Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants

by Allison Chase

  Laurel lingered long enough for the viscountess’s footsteps to recede down the stairs. Then she hurried out to the landing in time to hear Lord Devonlea say, “You are my wife and you’ll do as I say.”

  Laurel tiptoed down the first few steps and leaned over the rail, straining to hear. She caught a glimpse of the couple. The viscount had wrapped a hand around his wife’s arm and was towing her none too gently down the hall, toward the salon adjoining the dining hall. The maid was nowhere in sight.

  The couple’s raised voices echoed through the rooms.

  “This sort of behavior will get you nowhere, Arthur.”

  “Oh? Do you not know I could divorce you on grounds of infidelity and leave you with nothing?”

  “A lot of good my money will do you while you’re swinging from the gallows.”

  “Me? Why you little . . .”

  The next words were lost beneath the tramp of feet and the whack of a piece of furniture being knocked out of place. Porcelain shattered. Lady Devonlea let out a shriek of laughter that sent a chill scurrying down Laurel’s back.

  She started down the steps but paused when a door above her opened.

  “I say, what’s all the commotion?”

  Laurel turned. Seeing a familiar figure poised on the landing, she gasped. “Lord Julian?”

  Nodding his blond head, Julian Stoddard flashed a rueful grin. “I fear they must be arguing over me.”

  Before the implications of his admission had registered with Laurel, the front door shuddered from a sudden pounding from outside. Aidan’s shouts penetrated the heavy panels.

  “Laurel? Beatrice? Let me in!”

  From the parlor, Lord Devonlea bellowed, “Perhaps I’ll simply kill you now!”

  “Lord Julian, we must do something!” Laurel raced down the stairs and fumbled to turn the key hanging in the lock. Her fingers shaking, she jiggled it back and forth until the latch clicked. The door burst open, and then she was in Aidan’s arms, her face pressed to his shirtfront.

  Chapter 26

  Relief cascaded through Aidan in torrents as he crushed Laurel to him and allowed each of his five senses to assure him that no harm had come to her. Yet the time for rejoicing passed all too quickly. She pushed out of his embrace, her face a mask of alarm.

  “Quickly! He’s going to hurt her!” A crash exploded down the hall, followed by the clash of combative voices. “They’re in the salon,” Laurel cried.

  Leaving her framed in the doorway clutching her skirts, Aidan ran through the closest archway and dashed the length of the dining hall to the smaller parlor beyond.

  A battle seemed to have taken place in Beatrice’s India Blue Salon. Among upset vases and furnishings that had been knocked askew, Devonlea had her pressed up against a wall. His hands were at her neck. Her eyes bulging, Beatrice gripped his wrists and sputtered for breath.

  Aidan launched himself at the viscount’s back. Latching on to Devonlea’s arms, he heaved him away from Beatrice and spun him about. In the corner of his eye he saw Beatrice collapse to her hands and knees, her head dipping between her shoulders as she dragged air into her lungs. Devonlea’s face registered surprise, then panic as Aidan drew back a fist.

  Devonlea’s hands shot up in an attempt to shield his face. “Don’t! You don’t under—”

  Aidan’s fist caught the side of his jaw. Devonlea went down, overturning a small marquetry table and a bronze plant stand. The pot smashed and dirt and leaves skittered across the tile floor. The viscount fell onto his back, out cold.

  As the sting of the blow radiated up his forearm, Aidan shook out his hand. Laurel swept into the room, stopping long enough to take in the prone viscount and the fact that Aidan was still on his feet before she hastened to Beatrice’s side.

  “Lady Devonlea, are you hurt?” Laurel wrapped an arm around Beatrice’s waist and helped her sit up. “Can you speak?”

  “He . . . has gone mad.”

  On the floor, Devonlea stirred. Crouching beside him to assess the damage his fist had done, Aidan heard footsteps approaching the hallway entrance to the salon. Expecting a servant, he was surprised to discover Julian Stoddard limping through the doorway with the aid of his walking stick.

  Their gazes met, Aidan’s no doubt filled with questions and Julian’s conveying the promise of forthcoming answers. But the young man also had questions of his own.

