by Sue London
“He knew, didn’t he?” Granby asked, as though Sabre would have any idea what he was talking about. He seemed to understand her arrested expression. “Your father. He knew what he was doing when he suggested I hold you in order to force Robert to show his hand.”
Sabre danced to the side a bit, not wanting to subside into complacency. “It’s often hard to know what my father is thinking.”
“But he knew that you wouldn’t be an easy captive. That your brother wouldn’t simply reveal the Keys in order to save you.”
“I have no idea.”
“But he didn’t count on Miss Grant. Now I have the Keys.” Granby gave her a sick smile. “And I thought to secure you as my hostage to guarantee my safe passage from here. You won’t make that easy, will you?”
“Most likely not,” Sabre agreed, following her statement with a lunge. To her surprise, he stepped into the attack, but turned to the oblique enough to take the blade along his side instead of straight into his gut. Few were faster than Sabre, so he must have been anticipating her move. He clamped one hand onto hers where she held the blade and used the other to punch her in the face. As her vision dimmed and stars danced, she wished she had developed George’s talent for ducking. He wouldn’t release her hand with the blade in it, but once she let it go she was able to wriggle her hand free and stumble back. The sword clattered to the ground. She watched in horror as the Dragon picked it up.
She ran to the edge of the terrace, but once seeing the height, she shrank back. It wasn’t a simple step into a garden. It was a forty-foot drop to the rocky field below. Looking back, she had the satisfaction of seeing Granby hold one arm tightly to his side, protecting the ribs she had gashed. But he held the sword in his other hand. The terrace was large, but two sides appeared to have that horrendous drop and he was closer to the doors than she. Looking at the space, she calculated which door would be the easiest to reach. But what if it was locked? She knew that the door she came out of shouldn’t be, but in order to get to it she would need to pass by him. She was only now feeling recovered from his punch and didn’t think it likely that she could stand up to another such knock. Much less did she want to find out if he had any facility with the blade when she was unarmed. It was like an enormous chess game, trying to figure out how to reach the door before he could pummel her again. Or cut her. Fortunately, she knew she was very good at chess.
* * *
Robert didn’t like the idea of Miss Grant delivering Jack’s child, but the overwhelming consensus of the room was that she was the only one who could. Gideon had threatened to remove him bodily if he didn’t leave. Now, returning to the hall, he realized that he had lost the duke.
“Your grace?” he called out. Bloody hell.
* * *
Quince saw that the door at the top of the steps was partially open. He was about to call out Sabre’s name when he heard her speaking. Her voice was subdued, cautious. It made him move quietly to the door, to find out what was happening before rushing in.
“You might think you have the information you want,” she was saying, “but I can assure you that you do not.”
“And what do you know of it?” Granby. Quince peered out of the door to see where the bastard was.
“Only that Miss Grant has played you the fool. She is quite good at parlor tricks.”
They were on a large terrace. Granby held a sword loosely in his right hand, and Sabre was unarmed, edging her way toward the other wall. As Granby had his back to Quince, the duke moved out onto the stone terrace. He was sure that Sabre saw, but she did not react. She was too clever to give them away like that. Instead, she kept the baron involved in this conversation that seemed to be irritating him.
A mere three steps behind the man, Quince said. “Granby.”
Under other circumstances, the way the man jumped and spun around would have been comical. In these circumstances, Quince was far from entertained. Granby raised his blade, but Quince disarmed him almost immediately. The baron fell back, and Quince pursued, using cuts and slashes to herd Granby directly back towards the precipice. The man stopped ten feet short of the edge, letting Quince press the blade into his throat.
“Any last words, Granby?”
“You aren’t half the man your father was.”
“And I thank the Lord above for that.”
Robert’s voice called out, “Dammit, Telford, stop.”
Quince wasn’t a soldier by training. He had rather singular focus within the confines of a fencing match, but otherwise was not one to worry overmuch about things like ‘taking your eye off the enemy’. He looked over his shoulder to ask Robert, “Why?”
That, apparently, was the opportunity Granby had been looking for. The first thing Quince felt was movement at the end of his blade, as Granby stepped away from the point. Then the man spun into a roundhouse punch to the duke’s ribs. It was surprisingly effective; Quince lost his breath and staggered. Although not precisely against Broughton's rules, it was certainly not the act of a gentleman. Therefore Quince had no remorse as he counter-spun to strike Granby in the face with his elbow. As Quince had known there would be times to put down the sword and take up his fists, he had ample enough practice to hold his own. He usually sparred with Gideon, who had over a head of height on Granby, making Quince was something of a Mendoza to Gideon’s Jackson. But his years of practice with a taller opponent meant that his elbow hit a bit high. Granby still reeled from the blow.
“I want to question him,” Robert said, approaching quickly from the door.
Quince had his blade back on Granby’s throat. “Then question him.”
The baron sidled backwards, but Quince knew the man had nowhere to go. Bernard’s description of the terrace had been quite specific. This edge held a fall of at least forty feet.
“Don’t let him-” Robert said, but then the Dragon stepped over the edge.
