As she was Lance’s marchioness, Cara’s quick response, in full view of the ton, would gratify the scandalmongers. Her estimable position afforded her power, privilege, and respect, and no one would gainsay her. That she wielded her influence to save Elaine was humbling.
“It would be my pleasure.” Ross tugged at his cravat and led Cara to the dance floor.
And Lance steered Elaine toward the Brethren. There, surrounded by their chums, he scowled. “Are you out of your mind? Sir Ross is not a viable candidate for the daughter of a marquess.”
“Why not?” Ire surfaced and fortified her defenses, as she would brook no slur upon her swain. “He is a decorated knight of His Majesty and holds a rank of prominence in our government, in much the same fashion as Admiral Douglas or Sir Collingwood, and you have no objections to them. Given you married Cara and found her worthy of your title, are you a hypocrite? In light of Sir Ross’s military record, he is highly regarded in the ton, and that makes him a perfect suitor, in my estimation.”
“You cannot be serious.” With his mouth agape, Lance appeared stunned by the revelation she had just imparted, however indiscriminately. “I forbid it.”
“You are not my father, you hold no sway over me, and I will have a man of my choosing.” Conscious of the regard displayed by her relations, she paused to gather her wits. “Lance, this is not how I planned to broach the topic, but there it is, and I cannot deny the truth. If he will accept me, I will have Sir Ross, and nothing you do will alter my path.”
“My young and naïve cousin, do not bet on it.” As Lance reached for her, she turned and ran, ignoring his calls.
Bobbing and weaving through the sea of partygoers, she scurried down the hall and pushed through the terrace doors. The cool night air penetrated the heavy folds of her powder blue gown, and she hugged herself. Strolling the garden trail, she located the maze from memory, despite the thick clouds shrouding the moonlight. Little by little, Elaine surrendered to the encroaching tears and despair.
Did no one trust her to determine her own life?
Ever since her parents died, when she was but a child, everyone tried to shield her from the harsh reality of the world. And for the better portion of her years, she cooperated with her family, because it was far easier to obey their directives and let them dictate her actions than to take responsibility for herself and set her own course. Well she had other plans, which included a husband and children. She was done bowing to the commands of others, and it was past due for her to spread her winds and fly.
An intense dialogue posited a fortuitous distraction, and she wiped her cheeks and inched further into the complex network of thorny hedgerows. She veered left, right, and left again, as the argument grew heated. At last, she came upon a miniature courtyard, where two men hurled accusations at each other, and she stood mesmerized by their row.
“You betrayed our family.”
“My family?” The unknown antagonist snickered. “When have you ever counted me as such?”
“What an embarrassment. I should have drowned you at birth.”
“Then your son would have had no one to do his dirty work.”
“That is the sum of your usefulness.” The foe grasped the lapels of his rival. “You are a worthless bastard.”
“Not so anymore.” The confident opponent broke free. “And suddenly, I am the talk of London. Given my statements to the authorities, I am a hero, and your legitimate issue will swing atop the gallows.”
“I think not, as without you, the prosecutor has nothing.”
Without warning, the clouds parted, bathing the contentious scene in a pale silver brilliance, just as the silhouetted figure pulled a knife from his coat pocket and repeatedly stabbed his enemy in the gut, and the victim dropped to the ground.
Shocked by the brutal act of violence, Elaine stifled a gasp of horror, as she would not betray her presence. But when the villain suddenly glanced in her direction, she discovered the identity of the blackguard. It became readily apparent the moonlight illuminated her, too, as he moved toward her, and she clutched fistfuls of her skirt and sprinted from the tiny enclosure.
For a few minutes, she darted down various avenues, as terror drove her into a state of confusion, and she lost her orientation amid the dense foliage. With her pulse pounding in her ears, she dashed along the wrong path and located naught but a dead end. Pounding footfalls brought her up short, and her pursuer continued the chase but bolted past her hideaway. So she raced in the opposite tack but could not locate the exit.
A fervent contest ensued, as she labored to evade her would-be attacker, while he tried to run her aground, and she uttered a silent prayer for guidance and redemption. To her inexpressible vexation, she stumbled upon another impasse, just as telltale treads heralded the danger that advanced.
