A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  He placed one finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “Annica, I—”

  The coach jerked to a halt at the front steps of Clarendon Place, interrupting his confession. He would tell her everything later. For the moment, he had to keep her safe. He hopped down, tossed a sovereign to the driver and lifted Annica out.

  “You know I will simply leave again,” she warned him.

  A feeling of loss built in his chest. How could he ever live without his sprite—his Lady Reckless—at his side? He had to keep her safe until he could finish his duty to the crown. Richard Lovelace had written to Lucasta, “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov’d I not honour more.” For the first time, that little paradox made perfect sense to him.

  He carried her up the steps and, before he could kick it, the door was opened by a breathless Chauncy, evidently alerted by a diligent footman. A stone-faced Hodgeson stood behind him.

  “Milord!” Chauncy gasped. “Is her ladyship taken ill?”

  “No, Chauncy,” he answered, “but that will be our story.”

  “Milord?” the valet asked. He and Hodgeson followed them up the stairs.

  Tristan placed Annica on her feet in the center of her bedchamber and stood back to regard her with a challenge. “Consider yourself confined until further notice.”

  “You jest!” she gasped.

  “Do I look as if I jest?” He set his features in his most intimidating expression—the one that had been known to send sailors scurrying and to make pashas tremble. In fact, Mary retreated to one corner, looking as if her knees were knocking.

  “You are out of your mind!” Annica accused. “You cannot think for a moment that I will countenance such a tactic?”

  “I have business to be about, and I will not have you in the middle of it, nor can I allow you to interfere. I hope to conclude it by tomorrow night, but until I am finished, you will give me no reason to worry.”

  Chauncy’s gaze swept Annica’s form. “Oh, milady! What have you done?”

  Hodgeson moved to Annica’s side, as if to shield her from unseemly curiosity. “She has, on occasion…that is, she—”

  “Will not be going abroad like this again. Where do you buy them, Annica?” Tristan gestured at her trousers.

  “Do you seriously think I will aid you in punishing me, Auberville? Do not make me laugh.”

  Tristan’s jaw tightened. “Chauncy, send to every tailor in London with instructions not to fill any orders for Lady Auberville. Mary, find the rest of her trousers and burn them.”

  Hodgeson raised his eyes heavenward as if to say he had done that before, but he remained silent as Mary went to Annica’s wardrobe and began to search for the offending garments.

  “Am I a prisoner, Lord Tristan?” Annica asked.

  “I made you promises and I mean to keep them, if you will let me. Tomorrow, when this is over, I shall tell you everything. But I do not have time now. You must defer to me in this—for your own safety. For Constance. Do you understand?”

  “I understand quite well.” Her voice was quiet, but Tristan knew better than to think she was agreeing.

  He turned to the others. “Chauncy, either you or Hodgeson will look after Lady Auberville at all times. She is in grave danger. Can I count on you?”

  “Yes, milord.” Chauncy nodded.

  “Yes,” Hodgeson agreed reluctantly.

  Annica stood quite still, her arms folded across her chest and a defiant jut to her chin. He suspected she was hatching some plan for revenge. “These tactics will not work, Tristan. If you think you can bully me into submission, you are mistaken.”

  “I do not want to bully you, Annica, but I cannot reason with you. You leave me no other option.”

  “You could trust me, Auberville.”

  He feared from the terrible calm in her evergreen eyes that, despite any promise to the contrary, she’d leave him the first chance she got. He’d better clean up this nasty affair as quickly as possible.

  Chapter Twenty

  Annica hurried downstairs to join the group in the library. Chauncy was hard on her heels, as if to emphasize that she was not even safe in her own home. That particular point did not need reinforcing. A quelling glance at the piratical valet stopped him short before he could follow her into the library. She pointed to a spot across the foyer from the library and then closed the double doors firmly in his face.

  “Oh, ’Nica!” Sarah exclaimed. She rose from the sofa in front of the little tea table and hurried to her. “Thank God you are safe! We were so worried when we heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  Grace frowned and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “That Roger Wilkes was found dead last night, Annica. You met with him. Did you…did you do it?”

