“Thank you for bringing it to us.”
Caroline blinked. “I owe you—well, quite a bit. You threw a duel for me, for God’s sake. You were going to let my blackhearted brother shoot you, just so I would not have to suffer his loss. You saved him from an exploding ship. This”—she nodded at the jewel—“is the least I can do. So let me do it.”
He should have known she would try something like this, do something that would, in her mind, settle her debt to him.
But there was no debt to be settled. He did not throw the duel out of duty, or even decency. Throwing it had felt as ordinary, as obviously simple, as smiling back at a laughing baby. Henry had done it, and he would do it again. For Caroline. Because it meant keeping her safe, and happy.
Forty
The Marquess of Woodstock’s Residence
Berkeley Square, Mayfair
Henry lifted the heavy brass knocker, allowing it to fall with a ringing thud on the door. Straightening, he moved his hand to cover the telltale bulge in his waistcoat pocket.
The French Blue. It jumped against his palm in time to his hammering pulse; though it was hardly bigger than his thumb, the diamond felt heavy in his pocket, an unwelcome, ominous weight.
At last. It was time to put an end to this bloody business.
Henry prayed all went to plan; that this plot of Caroline’s worked, that they would leave with their lives intact, and the diamond in hand. Even if his audience with Woodstock went badly, it comforted Henry to know he could use the jewel as a bargaining chip of last resort. If the marquess threatened Caroline’s life, or made a move Henry did not anticipate, he could always offer up the diamond; even Woodstock, in all his strange-smelling evilness, would be entranced by a fifty-carat gem. Henry would never have agreed to Caroline’s plot if he did not have the gem as insurance against disaster.
The front door, lacquered a sufficiently sinister shade of black, swung open, and an officious butler saw him up the stairs to a drawing room of sorts at the back of the house. The chamber was more bordello than parlor, with walls and floors and furniture done in gleaming shades of black, brass, and gray. It was dark; the fire was a smoldering pile of embers, and no lamps or candles were lit.
After ensuring Henry was not armed—the butler was an annoyingly thorough fellow—he turned and made for the door.
“Wait here.” He sniffed over his shoulder. “His lordship shall be down presently.”
Standing very still, Henry glanced at the window on the far end of the room. Heavy velvet drapes hung on either side of the window; perfect hiding spots for Moon, Henry thought, when he made his move.
He drew a breath through his nose, and willed his heart to be still. His palms were clammy. He was unaccountably nervous. Unaccountably, because he never got nervous; the feeling was as foreign to him as good beer was to the French.
It was because of Caroline—the nervousness. In the past, the fate of nations had been at stake. History. Victory. His life, and those of his best men. But Caroline’s life never hung in the balance.
Now it did. And Henry was scared.
“Ah!” came a deep voice, followed by a clap as hands were brought together, the scrape of skin as they were rubbed against one another with glee. “I am so glad you have finally made your choice, Mr. Lake!”
Henry turned to see Woodstock stride into the room, his boots beating an authoritative tattoo against the bare marble floors.
He was smiling. “Your man, Mr. Moon—what a wily one he is! I was just about to take a stroll to your brother’s house. Lock you and Moon inside and burn it down. What impeccable timing, Mr. Lake, that word should arrive about your decision just as I was walking out the door.”
“I wish to be done with this business,” Henry said. “Done with you.”
Woodstock made his way to an ebony sideboard. “A drink, to mark the occasion?”
Henry cocked a brow. “Occasion?”
“Your defeat, of course. I’ve only been waiting twelve years.”
“No, thank you, I’d rather make the trade so I can leave, get back to work. Your old friend Bonaparte doesn’t wait.”
“Oh, he’ll wait for me.” Woodstock pulled the stopper from a decanter. “I admit I hoped your search for the jewel would prove a failure. I so looked forward to becoming acquainted with your lovely companion, Lady Osbourne. Alas, knowing how England will suffer once I have the French Blue—that is no small consolation.”
