Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

  A shot rang over his head and struck the cart.

  The old nag screamed, then set off at a run, taking the wagon along with it. And thundering straight at him was a masked man dressed in black, riding a black stallion. On a stretch of road that had once belonged to Raventhorpe’s family.

  Black Bill.

  As the highwayman raised his gun again, Peter jerked his own out of his belt and fired it at the approaching rider, causing him to swerve. Then he ran like the devil himself was after him and plunged into the woods.

  Gunshots brought Father Holm out of his stupor. When he opened his eyes, a masked man in black—a different one from the one who had assaulted him—was leaning over him. He should have been afraid, but something in the man’s calm demeanor made the vicar believe the man meant him no harm.

  “How many fingers, Father?” the masked man asked.

  “Three,” the vicar answered.

  “Good. Let’s get you out of here. Can you ride?”

  The vicar nodded. “If we go slowly. I am somewhat the worse for wear, I am afraid.”

  “Where were you headed, Father? Perhaps I can assist.”

  “Evermayne.” His head began to spin again. He patted his coat, shoved his hand in the pocket. Empty. “Gone,” he whispered.

  “What is gone?” the highwayman asked.

  “Letter. Gone.”

  “You had a letter for Evermayne?”

  “Gone. He took it.” His throat clogged as he realized he had failed his sacred duty. “May God forgive me.”

  “Easy now. Let us get you to safety, then we will deal with the matter of this letter.” The highwayman shoved his shoulder beneath the vicar’s arm, then helped him to his feet and over to his horse.

  The vicar hesitated as they neared the huge black stallion.

  “Have no fear of Tarik, Father.” The highwayman patted the horse’s neck. “He will carry us to safety like the wind he was named for.”

  With help from the stranger, Father Holm soon found himself seated behind the fellow on the back of the beast.

  “Yalla!” the highwayman cried, and they took off like a blazing fire down the road toward Evermayne.

  “Be careful, Felicity!” Genny called.

  The little girl screeched and ran away just as John would have caught her. Genny and Marianne muffled their giggles as the blindfolded Duke snatched thin air.

  “I know she is here somewhere,” he said, lowering his voice to an exaggerated growl.

  Felicity ran across the patch of lawn where they played, then circled around and crept up behind John. She poked him, then sped away as he whirled to try to catch her. Genny clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her laughter, but Marianne squealed with mirth. John stopped and snapped his head toward them. “I think I hear Marianne!” He lunged across the grass with his arms extended.

  Marianne screamed and darted behind Genny just as John reached them. She did not have a chance to escape; he grabbed her arm and held her fast.

  “You have to guess who it is!” Marianne shouted, her blue eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy with exertion.

  “And if I guess correctly, this person”—he held up Genny’s arm—“becomes the ‘blind man?’ ”

  “Yes!” Even the normally reserved Felicity bounced in place as if she would have to dart away any moment.

  “Can you guess who it is?” Marianne asked.

  “I do not think it is Mrs. Hart,” John said, sending the girls into peals of laughter. “Nor do I think it is Ernest, the butler.”

  “No!” Felicity howled, covering her mouth with her hands.

  “Who could it be, then?” He lifted one hand to Genny’s face, tracing her cheeks, her lips. “Whoever this is, she certainly is pretty.”

  Genny tried to keep a straight face but could not stop her lips from curving into a smile.

  “Who could this be? Hmmm.” He loosened his grip on her arm, slid his hand down to find the plain gold band on her finger. “I think this might be my Genny.” He leaned in, kissed her gently. “Yes, that is definitely my Genny.”

  “You have to be the blind man now, Genny!” Marianne shrieked.

  John whipped off the scarf they used as a blindfold and handed it to her, grinning.

  She took it. “I think you cheated, Your Grace. I do not recall any rules about kissing in Blind Man’s Bluff.”

  “Exactly. Which means it was not against the rules.” He winked at her.

  “Oh, no!” Felicity groaned. “Here comes Ernest. I bet Mrs. Hart sent him to fetch us for our lessons.”

  Marianne scowled. “I do not want lessons! I want to play with Cousin John and Genny!”

  “Now, now.” John flicked his finger along the little girl’s nose. “We all must do what is required of us before we can do what we would like to do.”

  “Lessons are required of us,” Felicity said with a wrinkle of her nose.

  “You do not have lessons, Cousin John,” Marianne said. “What is required of you?”

  John crouched down so they were eye to eye. “Taking care of Evermayne and everyone in it—including you two ladies.” He stood up as the butler reached them. “Have you come to fetch the ladies, Ernest?”

  The sharp-faced butler glanced at the children. “No, Your Grace.” He returned his attention to John. “A . . . visitor has arrived.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A vicar, I believe. He has been injured.”

  “A vicar? What does he want here?”

  “He asked for you, Your Grace. And . . .” The butler paused, frowned as if searching for words. “He was delivered in a most unusual manner.”

  “Delivered?” Genny asked. “Like a package?”

  “He was left at the door by a . . . I believe it was by Black Bill.”

