Valmont's lips curled in disgust. "I fear I underestimated you, my pet. There is too much of your uncle in you."
"I'm glad of it! P-proud. Uncle Griff, I'm s-so sorry I dragged you into this... and the—the women. I didn't know... I never—"
"The problem I am now faced with is how to drag your esteemed uncle out of it. How to dispose of him, and his harlot. I fear four corpses at one time may prove a trifle messy. Perhaps if I staged it as a family quarrel..."
"You'll never get away with this," Beau warned. "Jack told us about your atrocities. He knows—"
Valmont laughed. "And who will believe a thieving rogue like Ramsey over the word of the marquess of Valmont? The accusations would be ludicrous, milady, for I"—thin lips curled back from pointed teeth—"I am such a civilized fellow."
"You're an animal, Valmont, a cowardly swine." Griff took a step toward the marquess.
"I would not even breathe if I were you, Stone," Alistair said softly. "It would be far simpler for me merely to pull the trigger and kill you now. And yet... do you recall that time you interrupted my revels in the inn? That lovely morsel of a woman I was about to sample?"
"You were slashing her with a riding crop." Scorn dripped from Griffin's voice.
"And you took exception to my little game. Perhaps you will enjoy it more if you lie bound, helpless, like your nephew, watching while I amuse myself, not only with your nephew, but also with your woman."
Beau could feel Griffin's rage pulsing deep, could feel his helplessness, his resolve. "I'll send you to the devil before—"
"Do you not know by now, Stone? I am the devil. The dark side of your soul. Aye, of every man's soul. Your brother knew it. And this puling nephew of yours. Charles here thought this was a grand adventure, did you not, Charles, my own? Thought it a lark to plumb the depths of your own debauchery. It was just that in the end, when I forced you to see the hideousness deep inside yourself, you cowered from it. Cowered. But I glory in the demons that lurk within me. Glory in wrenching them from other men's souls."
Beau averted her eyes from the pale face, trying to hold back her rising panic. But her heart thudded with renewed hope as her gaze snagged upon something gleaming amidst the ropes they had torn off Molly, something half hidden beneath the veils of white still draped over the makeshift altar. The pistol. If she could reach the it now...
She touched Molly's icy hand, heard her sharp intake of breath and she knew that the timid girl had also glimpsed the weapon.
Beau looked to Alistair again, felt that diabolical gaze fix upon her.
"You." The marquess jerked his head toward her. "It is time for our little fete to begin. But first we shall want to make certain that the other spectator of our... er... sporting is comfortably established."
"Like hell, you bastard," Griff snarled, and Beau could sense that he was tensing, knew he was preparing to fling himself at Valmont, to take the bullet before surrendering the ones he loved to the evil man's clutches. She knew Griff would do so, trusting her to reach the sword and do something.
But before Griff could move she stepped between him and Alistair, laying one hand on Griff’s chest. Her eyes clung to his for an instant. "Nay, Griffin, don't. He'll kill you," she said aloud, mouthing the word "pistol" as she prayed he would see through his own blind rage and panic, prayed he would sense in her this single frail hope.
"Such a docile little doxy you've chosen, Stone," Valmont taunted. "But then they all are before... before they know what I will do to them. I wonder if she'll whimper when she lies beneath my knife, offering herself up for you."
Griffin lunged, but Beau steeled her whole weight against him, blocking him with her body. "Nay!" she hissed. "The ropes... by the ropes." She felt him stiffen, her meaning suddenly clear. And in that frozen instant those despair-filled eyes shone with the fiercest of hope.
"The ropes, girl," Alistair's voice cut in. "Get them and truss his lordship up so that he can watch."
Every muscle in Beau's body thrummed with tension as she forced herself to affect a shudder. She looked at the gloating marquess with what she hoped were fright-filled eyes. He licked lips in anticipation, and she lowered her chin, slinking toward the coils of rope, affecting abject terror.
She would have one shot, one chance. For if Valmont suspected what she was doing, if he saw her and was able to fire his own weapon, Griffin would die. Yet Alistair's eyes followed her every move, hungering for her pain.