  “What on earth?”

  “It’s a long story,” Aidan said. “Suffice it to say that old Dev here is a criminal who’s finally been stopped in his tracks.” He jerked his chin at the window. “Get me those tiebacks.”

  While Aidan bound Devonlea’s hands and feet, Stoddard assisted Laurel in helping Beatrice into a chair. Stoddard knelt before her and took her hands between his own. “Are you all right?”

  Beatrice nodded, then managed a croaking re assurance.

  “Goodness, my lady! Oh, has Lord Devonlea taken ill?” Rose, Beatrice’s personal maid, scampered into the room and came to an abrupt halt. She gaped with no small amount of puzzlement at her bound master sprawled across the floor, and at the trail of potting soil strewn beneath him. “Eloise and I heard such frightful clunks from belowstairs that I came up straightaway to investigate. What on earth has happened, ma’am? Shall I send for a doctor? A constable?”

  “First things first,” Laurel said with an air of authority. “Please bring Lady Devonlea a glass of water and a poultice. Oh, and perhaps one for Lord Devonlea as well, though he doesn’t deserve it. And then alert the authorities.”

  “Right away, ma’am.” Rose hurried off.

  Deciding the time for answers had arrived, Aidan dragged a chair close to Beatrice’s and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He regarded both Beatrice and Stoddard, still kneeling at her side. “Would one of you care to enlighten me as to what you each knew, and when?”

  “I still don’t know anything,” Stoddard protested. “I’m as confused as you are.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Aidan demanded.

  Stoddard had the unexpected humility to blush. “A gentleman doesn’t like to say. . . .”

  “It’s . . . all right.” Beatrice’s voice grated. Coughing, she pressed her palm to her throat and whispered to Aidan, “This is all my fault. I should have stopped it. Instead I acted the coward.”

  “You encouraged Fitz to continue your father’s project, didn’t you?” Aidan spoke gently, but no less accusingly. “Even knowing it was fruitless and realizing how he might use it to hornswoggle others.”

  “No. George believes in his elixir. He never intended to swindle anyone.”

  “Did you?”

  Standing behind Beatrice’s chair, her hands lying protectively on Bea’s shoulders, Laurel flashed him a cautioning look.

  Tears formed in Beatrice’s eyes. “You don’t understand. I simply meant to provide him with a diversion. He’s been so aimless, so lost since Father died. I thought it would . . . connect them somehow.” She shook her head in a show of wretchedness. “George believes in the elixir wholeheartedly. It was him.” She thrust a finger toward her unconscious husband. “Arthur devised the scheme to use the elixir to entice investments in the spa. I overheard him talking to Monsieur Rousseau about a fortnight ago.”

  “So then, you knew they never intended to build the spa,” Aidan prompted.

  “Didn’t they?” Beatrice looked thoroughly confused.

  “It’s as much a fake as the elixir,” Aidan confirmed. “Nothing but sham figures and a phantom investment firm.”

  “Good heavens, Arthur has been so very clever about the entire affair. Except for the elixir, everything else about the pavilion seemed so aboveboard.” She reached out, clutching Aidan’s sleeve. “I swear to you, I never imagined—”

  He patted her knee. “I believe you.”

  “When I confronted him about what I’d overheard—” She broke off, darting a panic-stricken gaze down at Devonlea when he let out a groggy murmur. “He de
nied it all, of course. When I threatened to go to the authorities, he said he would kill me if I so much as breathed a word. I wanted to come to you with the truth, Aidan. I knew I should trust you, but he made me so afraid. . . .”

  “There, now, it’s all right.” Laurel gave Bea’s shoulders a squeeze. To Aidan she said, “That is quite enough for now.”

  He turned his attention to Stoddard. “And how the blazes do you fit into it? Are you the reason Dev hasn’t been sleeping at home lately?”

  Stoddard opened his mouth to respond, but Beatrice said, “Arthur became impossible to live with. Julian knew nothing of his activities, but he has been a support to me throughout.” Her eyes darkened as she regarded Aidan. “You of all people would not dare judge us for that.”

  “No,” he conceded, “I would not.”