  “See to the children, Ernest.” John took Genny’s hand and led her back to the house, leaving the butler to round up the girls for their lessons. “A vicar,” he muttered. “Someone said something to me about a vicar. Who was it?”

  “What does he want with you?” Genny asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides.

  “I suppose we are about to find out.”

  The servants had put the vicar in the drawing room. When John and Genny entered, the older man struggled to sit up from his half-lying position on the sofa. He looked to be a fairly short man, his light brown hair balding at the crown, and he looked as if he had been beaten. A bruise shadowed his jaw and his cheekbone, and he moved with the care of someone in great pain.

  “I am the Duke of Evermayne,” John said. “This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Evermayne. And you are . . . ?”

  “Father Cornelius Holm.” The holy man got himself settled in what was apparently a comfortable spot on the sofa, then tried to smile. “Your given name is John St. Giles, Your Grace?”

  “It is.”

  “Ahh.” He smiled as if relieved. “I am the vicar of the small parish of Elford-by-the-Sea. I have been looking for you for some weeks now.”

  “Elford-by-the-Sea?” John guided Genny to an armchair, then settled himself into its twin. “That was the village my father visited the day he died. Why have you been looking for me?”

  “I was fulfilling a vow.” The vicar’s voice roughened, and he coughed. John got up to ring for a servant.

  “Some water for the vicar,” he said, when a footman responded. Turning back to his guest, he came to crouch down in front of him. “Father, what vow were you fulfilling? One for my father?”

  The vicar shook his head. “For one of my parishioners. He entrusted me with a letter addressed to you. I was to deliver it personally into your hands.”

  “A letter?” John stood. “From whom?”

  “A man named Jack Norman.”

  The footman returned with the vicar’s water before John could say anything else. He moved aside so the footman could serve their guest, but he could not stand still and prowled back and forth between the sofa and where Genny sat. Jack Norman. He knew that name
.

  The servant left, and he waited until the holy man had sipped some water and seemed a bit steadier before he picked up the conversation again. “My father went to Elford-by-the-Sea the day he died . . . to see Jack Norman.”

  Behind him, Genny sucked in a breath, but Father Holm just nodded. “That he did. ’Tis not my tale to tell, but Jack had regrets in life, as many of us do. He wrote down those regrets in a letter to you and entrusted me with it. In case something happened to him, he said.”

  John tensed. “And did something happen to him?”

  The vicar nodded. “ ’Twas a black day indeed. First his daughter and her new husband were murdered by brigands on their wedding trip, then poor Jack took his own life the very same night.”

  “How terrible,” Genny breathed.

  “At least,” the vicar said with a meaningful look at John, “that is what we are led to believe.”

  “You do not think he killed himself.”

  “Why would he? His daughter had just married, and the news of the tragedy did not reach our village until the next morning. He had no reason to take his own life.” He let out a big sigh and shook his head. “There was evil afoot that night, I tell you. Upon his death, I retrieved the letter and tried to find you, but to no avail.”

  “When was this?”

  “Four years ago. Just a few days after your father died.”

  John narrowed his eyes. “I do not believe in coincidence, Father.”

  “Neither do I. ’Tis evil, I tell you.”

  Or Raventhorpe. “I only just returned to England a few weeks ago, Father. How did you know to come looking for me now?”

  “Because the duke died. With Lord Phillip gone, you were the natural heir. I assumed you would claim the title eventually. In the meantime, I went to all the places you might go, hoping to find you. I went to your parents’ house, then to see Mr. Timmons, the solicitor for the estate, then to the inns and taverns all around the area. It was not until I saw in the newspaper that you had claimed the title that I knew where to find you.”

  “You must be exhausted with all that traveling,” Genny said.

  “I did it a bit at a time. The church cannot run itself, and I am the only vicar in residence. I went looking for you when my schedule allowed. I once had to forgo my search when I had three funerals and a wedding in the same week!”

  “And somehow you found me.” Was this the miracle he had been searching for? He forced himself to be calm though anticipation churned in his gut. “Where is this letter? I am most eager to read it.”

  “Ah. And that is where my tale takes its own tragic twist. The letter was stolen.”

  “Stolen!” Genny cried.

  “Who stole it?” John demanded. “Was it Black Bill? They say he brought you here.”

  “That fellow? No, not at all. It was another thief entirely. A big fellow who stopped me on the road and demanded the letter. When I refused to give it to him, he beat me into unconsciousness and stole it. The other man came afterwards, found me in the road, and brought me here.”

  “Blast it.” John turned away, stared at the insipid watercolor hanging above the mantel. “If it had been Black Bill, we might have had a chance of recovering it. He is something of a . . . gentleman thief.”

  “How extraordinary,” the vicar said.

  “But this other man . . . I have no idea who he could be.”

  “He seemed to know about the letter,” Father Holm said. “He did not demand my purse, simply demanded the message. He said it would get him out of a nasty fix.”

  “If it is not Black Bill, who could it be?” Genny asked. “Raventhorpe?”

  “I doubt it,” John said. “He rarely handles these tasks himself. He usually has a servant to do it or hires someone.”

  “Peter Green?” Genny suggested. “If he is trying to get free of Raventhorpe . . .”