"M-my lord marquess." It was Molly's voice, Beau realized, stunned, as she saw her friend walking toward him like some martyred angel. "It is—it is whispered in the streets that you ply these tortures because—because you are in truth no man, not able to—to take a woman save with your knife."
Rage flashed into Alistair's eyes. The hand that held his weapon quivered as it shifted to point at Molly's breast. "You'll regret that, you crawling whore, regret—"
With a cry Beau grabbed the butt of the pistol and wheeled. Her shot shattered the night a stomach-wrenching heartbeat after Valmont's weapon spat lead. At that same heart-stopping moment Charles hurled himself toward the fear-frozen Molly with astonishing strength.
There was a sickening gasp, the thud of lead striking flesh.
Beau cried out a denial as Charles and Molly crashed to the ground, unmoving, even as Griffin dived for his sword. In one fluid movement he was on his feet, spinning toward Valmont.
But Griff would never feel the primal joy of driving his blade into the body of the man who had murdered his brother, the man who had threatened the woman he loved. For the marquess lay crumpled upon the stone floor an arm's length from Charles, felled by the legendary accuracy of the Devil's Flame. A gaping hole pierced his embroidered waistcoat, his eyes glazing as the lord of Gethsemane's dark revels plunged into Lucifer's arms.
Griff jammed his sword back into its scabbard. Both he and Beau moved to where Molly and Charles lay in a tangle of ice-pale skin and white robes. The girl was sobbing, hysterical, as she tore the bonds from Charles's wrists. The instant the boy's hands were free he dragged her into his arms, and Molly clung to the embroidered cassock while Charles held her against his breast. Brown curls rested upon gold as the boy choked out words of comfort.
Beau started toward them, but Griffin's hand closed about hers. "They've been through even more than we, God help them," he whispered in a voice tinged with love and regret. Beau leaned against his hard-muscled warmth, her mind still churning with images of what might have been if Charles Stone had not been so brave.
"It's over now," Charles crooned, swaying Molly back and forth in his arms. "It's over."
"No," Molly sobbed, clinging to the boy as if he were her only haven in a world gone mad. "It is not over yet. Jack. Mr. Ramsey. He is to die."
Beau felt Griff pull away from her, and he went to kneel beside the trembling girl. He cupped her chin, brushing back the tangle of gold from her face.
"Gentleman Jack Ramsey will not hang, Molly," he said, his eyes burning. "Not if I must storm Newgate Prison myself."
Chapter 22
The corridors of Darkling Moor were cloaked in almost funereal silence but this day there would be no such rites of grieving at the estate. There would be none of the pomp and solemn splendor that accompanied a duke's passing.
Charles Stone, tenth duke of Ravensmoor, was alive.
Alive because Isabeau DeBurgh had defied the very devil. And the man she loved.
Griffin jammed his hands deep in the pockets of his frock coat as he paced down the hushed corridors. Beau had shown unbelievable courage.
She had swept into Darkling Moor with Molly and the wounded Charles in tow, the horror of what she'd seen still etched plainly in her face. Yet she had managed the crisis like a noblewoman or a warrior queen. She had mustered, the servants from their beds and scattered them in every direction on countless errands.
She had been magnificent, formidable, exuding an aura of capability and a confidence that had inspired even the most
reluctant serving maid to race to do her bidding.
Griffin had watched, stunned, with a keen, bittersweet kind of pleasure. Although she wore his breeches cinched about her waist and a flowing white shirt that hid every hint of feminine curves, she had seemed the grandest of ladies.
He had seen her garbed in the finest satins and in laces a princess would envy. But only last night, when she had stood with her hair loose down her back and her hands stained from staunching the flow of Charles's blood, did he truly understand what a miracle Isabeau De Burgh was. The best, the brightest of both the aristocracy and the resourceful, strong-willed commoner who had been her father.
Since the day she'd tried to rob him, pistols blazing, he'd attempted to mold her into something more acceptable, more sedate, something as ordinary as a vapid court beauty.
