by Alyson Chase
Amanda brushed the backs of her fingers down Liz’s cheek before dropping her hand back into her lap. “I killed Father. Where else should I be?”
Liz sucked in a deep breath. “That is not—”
“Shh. I don’t regret my actions.” She coughed again. “When Father made an agreement with the vicar for his son and me to marry, I knew I couldn’t leave you alone with him. And I saw the way he looked at you. His attention had already drifted from me to you. I couldn’t allow him to hurt you, too. Not after . . .”
“After what?” Liz searched her eyes for the answer she didn’t want to hear. Amanda slumped against the wall behind her, mouth flattening. Liz swallowed hard, but her mouth remained dry. “After . . . you made a deal with Father? To spare me?” she whispered.
Her sister fumbled to find Liz’s hand and held it close to her chest. “There was no deal. At least, nothing we actually voiced.” She frowned. “I don’t know how something like that would even go. But . . .”
“But?” Liz girded herself to withstand what was coming.
“But it was understood.” Amanda’s eyes glistened, and she swiped at the corner of her lid. “I always knew that if I didn’t allow Father to touch me he would come for you.” She grabbed Liz with both hands. “I’m your older sister. I did what I had to do to protect you.”
Pain crashed through Liz’s chest, like someone had struck her with a sledgehammer. Rolling from her knees to her bottom, she hunched her back protectively. But she couldn’t protect herself against the knowledge any longer. She was responsible for her sister’s pain. The peace she’d gained under Marcus’s hand last night had been too fleeting.
Her heart squeezed. He’d shown her something wondrous, given her hours free from self-doubt and inner conflict. She ached for his touch, his kindness, his control. It had been easy being with him, letting him take over for a few stolen moments. But she couldn’t escape from her life forever. The filthy floor she and her sister sat on was real. As was the danger and their poverty. There was no sanctuary to be had in a man’s touch. Not even a duke’s.
When she lifted her eyes, her sister’s stricken face stared back at her. Liz straightened her shoulders. Neither the time nor the place for her to wallow. She would save that pain for later, let it consume her when she was alone.
“You protected me to the end. You shouldn’t be punished for saving your sister.” Getting to her knees, she reached for the basket and pulled out another meat pie. Unwrapping it, she said, “You did what you had to do, and now I’ll do what I have to.” She put the pastry to her sister’s lips and smiled. “We’ll protect each other. The Wilcox sisters against the world.”
Amanda’s lips bent and she nibbled at the pie. “I love you, Liz.”
She unloaded the small store of goods for Amanda’s meals for the next couple of days, hoping her sister would eat the food before the rats did. “I love you, too. Will you do something for me?”
“Of course.” The bites she took were so tiny it would take her a week to finish the pie.
“I need you to eat and drink what I brought you. To regain your strength. Can you do that for me?” Liz’s heart began to flutter in her chest at the implications of what she was thinking.
“I’ll try,” Amanda said. “Why?”
Liz gave her sister a grim smile. “Because one way or another, I’m getting you out of here. I need you to be ready for anything.”
Chapter Nineteen
She followed the burly footman from the side door to the Earl of Westmore’s study, her jaw clenched so tightly a headache simmered. Liz had gone to Westmore directly from leaving Newgate, only to be turned away, a message from the earl directing her to return later that night. Or rather, early the next morning. The candlelit hallways were shadowed and gloomy. Every other servant was in bed, and the silent house seemed to be holding its breath.
She stopped behind the footman next to a hall table holding a large cut-glass vase bulging with roses. The overpowering perfume made her nose twitch. The past year she’d thought the earl’s London town house the height of luxury. After living in Hartsworth, she saw that Westmore’s tastes were opulent rather than elegant. His town house was but a distorted reflection of true sophistication. The carpets weren’t as plush, the moldings as thickly carved, or the uniforms on the servants as finely stitched. The objets d’art and collectibles spilling off of every available surface, which once illustrated to Liz the stark disparity between the earl’s wealth and her own family’s, now appeared tawdry.
