by Amy Quinton
He never once thought to question where she’d found such garments. She’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back. He certainly hadn’t given them to her.
His eyes stalked her from head to toe. They all but acted of their own accord. Her legs were lean and splendidly muscled. Like she exercised or she spent her days at hard labor rather than being corseted into ball gowns. Odd for a lady. His heart skipped a beat at the sight and his throat turned dry even though he preferred softer, more rounded, women. But he was far too angry to care or acknowledge his primitive reactions. He brushed them aside like crumbs on a sleeve.
He’d catalogued her lack of attire and his base reactions in under five seconds. He started to pace, unfreezing as if on cue. “Lady B…”
“Do. You. Mind?” She talked over him in pretend outrage, hands on her hips, all but emphasizing the curve of her hips.
It did nothing to cool his ire, only inflamed him further. “Shut! Up!” He slashed his hand at her with his words.
She abruptly sat, stunned for the moment. Hell, he was stunned. He never thought he’d say that to a woman, much less yell it. It was a sign of his distress. He raked his hands through his hair, stopped his pacing, and continued, a tad more calmly though still skirting the edge. “I’m through with dancing to your tune, Lady Beatryce. I’ve played along for two days. We’re going to do this my way now. You promised me information. I want it. Now.” His temper rose as he spoke. He’d never been prone to violence. Damn, but she seemed to bring out the worst in him.
She sat in a chair facing him, her legs and arms crossed. She’d regained her composure as he lost his further. She raised one condescending brow, the look daring him to make her talk. “And if I don’t?”
“You really don’t want to know, but I almost wish you would try it and find out.” He all but bit out the words.
She looked at him, thoughtfully. God, she was utterly self-possessed and it irritated the hell out of him. “First, let me ask you something. What would you do to get what you want? I don’t mean like a new pair of boots or a well-bred horse. I mean something you want…desperately.”
This play was familiar. They’d acted it out over the last two days, repeatedly. He’d threatened. She’d refuse to answer or answer with her own question. Usually a provoking one. And the subject was familiar. Hadn’t he just had this conversation with Kelly a few days ago?
“All right, Lady Beatryce. I’ll play it your way. For now. If you are talking about justice, the end always justifies the means. In any other case, there is always a limit to what is acceptable to get what you want.”
She pursed her lips as if his answer disappointed her, but she tried to hide it. “You’ve obviously not wanted anything bad enough.”
He marched over to her chair and leaned over her. She didn’t cower. He shouldn’t have, but he liked it. “Lady Beatryce, there are plenty of things I want badly enough.” He looked her up and down. Thoroughly. But kept a tight rein on any unwanted, base reactions. He would be appalled at his behavior later. Much later. “But I’ve never seen anything I’ve wanted badly enough to make me compromise my morals to obtain it.” He flicked his eyes to her legs, he couldn’t help himself, then back to her eyes. “No matter how enticing the package.”
She smiled, and it made him uncomfortable, that smile. It was too astute. Too precise. Too deadly. “My, my, you are a foolish one. Aren’t you? So pampered in your lofty world. Almost naïve. Surprising, considering your occupation.”
“You test my patience, Lady Beatryce.” He all but growled at her.
Yes, he was angry. No. Beyond angry. He was furious.
And he was behaving badly; he knew it as well. Unprofessional. Immature. Violent.
He no longer cared. She’d worn him down over the past two days ‘til his patience was stretched thin. And it wouldn’t take much to push him all the way over the edge. Hell, he was barely hanging on as it was. She could do it, too. They both knew it.
“Good. You could use a good challenge for once in your spoilt life. You…”
Yea. That did it.
Before she could bat another eye, he unwound his cravat and muzzled her mouth. He stood behind her now, her wrists bound with one hand while he reached behind himself to rip a wide swath of fabric from the nearby window with the other. He tied her arms with the fabric and wound the remaining length around her chest, strapping her to the chair. It’d hold. For now.
He rang the bell pull to summon a footman for some sturdier rope as she tried futilely to free herself. Cursing him to all sorts of hell in the process, he was sure. The rope would do until Ambrose arrived.
He was finished with her. She wanted to wait for Stonebridge? Well, she was going to get her wish. He was amused to see and hear that she was no longer unruffled; she tried to scream through her makeshift gag.
“What was that, Lady B? I didn’t quite catch that,” he taunted as he sauntered out of the room.
Chapter 8
“Resist much, obey little.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
An Hour and Much Frustration Later…
At their approach, Cliff looked up and acknowledged Ambrose and Grace with a nod before he crossed his arms and leaned back against the door to Lady Beatryce’s room. As if he hadn’t just been pacing the floor and mumbling to himself a few minutes ago. He tried to look calm and collected. He thought he succeeded. Mostly.
Ambrose, who clearly hadn’t stopped grinning since he decided to marry Grace, spoke up. “I understand we have an unexpected guest.”
“We do. She promised me concrete evidence. She all but guaranteed she could solve our investigation, but that was two days ago. If she tells us anything before I throttle her, it will be a bloody miracle.”
