Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Genny could tell that the maid had expected her to order the servants to search for Marianne, but she was fairly certain she knew where to find the mischievous child. Ever since John had taken over the title, little Marianne had gotten bolder and bolder in her waywardness. Genny had thought at first it was just her way of coming to terms with a new situation, but now she was beginning to suspect it was simply the child’s natural temperament.

  She searched the house first but found no sign of the little girl. Then she went outside to look in the garden. Marianne had a favorite place of all, a little alcove in the rose garden that boasted a fish pond. She stepped into the shrub-lined grotto, expecting the little scamp to be dangling her fingers in the water after the fish. And froze.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Lord Raventhorpe said. Marianne sat in the grass nearby, sucking on a stick of candy.

  “Hello, Genny!” the little girl called, waving her treat in the air. “Look what Lord Raventhorpe brought me.”

  Genny took one slow step after the other, eyeing the earl as she would a wild boar. “Marianne, sweetheart, Mrs. Hart is looking for you.”

  The little girl scrunched her face into a scowl. “Do I have to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” Marianne got to her feet, then curtsied to Raventhorpe. “Thank you for the treat, Lord Raventhorpe.”

  “My pleasure.” Raventhorpe watched Genny with a half smile on his face while Marianne trudged toward her. “It seems to me, Your Grace, that the child has better manners than her guardians. You have not even greeted me properly.”

  “My apologies. I am simply wondering what you are doing here.” And how you got on the property with no one seeing you. And what you were doing alone with Marianne.

  “Such a lovely child,” the earl said. “You should treasure the young ones while they are about, for you never know when they will be gone forever.”

  She heard the threat, stiffened. “I cannot fathom why you did not come to the front door, Lord Raventhorpe.”

  “I saw this darling girl out here alone, and I knew you would want me to watch over her. After all, a child playing alone outside is subject to all sorts of danger.” His cultured purr added a menace to the words that chilled her blood.

  “Genny, are we going inside?” Marianne tugged at her skirt.

  “I believe it is best if the child returns to the house alone, do you not agree, Your Grace?”

  Genny opened her mouth to protest—then closed it when Raventhorpe slid aside the edge of his coat so she saw the blade nestled there. She met his gaze, that unfeeling, pale blue stare, and knew with utter certainty that he would kill Marianne without a blink of remorse if he thought it would further his own ends.

  “Go to the nursery, Marianne,” she said. “You are late for lessons.”

  “Come with me.” Marianne grabbed her hand and tugged.

  “I will come along shortly.” Genny held Raventhorpe’s stare, as if she could control his actions with the sheer power of her will. “You go on now.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Marianne!”

  The little girl’s lower lip trembled. “I am going. But I do not like you anymore.” She stomped out of the alcove.

  “Well done, Your Grace.” Raventhorpe stood, his tall, deceptively slender form as graceful as a serpent. “I could have killed her, you know.”

  “I know. What do you want?”

  He laughed. “Right to the point, eh? Excellent.” He strolled over to her as casually as if they attended a picnic on a lovely spring day. “Where is your husband, Lady Evermayne? I saw him ride out.”

  “I do not know where he went.”

  “Now, now.” He made a tsking sound as he stopped before her. “I know the vicar is here, the one from Elford-by-the-Sea. And I know he has been combing the countryside looking for your husband for weeks now. Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  He grabbed her arm, jerked her forward. “Do not lie to me!”

  She knew she trembled, could not stop the physical response to fear. But she lifted her chin and met his gaze even as her knees weakened. This man could end her life with one swipe of that evil-looking blade, but he would not find it easy. She was an admiral’s daughter, by God, and would not go down without a fight. “Threatening me will not make me more cooperative.”

  “Tell me where he went. What did the vicar give him? Or tell him?”

  “The vicar did not give or tell him anything.” At least that much she could say with truthfulness.

  “So, the idiot may have indeed been successful.” Raventhorpe glanced away and seemed to be speaking to himself.