The footman scratched at the study door. Her thighs brushed together, and she flinched at the soft crinkle of paper. She had strapped the letter to the front of her stocking, pulling the tie extra tight to secure the precious missive, but it had shifted to her inner thigh while she’d moved.
She was still torn as to what she would do with the letter—give it to Westmore or send it back to Marcus. She could only hope the answer would come to her in the next ten minutes.
“Come in.” The voice was low through the door, but recognizable as the earl’s. The man in front of her pushed the door wide and stepped back for her to enter. After she did, he pulled it closed, leaving her alone with the earl.
Leaning back in his chair, Westmore intertwined his fingers over his stomach. “Miss Wilcox. When my butler told me you were here to see me, I didn’t quite believe it. I had assumed anything you had to relay would come to me via Pike. As I’d instructed.”
She ignored his narrowed eyes and paced about the study, stopping before a bookcase holding more curios than books. She poked at a cast-iron dancing horse. “Yes, well, I didn’t think it safe to go through Mr. Pike. I don’t trust the man.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re smarter than I credited. He is a most untrustworthy individual, for sure.”
Her pulse pounded at the base of her throat as she faced him. “Some might even say deadly.” Keeping her eyes on his, she searched for any tell that he’d given the order for her “accident.” She saw nothing. He could have been good at bluffing.
“As you say.” He twirled his thumbs around each other. “I presume you’re here because you have something to deliver. Am I right? Do you have my letter?” His tone was casual, but Liz didn’t miss the tight bunching of his shoulders, the predatory narrowing of his eyes.
She swallowed. “Yes.” No longer pretending to be a maid, Liz had returned to wearing her threadbare gloves. Even though the material was worn, it was enough to keep her nails from drawing blood on her palms.
“Well?” He watched her, his face hardening as each moment passed. “Give it to me.”
This was the moment. She had to make a decision. Her stomach cramped so hard she wanted to cry out in pain. But that reaction she could control. Marcus had given her a glimpse of how to manage sensation, to manipulate the hurt to something tolerable. And with Marcus, to something pleasurable. She could control her responses.
Marcus. He was so steady. So constant. Everything about him spoke of strength and discipline. His unyielding body. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and lips that told of his dedication to duty, his struggle to live a life of honor.
And she knew what she had to do.
Or what she couldn’t do. The string holding the letter to her thigh dug into her flesh, a harsh reminder of the choice she was making. It was the right one.
The decision made, a measure of peace descended on her like a warm mantle. She wouldn’t risk the lives of many men, couldn’t betray her country. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use the letter in another way.
She wet her lips. “I took the letter from the duke,” she told the earl. “And I put it someplace safe.”
He bolted to his feet, palms planted to the top of his desk. “Safe?” The word cut through the air like a knife.
“Yes.” Plucking a glass ball off the shelf, she stared at the swirls of blue and green that cut through the clear orb. She tossed it lightly between her two hands, avoiding his glare.
“Safe. Once my sister is out of prison, I’ll tell you where it is.” Lying to men like the earl no longer bothered her. She would have no twinges of conscience when she sent the letter back to Marcus, along with a letter detailing Westmore’s involvement. A letter she would send once she and her sister were safely on the Continent.
The earl circled the desk and leaned back against it, crossed his arms. “I see. So you hope to control our arrangement. Make things run according to your plan?”
The glass ball was heavy in her hand, solid, comforting. Something for her hands to distract themselves with. “I have the letter. It would seem that I now hold the position of power.” She tipped her chin up, willing him to think her tougher than she was.
“So it would seem.” A pulse throbbed at his temple. “But how do I know you actually found the letter? You could be coming to me now as a bluff. I would need some proof it’s actually in your possession.”
She strolled to a wingback chair, resting one hand on its back. The blasted letter scraped across her skin. She gave him her most charming smile. “That is proof I cannot give without revealing its location.” She could tell him some of its contents, but if Westmore learned she had read it he wouldn’t let her leave his house alive. “You will have to trust me.”
