Wayward One

by Lorelie Brown

  “Yes, sir.” With a tip of his hat, Barnaby gathered three of the men and stepped off.

  “Barnaby,” Fletcher called. The man stopped immediately. “Break bones if you have to, but don’t kill them. Not ’til I’ve had a chance to speak to them, at least.”

  A wicked grin cut through Barnaby’s bulbous features. “Yessir.” He strode off with even more pep in his step. Barnaby’s preference for breaking shinbones was a bit distasteful, but he was a good man to have fighting on your side.

  “All right,” Fletcher said to the contingent he’d been left with. “Let’s on up.”

  St. Johns shook with fear as Micky yanked him toward the front door. “Can’t I stay out? I’ve led you here. Jigger Jack’ll kill me if he knows I sold him out.”

  Fletcher grinned. “And I’ll kill you slowly if I find out you lied. So you best come along and make sure I don’t knock on the wrong door.”

  St. Johns went pale, but he followed Fletcher up the precarious stairs without further complaint. The boards were rickety and creaked under the weight of a contingency of hefty men. Without enough support, the stairs swayed in a way that set Fletcher’s guts to churning.

  Or it would if he hadn’t been so bloody, raging mad. The fury had got stronger every day he’d roamed around his big house.

  It was easier to be mad than to miss the quiet hum of activity and productivity Sera carried around with her. She motivated everyone around her to be better. Why, just this morning, his kippers had been cold, hard lumps, as if the cook hadn’t bothered to try.

  “This one,” St. Johns squeaked on the third floor.

  They turned down a hallway that was so scanty most of them couldn’t walk two abreast. The walls were smeared with distasteful smudges, and at their bases were drift piles of random rubbish and detritus.

  Finally St. Johns pointed at a door. A finger-width crack ran from the top to waist-high, and the doorjamb was split through, as if someone had previously tried to mount an assault on the place. “Here’s it,” said the sailor.

  Good. It would only make it easier to bust down.

  With a couple silent gestures, he arranged his men on each side of the door. Micky took St. Johns a few paces away, then clapped a hand over the sailor’s mouth to keep him from yelling a warning.

  Fletcher leaned back and slammed the flat of his boot into the door, right next to the tarnished knob. It rent with a loud squeal, the jamb giving up any last attempt at holding true.

  They rushed in like a dark wave.

  A single man was in the room, trying to scramble off the far side of the bed. Dressed in only a pair of breeches, he was tangled in brown-stained sheets. He writhed over the edge, but then his feet tangled up and he slammed into the floor.

  Jesus. Could Fletcher not catch a break? It was a little beyond him to kick a man when he was down.

  He took a small bit of pleasure from twisting the man’s wrist to a near breaking point as he jerked him to his feet.

  “This him?” Fletcher spat.

  St. Johns had been marched to the doorway by Micky. He nodded frantically, then tried to back away, but the way was well and good blocked. No one would be going anywhere until Fletcher sorted it all out.

  “Who’s you?” the man said. He had a hard hooked nose that had blown red with overindulgence in drink. Despite that, his dark blue eyes were bright and intelligent, set in a round face.

  Fletcher wrenched his wrist a little higher. “I’m the one you tried to attack two months ago.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

  One crack across the back of the blighter’s knees sent him sprawling across the floor. “No? Your friend St. Johns here says otherwise.”

  The man who was presumably Jigger Jack struggled to his hands and knees. Lank hair hung in front of his face as he lifted his head, but he shot St. Johns a nasty look anyway. “I see no friends of mine here,” he snarled.

  Fletcher indulged in another blow, this one to the buttocks. Jack went sprawling again. “I don’t care. I wish to know why you attacked me.”

  Jigger Jack pushed up. Fletcher had to hand it to him, he was a determined sot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Fletcher kicked him down, reveling in a base surge of enjoyment. He carefully ground his boot across the back of the man’s neck. “I do believe you might want to reconsider lying to me. I don’t much appreciate liars.”