  Genny edged her foot backwards, hoping to put distance between them. But before she could move even an inch, he grabbed her arm and presented the length of cold steel to her throat.

  “I have no compunction about killing you, my dear. But think, once you are gone, I will move on to His Grace’s adorable cousins. Your husband will come home to a bloodbath.”

  “No,” she choked. She squeezed her eyes shut as if she could banish the grisly image of death the earl had conjured. Not the children. She had to protect the children.

  “Where is he? Tell me!”

  She had to lead Raventhorpe away from the house, away from the innocents. “He is meeting someone.”

  “Who?” He leaned in closer. “Where? And do not attempt to be clever, dear lady. If I suspect any sort of trickery, I will cut my losses and kill you, then return for those children.” He bared his teeth in a terrible, stomach-jarring smile. “Perhaps I will take them away with me instead of ending their lives. I know some foreign gentlemen who would pay handsomely for such innocents.”

  Bile flared in her throat. “No. Leave them alone. I will tell you what I know.”

  “I am waiting.”

  She closed her eyes in a moment of prayer, hoping John forgave her for what she was about to do. But she had to keep the children safe. “He is meeting someone. I do not know who. But this person apparently stole something from the vicar yesterday and now has offered to sell it to John.”

  “What is it?” He twisted her arm in a painful grip.

  “He did not say! Just to meet him at the old church at two o’clock. And bring money.”

  “Ah. So, he is trying to betray me, is he?” Raventhorpe laughed, a sound that made her skin crawl. “I had not thought dear Peter had the stones to even try it.” He pursed his lips and considered her before turning and dragging her along behind him. “Come, Your Grace. Let’s go find your husband.”

  John arrived at the old church, a ruined pile that had centuries ago been the family chapel at Evermayne. But a pretentious great-great-uncle had declared the little chapel too plain for a duke’s use and had built the current church, a stone masterpiece with a spire reaching toward Heaven itself. The old chapel had been abandoned, left to fall apart under the ravages of the elements and the passage of time.

  The four walls still stood, but the door had long rotted off the hinges. The roof had been destroyed by a storm long before John’s birth, leaving the stone frame open to the whims of Heaven. Some of the stained-glass windows remained, but many had gotten broken or had panes stolen over the passing years.

  John walked through the ruined doorway, braced for anything. Black Bill, Raventhorpe, a gang of thugs. But instead he saw only one man, his face half-covered by a scarf, holding a gun. He stopped. “Did you lure me here to kill me?” he asked.

  “In a church? I don’t want to go to Hell.” The brigand snorted. “It’s a precaution. There are thieves about, you know.”

  John arched his brows and pulled out his own revolver, pointing it at the brigand. “I know.”

  “What the devil!” The bigger man frowned. “I didn’t think you’d bring a pistol, too!”

  “You have one,” John pointed out.

  “Yes, but I’m . . . ah, never mind.” The thief focused on John’s bag. “Is th
at the money?”

  “It is.” John opened the bag and displayed the notes and coins inside. “What will this buy me?”

  “This.” The fellow pulled a letter from his pocket and waved it. “It says John St. Giles on the front. I know because the blacksmith read the name for me. And you’re John St. Giles, right?”

  “Yes, I am John St. Giles.” He focused on the document that might save his life. “Did the blacksmith read the letter to you, by chance?”

  “No. I don’t care what’s inside, just who might pay me the most to get it.” He chuckled.

  “I have a sack of money for you. What do you say we make an exchange? You leave the letter there on the pulpit, and I will leave the money here near the baptismal font. Then we both walk around the room—on opposite sides—until we switch places. Then you take the money, and I take the letter.”

  The thief frowned for a moment, clearly thinking. Then he nodded. “Good idea. And we’ve both got guns, so there won’t be any tricks.”

  “No tricks,” John agreed. “I will count to three—”

  “Bugger that! I’ll do the counting.” The thief set the letter on the pulpit.