Quince went to the edge and looked down. “I didn’t expect that.”
Robert joined him. “Wild animals do unpredictable things in an attempt to survive.”
Granby was still moving, clawing at the ground in an attempt to crawl.
“I need to find a way down there,” Robert said. “As I can’t stand any more of the blasted steps in this chateau, I shall find out how to walk around.”
“We’ll… keep an eye on him from here.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively and walked off.
Quince turned his attention back to his wife. She had a swelling bruise covering a good bit of her temple and eye. He tossed aside his sword and gently cradled her face. “What did he do to you?”
She bit her lip before she spoke. “He is a brutal, unpleasant man.” She leaned the unbruised side of her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. He had to bite his own lip to keep from hissing in pain. Apparently the bastard had managed to crack a rib or two.
Resting his chin on top of her head, he said, “Aren’t we a sorry lot?”
“I want to go home,” she said, her voice muffled from speaking into his coat.
“Where we will discuss how many outriders you will take with you when you think to leave the house?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Sensible woman.”
What Quince truly wanted was to finish what he had started. How dare Granby touch is wife? Harm her in any way? He not only wanted to kill the bastard, he wanted to do it slowly. Although, perhaps, that was precisely what Granby had guaranteed for himself. A slow, agonizing death.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Robert had encountered the Rokiczanas while trying to find his way out to the front lawn to follow the landscape down and around to the lower walls. They had fallen in to accompany him. He wasn’t precisely in the mood for company. Granby would likely as not expire before Robert could reach him. Miss Grant still needed to be dealt with. To be honest, he liked it far better when the intrigues he dealt in were at a distance. Manipulating the Congress of Vienna had been entertaining.
But having his sister taken hostage? He still burned in outrage over it. And having to deal with Miss Grant was… irksome.
“After you talk to this Dragon, we will leave, yes?” Casimir asked.
Robert grunted in response.
“But-” Casimir’s voice cut off with a soft gasp and Robert assumed that George had elbowed her husband to quiet him. Good for her.
After an interminable walk around the keep’s wall that made Robert wish he had found a rope to climb down from the terrace, they finally found Granby. The man had hardly moved from where Robert had last seen him. Finding no signs of life, Robert turned him over and searched him. Finding only a few odd coins and one folded piece of paper, Robert stood up.
“Are you sure he's dead?” Casimir asked.
Robert fired his last remaining pistol, striking Granby in the brow. “Fairly certain.”
“Robert,” George said quietly. “Are you feeling all right?”
He stared at her steadily for a few moments. “What a nonsensical question. Anyone who knows me, knows that I have no feelings at all.”
They walked back around the keep, with the Rokiczanas being mercifully quiet.
* * *
Imogen stretched her back. The baby had finally come. It was certainly not the longest labor she had witnessed, but the discomfort of their surroundings had added to the sense of urgency they all felt. Now there was a boy. The future earl, Oliver. He lay on his mother’s breast while his father hovered over them both. Such love shone from them that it was difficult for Imogen to look upon it. Had her own parents been like that when she was born? It was possible. Her desire to go home had changed from a determination to a deep ache. She needed to see her father. To stand on the stones of her ancestors and take time to heal. To forget this place. To forget the insanity of what these people had shown her.
She sensed Robert’s approach. His emotions were palpable. Rage and grief, swirling together as inchoate violence. She was tired, worn through from all the chaos of the last two days. But she would not let him bleed his pain all over the beauty of this new family as it formed. She rose to meet him in the hallway.
She was surprised by the fresh burst of violence that washed through him at seeing her.
“Mr. Bittlesworth,” she said solemnly in greeting.
Rather than respond in kind, he pushed her against the wall. “What did you tell him?”
She refused to back down. “You should have told me you like rough foreplay,” she said tartly.
“What did you tell that detestable worm?” She could feel death on him again. Granby’s death. Not by Robert’s hand, though.
“I told him what he wanted to hear. He was arrogant enough to believe it.”
“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”
“Robert!” The duchess had reappeared. When her brother didn’t respond to her, she forcibly inserted herself between the two of them. “That’s quite enough!”
“What happened to your face?” Robert was momentarily distracted by brotherly concern.
“Granby had a fist like a hammer,” Sabre said primly.
“It’s too bad we can’t kill him all over again, eh?” the duke asked from where he was leaning on a nearby wall.
Imogen realized that she was far too open. All of the connections among the group were clear to her, like gossamer threads that strung from one to another. She knew that if she didn’t find a way to close her mind to it all that it would drive her mad. Perhaps she already was mad.
“Miss Grant is under our protection,” the duchess said firmly.
Imogen felt Robert’s confusion. “She’s what?”
“Tell him, Quince.”
Imogen could sense the duke’s surprise at his wife’s tack, but he readily enough took up her plan. “Sorry, old boy. You’ll have to leave Miss Grant to us.”
Imogen felt Robert’s inner struggle. He wanted to punish her, but his respect for the duke stayed his hand. “She’s betrayed us,” Robert said harshly.