  Jack’s face flushed so red it was almost purple. “You’re a right rich toff,” he choked out. “Looked like you’d be an easy mark.”

  Fletcher leaned his weight into the man’s neck. Counted—very slowly—to twenty. “Reconsider.”

  Jigger Jack sucked in deep breaths, then coughed out. Spittle covered his fleshy lips. His fingernails scrabbled at the dirty floor. “You won’t like it.”

  Fletcher stomped again, this time a hard and quick push. “Think I like this to begin with? It fairly angers me in general.”

  “Was hired to it.”

  He slid the sword end free of his cane in an intentional hiss. The room was quiet despite having a half-dozen big men piled in it, and the soft purr of the sword sounded as loud as trumpets. They all watched impassively except for St. Johns, who looked more terrified than anything.

  “I already know that, you shit,” Fletcher said. He lowered the sword before Jack’s eyes and rested the tip on the wooden floor. “Tell me who hired you.”

  “Rick Raverst.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As Lady Honoria’s carriage rumbled to a stop before Fletcher’s home, Sera thought she ought to be nervous. Worried about her reception perhaps. After all, she’d left in an epic flounce. Too afraid of her own emotions, she’d scorned Fletcher’s declaration of his.

  She wasn’t nervous; she was giddy. A silly smile kept creeping over her and tweaking her cheeks. Her hands fluttered, more out of an excess of energy than anything else. Sitting quietly in the carriage had been beyond her. Her heels bounced in an absolute denial of the serene decorum required of women. She couldn’t help it. She floated on the buoyancy of her emotions.

  Fletcher wouldn’t turn her away.

  She knew it all the way down to her soul.

  Certainly there would be things to work through. She’d have to apologize first off. Somewhere along the line she’d have to explain to Fletcher that when he called her perfect or tried to place her upon a pedestal, it did nothing but make her more nervous of failure.

  She’d have to demonstrate that she didn’t want to keep their affection constrained within the dark of her bedroom.

  Fletcher was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be treated like a shameful secret even if the depths of her love for him frightened her. Life was too short for behavior like that.

  The door of the carriage opened and the step folded down. John the footman waited to assist her. She beamed at him. “Hello, John,” she fairly chirruped.

  “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “May I say it’s right fair to have you back.”

  “Oh pish.” Sera waved him off. “I wasn’t gone too long.”

  She coughed. Apparently she was still putting up facades. On the other hand, perhaps one didn’t owe one’s servants full access to one’s emotions.

  The front door stood open, and Hareton bowed in greeting. “Ma’am.”

  She handed over her cloak. “Is the master at home?”

  He shook his head as he promptly passed her outer garments to another footman to be spirited away. She was glad to see the household hadn’t fallen apart in her absence. Though it sent a little reminder that she wasn’t absolutely irreplaceable, she’d hate the thought that Fletcher had been living in disorder after her departure.

  “No, ma’am,” Hareton said. “He’s out on business.”

  She consulted the tiny gold watch that hung from her waist fob. “A bit early for him, isn’t it?” she mused to herself, though she didn’t expect a response.

  Hareton remained carefully implacab
le. “As you say, ma’am.”

  She couldn’t hold back her grin. “Then I suppose I’ll have to wait on him. Please see to my cases. They’re in the boot of the carriage.”

  The hallway was still conspicuously empty. She’d have to replace the artwork soon. Perhaps if she gave him the right enticement, Fletcher would be willing to voice an opinion.

  As for where to wait on him…she believed his study would do nicely. It was where he first stopped after any matters of business, to empty his pockets and make notes. Fletcher had a sharp mind that he liked organizing with precise notations and records.

  Though if she were wicked, she might be able to get him to forget all ideas of work immediately upon his return.

  Her head filled with visions of what could be done on the wide surface of his desk with his delectable mouth, she opened the door to his study.

  And drew up short. “Hello, Mr. Raverst.”