  Rose reentered the room. “Your water and compress, my lady.” Holding a second compress, the maid looked uncertainly down at Devonlea.

  “I’ll relieve you of that,” Laurel said.

  Beatrice pushed to her feet. “Rose, help me upstairs. I’ve developed a crushing headache. Mrs. Sanderson, will you come, too? I . . . should like the chance to win back your regard.”

  “Of course, Lady Devonlea. Now that I have come to understand a thing or two about the difficulties you faced, I assure you, you have my utmost sympathies.”

  Retrieving his walking stick from the floor beside him, Stoddard, too, came to his feet, but he appeared indecisive. Aidan couldn’t help feeling slightly sorry for him. The youth had landed one of England’s most sophisticated and desirable women as his mistress. Quite an achievement for the second son of a marquess, not to mention one recently tossed out of university. But even a man of Lord Julian’s scant experience must know their affair could not continue after today. Beatrice would insist on breaking it off now that someone else had learned their secret.

  Laurel handed the compress to Aidan. Their fingers touched briefly, sparking warmth. “Thank you,” she said very quietly.

  “For what?”

  “For being here when you were needed. When I needed you. For always doing what is right.” Shrugging, she smiled and blinked away a suspicious trace of moisture.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He wanted to promise her all that he most feared. But those things—love, marriage, family—propelled his heart against the wall of his chest and rendered him mute.

  How could he continue his life without her? But how could he go on if once he experienced the joy of a life with her, he then lost her?

  Did he always do what was right? Would he now? He met her gaze, a gaze filled with such hopeful yearning he felt himself drowning in his own uncertainty.

  “Laurel, I . . .” He drew a steadying breath. “We’ll talk later.”

  Laurel had hoped for more. She had searched for some sign in Aidan’s manner that might silence her awful dread that once she left Bath, she would never see him again.

  But he had granted nothing except a vague promise to talk. Talk about what? About how high he held her in his esteem, but that he simply did not share her feelings? Or how pleased he was to have made her acquaintance and that he wished her the best in all her future endeavors?

  Oh, God. How would she bear it? How would she bear the next several minutes or hours, or however long it would be before he reiterated his inability to share more than these past days, days filled with deception and danger . . . and excitement and discovery and love? Love most of all.

  Her love, her heart, given without limits or conditions or regrets. Except that . . .

  She fought back the encroaching tears. Lady Devonlea needed her. She and Rose were waiting in the doorway, watching her quizzically. Tearing herself away from Aidan, she started toward them.

  Lord Devonlea groaned. His eyes fluttered. “Help . . . ah, God . . . what the . . .”

  He struggled against the drapery cords. His head lolling from side to side, his gaze suddenly landed on his wife. “You! It was you . . . and—”

  Whack! Julian Stoddard brought his walking stick down on the side of Lord Devonlea’s head, sinking the man back into unconsciousness. The act drew a startled cry from Laurel.

  Aidan seized the young man by his shoulders. “What the blazes did you do that for?”

  “He was about to start threatening her again,” Lord Julian blurted. He rapped the tip of his cane against the floor for emphasis.

  “He’s tied up,” Aidan yelled. He gave the youth a shake. “He can do no harm. You don’t hit an incapacitated man.”

  Lord Julian seemed to shrink several inches. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to hear the scoundrel malign poor, dear Beatrice again.”

  Aidan released him. “It’s all right. Why don’t you go on home before the authorities arrive? I see no need for you to remain.”

  Lord Julian tossed a disgusted glance down at Lord Devonlea and nodded. He made his way across the room, rapping his walking stick on the marble tiles every few steps. A strange sensation crawled up Laurel’s spine. . . .

  When he reached the doorway, he raised his free hand and stroked the backs of his knuckles across Lady Devonlea’s cheek. “I’ll look in on you later.”

  With a flair of her nostrils, she turned her face away from him. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Lord Julian stared back at her. With the beginnings of a scowl, he moved around her and started down the hall, this time limping slightly without the use of the cane.