She shifted on her feet, and prayed her plan would work. If he believed her, her sister might be released as soon as tomorrow. He watched her, unblinking. Time seemed to pause, and she held her breath, waiting.
“I believe you,” he finally said. She released a shaky breath, the muscles in her neck loosening. “Unfortunately for you.” The relief flooding her body abruptly dissipated. He was a step ahead of her, dangerously close to a checkmate she couldn’t see.
“Why is that unfortunate for me?”
He eased off the desk and stalked towards her. She circled around, keeping the chair between them. Baring his teeth, he said, “Since I believe you do possess the letter, I will stop at nothing to make you tell me. It’s much easier than you might think.” He smirked. “Especially with women.”
“I won’t tell you until my sister is free.” Her feet stumbled over the edge of the carpet. “I don’t care what you do to me.”
He laughed, genuine amusement threading through his chuckles. “The hubris!” Smiling down at her, he stepped right. “Or the naïveté. My dear, after what I do to you, you’ll be begging to take me to the letter.” He darted left and grabbed her arm, his fingers bruising her flesh. “You’ll be screaming for mercy in under five minutes.”
He dragged her to the desk and opened the top drawer. A three-inch blade attached to a gold handle shimmered into view. Acting on instinct, Liz slammed her hip into the drawer as he reached in, smashing his hand between it and the desk. He swore loudly, and pushed her away. She fell, hard, her jaw hitting the carpeted floor.
Westmore cradled his injured hand to his chest, towering over her. “You stupid bitch.” He drew back his leg, and Liz curled into a ball. The blow struck her in the hip, painful but not debilitating. It got her scrambling to her feet. He wrapped his good hand around her throat, slammed her into the wall. “I will cut you to ribbons,” he hissed. His hand tightened. “Three slices across this pretty face and you’ll tell me exactly where my letter is. By the tenth, you’ll beg me to kill you.”
She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, dark spots dancing before her eyes. The hand that held the glass orb tapped uselessly against the wall. The ball. Damn, she was stupid. Shoring up her waning strength, she swung her hand and caught him in the temple, the ball of glass leaving a small indentation in his skin.
Westmore stumbled to one knee, his nails scraping from her neck down her chest on his way down. The events of the past year flashed before her eyes. The tasks he’d sent her on. The deceptions and humiliations.
Her betrayal of Marcus.
Rage coursed through her veins along with a spurt of energy. When he lifted his head, eyes cloudy with confusion, she didn’t hesitate to bring the orb down again. He fell face-first on his Aubusson rug, a trickle of blood trailing down his forehead.
Liz’s chest heaved, each breath clawing past the abused tissues of her throat. After ten seconds of staring disbelieving at what she’d done, the shaking began. Her body trembled so violently she lost her grasp on the ball, dropping it on the rug next to Westmore. Had she killed him? He had turned her into so many dishonorable things that year, spy and thief; was she also now a murderer?
She pressed her palm to her mouth, her moan breaking the stillness of the room. Backing away, Liz fell to her knees. Leveling her gaze on his back, she held her breath until she saw the slight rise and fall of his coat. He lived.
A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped to the floor. She raised her hand. Both sides of her face were wet. She didn’t know when the tears had begun, and she couldn’t get them to stop. She had to leave, get far away before the earl roused, but her body wouldn’t respond. All she could do was shake and cry.
A distant shout from the London streets dragged her from her daze. Pushing herself up on quivering knees, she looked at the door, estimated her chances of escaping from the house without being seen by the footman. The odds were not in her favor.
She stumbled to one of the windows overlooking a small garden. It took three pushes before the window popped open. Leaning against the sill, she stuck her head out. It was dark, but by the light of the waxing moon she could see the outlines of bushes some five feet below. She hoped they weren’t roses.
She stuck her legs out first and turned onto her stomach, wiggling until she clung to the outside of the frame, the toes of her boots digging into the side of the house. A haggard groan came from the study, and her hesitation evaporated.