Woodstock held out a heavy-bottomed crystal tumbler to Henry. “Cognac, a ’73. A gift from my old friend, as you called him, from his personal cellar.” He tilted this head, confidingly. “I think you’re going to like it.”
In a single, swift motion, Henry reached out and slapped the glass from Woodstock’s hand. It crashed to the floor, shards of glass exploding from the point of contact across the room.
Woodstock’s smile didn’t deepen, exactly; it just curled in on itself with a sinister kind of joy. “Your anger, Mr. Lake, is so satisfying.”
He sipped placidly at his cognac, boots crunching on the broken glass as he stepped toward Henry. “I wish to see my prize now,” he said, voice low. “Show me what I have won.”
Henry glanced at the clock on the mantel. A few minutes before Caroline was to appear; he hoped, fervently, she would arrive without event, safely.
Digging into his pocket, Henry grasped the stone with his fingers and pulled it out into the light. The marquess’s breath caught in his throat as Henry held it up to the warm glow of the chandelier.
The French Blue glittered a thousand shades of blue and red and white, a blot of flashing brilliance that refracted the light in a rainbow of brilliance. Henry’s heart was pounding; it was difficult to hold the diamond still in his fingers, lest Woodstock see how nervous he was, how terrified that they would be found out, their plot foiled.
“How ever did you find it?” Woodstock asked, his eyes never leaving the gem. “I heard something about that Bourbon idiot, and an explosion down at London Docks. Sounds like your sort of trouble, Lake.”
Henry did not answer.
“I’m sure it is a marvelous story.” Woodstock smacked his lips. “Since you will not share it, tell me another. How will you live with yourself, knowing you chose your cock over your country? How did you become so broken, that you would make such a choice?”
Henry bit a hole in his lip to keep from breaking Woodstock’s face. “I did what I had to do,” he ground out.
“Yes, yes of course you did.” The marquess held out his palm. “And I shall do the same. Thank you for coming to see m—”
“Wait!”
They both turned at the cry that sounded at the door; a cry that was followed by the crunch of hurried footsteps across the broken glass. Henry’s heart nearly exploded at the sight of Caroline, breathless, disheveled, her hair and her dress in convincing—and, he thought grimly, voluptuous—disarray; her bonnet hung precariously from one ear.
“Wait!” She dashed across the room, arms flailing above her head. “Wait, Henry, I won’t let you do it.”
The marquess’s rough-edged mouth broke into a smile as he turned away from Henry. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Henry slipped the jewel back into his pocket.
“Why, Caroline, dear,” Woodstock drawled, “what a most welcome surprise!”
“Whan in hell are you doing here?” Henry asked. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve been following you for days,” she panted. “I knew you’d do something stupid sooner or later.”
“But how—?” Henry sputtered. “I would’ve seen you!”
“For one who claims to have lived in the shadows all these years, you’re not nearly as savvy as you believe yourself to be.”
Henry glared at Caroline. Insulting him was decidedly not part of the plan.
Caroline swallowed, turning away to
face Woodstock. “Please, my lord, take me instead. I won’t—I can’t let Henry give you the diamond. There are too many lives at stake—take me, please, take me and let’s be done here.”
Woodstock drew a hand, slowly, down the length of Caroline’s arm. Henry gritted his teeth; he could tell she struggled not to pull away, not to wince at the marquess’s touch.
But Caroline was brave. She was insulting, too, but she was also bold. She would, he knew, play her part well.
As Henry would play his.
“No,” he growled, tearing her away from the marquess. “This is my decision to make, Caroline. You haven’t a clue what you’re saying, the sort of trouble you’d get yourself into. What in hell were you thinking, coming here like this?”
Caroline pulled her elbow from his grasp. “I was thinking of England. I was thinking of you, Henry. Give him the diamond, and all is lost. Your men, the war, our innocence.”
Somewhere, deep inside his terror, laughter stirred. Caroline’s speech was ridiculous, and ridiculously perfect. Our innocence. He would have to tease her about that later, if, that is, they made it out of here alive.