  Rick Raverst sat in the chair behind the desk, but he wasn’t doing any work. His feet were kicked up on the desk and his hands were curled around a glass of brandy.

  Something about the scene was faintly uncomfortable. That he should presume to take on Fletcher’s position perhaps. He looked entirely too at home in a seat that ought to be Fletcher’s alone.

  “Mrs. Thomas,” he drawled with a biting sarcasm to the name. He dropped his feet to a more proper position upon the floor as he set down the glass of brandy. “Have you returned to bestow your blessings upon us?”

  She shifted a step to the side. All the nervousness that had been absent at the idea of confronting Fletcher came roaring through her. Her blood thumped in her ears and her stomach tossed. Mr. Raverst had been nearly absent from the surrounds after her wedding to Fletcher, but she’d rather assumed the reason had been to give privacy to a new marriage.

  “I have returned, yes,” she allowed, choosing to ignore the rest of his insinuations.

  “How thankful Fletcher will be,” he said. But if anything, he looked beyond angry. His blue eyes snapped with it.

  “I hope so.” She stepped backwards toward the doorway. “If you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. If you see Mr. Thomas before I, please tell him I’m upstairs.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” He was up in a flash. He snatched her by the arm before the panic had a chance to turn her knees to jelly. She’d made it out into the hallway, but no one was in sight. His hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream.

  He wrenched her back against his chest. Her feet scrabbled for purchase on the thick carpet. They went backwards into the study.

  Fresh fear washed over Sera. She didn’t understand. Her fingers clawed into his hand. Her gloves dulled any bite of her nails.

  “You careless, stupid bitch,” he snarled. “I thought I was done with you. But no, you had to come back.”

  Somehow being unable to see his face made it worse. His forearm ground into her collarbones with tremendous force that sent pain lancing across her chest.

  She shook her head, but his hand over her mouth didn’t leave her much leeway.

  He shoved her away. She stumbled until she caught herself on the back of a chair. It clattered into the side table, knocking over a bell jar and the fern within.

  Without thinking, she licked her lips. He’d left a residue of alcohol and sweat on her mouth. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her face as she turned.

  She tried desperately to keep control of herself. There was no real way of knowing when Fletcher would be back. He kept such irregular hours.

  “Sit,” Rick growled, shoving her toward the chair.

  She obeyed as slowly as she could. Turning, she saw a gleaming silver pistol in his hand. The barrel was a gaping maw of death pointed straight at her.

  He reached behind himself and flicked the key on the door, then pocketed it. She gulped. A tinny sound whined in her ears. Her lungs were doing their best to scrabble out of her corset, and her breathing had gone rapid and shallow.

  Her head swam.

  She tried to calm herself. If Fletcher had any idea of her situation, he’d rescue her. She had not the slightest doubt. But he hadn’t been expecting her. She’d elected not to send a note, hoping that the element of surprise might help soften him to her apologies.

  Apologies she might never get the chance to give.

  How deucedly ironic to realize life was too short, only to receive such a clear demonstration.

  Rick circled to lean against Fletcher’s desk. He picked up the glass of brandy with one hand, but the evil pistol barrel never wavered from its aim at her midsection.

  He sipped as he stared at her.

  He’d never get her out of the house. She comforted herself that even if the hallway had been, luckily for him, empty of witnesses, the odds that the rest of the building would remain so were slim to none. She pressed her hands over her stomach, feeling the silent reassurance of her corset keeping her insides aligned. Otherwise she might twist into a tumbled mess.

  The moment strung out long and heavy. Still he stared at her.

  Finally she could keep her tongue no longer. “Why are you doing this?”

  He cocked his head with a contemplative air. “Do you know how often you’ve thwarted me, simply by existing?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve done no such thing.”

  “You have.” He took another deep swig of the brandy then set down the emptied glass.

  “I once thought you such a nice man.” A surprisingly wistful pang settled her nerves momentarily. “It was you who delivered money to Mama at the end. We would have been evicted the next day if it weren’t for you.”