Ambrose and Grace shared a curious glance. Cliff scowled at the both of them for it. Hell, with the way he felt, he might punch his friend if he so much as looked like he was going to make some sort of pithy comment.
“May I?” Ambrose inquired, reaching for the door.
“By all means…” Cliff stepped aside.
The door swung open to reveal Lady Beatryce tied to a chair and gagged. Her eyes blazed with fury and promised retribution. She thrashed in anger and screamed through the cloth covering her mouth. Cliff could just imagine what she was saying. He’d heard it all, repeatedly, over the last couple of days. It certainly wasn’t polite conversation for mixed company.
Ambrose looked like he was ready to tumble to the floor laughing. His lips twitched. “I’m not surprised she hasn’t told you anything.” To Lady Beatryce, he added, “Can I count on you to be civil if I remove this?” His hands hovered over the cravat being used as an effective muffle to her ire.
She narrowed her eyes at Cliff before she nodded once.
“Excellent,” agreed Stonebridge.
Seeing Lady Beatryce with her muzzle firmly in place momentarily lightened his mood, even if the gag was about to come off.
*
Stonebridge removed the cravat from Beatryce’s mouth and stood back. She flexed her jaw, relieved to be free of her linen muzzle. Her mouth was sore from clenching her teeth and the corners of her lips were dry and cracked from the cloth.
She glared at Dansbury as she poked her tongue into the corners of her mouth to soothe the soreness there.
His face darkened in return.
She ignored him and spoke to the duke. “I know you’re investigating my father, and I know why. I can lead you to the evidence you need to put him away. Or better yet, hang him.”
“Yes? And how did you come by all this information?”
“I notice e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. I’ve seen the men watching my house; I’ve watched Dansbury searching my house,” she shot him a mocking brow as she said that, “and I know all about my father’s involvement with the Society for the Purification of England. I know where he keeps his papers, including all of their silly, idiotic little Writ’s of Execution where they spell out who they intend t
o murder and why.”
“I see. And what do you want in exchange for this information?”
She bit her lip for a moment, then firmed her resolve. “Money.”
“Hell—of course,” Dansbury interjected with a curse.
Beatryce glared at him and shouted, “Don’t you dare judge me right now. I am putting my life on the line for your treasured Grace and your precious case.” She cleared her throat and calmed herself. When her fury was contained, she looked up at Stonebridge. “And I want safe passage out of town—a quiet home to go to in the country, simple, country clothes, and a new identity.”
Dansbury, who was back to leaning against the door with his arms crossed, said, “How do we know you aren’t just as guilty as your father? I mean, it’s clear you knew of his guilt and yet you’ve never said anything before now? Sounds highly suspicious to me.”
She shot daggers at him, again, before returning her attention to Stonebridge. “Does he really need to be here?”
Stonebridge barked out a laugh. “Probably not, but I’m just going to tell him everything anyway, so this saves time. Just answer the question. You must admit, your knowledge does cast you in a questionable light.”
“I only discovered all of this recently, when I started to realize that my marriage plans were on shaky ground. I knew my father was behaving strangely…well, stranger than normal…and I had noticed peculiar men watching the house—so I set out to determine why. I broke into his office, found his hidden box, and picked the lock. Imagine my surprise at all I discovered; including that my father was behind the deaths of your father…and hers.” She nodded at Grace.
So maybe she hadn’t picked the lock, but it sounded more impressive and she needed every advantage.
Grace gasped.
“You didn’t tell her, I see,” she said.
“Shut up!” yelled Dansbury as the duke raced over to Grace to console and offer comfort. Beatryce suppressed an unexpected flair of jealousy.
Stonebridge held Grace close in comfort. After a while, they agreed that perhaps it was best if Grace leave the room. Of course.
We wouldn’t want to offend her delicate sensibilities, would we?
Grace always had been a regular waterworks.
On her way out, Grace stopped in front of Beatryce and said, “Thank you for coming forth and telling us what you know.”
Beatryce squirmed in her chair, speechless and discomfited by Grace’s kindness. Stonebridge watched Grace leave with a look of pride on his face, but Dansbury just continued to glare at Bea.
Once she was gone, Stonebridge turned to her once more. “All right, now, tell us what we need to know.”
She raised her chin. “First, I have one more condition. Once the arrangements are made for my passage out of town, I want him to take me.” She nodded at Dansbury.
“Like hell!” the man in question shouted.
Stonebridge gave his friend a speaking look, but he addressed her. “Are you sure that’s wise, Lady Beatryce?”
“No. But he’s the only one I trust to keep me safe.” She flinched over the word trust, but she’d say anything to achieve the desired results. “You must understand. My father is incredibly guilty and has done some horrid things, but I’m telling you, someone else is out there pulling his strings. I don’t know who—I’ve not an inkling, but think about it. My father can barely get out of his bed without assistance. He’s out of breath just walking from the drawing room to the library. He’s weak. I can’t speak of the time when your father was killed, but any move he’s made recently, has been done out of fear and a touch of insanity. Someone else is behind all this.”
“Done.”
“What?” barked Dansbury; looking at his friend as if he’d lost his mind.