And yet she had already been strong and brave and beautiful, and her fierce code of honor was far more honest than any from the stiff-necked ruling class.
He'd been wasting his time. Instead, of trying to change her into some benighted, preconceived image he'd had of what a woman should be he should have been fighting like the blazes to make himself worthy of her.
Griffin’s mouth hardened with resolve, his eyes darkening. He didn't deserve her love. But he'd vowed to try, God curse it, with everything inside him. To try to make himself worthy to be her husband.
Or perish in the attempt, a voice mocked inside him.
Griffin grimaced, remembering the hellish night. He'd been so busy trying to save Jack Ramsey from the hangman's noose, he hadn't gone to Beau. But he had thought about her, hungered for her, the whole time he had been battling to secure Jack Ramsey's freedom. He'd ended up buying the man as an indentured servant for his property at Marrislea. It had taken all the might of the Stone family and a fortune that would have made a king blanch to free the notorious rogue, but Griffin had paid the sum willingly, knowing it would put some measure of trust back in Isabeau's wild-sweet eyes.
As for Ramsey, it had been as if the man could see past his torment into Griffin's own. There had been no recriminations, no righteous wrath from the bold highwayman. Jack had only said, "I lost someone once. It is hard to see through grief's flames."
They had ridden in companionable silence until Griffin had settled Ramsey in the Ravensmoor hunting box. There were plenty of servants there, always awaiting the duke's pleasure. Griffin had made certain they were alert, their pistols loaded and ready. Even though Griffin had been able to convince the bleary-eyed judge he'd roused from his mistress's bed that Ramsey was innocent, the country folk still believed Jack to be a depraved murderer. Until Jack Ramsey was safely out of England, he was in danger.
At most it would take a few days to arrange his passage to Marrislea. And Griffin had already set his staff working on the myriad of details involved in an ocean crossing.
The following day he had returned to Darkling Moor exhausted. But his heart had longed for Beau, his hands burning with the need to bury themselves in her hair, to skim hungrily over her soft white flesh. During the endless time that he had dashed about trying to right the disaster he'd caused he had thought of her, dreamed of her. He had wanted to assure himself that she was safe, that she was his. He'd wanted them to celebrate life in the most primitive of rituals.
He had been halfway down the corridor to her bedroom when he had heard the soft tread of a sly-faced serving wench's footsteps. And as he'd met the chit's eyes he had seen the tiniest of smirks clinging about her lips. He had stopped. Awareness had struck him like a poleax to his chest.
Were the other nights he'd spent in Beau's arms being bandied about in kitchen gossip, accompanied by lascivious sniggers and speculations?
Griff had gritted his teeth, the voice of his conscience railing inside him so loudly it frayed at his nerves. A gentleman does not charge into the chamber of his betrothed, bedding her with wild abandon when any servant might see or hear the indiscretion and spread it through half the kitchens in Norfolk before the man in question has had time to fasten up his breeches.
He'd wanted to tell his newfound sense of propriety to go straight to the devil. His resurgent scruples were more chafing than any penitent's sackcloth and ashes. But he'd steeled himself. Grimly he marched back to his own cold, empty bed. He had spent the night cursing every servant who had ever indulged in gossip. But even that hadn't eased the fierce hunger gnawing inside him. He had lain beneath the coverlets, watching night bleed into dawn, his whole body rigid with need.
When he could no longer bear it he'd climbed out of bed and thrown on his most somber garb, resolved to bury his passions in William's forbidding study. Surely even the fiercest of sensual desires would dampen once he lost himself in the maze of ledgers and numbers and countless agricultural disasters to be found within those walls.
One last time he would attempt to gather the books into some semblance of order so the task would be less daunting when Charles had recovered from his wound and was ready to take an interest in his holdings.
Griffin strode down the stairway, gratitude flooding through him.
Charles had escaped death's jaws with only a flesh wound to his left arm. He'd have a token scar, the surgeon had claimed—just enough of a mark to impress his lights o' love with tales of his bravery. But Charles would live to be an old man now, please God. And an infinitely wiser one.