  He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Sweet Christ,” he muttered. “This was not my best planned moment.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He raked his fingers through his sandy-blond hair so that it stood on end and gave him the air of the madman he seemed to be devolving into.

  “Listen, you.” He waved the pistol at her. She flinched back in her seat, as if that would save her from the blast if he tried to shoot. “Just listen to you go on. You don’t even know what you’re saying, do you?”

  She swallowed her fear down. “To be perfectly honest, I’m trying to remind you of a time when you were a better man. To remind you it’s not too late.”

  “I was not a nice man that day,” he snorted with disgust.

  “You were,” she insisted. “You gave Mama an advance on the money she would earn from going back to Mr. Thomas. It’s something he’d have never done.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I was giving her an advance on monies due from me. For helping me to kill that bastard.”

  She wouldn’t have thought it possible for her blood to have run colder, but it did. Everything inside her froze. “Pardon?”

  He heaved a sigh, as if he were the wounded party in this situation for having to deal with her lack of understanding. “Mac wouldn’t hire her back, but he’d been willing enough to take a round or two of slap and tickle. So I paid your ma to get him smoked but good on some opium, then let me into the room. But the stupid bitch wouldn’t go through with it.”

  “So you killed them both,” she whispered. How cruelly perfect.

  He shrugged. “I thought Fletcher might be easier to run around. But it turns out the bastard has quite the noble streak. Even at that age he had a surprising sack of ballocks on him.”

  Her poor mama. Not only had she never got the love story she wanted, she’d been murdered for keeping hold of the scraps of her conscience.

  Sera pushed away the realization. She had to keep her wits about her. “You do realize you’ll never get me out of this house.”

  A wrinkle pulled his brows together as he thought. “I’m not sure I need to.”

  “I don’t understand.” Despite that, she was terrified. There was something about the cold way he said it that struck fear through her.

  “That’s fine.” He pushed up from the desk and moved to the door. “You don’t have to u
nderstand. Only I do. Now mind, I’m going to unlock this door. Can’t have the setup I need if Fletcher breaks it down. Remember, I’ve still got this gun on you. Scream or try to run and I’ll shoot you dead before anyone can run to your rescue. Then I’ll pick them off one by one until I’m out of rounds.”

  “You’d hang.”

  He shrugged again. “That’s fine too. At this point I am so bloody angry at your willing stupidity that I don’t much care.”

  The temptation to scream when he unlocked the door was an ache behind her teeth. She kept them clenched against the threatening sound. In her heavy skirts and corset, she wasn’t fast enough to outrun a man. She had no doubt he’d follow through with his threat. The death of whomever came through the door would be on her head.

  No matter how dead that head might be.

  The minutes slid by like warm marzipan, ticked out by the clock on the mantle. A quarter of the hour, then a half. Three quarters naturally was followed by a full hour.

  Despite the long stretch of time, neither of them relaxed. Sera’s spine pressed back against the chair until her muscles trembled with strain.

  Rick’s only sign of weariness was transferring the gun from one hand to the other and wiping his free hand down the side of his pants. He left a dark shadow of sweat behind.

  A quiet footfall sounded in the hallway. Sera sat up straight. Her hands grappled with the arms of the chair. She’d scored tiny half-moon indentations in the wood over the hour they’d waited.

  Rick slid behind the door, the better to conceal himself when it opened.

  Sera bit her lip. He waggled a finger at her.

  The risk was so great. If the footsteps were only a servant, screaming would get her killed. If it were Fletcher, she might gain him a split second of warning—and still get herself killed.

  She had too much to live for.

  The door swung open. She saw a hand and part of an arm, but she’d know his strong wrists anywhere. “Fletcher,” she screamed. “Duck!”

  He obeyed at the same instant a shot rang out. The gun swung back toward her, filling her vision. Fletcher swept a cane low across the ground, around the door. The weight slammed into Rick’s ankles. He fell to his knees.