  John put his bag on the floor, his gaze fixed on the letter. His heart hammered like a piston, anticipation firing his blood. Would this simple piece of paper prove to be the key to his freedom?

  “One . . .”

  He tensed.

  “Two . . .”

  He flexed his fingers, already imagining the look on Genny’s face when he told her they had forever ahead of them.

  “Three!” The thief moved to his right, circling the pews.

  John headed down the center aisle, switching his gaze back and forth between his opponent and the pulpit where his future lay. He snatched up the letter just as the other man got to the bag of money.

  “Well, now, look at this!” The thief hefted his fortune, his eyes crinkling with what was probably a smile beneath the scarf.

  John waved the letter. “We each got what we wanted. What say you we go our separate ways?”

  The thief chuckled. “I think I got the better bargain. You just got a letter. I got a whole bag of money.” He crushed the bag against his chest with both arms.

  A shot rang through the church. The thief’s eyes widened, then he crashed forward to the floor, the money spilling from the bag.

  “That is what happens to traitors.” Raventhorpe stepped into the church, dragging Genny with him, a revolver in his other hand.

  John’s blood turned to ice. What was Genny doing here? How had Raventhorpe gotten to her?

  Her wide, fear-filled gaze seemed to beg his forgiveness.

  “What is this about, Raventhorpe?”

  “Ah, John. My old rival.” Raventhorpe strolled into the church, stepping over the fallen thief and dragging Genny in his wake. “It has been so long since we met face-to-face.”

  John slipped the letter into his pocket. “Not that long. How is that bullet wound, by the way? Sitting down all right?”

  Raventhorpe stopped and glared at him. “I owe you for that and much more, John St. Giles. But no, it is Evermayne now, is it not? You always did have the devil’s own luck.” He held the revolver to Genny’s temple. “Especially with women. First Elizabeth, then the lovely Genny.”

  “Elizabeth chose me as her husband, Raventhorpe. Just as she later chose you as her lover.”

  “Ah, yes. She was a wicked little thing. Found you too tame in the bedroom, my boy. Wanted a real man between her thighs.” He eyed Genny. “Do you suppose your current bride feels the same?”

  “Leave her be. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “Oh, were you under the impression you were in charge here?” Raventhorpe raised his brows. “I suppose that depends on how much you value your bride. Put down the weapon, John, and show me the letter Peter stole for you.”

  John held up the gun, keeping his eyes steady on his enemy, then bent and put it on the floor. He knew Raventhorpe would kill without conscience. Had he not learned that lesson when Elizabeth had been murdered? He had not been able to protect her then. Could he protect Genny now?

  “Very good. Now show me the letter.”

  John kept his gaze on Genny as he pulled the letter from his pocket. She watched him steadily, hope and confidence shining in her eyes. Somehow, he would make this work. Somehow, both of them would walk away from this today.

  Even if the cost was the proof of his innocence.

  “Read it, John. Let us see if this scrap of paper was worth the steep price you paid . . . that you might yet pay.”

  John opened the letter with trembling fingers.

  “Who is it from? Come now, Evermayne, do not dawdle.” He leaned close to Genny and stage-whispered, “The suspense is thrilling, would you agree?”

  She ignored the earl, brave girl, and kept her gaze steady on John as he began to read.

  “Let it be known that this letter serves as the confession of Jack Norman, former footman to Lord Canthrope of London, in the matter of an incident on the twelfth of May, 1869, wherein Jack Norman admits to assisting under duress in the act of murder.”

  “Duress!” Raventhorpe exclaimed. “I did not hold a knife to the man’s throat. He helped of his own free will.”

  “There is more,” John said.

  “Go on, then.” Raventhorpe waved his gun hand.

  “On the evening in question, I was persuaded by threat to the lives of my family to assist a certain gentleman, who shall remain nameless in this confession, to lure away from the company one John St. Giles. My orders were to guide the young man into the garden under pretense of searching for his wife, at which time I was to render him unconscious by pricking his skin with a ring dipped in a drug, which had been provided to me by the unnamed gentleman. I obeyed these orders, to my everlasting shame, but did so only to save the life of my daughter.