She jumped, landing with a roll. Vines caught around her ankles, and dirt wedged into her left ear. Pushing to her feet, Liz took off at a trot. At the street, she slowed to a brisk walk, brushing dirt off her skirts as she went.
She was glad now of the precautions she’d taken in finding her lodgings that afternoon. Westmore had known the location of most of her previous rooms, and she hadn’t wanted to stay someplace he could find her.
Perhaps some part of her had known even then that she wouldn’t deliver the letter into his hands. So she’d approached one of her contacts, one she’d never mentioned to the earl, and persuaded her way into a couple nights’ stay in the small apartment above the woman’s bakehouse, empty since the woman had married.
She turned in the opposite direction of the bakehouse and hustled down three blocks, before making a random right turn. She hadn’t had much practice in it, but had learned enough from Westmore’s men to lay down a false trail. Besides, the exercise helped to calm her rattled nerves and gave her time to think. If Plan A was giving Westmore the letter and Plan B was to extort the earl for her sister’s freedom, then it was time to turn to Plan C.
She paused on the sidewalk, hand resting on one of the new gas streetlamps, trying to catch her breath. A carriage and a hansom cab crossed at the intersection, the drivers of both vehicles shouting greetings to each other. Several men and a few couples strolled down the sidewalks, on their way home after a long night. She was one of a few single women out and about on her own, the only one whose dress wasn’t cut low across the chest.
People cast curious glances her way. Some looks were merely inquiring; others held a darker gleam. She pushed off from the pole and turned down another street. As long as she kept moving, she found she was rarely harassed.
When she reached the next corner, her feet shuffled against the ground. The shakes wracking her body had turned into fine tremors. Clutching a hand to her stomach, she willed it to settle. She couldn’t fall apart now. She’d been laying the groundwork for her improbable plan, if Westmore didn’t secure Amanda’s release. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to attempt it.
Lungs heaving, she held a hand to her side. She couldn’t bring herself to lay any more of a false trail. Westmore would be sending all his men ou
t to search for her, but exhaustion weighed her down. She turned her feet towards her apartment instead. She needed a few hours’ sleep before putting her mad scheme into action.
The bakehouse was dark, but in a couple of hours it would be bustling with activity, the smell of warm yeast and the heat from the ovens rising up through the floors. She pushed into a side stairwell and pulled the room key from a small pocket in her spencer. Her boots slapped loudly on the uneven wooden planks as she dragged her way up the stairs. The lock turned easily, and she slipped into the small room, leaning against the door in relief.
Alone at last, and she could rest.
“About time you got here.” A wick on an oil lamp flared to life, and Liz stumbled back from the hard-eyed glare of the Duke of Montague.
* * *
She stared at him, eyes wide, and her lovely mouth dropped open. It had only been one day since he’d seen her, but Marcus’s body reacted as though he hadn’t touched a woman in years. She looked beautiful. And cold. And was that—
“Goddammit!” He leaped up from the rickety stool and took the two steps to reach her. She flinched away from the lamp he held, giving him a good view of the purpling bruises encircling her slim neck. Rage coursed through him, but he lightly ran his index finger across the marks on her soft skin.
She shivered beneath his touch, and clasped her thin shawl more tightly around her.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded. Bringing his hand up to cup her jaw, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. God, she felt good. The lying, deceitful bitch. His jaw clenched. Her injury had distracted him, but now he stepped back before he throttled her himself. “Where’s the letter?” He made his voice as threatening as possible. When fear flickered across her dark eyes, he didn’t feel guilty for it. Not at all. He rubbed his chest, ignoring the stab to his heart.
“I . . . I have it here.” Her voice was raw and scratchy, and the fury clawed at him. Fury at her, for making him care for a treasonous spy, fury for a country that demanded his loyalty, and most especially fury at the bastard who’d hurt her. Just as he’d done with his groom, he’d make sure this fuckwit paid for his assault on Liz, as well.