With a hand at her throat, and dangling on the precipice of unconsciousness, she backed into a corner, anxiety simmering in her veins as a caged animal. Myriad images played her personal history, and she rued the missed opportunities that marked her unremarkable biography. In preparation to scream, that she might raise the alarm and save herself, she inhaled.
“Elaine, are you there?” Sir Ross inquired.
Emitting a sob of relief, she flung herself at him and burrowed her face in his chest, but words failed her. As he held her, he rocked in a gentle rhythm, and she clung to him.
“You are shaking, and you are crying.” He cradled her head. “What is it? What happened? Talk to me.”
Elaine shifted in his grasp and met his gaze. “I just witnessed a murder.”
#
Death functioned as a great equalizer in the game of life. Regardless of good deeds or past crimes, no one evaded a fated demise, which often struck without warning, cutting down its victim when least expected. Whether powerful monarch or penniless pauper, everyone ended up in the same miserable condition, as a rotting corpse providing fodder for maggots, given no one cheated the Reaper.
It was in that realm the troubled soul often found consolation and peace. The departed asked no questions, harbored no expectations, and wielded no criticism or disappointments. The silence yielded no disillusions, thus a terminally wounded heart suffered no regret.
Holding aloft his bull’s-eye lantern, Sir Ross Logan squatted and studied the motionless form of John Harris, villain turned deponent for the prosecution in an upcoming trial of prominence. Unremarkable in profile or stature, the Earl of Waddlington’s notorious by-blow rested on his back, a huge bloodstain marring his elegant gentleman’s attire, with an expression of shock, frozen in time to mark the moment of his murder, investing his ghostly visage.
“It is as you said.” The coroner, Dr. Fulham, peeled back the ruined coat and frowned. “There are multiple stab wounds to the abdomen, but I shall complete a thorough examination once the body is transported to my laboratory.”
“I need your report, as soon as possible, but do not move him until the crime-scene sketch artist has finished his drawing.” After a scan of the surroundings, Ross waved to his second in command, Corps special agent Miles Barrett. “Where is Lady Prescott?”
“The Marquess of Raynesford took her home.” Barrett glanced over his shoulder. “Sir, members of the press have gathered at the front of the residence, and they demand an interview.”
“Bloody leeches. I would be only too happy to advise them what they may do with their demands.” As was the case with most homicides, especially one involving a member of the peerage, the gossip traveled fast. “Have we any leads on Waddlington’s whereabouts?”
“Not yet.” With a grimace, Barrett shook his head. “But Lady Waddlington has cooperated and permitted us to search their town residence. We located naught, and I am not surprised. Given the earl’s resources, he could be anywhere, by now.”
“Except I do not believe he has left the city.” And that was what worried Ross, because he feared for Elaine’s safety. “Assign someone to monitor our progress, and have a team remain o
n site, until everything is processed.”
“Are we not turning over the investigation to Bow Street?” Arching a brow, Barrett scratched his temple. “Is this not their jurisdiction?”
“On normal occasions, yes.” Ross checked his plan of action and revised his notes. “But there is nothing normal about this offense, and the Home Office asked us to take charge, in light of the distinguished parties involved, as our resources are vast. Now, I need you with me.”
“Very good, sir.” Barrett dipped his chin.
After a final survey, Ross signaled Barrett, and they cut through the formal gardens to the mews, where Ross’s discreet black coach waited. A short ride along the streets of Mayfair conveyed them to Grosvenor Square and the resplendent, Palladian style residence of the marquess of Raynesford. The elegant urn-topped rails and Corinthian columned portico contrasted with the violence that occurred in the Hawthorne’s maze, and he rued the forthcoming exchange that loomed on the horizon. As Ross ascended the stairs, a proper butler set wide the double doors.
“Sir Ross.” The manservant bowed and then took Ross’s coat, hat, and gloves. “His lordship will meet you in the study, if you will follow me.”
A gentle drumbeat kept rhythm, counting down his date with destiny, as his polished Hessians tapped against the lustrous marble floor. With Barrett in Ross’s wake, he strolled into the gentleman’s domain and was not surprised to find the entire compliment of the Brethren of the Coast, yes, he knew of their existence, gathered for the judgment.
