Walking back as silently as he could, he carefully cocked his pistol and waited behind a thick tree for his enemies to reveal themselves. He strained to hear every sound, but they must have worked out that he’d stopped, that he could be waiting for them. In any case, it was hard to distinguish those slight movements he did hear from the normal passage of the nocturnal creatures in the wood. Verne’s gaze darted constantly from the path to the forest, while his whole body tingled with awareness.
A low branch whispered against the forest floor. Immediately, Verne snapped his attention in that direction. A man stepped out of the trees, and just as he’d hoped, the moonlight illuminated his face.
Lord Torbridge.
He wore no hat, but otherwise looked as elegant as ever, a dueling pistol held in his right hand. Those things were on hair triggers, but it was not in Verne’s nature to shoot unseen. He stepped out from behind his tree.
“Torbridge,” he said quietly and prepared to shoot.
Before he could, a gunshot cracked the air and something thudded into Verne’s tree from quite a different angle. Not from the path, either. His second assailant—unless there were three of them—had slipped into the woods and had fired from the darkness.
Verne leapt forward, swerving both to avoid Torbridge’s shot and to run straight at the unseen gunman. Or at least as straight as he could judge from the hole in his tree. He had several moments before the gunman could reload, and if only Torbridge missed, he might just make it.
He crashed into a body at speed, falling to the ground with him. Something winked in the sliver of moonlight through the trees. Spectacles.
Pierre de Renarde.
Chapter Eighteen
Long before the banging on the front door, Cecily had pulled herself together, at least outwardly. After washing her face in the bedchamber, she returned to the library and rang for tea and went through the motions of enjoying a quiet evening in the comfort of her own home. She sat by the lamp with a novel while she drank her soothing tea, but after a while she realized she had turned at least ten pages and retained not one word.
Sighing, she dropped the book and considered her embroidery work, but her fingers were always so much slower than her mind wished them to be that she could summon up no enthusiasm. She was just considering moving to the drawing room and playing the piano, which at least she enjoyed, when the banging started at the front door—loud, impatient, continuous.
Her heart sank in fear and she jumped to her feet. Had something happened to Patrick? He treated the very real danger as if it threatened everyone but him, and she knew Daniel was still in the house, as were James and George.
The outraged remarks of the servants in the entrance hall drifted in to her while she remained rooted to the same spot in front of the sofa. Bad news would reach her soon enough. While she stayed here, everything was still fine.
But the commanding voice she heard cutting through the protests of her servants was a woman’s. And the woman had clearly baffled them by barging straight past them, for the library door flew open and Isabelle de Renarde strode into the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Her gaze darted furiously around the room before clashing with Cecily’s.
“Where is he?” Isabelle demanded.
The library door opened again. The new footman, William, entered while James and George bulged behind him in the doorway.
“My lady,” James said. “Is your visitor leaving?”
Cecily easily recognized this as an offer to eject said visitor. And she was tempted. How dare the woman barge in demanding to see Cecily’s husband? She even knew the likeliest place to find him. It would have done Cecily’s battered nerves no end of good to see her husband’s lover marched out of the house between the burly footman. But the hint of despair in Isabelle’s eyes stayed her. As did the sudden realization that she hadn’t stated the name of the man she sought.
“Not yet,” Cecily said. “Thank you, William, that will be all for now.”
The footmen left reluctantly, and Cecily doubted they retreated very far from the door. Had the visitor not been a lady, and no doubt one well known to James and George, she would never have got past them.
“Where is he?” Isabelle repeated. “Cecily, where is Patrick?”
“He is not here,” Cecily replied coldly.
“And my husband?”
Cecily blinked. “Your husband? I’m afraid his whereabouts are even more of a mystery.”
Isabelle pounced. “Then Pierre has not been here?”
“Most assuredly, he has not. Isabelle, what is the matter with you? Why are you in such a state?”
Without invitation, Isabelle sank onto the sofa, holding one shaking hand to her head. “He said he was going after Patrick.”
Cecily frowned. “Your husband did?”
Isabelle nodded. “You see, I have recently learned… rather more than I would have liked to about my husband. Going back to him was a mistake. There is more to him than he shows the world, but I wish to God I had not discovered what it was.” She lowered her hand. Abject misery stood out in her face.
But it all began to make sense to Cecily. “You discovered,” she suggested carefully, “that his loyalties are, perhaps, more to his country than against the regime which rules it?”
Isabelle’s lips twitched. “What a kind way of saying treachery.”
Cecily brushed that aside. “And he is looking for Patrick? Why now?”
“I don’t know. He said something about some light on the marsh. He thinks my fortunes are now so tied to his that I will not try to stop him, but I have to! If Patrick truly is not here, where did he go?”
Cecily frowned. Before his sudden departure, just when she had thought they were going to talk and reach a better understanding, his gaze had moved over her head, fixing, perhaps, on something in the window. Had he seen the same light as Renarde?
“I don’t know,” Cecily admitted, hurrying to the door. “But I can find out. Wait here.”
As she had suspected, James and George were hovering in the hallway.
“Where did his lordship go?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t know,” James replied. “He took Jupiter. That’s all I know. Maybe—”
“Where is Daniel?” she interrupted.
