to take his pain away, but at least this was something.
She wondered how he’d be today, on the fourth morning, as she stood at the potting table in the little greenhouse shed by the kitchen garden. For years, she had been growing a variety of needful herbs in clay pots under the glass, so they’d be ready for use in any season.
With her knife, she cut a few, fragrant sprigs of sage, the main ingredient of her trusty tonic, and put them in the bowl with the rosemary she had already culled. She savored the smells of the fresh herbs, moving on to gather a few peppermint leaves next.
All the ingredients would be boiled together. The old herbal country tonic smelled lovely. More importantly, it worked, at least on an ordinary case of the megrims.
Nothing about Drake’s condition was ordinary, unfortunately.
As Emily put the peppermint leaves in the bowl, she couldn’t help wondering not for the first time if his headache had more than a physical cause.
Now that he had been home at Westwood Manor for a fortnight, perhaps he was beginning to feel safe enough to let his missing memories return.
Lord Rotherstone had tried to draw him into conversation, trying to get him to tell if he had regained his memory or not. Emily had also tried to reach him, but he was not a man who wanted to be reached, preferring to stand alone as he battled the demons in his head.
It broke her heart to see him so damaged, all that roguish laughter fled from his black, flashing eyes. They were haunted now and filled with fear and deep, submerged rage. No, this was not the same Drake she had always known. But she was not giving up on him. At least he was alive. Anything was better than the torment of those dark months when he had gone missing, and she had feared him dead.
Now that she had him back, she would fix him, no matter what it took. And she didn’t care anymore that his mother thought she wasn’t good enough. Emily knew quite well that she could not marry Drake.
But no one had ever been able to stop her from loving him. As long as there was breath in her body, no one was ever going to hurt him again.
As she reached into the back row to cut off a small piece of the wood-betony stalk to add to her brew, she heard a sound behind her and turned to find he had just stepped into the garden shed.
“Drake! You’re up.” She clipped off the wood betony, put it in the bowl, and set her knife aside, turning to him with a beaming smile. “How are you feeling?” she greeted him as she wiped her hands on the work apron over her simple dun-colored dress.
“Much better,” he murmured, gazing into her eyes as he joined her by the potting table. “Thanks to you.”
She took his hands and searched his face. “I’ve been very concerned.”
“I know,” he said slowly. “But I think now everything is going to be all right.”
“Is it?” she asked with a wistful gaze into his eyes.
He said nothing, but with a pensive smile, he pulled her into his arms. Emily closed her eyes, adoring him, as she savored his unexpected hug.
“You smell like peppermint and sage,” he murmured fondly as he held her. He inhaled the scent of her hair.
“I was making more tonic.”
“Thank you, sweet Emily, for your care,” he whispered.
“It was nothing.” His unexpected show of affection had her blushing.
“It means more to me than you know.” He rested his lips against her hairline briefly, then he said, “Do you know you a
re the only good and pure thing in my life?”
Her heart clenched, but his startling confession left her tongue-tied. She hugged him back, a surge of protectiveness toward him flooding her heart. “I-I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” she stammered shyly.
Meanwhile, through the small dirty window over the potting table, she noticed Sergeant Parker standing outside waiting for Drake, his constant follower and guard.
Lord Rotherstone had been out for a morning gallop on his magnificent Thoroughbred. He reined in now, greeting Sergeant Parker. He leaned down to pat his horse’s neck while the men outside the window exchanged a few words.
“Emily, there’s something I want to tell you,” Drake murmured.
“Have you got your memory back—” she started, but he hushed her. Gently gripping her shoulders, he stared into her eyes. “Whatever happens, my sweet, my innocent Emily, I want you to know how much you mean to me.”
“Oh, Drake.” She swallowed hard, wide-eyed. Was this a dream?
“I would never hurt you.”
“Of course, I know that—”
“Good.”
“Drake, is something wrong? You seem strange. Why are you saying these things—”
Again, he cut off her questions—this time, to her shocked delight, with a gentle kiss. Her heart reeled at the hungry caress of his silken lips against hers.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed a moment later.
“It’s a-all right,” she assured him, as a bright blush suffused her skin. At last! She’d been wishing he’d do that for years. “I-I didn’t mind.”
“You might,” he whispered. And in the blink of an eye, he grabbed her work knife, spun her about in his arms so that her back slammed against his chest.
To her horror, he held her own knife to her throat.
“I am so very sorry about this, Emily.”
For half a second, she was still too much in shock to find her tongue. Holding her clamped against him, he started toward the doorway.
“What are you doing?” she burst out.
“Getting out of here. Don’t fight me.” He propelled her toward the door of the shed.
“Drake, please! Don’t do this! They’ll kill you.”
“I cannot stay here. If I don’t go now, James will die.”
The moment they cleared the doorway of the potting shed, they were spotted. The yard broke into a clamor; Parker shouting, servants running. Emily saw Lord Rotherstone’s face turn white.
He jumped off his horse. “Let her go!” he roared, marching toward Drake.
“Stay back, or I will cut her!” Drake snarled.
“Drake!” she wrenched out. It was possible in that moment that her heart broke quite into two pieces.
How could he do this to her? How?
“Shoot him,” the marquess ordered Parker.
The sergeant’s rifle immediately jutted from his shoulder.
Emily screamed: “No!”
Drake paused, but as the situation came into focus from her initial panic, she allowed him to use her for a shield.
He doesn’t know what he is doing.
Rotherstone’s hand came up, signaling Parker to hold his fire. “Drake, this is madness. Let Emily go. She’s been nothing but good to you.”
“I don’t care. I owe you people nothing. Get back! I’m taking your horse. Don’t try to stop me, or she dies,” Drake warned, cursing under his breath as he dragged her over to the horse Lord Rotherstone had just finished exercising.