“I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this without having to threaten her,” the duchess said. She managed to push her brother back a few steps and then linked arms with Imogen as though they were strolling in the gardens and nothing was amiss. They returned to the room where the countess and baby were resting. The earl was now sitting on the floor so that his wife could use his thigh as a pillow while he gently smoothed her hair. With all of them here, it felt a bit crowded.
“We can leave now, yes?” asked the man with George, whom Imogen assumed was Mr. Rokiczana.
“We shouldn’t stay here any longer,” Robert agreed. He looked at Gideon. “Can you carry Jack to the cart?”
“Of course. Are you ready, my love?” The countess nodded and Imogen reached down to take Oliver. She wrapped him more securely in their shawls and handed him over to the duchess.
“Oh!” Sabre said in surprise.
“Carry him like this,” Imogen said, positioning the duchess’s hands to support Oliver’s head properly. Sabre looked as though she had been asked to hold a wild animal.
George sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, give him to me.” After tucking Oliver securely in her arms, George cooed at him. “Sabre has never been comfortable with babies,” she told Imogen.
Sabre tickled the baby’s chin. “But he’s a precious one.”
The gossamer threads were beginning to feel smothering. Imogen wanted to go home. These people with their strangely strong connections were tiring. Other than her parents, Imogen had never been particularly close to anyone. Yes, there was an odd intimacy that she had with everyone she met, an intimacy that she had learned few others experienced. But that was part of why she wanted to get out of this tangle of intertwined lives. Perhaps it was the challenge of the situation, but the emotions that flowed among them were strong. The couples, the friends. Everyone seemed to have a connection and it was communicated constantly.
At first, regarding Robert, she only sensed the enmity he felt toward her. Then she began to notice that for all the love and affection in the room, none of it was flowing toward him. George respected him, Sabre had a familial attachment to him, but the rest held him in suspicion at best. What a lonely life Robert Bittlesworth had chosen. If she had the energy, she would be outraged that a man who had managed to make those closest to him suspicious of him saw fit to find her worthy of disdain. It was horrifying. Laughable. Infuriating.
Home. She just wanted to go home and forget that any of this had ever happened.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Robert was still furious at Imogen Grant, but for now simply avoided her. She insisted on bringing the maid Claudette with her, which Robert found annoying. One of her compatriots in this scheme, no doubt. But he told himself it didn’t matter. Not at the moment. He would get to the bottom of it when the time came. Instead, he focused on the issue at hand, and that was getting his ragtag party to Canvey Island before his brother rode off to tell the Home Secretary what had happened. There was no reason to involve the Secretary in what was essentially family business. So he freed Bernard, as he had not forgotten their informant in the woods, and then dealt with transportation and the thousands of little complications that arose from trying to get any group of a reasonable size to go from one place to another.
* * *
After dozing off for what seemed only a few moments, Imogen was roused again when they docked. The sky was tinged a ruddy pink and the energy of the people around her had dampened quite a bit. Or perhaps she was better able to ignore them. She would accept either reason.
Claudette asked her a question and Imogen had to puzzle together the sentence. If nothing else, having a French maid would ensure she practiced the language.
“She wants to know if the one on the dock is your husband,” Sabre said with a cheeky grin.
Imogen looked to the dock to see to whom the girl might have been referring. The broad-shouldered blond stranger on the dock did seem to be waiting for their ship, and hel
ped the sailors secure their lines. “I’ve no idea who he is.”
Sabre spoke in rapid French to Claudette and the girl laughed and blushed. Switching to English the duchess explained. “That’s my brother. I didn’t realize you hadn’t met Charlie.”
Charlie Bittlesworth anxiously looked over the people on deck until he had identified both his sister and brother among them. Then he visibly relaxed, his natural aura of sunny yellow glowing with contentment. He was a handsome man, to be sure, especially if your taste ran to slight reprobates, with his barely tamed hair, sinewy build, and scruffy chin. But the way he had worriedly waited for his siblings to return put Imogen in mind of a loyal hound.
When they disembarked, Sabre rushed to him and he spun her up into the air. She dragged him over to meet Oliver, and then on to Imogen.
“Miss Grant,” he greeted her, with a perfectly appropriate bow.
“Mr. Bittlesworth,” she returned.
“I’m sure you would prefer to call me the other Mr. Bittlesworth so that you can keep us straight,” he teased.
“Worry not,” Sabre said, “she calls him Robert.”
Did she? Had she? It would have been easy enough to be so informal as the duchess and her friends referred to him that way. “It doesn’t matter,” Imogen said with a polite smile. “I’m quite sure I can tell you apart.”
“Charlie,” Sabre said, winding her arm in his and batting her eyelashes at him, “would you be so kind as to be Miss Grant’s escort back to London?”
“Wouldn’t Robert-”
“No,” Sabre said quite definitely. Changing back to her wheedling little sister tone she asked, “Please?”
“Of course.”
Sabre wrapped Imogen in a surprisingly warm hug. “I'll miss you,” she whispered. “You're very wise, much like my husband. One can never have too many wise persons in their life.”
