“Yours is quite an unrestful manor, Sir Richard.”
His eyes focused in on her, widened, darkened. A hand shot out to her neck. “Unrestful.”
She leaned back, trying to contain the fear, mind reeling. Fox roared through his gag, and one of Sir Richard’s eyes ticked.
She must distract him before he turned back on Fox. “Unhand me,” she said calmly.
The muscles around his eyes worked. He was confused. He thought she was her mother, whom he had wanted. Perhaps she should use that against him.
She summoned the memory of her mother’s calm tone. “Unhand me, please, Richard.”
He took his hand away, looked at it, looked at her neck. “Felicity.” There was disgust in his tone. “I’ve left blood on your fichu.” He reached for the scrap of cloth.
“No.” She tried to hang onto the scarf but he snatched it away and let it drop.
“What the devil?” He peered closer. “Who did this to you?”
You did. But I can’t remind you of who I am now. “I…I bruise easily,” she said.
His brows drew together. “No. Barely touched you. That’s old. He did it. Who is he to you, Felicity?”
Her mind raced. Could she get to one of her blades in time? Or a pick?
The henchman pulled Fox’s head up by his hair and she saw the fierce gleam in his eye. He still had fight in him.
“Unrestful,” she said again, sternly. “How could you expect a woman to want to live in a house—”
“A lover.” Sir Richard paced in front of Fox, who followed the Squire’s movements with his eyes.
Perry slumped forward in the chair, and none of the men noticed. She moved a hand under her skirt and slipped out the razor sharp sgian dubh.
She slid it into her pocket, praying it wouldn’t cut through the stitching or cloth before she could use it on one of these villains.
“Leave that man alone,” she said.
He jerked around to look at her, mouth firmed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Untie his feet. We’ll settle this.”
Prickles raced down her arms and legs. “Just let that man go. He’s nothing to me, and he’s no bother to you.”
“No bother, eh? Killed two of my men, here. And you coming in with him. And…” He drew his brows together again and shook his head. “Shaldon.”
He leveled a steady gaze at her and she could see the moment the fog in his head cleared. A laugh rumbled up inside him. She eased herself up, flexing her hands and stiffening her back. Alone, she would run. But she wouldn’t leave Fox. She had to delay whatever Sir Richard planned. The others would come for them.
Keep him talking. “What is your quarrel with Lord Shaldon?” she asked.
“He took what was mine.”
She saw Fox’s head move in the smallest of shakes.
“Gorse Cottage?” she asked.
The Squire’s laugh was nasty. “Not even a fare-thee-well. Didn’t even waltz in for a courtship. Brother died, and he swooped her up with the title. Bloody greedy bastard. All arranged by letters until the wedding itself. Busy saving the country, the great man.”
“Why did…why did you hurt Felicity?”
“Hurt her?” He smashed a fist on the table. “Left her alone, I did, her and her spawn. Never wanted to hurt Felicity. She just wouldn’t…she just wouldn’t come. Wanted the title, she did. But John Black had ways.”
“Ways? What ways?”
He glanced at the door to the servants’ exit. “I’ve a whole army outside, enough for a beaten ox, an old woman, and a jackanapes who’ll collapse any moment from the tea I fed him.”
Her heart raced. “He spat it out.”
“There’ll be enough to sicken him and make it easy for my men.” He strolled closer, lifted her chin, studying her neck, and grunted. “Never send a Frenchie to do an Englishman’s work.” He nodded to his henchman.
The man raised his hand, steel glinting.
“Wait,” Perry screamed. “Fox.”
“Hold there.”
The henchman stepped away at Sir Richard’s command.
“Fox, you said?” He went back to study Fox’s face.
Perry gripped the hilt of the dagger.
“Fox.” Sir Richard laughed. “Well, well. I knew Goodfellow was not your real name, but I had no idea…” His head jerked up and he eyed Perry. “Alone at the cottage, were you? Aye.” He jabbed a thumb at his man. “His feet. I said untie them.”
The bloody hand clamped on her upper arm. There’d be another bruise there that Sir Richard would pay for.