“In the kitchen, my lady. I’ll fetch him.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll go myself.” It would be quicker. Brushing past the footmen, she rushed through the baize door to the servants’ sanctum.
Daniel sat in the servants’ hall, his feet stretched out under the table, as he drank a cup of tea with Cook and Shilton. They all leapt to their feet, staggering in their haste as they caught sight of her.
“My lady,” Daniel began, but she cut him off without apology.
“Where did his lordship go?”
“He didn’t say, my lady.”
“But you know,” she insisted. “You always know.”
He swallowed.
“Daniel, he’s in danger!” Cecily said urgently. “There was, I think, a light showing in the marsh. Where would that have sent him?”
Daniel reached for his coat on the back of his chair. “To the Hart, my lady. I’ll go after him.”
“Bring James and George,” Cecily commanded. “I’m coming with you. One of you send word to the stables. We need to hurry.”
She had never changed so quickly in her life as she did into her riding habit that evening, with Cranston’s help. And it was not just Isabelle whom she swept out of the library with her, but Shilton, too.
“My place is with you,” Shilton said stubbornly, and Cecily, with no time to waste on argument, merely shrugged. Shilton, too, had her demons.
“You need to let us lead the way,” James told her. “The quickest path is through the marsh, but it’s dangerous. You have to watch your feet.”
She nodded impatiently. He was telling her nothing she did not already know. “Then lead. Quickly.”
&n
bsp; *
There was no time to bandy words with Renarde. The émigré’s pistol, which had dropped in the fall, might be harmless, but Torbridge’s wasn’t. Verne had raised his own high as he landed on Renarde, pointing it in the air with his finger off the trigger. He still had two shots.
He jerked himself into a sitting position on Renarde’s chest and brought down his pistol arm, peering out of the trees.
Lord Torbridge advanced upon him, his weapon stretched out in front of him while his eyes found Verne’s. Somewhere it bothered Verne that Torbridge hadn’t already fired. But the failure had saved his life and he wasn’t about to quarrel with it. He curled his finger around the trigger and took aim.
“Halt,” he commanded.
But, unforgivably, he had assumed Renarde beaten and removed all his attention to Torbridge. He was taken by surprise when Renarde bucked powerfully beneath him. Dislodged, Verne lost his balance, rolling on the ground.
And then at last Torbridge fired.
And missed. Missed? At that close range? For a heartbeat, Verne held his breath, waiting for the pain to strike. It didn’t. But no, Torbridge hadn’t missed.
He’d shot Renarde. Smoke drifted up from his chest in the moonlight.
Verne leapt to his feet, staring at Torbridge.
“Apologies, my lord,” that gentleman said mildly. “I’m afraid I had to be sure.”
“Sure?” Verne repeated stupidly.
“Of the traitor. It could have been you, after all.”
A hiss of laughter escaped Verne. He lowered his pistol, letting it hang by his side. “Well, my instincts have been very unreliable recently. I admit I couldn’t quite see you as a French spy but neither did I see…” He waved his dipped pistol in Torbridge’s direction.
“The British spy-master?” Torbridge suggested. “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“S?” Verne hazarded.
“At your service,” Torbridge said politely. “But don’t spread it around. I have no desire to have my identity reaching to Fouche and Talleyrand in France.”
“You’re good,” Verne said generously. A faint movement from the wounded Renarde caused him to jerk his head around.
The spent pistol lay on the ground between them, but Renarde had another. Half-sitting, he pointed it straight at Verne.
Torbridge cried out a warning, just as Verne hurled himself to the ground and fired. His lust for life, his longing to live it with Cecily, fell into his fear of leaving her alone and unprotected.
Two shots fired in rapid succession. Renarde lay unmoving on his back. And he, Verne, appeared to be still alive.
“Dear God, Verne,” Torbridge uttered, falling to his knees beside him.
“What?” Verne demanded, puzzled. He tried to sit up, but his arm would not obey him. Instead, massive pain overwhelmed him. When he grasped his arm, he felt wetness and swore.
“It seems both our instincts are off,” Torbridge said shakily.
“He was always such a weasel. I should have known he’d have two weapons. Actually, you’d better make sure he’s dead, because the chances are he as at least one dagger on his person, too.”
While Torbridge went to Renarde, Verne managed to sit up.
“He’s dead,” Torbridge reported. “But you were right about the dagger. Let’s see to that wound and then I’ll take you home and find a quack to take care of you.”
“The Hart is nearer,” Verne said. He felt dizzy with pain but the last thing he wanted was to scare Cecily with his wound. “Lily… Lily will help. And send to my wife when I’m… decent.”
Torbridge hauled him to his feet. “Perhaps you do deserve her after all.”
“No,” Verne said. “No, I don’t. But I shall do my best to keep her as long as I live.”
“Then where’s your damned horse, so we can make sure that is longer than this one night?”
*
Some of the locals spilled out the taproom at the Hart to see the spectacle of the grand ladies and their servants who had arrived on horseback at such an unlikely time of the night. Then Villin pushed his way through them, ordering them in no uncertain terms to go back inside or go home.