  “We know you would only do such a thing in self-defense, ’Nica,” Charity said earnestly.

  Her mind reeled and her limbs went numb. Yet another murder! “Wilkes is dead?”

  “Last night, his throat slit—just like Mr. Bouldin and Constance. That is why we came. We needed to be certain you were safe.” Sarah reached out and touched Annica’s hand.

  “Tristan saw me following Wilkes in Whitefriars. He waylaid me, escorted me home and set the servants to watching me. He says it is for my own good.”

  “Thank heavens!” Grace and Charity exclaimed as one.

  “But Wilkes was well enough last night when he left the Bear and Bull,” Annica added hurriedly.

  Charity sagged, relief flooding her features. “Then it had nothing to do with you. Or Auberville. Thank heavens.”

  “What did he say?” Sarah pressed.

  Annica took a deep breath and relayed the details of her conversation. “Wilkes seemed to think the man responsible for the murders was watching him. That’s what made him run without taking the money,” she explained. “He was terrified.”

  “And you were going to follow him!” Grace shook her head in disbelief. “The other man must have seen you and Wilkes together and knew you were onto him.”

  Sarah must have sensed her reluctance to discuss the matter, for she changed the subject. “Well, at least we are on the right track in looking at the regimental roster. Was Mr. Renquist not looking into—”

  “Renquist! Drat! I haven’t spoken to him. I sent him after the man who frightened Mr. Wilkes. Pray God he does not turn up dead, too!”

  “What shall we do?” Charity asked, her blue eyes wide.

  “You have an appointment with Madame Marie, do you not?”

  “Yes.” Charity glanced toward the mantel clock. “In fact, I am supposed to be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Tell Madame that I will be needing another pair of trousers later this afternoon. Ask her to send word to Mr. Renquist that I must meet him there at five o’clock.” Annica went to Tristan’s desk, scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it in an envelope. She wrote a name on the front and handed it to Charity. “Ask Madame to see that this is delivered at once.”

  Charity looked at the name and winced. “’Nica—”

  “We shall get to the bottom of this one way or another. Naughty Alice has helped us before.”

  Alone in the library after the door had closed, Annica stood and crossed to a window. In the side courtyard, Chauncy was talking to a disreputable-looking man. When the stranger turned to say something to the valet, Annica’s heart gave a painful flutter. Scar-face—Mr. X, the foreign-looking man who had met Wilkes when she had followed him—was entreating Chauncy earnestly, using broad gestures and an angry tone. She could not hear the exact words through the glass panes, but she deduced the accent to be Arabic. Mr. X was linked to Clarendon Place! Was Chauncy in league with Morgan and Wilkes?

  Curiosity drove her to Tristan’s desk. The narrow middle drawer was locked as always. This time, with the weight of so much evidence behind her, she did not even hesitate. She seized her husband’s letter opener and forced it into the gap. She did not have time for finesse, so she p
icked and pried until the lock gave with a sharp crack and a splintering of wood. Auberville would be very angry when he saw the damage she had done.

  She rummaged through the contents of the drawer quickly. When she found every note she had ever written him tied together with a red ribbon, she thought she could feel her heart breaking. Would he feel betrayed when he discovered that she had snooped where she had no business? Turning back to her search, she found a sterling pen, a box of nibs, ink, sealing wax and ribbon, a seal with the Auberville crest and a black-bordered folder bulging with official-looking papers.

  She sank into his high-backed leather chair and opened the folder. His discharge papers from the Royal Navy. Some strange letters that made no sense at all—in code?—to, from and about people named Omar, The Turk, Mustafa el-Daibul and The Sheikh. And three lists: regimental, battalion and company. Allowing the rest to drop to the floor, she ran her finger down the shortest list.

  They were all here! All of them! Taylor, Harris, Farmingdale, Wilkes, Morgan, Chauncy and…Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville! Ice formed around her heart.