  Several things happened then, all converging in Laurel’s mind in a blur of perception. In the parlor, Aidan swore loudly. Laurel heard his footsteps, but she found she could not take her eyes off Lord Julian. Gripped by an awareness she could not name, she watched as he held his walking stick loosely in his fingers as one would a baton. Casually he tapped the handle against the wall as he headed toward the front door.

  The knock sparked a memory and sent her unthinkingly after him. “Good heavens. Aidan, it was him. It was Julian we heard beneath the city.”

  Julian whirled around as she reached him and, gripping his walking stick in two hands, gave it a twist. The shaft came free from the handle; he tossed it away. As it clattered across the floor, he reached out and seized Laurel’s wrist. Turning her, he pulled her back against him. The foot-long stiletto that had been secreted inside his cane flashed before her eyes. Julian swung the slender weapon against her throat.

  Down the hall, Rose screamed, the sound abruptly stifled when Lady Devonlea slapped her. Rose stumbled backward against the wall and froze, her eyes huge with fear.

  “Let Laurel go.” A pistol extended in his hand, Aidan stood just inside the archway of the dining hall, half hidden by shadow. “There is nothing to be gained from another death, Stoddard. Not even yours.”

  Julian laughed and pressed the dirk tighter beneath Laurel’s chin. The blood drained from her face and her knees turned wobbly as she realized that if Aidan fired, odds were that he would hit her and not the man holding her.

  “Lady Devonlea, you and Rose go below. Now,” Laurel said.

  “Stay where you are,” Julian countered. “No one goes anywhere until we get a thing or two settled.”

  “You can’t kill all of us, Stoddard.” Aidan stepped forward into the light, stopping when Julian jerked the stiletto and forced a cry from Laurel.

  “I can kill her,” the young man said breezily. “And I don’t think you’d much care for that, Barensforth.”

  “Julian, don’t be ridiculous.” Lady Devonlea came toward them.

  Holding Laurel tight, Julian swung toward the viscountess, then just as quickly swung back toward Aidan. “Don’t come any closer, my love. Someone might inadvertently get hurt.”

  To prove his point, he flicked the dirk against Laurel’s skin. A warm drop of moisture trickled down her neck. Aidan saw it—Laurel caught the flash of terror in his eyes, mirroring her own rising panic. His gaze locked with hers, and in it she perceived a desperate plea for her to do nothing that would prompt
a violent reaction from Julian.

  All her life she had been strong for her sisters. She had come to Bath intending to be strong for Victoria. Now she needed to be strong for herself. She needed to gather her courage, her composure, and her faith—in Aidan. He had rescued her so many times before. He would not let harm come to her now. He would not let her die.

  Holding her breath, she held herself utterly still in Julian Stoddard’s death grip.

  Aidan’s features smoothed to a semblance of calm. “Perhaps I can help you, Stoddard. I believe I understand what happened. This plan of yours, my God, it’s ingenious. I only wish I’d thought of it myself. Was Babcock in on it, or did he find you out and threaten to expose you?”

  “Babcock was a fool.” Despite his vehemence, Julian’s arms relaxed a fraction around Laurel. “He became suspicious about Bryce-Rawlings Unlimited and began digging until he learned the truth.”

  “That the company is merely a facade for some intricate financial manipulations.”

  “Precisely.”

  Aidan lowered the gun but still managed to keep it trained on Julian. “So you waited until you had him alone at the Cross Bath, knocked him senseless with your walking stick, and dumped him into the pool to drown.” He cocked his head as if considering how to play his hand at the card table. “How did you keep the attendants distracted long enough to do the deed?”

  Laurel fought from shivering when Julian’s soft chuckle grazed her nape. “I regained his trust by confiding that the money for the Summit Pavilion had been used to fund Rousseau’s research, that it was ground-breaking work, but the Frenchman had become unreasonable, demanding higher and higher fees for his services. I convinced Babcock that the old king’s map revealed an entrance to Rousseau’s subterranean laboratory beneath the Cross Bath, and I proposed that he and I go there together and learn Rousseau’s secrets for ourselves. Then we could decide whether we needed him any longer. The plan was for Babcock to go to the baths, conceal himself until after closing, and then let me in.”