  “Let this letter serve as a statement that on the night Elizabeth St. Giles was murdered, her husband, John St. Giles, lay unconscious in the gardens at the Canthrope residence, incapable of doing harm to anyone, and that he was cast in that state by my hand. May God have mercy on my soul.”

  John’s voice broke on the last line. He looked up at Raventhorpe’s smug expression, at the tears shimmering in Genny’s eyes.

  “Jack Norman could not write nearly that well,” Raventhorpe said. “He must have had the vicar write it for him. Pity that, as I will now have to eliminate him as well. At least old Jack was wise enough not to name the gentleman who enticed him to such wickedness. Now—” Raventhorpe smiled, and John tensed. The bastard looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Set the letter back on the pulpit, John, and walk away, or else your wife dies.”

  “No, John!” Genny surged forward, only to be yanked back by Raventhorpe. “Do not do it. It is your only proof!”

  John took a step forward. “What is to prevent you from killing her as soon as I give over the letter?”

  “What is to prevent me from killing her right now?” Raventhorpe yanked her closer and pressed the gun harder against her head. “That letter does not implicate me, John. Nowhere does it say I killed Elizabeth.”

  “Then why do you want it?” Genny cried. “It cannot hurt you.”

  “No, but its absence can hurt your husband.” Raventhorpe switched his reptilian stare to John. “I did not go through all that trouble to make you look guilty just so some fool with a conscience can undo everything.”

  “John, do not do it,” Genny begged. “He will never go away. He will haunt us just like he did Annabelle. Remember what you taught Annabelle to protect herself?” She stared hard at him as if willing him to read her mind. Then she flicked her gaze at the ground and back up at him, clearly trying to communicate something. “Now I am just like Annabelle, John, and must do as she did.”

  He realized what she was suggesting and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. He would not risk her life on some mad gambit.

  She pressed her lips together,
clearly frustrated with him.

  “Enough of this nonsense. Put the letter back on the pulpit, John, then walk away.”

  “Let Genny go first.”

  Raventhorpe laughed. “Do you think you have some power here? I hold all the cards. You will do as I say.”

  John gazed at Genny, at a love he had never thought he would ever possess, and knew he would do anything to keep her alive. Even if it meant sacrificing his own life to do so. “Very well, Raventhorpe.” He started walking back toward the pulpit.

  “John!” Genny’s shriek ripped through the church.

  John dropped to the floor as a bullet whizzed by his head and struck the wooden pulpit. Raventhorpe stood with his weapon still aimed, having clearly tried to shoot John in the back. Rage twisted the earl’s features, and he turned the gun on Genny.

  She looked at John, gave him a hint of a nod, then went limp in Raventhorpe’s grasp, just as John had taught Annabelle to do.

  The earl stumbled, his gun hand flying off target as he was dragged off-balance by Genny’s dead weight.

  John dove for the weapon he had set on the floor, grabbed it, and rolled onto his side, then aimed at the earl. Fired.

  Raventhorpe cried out. His gun fell to the ground, and he cradled his bleeding arm.

  Genny grabbed the gun, sat back against the side of the pew, and aimed it at Raventhorpe. “Stay where you are. I would remind you I am an admiral’s daughter, and I do know how to shoot.”

  Raventhorpe’s lips peeled back from his teeth. “Why you little—” He lunged for Genny. A shot rang through the church. The earl howled and went down, grabbing his thigh. Genny scrabbled out of his reach.

  John raced forward as Inspector Brooks emerged from behind the baptismal font and hurried toward the fallen earl, gun drawn. “Stay right there, Raventhorpe,” the inspector said.

  “Inspector, where did you come from?” John asked.

  “I have been following you,” the man said. “I thought you were a murderer, remember.”

  “Thank goodness you are here,” Genny said.