Far wiser than the wastrel rakehell Lord Griffin, who had returned to England only to create a worse muddle than the one he'd left so many years before.
Griffin sighed, feeling the crushing weight of what might have happened in the ruins of Gethsemane Abbey. But he brushed it away, his jaw tightening. For some reason God, or the fates, or sweet Lady Fortune had spared him. He wouldn't waste more time, more energy flagellating himself with remorse. He'd make amends, and he'd be grateful, damned grateful, for this new chance.
Griffin paused at the base of the stairs, running his fingers lightly over the carvings. Even though he'd managed to wrench Charles free from Valmont, the ruin of Ravensmoor's estates still remained, and the restoration of its once vast fortunes would be the most daunting task of all.
Except for the prospect of facing Isabeau again and not being able to touch her, kiss her, drive himself deep inside her until she was, in truth, his wife.
Battling to crush the wild emotions, he paced to the heavy door and sucked in a deep breath, already dreading the feel of the room's dim interior closing around him. After a moment he pushed open the door.
He froze, stunned, his gritty eyes assaulted by the light of a dozen candles and the sight of a pale-faced figure garbed in a sedate blue frock coat sitting behind the desk. Dark brown curls tumbled about Charles's face, and his eyes were narrowed as he studied the massive ledger in his hands.
He was so preoccupied that he didn't even notice the door had opened. He merely chewed at the end of a quill and then scribbled some notes on a sheaf of vellum at his side.
For a moment Griffin was tempted to scold Charles and hustle him back to the sickbed where he belonged. But there was something in Charles's face that stopped him. A solemnity, an aura of resolve, as if the boy had aged a dozen years in the night he'd spent at Gethsemane Abbey.
Griff was surprised to find himself stepping back from the door, raising his hand to rap on it softly. He had to knock again before Charles looked up, shaking his head as if to clear it.
"Uncle Griffin." Charles smiled in welcome. "Come in, come in. I was just trying to wade through this muddle about the Tewkesbury estate. There has been a bit of a drought there, I fear, and they are having some difficulty with their crops."
Griffin himself had spent two days attempting to find a solution to the tenant's dilema, but he only gave Charles an encouraging nod. "It is a puzzlement, that's for certain."
"I've drafted a note to Mr. Howell. I was thinking that we should go there, perhaps, to see what can be done."
Griff felt a fist tighten in his chest, pride and renewed hope welling withi
n him. "I think that would be very wise, your grace."
The boy flushed. "No, I'm not wise in the least. But I'm going to try to be. Do the best I can. I know I can never fill my father's place. But he loved these lands, Uncle Griff. Almost"—the boy looked away—"almost as much as he loved me."
"He loved you very much, Charles."
"I know. I did precious little to earn his love when he was alive. But I am going to do my best to deserve it now. I'm going to find a way to reverse all the damage I've done to Darkling Moor. I'm going to make it a fitting legacy to my father."
Griffin heard the echoes of his own resolve in the youth's voice, and he felt a kinship of spirit with his nephew. The same kinship he'd felt the day he'd given a little boy a ring in a flower-starred meadow and shared his pain of loneliness and loss. Slowly Griff approached Charles, wishing he could pull the young man into his arms, comfort him, reassure him as he had that long-ago day. Instead Griffin laid a hand on Charles's shoulder.
"You'll make a fine duke. One to be proud of. I'm sure, beneath it all, your father knew."
"Do you think so, Uncle Griffin?" There was just enough childish hope in Charles's voice to wrench at Griffin's heart.
But before he could speak the study door slammed open, startling them both. They looked up, and Griffin stared into the fury-glazed features of Judith Stone.
"You!" She pointed a skeletal finger at Griffin, hate blazing in her eyes. "I might have known you would be in this room, dragging that poor boy from his sickbed when he was hovering at death's door!"
"Grandmama. A pleasant morning to you," Griffin attempted with feigned carelessness.
"Look at that child, you scoundrel! He's white as a ghost! And it is a miracle he's not in his grave after what you put him through."
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