  John rubbed his chin. “That is certainly a possibility.”

  “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” the vicar said. “I have failed you, and I have failed Jack Norman. Clearly whatever he wanted to tell you in this letter was of great import to him.”

  John met Genny’s gaze, took strength from the love shining there. “Yes. To me as well.”

  “I suppose,” the vicar said, “what we need now is a miracle.”

  Chapter 21

  Raventhorpe lingered in the corner of the tavern, nursing an ale and listening to the chatter around him. With each minute that passed, his temper burned hotter.

  Peter was late.

  He detested tardiness. He believed in precision, in careful planning and clever execution of those plans. Peter Green was neither careful nor clever, a fact that had begun to chafe. The oaf had fallen into certain bad habits, such as thinking and asking questions. He really should have killed the fool when he’d had the chance.

  But he hadn’t, and now he smelled mutiny. The more time that passed, the more he suspected that Peter had decided to enact some plans of his own. Some of the men from the livery had been talking earlier of a horse and cart that came back without a driver—the vicar’s rig. He suspected Peter had succeeded in robbing the vicar of his secret and now plotted to betray him.

  It’s what he would have done.

  If he had not been so furious, he might have actually drummed up a little appreciation for the idiot’s courage. He would be certain to tell him that.

  Right before he killed him.

  The miracle arrived in the form of a small boy at the kitchen door early the next morning. John had instructed the staff to alert him to anything odd, and a child demanding a shilling in exchange for delivering a message to the duke definitely fell into the category of odd.

  “I know what you’re looking for,” the child recited. “Bring as much money as you can carry and meet me at the old church on the hill at two o’clock today. Come alone.”

  “Who gave you the message?” John asked, passing over the shilling.

  The lad snatched it away and tucked it into his pocket. “Some bloke. Big fellow.”

  “You do not know his name?”

  “No.” The child grinned and ran away.

  John went to find his wife and finally located her in the sewing room, reworking a bonnet. “You do realize that a duchess does not need to redo her bonnets? We can afford new.”

  “It comforts me.” She wound a ribbon around the crown of the hat. “Is something wrong? You have that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that tells me something has happened but you have not decided if you are going to confide in me or not.”

  “We have been married a matter of days, and already you think you can read my expressions?”

  Her green eyes held a melancholy that tugged at him. “Since we do not know how much time we have, I have been paying particular attention.”

  The simple statement touched his heart. “God, Genny.”

  She shrugged and turned her attention back to her bonnet. “Whatever it is, just tell me, John. We can weather the storm together.”

  How was it he had found this extraordinary woman only when he might lose her again? “I just received a message from the thief who robbed Father Holm. He wants to meet me at the old church at two o’clock, told me to bring money. I believe he intends to sell the letter to me.”

  “I do not like it,” Genny said. “What if it is some kind of trap? What if Raventhorpe is behind this?”

  “He might well be, but what choice do we have? My instincts are telling me that this letter could clear my name. I have to find it, whatever the cost.”

  “What if the cost is your life? I am not ready to lose you, John.” She set down the bonnet and all pretense of mending it. “I doubt I will ever be ready, no matter how close the inevitable looms.”

  “If I get this letter, and it proves my innocence, we will have our whole lives together.”

  “Not fair.” She tried to smile, but he easily read the concern in her eyes. “You are going to do
it, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. It might be our only hope.”

  “You should take someone with you. Samuel. Sir Harry. The admiral. They can watch your back.”

  “Perhaps.” He frowned, then shook his head. “No, it is better if I handle this myself. I do not want to endanger anyone else, and it would take too long for them to get here.”

  “I do not like it, but all right.” She nodded, then turned her attention to choosing the color of thread. “But you had better come back to me, John St. Giles.”

  “Always, my love.” He kissed her, savoring the taste of love on her lips.

  And wondering how much longer they had before Inspector Brooks hauled him off for his date with the hangman.

  John left at half past one, heading for the old church on the back of his gelding. Genny watched him from the window in the drawing room, only turning away when he had disappeared around the bend in the road.

  The passage of time haunted her. Only weeks ago, the years had stretched before her, long and lonely. She had not believed she would ever marry, not after the foolish mistake she had made with Bradley. But then John had come along. He did not care about her past, only about her happiness. He had married her and saved her from having to confess her secret, from having to shame her family. The only downside to her marriage—her husband could be taken away at any time and hanged for murder.

  Did this mysterious letter contain information that might clear his name? She wanted to believe it, but she was afraid to hope. What if she built up her expectations only to have them dashed? Better to err on the side of caution.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace?” One of the maids came into the drawing room where Genny stood looking out at the empty drive.

  “What is it, Martha?”

  “Mrs. Hart wanted me to let you know that Lady Marianne seems to be playing her games again. Lady Felicity is in the nursery working on her lessons, but no one can find Lady Marianne.”

  Genny let out a long sigh. “That young lady will exhaust us all with her high spirits. Tell Mrs. Hart to stay with Lady Felicity in the nursery while I go check Lady Marianne’s usual hiding spots.”