“Poor dear,” the marquess said. “She does have a point, Mr. Lake. Leave her here with me, and you are able to take the jewel to the French. Negotiate for the lives of your men. St. George would thank you for it. So”—he curled a lock of Caroline’s hair around his finger—“would I.”
“I would rather die than leave her with you,” Henry spat. “Take the diamond, Woodstock, and leave us be.”
Caroline tilted her chin in the air. “Henry, I’m staying.”
“No, you’re not. You’re leaving with me, now.”
But even as Henry reached for her, Woodstock already gathered her to him. His eyes flashed with malice as he looked down upon her, fingering her chin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Henry balled his hands into fists. He couldn’t take Woodstock’s touching, his fawning, much longer without doing something stupid. Where the devil was Moon?
“Forget the diamond,” Woodstock said, turning to look at Henry. “I want her. She stays.”
“Take your hands off her,” Henry replied. His voice was hoarse with rage. This time he was not playing his part.
Woodstock turned his gaze to Henry. “But she belongs to me now, doesn’t she? We all win this way. Lady Caroline comes to me, and you—well, you’ve got the French Blue, and whatever victory you think you’ve won for king and country.”
He took Caroline’s gloved hand in his and brought it to his mouth, running his lips across her knuckles. “Patriotism can be so dull. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”
Henry’s pulse counted the passing seconds. Surely five minutes had passed? Moon was supposed to be here, damn it; Henry didn’t know how much longer he could hold back.
“But what of the power the diamond would bring you, the things you could buy with it?” Henry said. “Your rage blinds you.”
“Very good, Mr. Lake, very good!” Woodstock dropped his hand from Caroline’s face, sipped at his cognac. “Of course I wanted whatever—whomever—it was that would kill you to give me.”
He took a step toward Henry. “I wanted to break your spine and your spirit.” Suddenly his voice was low, savage, spittle flying. “I wanted to destroy you by destroying everything you loved. And I have. I have, Mr. Lake. I’ve destroyed you. You think you know hate now. But I’ll destroy her, too, and then you will know what hate really is. It fills you up, and rots you from the inside out. England’s most dedicated agent, rotten. Just like me. Her most dedicated enemy.”
Henry made a great show of rolling his eyes. “Are you done yet? I’ve heard my fill of these sorts of speeches—the villain at last explaining his motives, puffing out his chest at another hero vanquished. I’m vanquished, Woodstock. I’m rotten. You’ve turned me into what you are—a traitor, worth less than a dog. Come, Caroline, let’s be off.”
Again he reached for her; again she pulled away. “Go, Henry,” she said. “Go.”
Woodstock sipped at his cognac, eyes glittering like the cut glass tumbler he held to his lips. He was enjoying this; he did not want his moment of triumph to end.
“Tell me,” he said. “Is the lady as feisty as I think she is? I suppose I shall have to restrain her, for the first few weeks at least.”
Henry’s fingers curled so tightly into his fists he felt the bite of his nails against his palm. He couldn’t stand this much longer; he did not trust himself to hold back. If Moon did not appear, and soon, Henry would kill Woodstock, and in so doing probably end up dead himself.
Lake glanced one last time across the room. He nearly cried out with relief at the appearance of a lithe figure there in the corner; a figure with long, dark hair. The figure turned, silently closing the window behind him before turning back toward the chamber.
Finally. He—she—was here.
He prayed, harder, that neither Caroline nor Moon would not be harmed, playing their parts.
Moon’s feet made no sound as he made his way into the chamber. With his right hand he swiped an engraved silver candlestick from a nearby table; ah, so he would not use his usual dagger. Interesting choice. Henry bit back a cry when Moon caught the edge of the table with his hip; Henry could not see his face—the room grew darker with an approaching afternoon storm—but he could just imagine his grimace. Caroline’s clumsiness was rubbing off on Moon.