Chapter 34
Perry.
Her stifled oof on the stair behind him made his gut clench, and her name had come out muffled. Dear God, he couldn’t even reach to help her. He couldn’t strike out at Sir Richard. He had a foot free to kick but he might hit Perry by mistake.
His captor wrenched his arm, and all but dragged him down a corridor. Mildew and dust clogged his nose, and between that and his rage, and the damned gag, he struggled for breath. He’d settle up with this lump when he was done with the one grasping Perry.
Shaldon might want Sir Richard alive so he could pick through the schemes that tied the two men together. Shaldon might want to fight on, but maybe this score should be Shaldon’s last. For Perry’s sake.
Let this be done. He’d find his chance—a shard of broken glass, a razor laid out. He’d get out of these cords. He’d got out of worse before in bloody France.
Up one flight. Past one, two, three doors to a massive door on their right, this one oiled and dusted. Sweat crawled over his skin, and his jaw locked around the filth of the rag gagging him.
Being taken to the master’s bedchamber could not be a good omen for Perry.
His captor stood only as high as Fox’s shoulder, and walked with a rolling, side-to-side gait. He was thin-necked but thick in the chest. A sailor, Fox guessed, from the tail of an inking that curled up his neck, and a scar that reached under his chin. He’d have taken the lash, this one. A hired hand, and not a local free-trader either, unless he’d run off to sea for a spell.
His tongue stuck on the gag. Hell, he couldn’t even gobble the words to offer the man better wages to turn him before the rest of their company came.
They shuffled into a dingy room smelling of brandy and piss, and something worse. Mostly something worse, because Harv wasn’t here anymore to lick the Squire’s chamber pot.
Sir Richard closed the door and a lock snicked. He left Perry and went to the window, pulling back drapes. The sun had come out, and the midday light streaming in sparkled with dust motes.
Perry sidled closer, her jaw clamped tight, her hands buried in her skirts. The weapons were gone, they’d said, but she still had the ones he’d slipped into her boots. Maybe.
He caught her eye and nodded. If not, he’d think of something. That tumbler there would shatter just fine into sharp shards.
Sir Richard turned away from the window, his square face molded into a dour frown and punctuated by bruises and blotches of blood. The Baronet had found the injury in Kincaid’s left side and pushed that advantage. But even stung by his injury the night before, Kincaid was a master of the right hook, on or off balance.
Fox followed Perry’s line of sight and his hands curled into fists inside their bindings. The great four-poster bed was heaped with mangled linens.
“Light that brace,” Sir Richard barked to his man.
Fox’s captor growled low and went to the mantel.
Fox shuffled closer to Perry. She leaned her head onto his shoulder and angled her breast into his arm.
A fine, smooth, object slipped awkwardly into his palm. He fumbled, almost dropped it, and she steadied his grip.
“Don’t worry,” she breathed and her hands went to work untying his gag, tossing the foul thing to the floor.
“That’s right,” Sir Richard said. “Let him shpeak. We’ll hear what he hash to shay.” He shrugged out of his coat, barely wincing, Fox noted. The man wa
s as much of an ox as Kincaid. No doubt Kincaid had landed a few blows to that chest, but there was no sign he’d cracked a rib.
Perry poked at him and turned around standing directly in front of him. She’d positioned him in a dark corner. He leaned his shoulders against the wall and began to saw at his bindings.
“Take off your gown,” Sir Richard said.
“What?” Perry squeaked. “What are you talking about?”
“Take off your gown. You’re going to give me what Felicity wouldn’t. And then you’ll marry me and give me Gorse Cottage and your ten thousand pounds a year.”
“Ten thousand pounds?” she croaked. “How could you possibly know—”
“Oh, come. Everyone knows. Take off your gown.”
“I’ll not do it. My father will kill you first.”
“I’ll kill you first,” Fox said.
“Your father will be dead. And so will you be, Mr. Fox.” He advanced on Perry, and she backed away.
Fox sawed frantically. She was leading the Squire away from him.
His man was still struggling with the tinderbox, finally catching a spark.