“Welcome, Ross.” His Grace, the Duke of Rylan, stood and extended a hand in friendship, but the polite demeanor did not fool Ross. “Glad you could join us. Would you care for a brandy?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace.” As of late, Ross considered Blake Elliott a friend, inasmuch as anyone could view the estimable noble an ally. But Ross suspected their accord ended at Lady Elaine’s involvement in John Harris’s murder, and Blake made no secret of his displeasure prior to departing the Hawthorne’s. “It dulls my senses, and I am on duty, thus I would maintain my faculties.” He glanced to his right. “Allow me to introduce my associate, Miles Barrett. With Raynesford’s permission, I would like to assign Barrett as personal guard for Lady Elaine, until we apprehend Lord Waddlington.”
“What was my cousin doing in the garden, alone, with you?” Sitting behind his desk, Lance lowered his chin and tapped his fingers to the blotter. “Did you arrange an assignation with her?”
“I beg your pardon?” A concert of snickers traversed the room, and Ross tugged at his cravat, as he braced for forthcoming recriminations, none of which had any basis in fact. “I have no such understanding with Lady Elaine.”
“She is but twenty years old, Logan.” Lance pounded the hand-tooled furnishing. “How is it you located her in the maze, of all places, if you scheduled no tryst?”
“Because I know her.” Ross cursed himself, in that moment, as Lance bounded out of his chair. “That is to say, we have much in common.” Again, it was too late when he realized his mistake, because, in such delicate matters, candor could undermine his position, as evidenced by the rapidly approaching noble. The ensuing scene played before him like some warped comedy.
“Whoa, brother.” Blake launched into the fray, occupying the unfortunate position between Lance and Ross. “I do not believe Ross meant that as it sounded.”
“Then let him explain.” Ire poured from the usually dignified marquess. “And I will have a full account, to my satisfaction, else I will see him at dawn on Paddington Green.”
In that instant, Captain Jason Collingwood surrendered to a fit of hilarity, which had Blake shaking his head. “You are not helping.”
“Please, let us not leap to unsupported conclusions woven from whole cloth.” Damian Seymour, the duke of Weston and the voice of reason, splayed his palms. “We are all adults here.”
“Everyone remain calm.” Dirk Randolph, viscount Wainsbrough, elbowed Collingwood and mouthed, No. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for the events that transpired tonight.”
“Oh, let them fight.” Dalton leaned forward in his seat. “We could use a little excitement.”
“My money is on Logan.” Trevor Marshall, earl of Lockwood, chuckled. “Fifty pounds, and Lance never puts a scratch on the leader of the Corps.”
“I will take those odds.” Everett Markham, earl of Woverton, fished a few bills from his coat pocket. “As I believe Lance will get in at least one blow.”
“I will take a piece of that action, as Lance sports a wicked left uppercut, which knocked me on my arse last week at Jackson’s.” Lucien Wentworth, earl of Calvert, scooted his chair to the side and chucked the shoulder of another knight of the Brethren. “What say you, de Vere?”
“Double or nothing on Logan.” George, viscount Huntingdon, bobbed and weaved. “As the man is a lethal assassin, which must count for something, even in the ballrooms of the ton. But if Lance were a matchmaking mama, my wager would be on the mama.”
To wit Jason guffawed and slapped his thighs.
“What in bloody hell do you find so funny?” Lance inquired, through gritted teeth.
“Everything.” Collingwood snorted. “And I look forward to the drama, as I enjoyed a front row seat to your previous venture into that special brand of torture known as courtship.” Resting elbows to knees, Jason clucked his tongue. “In fact, I anticipate a similar disastrous performance, given your propensity for stubbornness, thus I am a keen spectator. Indeed, drawing on your considerable expertise in such matters, why not take the poor bastard down to the docks and keelhaul him, now, as it would spare us a great deal of anguish?”
“Only you would make sport of Elaine’s ruin.” Lance scowled and returned his angry glare to Ross, sidestepped Blake, and grasped fistfuls of Ross’s coat. “How dare you make an offer of marriage without first seeking my permission.”