  Dear heavens! A case could be made that Tristan was the villain! The evidence was circumstantial, but it was no wonder that her friends had cautioned her. There he was—in black and white—in villainous company. He had served in northern Africa. He knew pashas and emirs. He had connections. He could inspire obedience from men. He was known to be dangerous.

  But murder? Could Tristan have murdered those women, and Roger Wilkes, too? Could he have slit Harry Bouldin’s throat? And Constance’s? Never.

  Annica’s sense of injustice became inflamed. She knew Tristan—knew that he could not have done those things. But the circumstances looked grim. His reputation, his secrecy…Someone, likely Morgan or Chauncy, was trying to make it look as if Tristan was the villain by putting papers in his desk for the police to find! She folded the roster and pushed it into the bodice of her gown.

  This, then, was what had engaged Tristan’s attention night and day—the effort to clear his name and find the true villain. Oh! If only he’d told her, trusted her, she could have helped him. Anxious to find any evidence in his favor, she began to shuffle through the letters. Desperation made her clumsy, and she dropped the sheaf of papers. When she gathered them from the floor, one name leaped off a page at her. Chauncy.

  “Chauncy, bring me word of the time of our next meeting. Sheikh…” And it was dated scarcely a week ago. She recognized the handwriting from the sample Constance had brought her. Geoffrey Morgan!

  “Chauncy…” shemused aloud, remembering Mary’s comment about him being an old “freebooter.” Then he was the villain!

  “Did you find what you are looking for?”

  Annica’s head snapped up to find the valet standing in the doorway, an angry stain creeping up his cheeks. She dropped the papers into the drawer and closed it. Affecting an air of confidence, she stood and faced the foe straight on. “Yes. I did. Bring me tea, Chauncy. I must write a letter.”

  “I am afraid I must escort you back to your room, milady.”

  “Yes, of course. After I have written the letter.”

  “If it please your ladyship, you may write the letter in your room. Now that you have seen those papers, I cannot allow you to leave. I will instruct Mary to bring your tea to your room.”

  “I am going nowhere with you, Chauncy. Leave,” she demanded in a steely voice, dipping her pen in the inkwell.

  “I deeply regret that I cannot do that, milady.”

  Annica’s heart raced. She had to escape this very minute! If she allowed him to take her back to her room, he would dispose of her posthaste. No, she would not go quietly.

  “Accustom yourself to the fact that I am going nowhere with you, Mr. Chauncy. If you intend to remove me from here, you will need help. Go find it. I shall wait.” She glanced down at the sheet of paper. She only had a moment to leave Tristan a warning. “Beware of Chauncy,” she scrawled.

  Across the room, the valet assumed an expression of deep regret. “Perhaps you should know that I shall restrain you physically, if necessary.”

  She had never been mishandled by a servant in her entire life. When Chauncy started for her, she was shocked, but she knew she was overmatched. She slipped her warning to Tristan under a corner of the blotter, snatched the pen tray from the desk and threw it at Chauncy’s head, missing by inches. He came on without the slightest hesitation. She hurled the humidor next, then a leather-bound book from a small stack on the corner of the desk.

  Nearer to panic than she cared to admit, Annica seized two more books from the stack and fired them in rapid succession. The second book met its target. Dazed, Chauncy staggered to his knees and rubbed a spot on his forehead. She used the opportunity to retrieve the letter opener and slip around him toward the door.

  “Your ladyship!” The valet reached one hand out as if to grab hold of her skirts.

  “Lay one hand on me, Chauncy, just one, and I will see you on the gallows! God help me if I won’t!” she bluffed.

  She threw the library doors open and sprinted for the front door. Her luck held; the foyer was empty.

  Heart pounding, she lifted her skirts and ran for all she was worth. The wind in her face was like a rude slap, reminding her that she might never be able to return.

  “Silence!” Tristan roared. Everyone was talking at once. He rubbed his temples and winced. The worst had happened. Annica had escaped. And now he could not keep her safe.