“Have you forgotten?” Fox asked. “She has three brothers, Fenwick.”
“Yesh, three brothers. A puffed up bashtard, an heir with his head up every horse’s ash, and another chasing skirts. Won’t matter once we are married. They’ll do the right thing to keep up appearances.”
“You don’t know my brothers,” Perry said.
Blood rose in him. Her voice was strong. That was something. He sawed furiously, felt a line loosen and then nicked himself. Shit.
“Three brothers,” he said. “One for each squirely ball and the squirely prick.”
A snigger came from the servant. Sir Richard advanced on Perry and grabbed the shoulders of her gown, ripping them. The gown pulled apart and he tore at her shift, revealing her breasts.
The lamplighter stopped to stare, and the Squire laughed.
“Look away. Mayhap I’ll let you have her too.” He swung a glare to Fox. “And you can watch.”
Fox pushed himself straight and wrestled his shoulders, holding on to the fragments of rope. Almost there, but not far enough along to risk giving himself away.
Fenwick pushed her onto the bed, and she flopped back and then sat up, clutching the sides of her shift with one hand. Her other hand jabbed into her skirts.
She had something else hidden away. If he could see her move, Fenwick would also.
Blast this rope. He turned the knife and worked it. This sailor had tied a fine knot.
“There’ll be blood,” she said. “I’m having my courses.”
The squire paused. “You’re lying. Ladies lie about and moan when they’re bleeding.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t know any true ladies.”
“Well, it won’t matter. Never been scared of a lady’s blood. “He waved his minion over and grabbed the brace of candles. “Took you long enough, you fool. Here now, Mr. Fox, I’ve something of interest to show you.” He skirted past Perry and lifted the light.
Fox’s heart almost stopped.
The painting, Felicity and Perpetua, hung over Fenwick’s bed. He almost dropped the knife, but made himself keep going, sawing as if he were carving through the heaviest wood.
Perry hopped off the bed, rearranged her dress, and backed toward Fox. “You stole it,” she said. “You killed my mother for the painting.”
The sharp blade broke through the last binding. He flexed his arms. He was free, but he could feel the slick of blood on his arms.
“No,” Sir Richard shook his head, and then threw back his head and laughed. “Offered it to me, she did. ‘Here, take this’, she said, ‘and let us go.’ A masterpiece it was. She’d sent a copy made by Mr. Fox to ransom her husband.”
“Mother wouldn’t have done that,” Perry said.
“Aye. That duke wants him and so do I. Send a Frenchie. No blame to Sir Richard.” He frowned. “Fucking frogs don’t know how to finish anything, but I do. I killed your mother because she betrayed me. To own a masterpiece like this was just a perk of the free trade.”
“It’s not a masterpiece,” Fox said. “It’s the copy I painted. I know the markings.”
He laughed. “I know what’s what.”
Fenwick plopped the candelabra on the bedside table and swooped like lightning on Perry, throwing her down on the bed.
The fool of a henchman turned to watch. Fox sliced through the tat and the scar cleanly, and the man’s garbled cry brought Fenwick round.
“Fenwick!” Perry shouted. She landed a kick squarely on the man’s injured jaw. “Lord Shaldon lives,” she shouted.
He grabbed her foot and wrenched it, and Fox drove the dagger into thick sinew.
Sir Richard writhed and threw Fox back, injured but not beaten. Perry landed another solid boot jab into his face and he howled. She spun off the bed, fumbling with her boot and another dagger flashed into view.
Fenwick raised his head, bleeding from one eye, cornered between the two blades.
“You failed, Fenwick,” she shouted hoarsely. “Shaldon lives. You’ll die.”
“Do you want to do the honors, my love, or shall I?” Fox asked.
Voices outside drew their attention.
“Father wants you alive,” she said, “and then you will hang.”
Fenwick threw back his head and laughed. “Shaldon is dead. I’ve an army out there.”
“Those are our men,” Fox said.
He hoped.
Sir Richard’s lip curled up. “Your dragoons are no match for hardened smugglers.”
Doors slammed below, and footsteps pounded through the house.