“He’s mad, sir!” Parker shouted.
Emily whimpered, but clung to the promise he had made mere seconds ago inside the shed that he’d never hurt her.
At the moment, she was not so sure. But she was furious at him for doing this to her as well as for risking himself this way. She prayed Lord Rotherstone would be patient.
Against her back, she could feel Drake’s muscled chest heaving; she tried to protest as he stepped up onto the stirrup, but knowing they’d shoot him, she let him pull her up in front of him onto the horse, taking her hostage.
She let him use her for a shield.
“You’d better let me ride away unless you want this girl to die,” he warned. “Don’t doubt me, Max. You know that I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Drake, listen to me.” Lord Rotherstone approached, his hands extended as if he could physically force Drake to be calm. “If you return to the Prometheans, the Order will have no choice but to treat you as one of the enemy.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he spat. “Get out of the way, Max.”
“Drake—”
He let out an angry whoop, spurring the horse forward.
The leggy Thoroughbred nearly trampled Max with its sudden spring. The marquess jumped aside.
Sergeant Parker bellowed for them to stop, but did not shoot for fear of hitting her. Drake ignored him, galloping hell-for-leather toward the woods.
The horse’s speed and the threat of frantic tears blinded Emily as they went racing down the footpath through the woods. With Drake’s arm locked tight around her waist, she gasped as the Thoroughbred soared over a fallen log.
“Where are we going?” she cried, as they surged on.
“Not we. You are staying here.”
“No, take me with you. I am not afraid.”
“Typical Emily,” he muttered grimly in her ear. “Don’t be a fool. You’re just a girl! You can have no part in what I have to do.” His silence as they barreled on informed her there was no point in arguing with him or pressing for answers he wouldn’t give.
Ahead, she recognized the boundary line of the Westwood property. When they reached it, he spilled her from the saddle; she landed on shaky legs but immediately went toward him again, trying to reach for his hand.
“You’ll pardon me if I keep your knife.”
“Drake, I’m begging you not to go. You need help! You are not well! You need me!”
“You’ve already helped me more than you know, my angel. Please forgive me for what I did back there. I’m sorry to scare you. It was just for show. You know that, don’t you?”
“Don’t leave me!”
“I have to.”
“Please, I cannot bear it—”
“Let me go, Emily,” he chided, as she clung to his hand with a sob. “You must forget me. I won’t be coming back. Tell Max I’ve got to finish this. They’re going to kill James if I’m not there to protect him, and he’s the only one who can lead the others to stand against Malcolm.”
“What?” she asked through her tears, bewildered.
“I know they think I’m mad, and maybe I am, maybe I am,” he repeated, almost to himself, “but I can do more from the inside than they can ever accomplish from without.”
“Please, Drake, I can’t bear to lose you again.”
“You have no choice. Neither do I.”
“I could come with you.”
He laughed bitterly. “What, into the belly of the beast? I think not. You are an innocent, and you must stay that way. Look at me, Em. I could only taint you now. Just know that it’s for you and everything you mean to me that I have to finish this. You’re the only thing left that’s worth fighting for.”
“Then stay with me! Don’t go!”
“You have no idea what they have planned!” he barked at her, then began urging the horse away. “Good-bye, my Emily.”
She lost her grip on him with a wild sob. He wheeled the horse around and bolted away down the road.
That night, before the news of Drake’s escape had yet reached London, Jordan was engaged in playing cards with the Regent’s set and carefully laying a trap for Albert.
The closer he and Mara became, the stronger his desire to complete the mission so he could concentrate on her.
He had indulged in one of his favorite spy tools: the artful lie. The rumor he had started worked its way in whispers through the room. It did not even require him to speak to Albert directly.
He murmured his littl
e fiction to Colonel Hanger. Who told it to Barrymore, who told it to Norfolk, who told it to the Honorable Mr. Byng and his prize poodle, and so on, until it finally reached Albert—and by that time, no one remembered where exactly he had first heard this stunning piece of information.
If it were true, it would have been big news. Big enough for Albert to report to his Promethean controller.
Have you heard? The royal physicians are about to release a report that King George is on the mend. The King’s madness is lifting again, just as it did a few years ago. If His Majesty continues to improve, he could be cleared to return to the throne. Then the Regent will have to step down.
The only one at the table who had not heard this shocking-yet-credible tale was the Regent himself. At the moment, he was lost in the ecstasies of an almond cheesecake. And no man there wanted to break the news to Prinny that he might soon be demoted.
What Albert might do with this choice morsel of information remained to be seen, but Jordan intended to find out.
As for the duke’s behavior that night, Albert seemed to have decided that Mara must have been mistaken when she had come looking for him in the library; his attitude toward Jordan was only slightly warier than before. Perhaps his arrogance convinced him that he had outsmarted them all.
At any rate, by the time the gentlemen’s final hour of whist wound to a close, Jordan had lost five hundred quid and won it back again.
The eccentrics of the Regent’s set bid one another a weary good night as they drifted out of Watier’s. Parked along Piccadilly outside, a line of expensive town coaches waited for them, their aristocratic coats of arms emblazoned on the doors.
The gamblers’ grooms and footmen came to collect their drunken masters, both the dispirited losers, moping away, and the strutting victors, flush with their winnings.
Jordan’s attention was subtly fixed on Albert as they stepped out into the wet black night.
“Must’ve rained,” Albert remarked, pulling on his gloves.
Jordan nodded patiently. “That, or a fog.”
The brick walls of the buildings, the shop signs, and cobbled streets were slick with a heavy dew and gleamed by the glow of the wrought-iron streetlamps.