Woodstock caught Henry looking; to stop the marquess from looking over his shoulder himself, Henry stepped forward and jabbed his finger into Woodstock’s chest.
“I’ll come for her,” Henry said, doing his best to play the panicked lover. He did not have to try very hard. “And when I do, I’ll kill you. If she doesn’t do it herself.”
Woodstock grinned. “She is feisty, then. Splendid.”
Behind Woodstock, Moon approached, candlestick held fast in hand.
Henry refocused his gaze on Woodstock.
“How dare you describe her as ‘feisty,’” Henry said, knowing as he said it that it was a poor excuse for a rejoinder. He was too nervous to be witty. “Caroline is a lady, the widow of an earl!”
“Yes,” Woodstock purred. “And this lady—she is mine.”
Henry blinked back the rage that dimmed the edges of his vision. He should just reach out and strangle Woodstock himself.
“Which lady,” Henry said slowly, “do you mean? There seem to be two of them present.”
He nodded his head at the figure drawing up behind Woodstock. Moon held the candlestick over his head, poised for attack.
Alarm flickered in Woodstock’s pale eyes as his head snapped about. His nostrils flared as the realization hit him. He looked at Caroline, looked back at Moon. In the low light the two of them appeared identical, dark hair curling over proud shoulders, bonnets framing their faces with scalloped lace and delicate ribbons.
It was the perfect ruse.
Caroline had been right. Woodstock was taken entirely off guard.
His eyes, wide, slid to meet Henry’s.
Moon did not hesitate. Seizing upon Woodstock’s indecision, he brought the candlestick down, hard, on the back of his skull.
Woodstock’s eyes went wider, so wide Henry thought they would pop out of his head. He wavered for half a second on his feet; Henry knew Woodstock was far too wily an opponent to allow him a full second—that devil would think of something—and so Henry drew back his arm, and was about to drive his fist into the man’s face when Caroline stepped in, and did it first.
Bold indeed. Henry remembered the sting of her slap that first night, after Hope’s ball. Caroline landed a solid blow, doubtless from years of practice on that idiot brother of hers.
There was a dull, squishy crack; a spatter of blood, eyes rolling back; and then the Marquess of Woodstock collapsed on the ground in a heap of gangly limbs.<
br />
The three of them—Caroline dressed as Caroline, Mr. Moon dressed as Caroline, and Henry—peered down at the body.
“Did I do it?” Caroline whispered, flapping her hand. “Is he unconscious?”
Henry fell to his knees, straddling Woodstock’s lifeless torso. He cuffed his chin, for good measure.
Wiping his brow, he panted, “Now he is. Let’s go. Before we’re found out.”
They moved quickly; Henry and Moon carried the body to the window. Before he could tell her to wait, he’d catch her in the alley below, Caroline was leaping through the window, a smile of satisfaction lighting her face as she turned to look up at him.
“I learned from the best,” she said.
Henry rolled his eyes, and then rolled out after her.
* * *
By the time the hackney pulled away from Newgate Prison, the evening was getting on. A high half-moon floated in a darkening bluebell sky; well past ten o’clock, but still light enough to see the gleam of Caroline’s skin across the vehicle.
Her skin, flawless, just like the night sky.
Henry had always loved that about London—the long summer days, when one could emerge from dinner to see the city swathed in soft northern light. It wasn’t the same in Paris. Paris seemed endlessly dreary against nights like this one.
Henry drew down the window, inhaled a long draught of air.
Beside him, Caroline let out a small sigh.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“Disappointed it’s over, that’s what.”
Henry leaned forward, put his elbows on his thighs, and covered the ball of her knee with his palm. “You played your part with aplomb, Caroline,” he said softly. “But you are a lady, remember? A dowager countess. You’re not going to waste your widowhood clocking fellows in the face, are you? Surely you’ve got better things to do.”
She was smiling now. If Moon weren’t swaying in the carriage beside him, Henry would have slid his hand up her leg, watched her smile widen, her head fall back on the squabs.
The Undercover Scoundrel Page 30