“My lady,” he greeted Cecily with a bow. “Please, come into the parlor and tell me how I may serve you.”
Daniel and James walked in first, despite the innkeeper’s filthy looks, presumably looking for any threats.
“Is my husband here?” Cecily asked Villin in low tones.
“No, my lady.” He glanced wryly at Daniel and James who had thrown open the parlor door and were peering inside. “Feel free to light the candles,” he called to them before returning his attention to Cecily. “As you see, the parlor is empty.”
Cecily stalked inside and waited for him to follow. Isabelle and Shilton stood on either side of her. Daniel entered with Villin and closed the door.
“No games, Mr. Villin,” Cecily commanded, summoning the spirits of all her ducal ancestors to give her the imperiousness she needed. “My husband’s life is in danger and we need to find him.”
Villin’s eyes widened. “Dear God!” he exclaimed, reading the truth, perhaps, in her desperate eyes. “I don’t know where he went. He was here but left about an hour ago now. I presumed he had gone home.”
“Via the marshes?” Cecily asked.
“He always goes that way so far as I know, but I did not see him.”
“Neither did we,” Daniel put in. “And we came that way. Who did he speak to?”
“Only the captain.”
“Cromarty?” asked Daniel, straightening and reaching for the door. “Is he in the taproom?”
“No, he left not half an hour after his lordship.” Villin scowled. “We’ll get up a search party, search all the roads but the path to Finmarsh—”
“Dad!” called a female voice from outside the parlor. “Dad, you need to come at once!”
Villin muttered something under his breath, but the parlor door flew open before he could reach it. Lily Villin’s gaze sought her father’s, widening when she saw Cecily.
“Oh, thank God,” Lily said shakily. “Come with me, my lady.”
But Cecily was already out of the parlor, flying across the hall to the stairs where Lord Torbridge, of all unlikely people, was supporting a semi-lolling figure who looked alarmingly like her husband.
James and George following behind them, fell back to let Cecily through, and then she reached for him in terrible fear.
“Patrick,” she whispered brokenly. “Oh, Patrick…”
His head jerked up and he smiled, though his lips, his whole face, were livid. “Cecily, my sweet,” he said with surprising strength. “What are you doing here? Were you looking out of your window again?”
Her laugh came out as a sob as he kissed her lips, and then his head lolled against her shoulder as he lost consciousness completely.
Chapter Nineteen
Verne remained unconscious only long enough for them to get him to a bedchamber and into bed with all his clothes removed except for his drawers.
“We need a surgeon, or a physician,” Isabelle said from the doorway, white-faced.
“One is sent for already,” Lord Torbridge said. “My lady, excuse me. Madame de Renarde, might I have a word?”
Cecily, more concerned that Verne’s eyelids were fluttering open, was vaguely aware that Isabelle stared at Torbridge with a sort of tragic resignation.
“Is it my husband?” Isabelle asked. “Is he dead?”
“I’m afraid he is,” Torbridge said.
“Did he shoot Verne?” Isabelle asked.
“I’m afraid he did.”
“But Verne killed him?” Isabelle asked.
“The honors are divided there,” Verne said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Izzy.”
“It’s best,” Isabelle got out. “I think it’s best.” She turned blindly away and left the room.
Cecily, examining the wound beneath Verne’s bloody bandages, swallowed hard. “How bad is
it?”
“A scratch,” Verne said, smiling at her.
“It will need the ball taken out,” Torbridge said briskly. “I managed to slow the bleeding, so with care and luck and a decent physician, I daresay he will survive.”
Lily came in and placed a glass of water in Cecily’s hands. She helped Verne to take a drink and eased him back onto the pillows.
“Come, everyone,” Lily ordered. “Her ladyship will sit with his lordship until the doctor comes. He doesn’t need us all gawping at him.”
“Quite right,” Torbridge murmured, preparing to obey.
“Wait,” Cecily called after him. “I don’t understand. How did you even come into this?”
“He was just passing,” Verne said, taking her hand. “Fortunately.”
Torbridge cast him a faint smile and bowed to Cecily with incomparable grace. “My lady.”
With the room cleared, it was so silent that at first Cecily did not notice Shilton, perched on the edge of the chair in the corner. Then the maid stood up and walked toward the bed looking unusually decisive.
“Shilton, go with the others, please,” Cecily ordered, for she wanted, needed to say at least one thing to her husband in private.
“I will, my lady,” Shilton assured her, “but there’s something you both need to know first. I wasn’t going to tell, for I’d given her ladyship—the late Lady Verne—my loyalty and I always felt she was watching over me. Maybe that was my madness, I don’t know, but I see more clearly these days, and you are my lady now.”
Touched, in spite of everything, Cecily inclined her head. “Thank you, Shilton.”
“And he is my lord and has been these five years I kept my silence. Forgive me.”
Verne frowned. “Silence about what?”
“About the fire,” Shilton said. “I know you took the blame of it, to take it away from his late lordship, and I thought—I assumed—you’d want to do it for her late ladyship, too.”
Verne shifted, his fingers tightening on Cecily’s. “We don’t need to talk about this now—”
The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3) Page 43