“What?” With Barrett’s assistance, Ross broke free, retreated, and formed a response prior to offering his rebuttal. “Lord Raynesford, you labor under a misapprehension, as I made no such overture, nor would I ever do so, given I have no intention of taking a wife.”
“But you cannot mean that.” At the subtle whisper of Elaine’s voice, Ross faltered. “Why will you not give us a chance at happiness? Am I so undesirable?”
“Cara, take Elaine to her chambers.” With arms folded in front of him, Lance squared his shoulders. “On behalf of our family, I will deal with Sir Ross.”
“It is Elaine’s future you discuss, and she has a right to be here.” Cara mirrored her husband’s stance. “Is your memory so short that you already forgot what happened when last you tried and failed to direct a woman’s heart?”
To Ross’s chagrin, Jason bellowed with laughter.
“Oh, will you cease your prattle?” With a groan of frustration, Lance stomped to the brandy decanter, yanked the crystal stopper, gulped the liquid directly from the bottle, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Elaine may be stalked by a murderous villain, and you make jokes and place wagers.”
“Lance is right.” With a mighty scowl, Blake shifted his weight. “The situation is beyond grievous, given we discuss the father of the man we believe killed General Teversham and Lieutenant Snowley, prior to kidnapping Lenore and Lucilla.”
“Ah, there is that.” Clearing his throat, Jason sobered. “Apologies, brother.”
“It is safe to presume Waddlington disposed of Harris, because he was the chief witness against Cornelius Sheldon.” Of singular intent, Ross steered the conversation, and he needed a diversion, as Elaine distracted him, much to his annoyance. “My concern is how far the earl is willing to go to protect his son.”
“And how many lives is he prepared to take?” Blake inquired. “Of course, my chief regard centers on Lenore, as she is with child, and even now she is guarded by armed footmen.”
“And what of Lucilla?” Rubbing his chin, Damian narrowed his stare. “She was Sheldon’s victim, too.”
“Does not Miss Teversham still reside in America?” Ross pondered the requisite resources involved in initiating another protection detail. “As I would presume the distance works in her favor.”
“She lives with her aunt and uncle in Virginia, to be exact.” Damian’s quick response garnered Ross’s attention, and he wondered if there was more to the duke’s interest in Lucy. “I should pen a note of warning to Samuel, that he might be on guard.” Then he snapped his fingers. “On second thought, I will set sail at dawn, as a letter may go astray and leave Lucy—I mean, Miss Teversham vulnerable to attack. If you will excuse me, I will make the arrangements.”
“That is an excellent idea, and I daresay the others may withdraw, while I review the mission with Lord Raynesford and Agent Barrett.” As Damian made his farewells, Ross drew a line through Lucilla’s name. “Given His Grace has secured Her Grace, my concern lies with Lady Elaine.”
“You need not bother, as I will defend my cousin.” And so the conversation came full circle, as the marquess glowered. “Thus you and your man are dismissed, Logan.”
“Lance, do not be foolish.” Lingering near the hearth, Jason gazed into the blaze. “Of all people, you should know that when a woman declares war, resistance is futile.” The blonde captain turned and cast an expression of earnest reflection mixed with sincerity that was not lost on Ross. “Do you not recall the lengths to which Alex resorted, what she risked, without hesitation, to win my heart? Let me assure you, not a day goes by that I do not think of what she surrendered, and I am humbled and grateful that she chose me.” He drained the contents of his brandy balloon and set it on the desk. “And you are equally fortunate, as I know what Cara yielded to drag you to the altar, only to reward you with a devoted bride and two cherished sons.”
“Oh, come now.” Lance huffed a breath. “It is not the same.”
“Is it not?” Jason strolled to the fore. “If you are honest with yourself, and you reminisce of the past wicked campaigns preceding the unions of our married brothers, you must admit I speak the truth. Will you jeopardize your relationship with Elaine and your wife to stand on false pride?” Collingwood paused and studied Ross. “Welcome to the family. However premature, it is certainly apropos. The real question is whether or not you accept what fate has graciously bestowed upon you, or you prolong your agony and still arrive at the same outcome, beaten, battered, and bruised but all the wiser.”
To Catch A Fallen Spy (Brethren of the Coast Book 8) Page 2