  When the library grew still enough to hear dust settle, he gestured to his valet. “One at a time. Chauncy, you first.”

  The man peered balefully from behind the slab of raw meat covering his blackened eye. “She was going through your desk, milord. I did not know what she had seen, so I told her I would have to accompany her to her room. Most regretfully, milord, I went to take her arm, but she flew into a rage and began to throw things. I was hit, and she ran past me.”

  “Mary?” Tristan asked.

  “I am sorry, m’lord. I do not know a thing about this.”

  Hodgeson was more agitated than Tristan had ever seen him. He took pity on the man. “Anything to add, Hodgeson?”

  The aging servant shifted his weight from side to side, wringing his hands. “Milord, Lady Annica is not a coward. I have never seen her shy away from a fight. Indeed, the Sayles family used to have some famous rows, and my lady Annica was always in the middle of it, holding her own. She was raised on strife and contention. One might say she learned to thrive upon it.”

  “Have you any notion why she fled, Hodgeson?”

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but milady would never suffer oppression. ’Tis a principle with her. I wanted to warn you last night, but you, ah…you were in a bit of a temper. I very much feared that something like this would happen.”

  Tristan fought to hide his impatience. “Yes, well, where do you think she went?”

  “Home, milord?”

  “You mean to the Sayles home? ’Tis worth checking, I suppose. Thank you, Hodgeson. If you have any more ideas, do not hesitate to tell me. You may go now.”

  Hodgeson, Chauncy and Mary left together, clearly relieved to escape the ominous atmosphere in the library.

  Tristan turned his attention to the chaos around him. His first order of business was to find Annica. To that end, he checked the file that Annica had “liberated” from his drawer and put back with scarcely a sheet out of place. He riffled through the papers, to see if there was a clue as to what she’d been seeking. All the documents seemed to be in order, and nothing appeared to be absent. On second inspection, he discovered that his company roster was missing. What possible interest could she have in a list of those he had served with in the Mediterranean? He scanned the names and paused. Bloody hell! Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  On his way to the door, his foot caught the edge of Mansfield Park. When he bent to retrieve it, a scrap of paper fell to the floor. He put the book aside and unfolded the note.
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br />   “Stop hiding behind your hirelings. I’ll kill them all just like I killed this one. Show yourself, coward, or escape while you can.” Dark, rust-colored blotches stained the paper.

  What the hell was going on? He fanned the pages of the book to see if any explanation would fall out. None. Anxiety made his every nerve jangle.

  Whose blood was on this note? Not Constance’s—the stains were nearly black with age. How had Annica come into possession of such a communication? Surely it could not have been intended for her.

  Or had it? Had her prying into the disappearance of a maid and the death of her friend drawn her into the white slavery scheme by their association with Wilkes? Damnation! Tristan had confiscated her only defense—her little pocket pistol. His heart grew cold at the thought.

  The edge of a folded sheet of paper peeked from beneath his blotter. He slid it out and read the hurried script—Annica’s handwriting! What was she thinking?

  Fear, once so foreign and now so familiar, replaced anger and hurt. The possibility that his wife might be yet another casualty of the traitor known as “The Turk” made his pulse race.

  He went to a locked cupboard hidden behind one bookshelf and removed a pair of matched pocket pistols. After checking to make certain they were loaded, he slipped them in his coat pockets. His coach was still waiting.

  If Annica had become entangled in this miserable affair, it would be his fault, and he would never forgive himself.

  Dressed in the new trousers the modiste had provided, Annica sat on a short stool in Marie’s tiny office at her shop off Piccadilly, watching Francis Renquist pace in circles. She wished she could concentrate on his account of following the man who had frightened Wilkes the previous night, but her mind kept wandering back to Tristan. Had he discovered her note yet? Would Chauncy try to silence him, too?

  “When I got a good look at him, Lady Annica, I realized I’d never seen him before. He made some interesting stops before he got onto me. A bawdy house, another tavern, White’s. He wasn’t wandering, he was looking for someone. I lost him at the Surrey docks,” Renquist was saying.