“Maybe,” Fox said. “And maybe we have some hardened smugglers on our side.”
The bedchamber latch rattled and a fist hammered the door.
“We’re in here,” Perry yelled. She waggled her blade at the villain. “Care to wager, Sir Richard?”
There was no reply from the corridor, but Farnsworth would be too cagey to speak. Better to keep the villain nervous and guessing. Fox edged toward the door. The key was not in the lock.
“You bitch. I’d get away from the door if I were you, Goodfellow,” Fenwick said. “Bound to catch splinters.”
“We’ll see.” Fox nodded to Perry.
A connecting door hidden in the grimy wainscoting opened. Farnsworth and the MacEwens strolled in.
The MacEwens’ stunned gazes glanced over Perry’s nakedness and quickly away. Farnsworth had a rifle trained on the Squire.
Perry’s knife hand trembled. Fox saw it, Farnsworth saw it. Fenwick would see it also.
The squire’s lunge was his last-ditch attempt at survival. Perry tossed the knife and scrambled up higher on the bed.
And Farnsworth fired.
In the drawing room of Gorse Cottage, Perry pulled her dressing gown closed and took another sip of tea, watching the military surgeon the dragoon captain had brought in bind the cuts on Fox’s arms.
The late summer day had slipped away behind rolling pillows of fog, casting shadows over this gathering.
Father lolled in an armchair, Lady Jane fussing over him, shushing his slurred interjections. Kinkaid was trussed up in a sling, but his free hand flew across a paper, and Farnsworth worked at another one. She and Fox would write their statements soon.
His gaze met hers and he smiled, and hope bloomed in her. After all that had happened, they still hadn’t had time to talk about marriage.
“That should do it,” the surgeon said. He was a brusque young fellow, quite handsome enough to give MacEwen a run for his money. Jenny had been very solicitous.
And Fox had insisted on being in the room when the surgeon had examined her injuries. Another incident that gave her hope.
She stood and went to Fox, turning his hands over to examine the bandages at his wrists. “Excellent work.”
“You should rest, my lady,” the surgeon said. “Let that bruise to
your ribs heal.”
She smiled at the young man. “Yes. Fox also needs rest, doesn’t he?”
“Aye, my lady.” The surgeon averted his eyes and began putting away his instruments.
Kincaid and Farnsworth set down their plumes. “Take your bed back, Fox,” Farnsworth said. “We’ll be in the stables with the MacEwens.”
“Alive,” Father said.
Father meant Sir Richard, who was locked in the stables in Scruggs’s vacated quarters under a heavy guard.
A wave of nausea hit Father, and Lady Jane held a pan for him.
“Fenwick is next for the good bones’s attention,” Kincaid said. “We’ve given him a large dose of his own laudanum. It’ll keep him quiet until we decide what to do with him.”
“There now,” Farnsworth said, blotting his paper. “You’ll all write your reports for us next.”
“Shaldon will not be writing reports tonight,” Jane said. “Farnsworth, help me get him to his bed, and then bring in an armchair from Lady Perry’s room. I’ll keep watch over him tonight.”
“Will you, then, Jane?” Father’s voice oozed a sensuality that drew everyone’s attention.
Lady Jane colored deeply and clamped her lips tight.
The surgeon cleared his throat. “The effects should wear off by morning. If one of you will take me to the prisoner?”
“That will be me.” Kincaid stood.
“You’ll want to sleep, Lady Jane,” Fox said. “I’ll move Jenny’s cot for you.”
“Write those reports.” Farnsworth hooked a hand under Shaldon’s shoulder. “Come, Shaldon. Grab his other side, Jane.”
When they were gone, Perry pulled a chair near to Fox’s.
“It was a near thing, wasn’t it?” she said, “But we’re all alive.”
“You should have let me kill the squire.”
“The bullet will fester and kill him probably, not before Father has a chance at him. I hope his man with the bad breath was swept up by the dragoons.”
Fox shook his head. “I killed him last night.”
The gravity in his voice, the serious expression in his eyes, told her much. “Do I want to know the details?”
He flinched.
The Counterfeit Lady: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 4) Page 23