Stonebridge looked back at Dansbury. “I said done. You’ll take her. You’ll protect her. But until the arrangements are made, she’ll stay here.” He turned back to her. “Now, tell us what we want to know.”
“Fine. But will you please untie me from this chair first? I cannot feel my arms anymore.”
Chapter 9
“Women are made to be loved, not understood.”
― Oscar Wilde
3:00 AM…
Technically, Day Four of Torture…
“Stonebridge, you must help me. Take me. I beg you. He’ll kill me if you don’t. Please. Please. Please. I’ll tell you everything. I swear I will…just don’t let him kill…”
Those were the last words Earl Swindon, Lady Beatryce’s father, ever uttered. He was dead before he hit the floor, killed by a cloaked assassin while he and Ambrose attempted to confront him with his treasonous activities.
Now, it was up to Dansbury to inform Lady Beatryce of her father’s demise, a task he was loath to do. Alas, needs must.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He knocked on her bedroom door. The sound echoed loudly in the early hours of the morning. “Lady Beatryce. It is Dansbury. I have news to impart.”
He was surprised Lady Beatryce hadn’t waited downstairs for their return, anxious to hear what transpired. He would never understand this woman.
“Come in,” came her muffled reply.
He entered the room and was amazed to see her sitting by the fire with an open book in her lap, attending to her fingernails. She appeared relaxed and comfortable. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. She didn’t even look up at his approach.
He crossed the room and stood before her chair, uncomfortably aware of her disregard. He waited for her to invite him to sit in the unoccupied chair next to hers or to at least acknowledge his presence so he could convey his news. It was the way a gentleman behaved in the presence of a lady, even if they were in her boudoir. Even if said lady wasn’t much of a lady at all.
He’d forgotten she often didn’t act the part. At times, even a doxy behaved with better refinement and manners.
She ignored him and continued to file her nails, the sound grating across his nerves. It was late. He was tired. He didn’t have time for this.
Finally, without looking up, she said, “Well, are you going to impart your news?”
He ground his teeth and reminded himself he was about to inform her that her father was murdered. But, still, he refused to speak to the top of her head. “Would you do me the courtesy of looking at me while we converse?”
She paused her manicure and looked at him. Her hands remained aloft as if she intended to resume attending to them the minute he began speaking.
He raised one brow and looked pointedly at her hands. “I can stand here all night.”
“Suit yourself,” she said and resumed the task of smoothing the ends of her nails.
He reached over, grabbed her manicure set, and threw it into the fire.
When he turned back around, she was sitting as primly as a debutante, her shoulders back and hands folded in her lap. As if nothing was amiss. As if he hadn’t just thrown her manicure set into the fire.
He was so angry at her antics he no longer cared to blunt his words. “Your father was murdered this evening.”
She didn’t even flinch. In fact, she showed no emotional response at all. “Oh. Is that all? You tossed my manicure tools in the fire just to tell me that? That set was made of bone and silver, and was the only thing in my reticule besides a couple of stray pins and a knife. The sum total of all I own in this world. Now.”
For a moment words failed him. That was not the response he expected. And a knife? “Is that all you have to say? I just told you your father was murdered.”
She just stared at him a moment before waving her hands and saying, “Well, it is not a complete surprise, now, is it? With the men he tangled with, it was bound to happen eventually. Did you happen to catch the culprit?”
“No.”
She shook her head. “Tsk. Tsk. Do you at least have a description of the bandit? A way of tracking down who he is?”
If he weren’t so confident in himself, she’d have made him feel inadequate wit
h her questions. Perhaps that was her intent? Regardless, he answered honestly, “He was cloaked. We didn’t see his face.”
For a moment, her eyes widened in fear. It was brief, but he didn’t miss it. “My description of the assassin doesn’t surprise you. Tell me, Lady Beatryce, do you know this man?”
“No. I don’t. I’ve just seen a cloaked man watching the house many times in the past; his presence always seemed to disturb my father’s peace of mind. Especially the last time…”
“I can see why.”
“I daresay. The man used to stand in the street, bold as brass, and stare up at the house. No one ever stopped him. No runners ever asked of him…no one ever asked of him. I find it difficult to believe that the neighbors hadn’t noticed his presence, yet no one ever mentioned it.”
She sounded so practical and matter of fact. And though he knew her father was not a good man, he was still her father. Shouldn’t she show some level of remorse? Not talk practically about strange cloaked men and assassins?
“What, Dansbury? Are you expecting me to burst in to tears? To wail and gnash my teeth in sorrow? I’m not that kind of woman.”
“No, I didn’t expect that, but some show of emotion is certainly expected. He was your father, after all.”
She shook her head. “No one knows that better than me. La, I’m sure once the reality of his death really sets in I’ll be reacting…”
She’s in shock then.
“…by dancing around the room like a banshee…with wild abandon and an overabundance of gaiety.”
Or not.
“I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he fidget in frustration. “Don’t you want to know about your siblings? Your stepmother?”
“What about them?” She met his eyes then, hers were quite serious. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“What about Adelaide? She’s only six. She needs someone strong in her life.”
