Divine (House of Oak Book 2)

by Nichole Van

“I admire your spirit, Miss Knight. Or may I call you Georgiana?”

  “Miss Knight will do.” She tossed her head, trying not to stare longingly at the reticule now lying out of arm’s reach. “Shall I call you Lord Zeus?”

  He shrugged. “Many have gone by that name over the years. Let us just say it is a title I . . . inherited.”

  Trying to match his insouciance, she rose from the chair. The door was tantalizingly close.

  He pressed her back into the seat with a rough, firm hand.

  He tsked and made a shushing sound.

  “No, that will not do, Georgiana. You play a dangerous, deep game. I think you are in far over your little head.” He leaned over her. “Such a pretty head it is. I would hate for anything to happen to it.”

  Her reticule with the stun gun lay tauntingly on the desktop. The mace can pressed into her chest, buried in her stays. At least she still had that on her person. It wasn’t much protection, but it would be some. How to get it out?

  He regarded her with dark, hooded eyes. His presence threatening.

  Now terrified chills raced down her spine.

  The sensation should have been thrilling.

  It wasn’t.

  Why had she ever thought being held captive by a madman would be exciting?

  He glanced at the desk and lifted the letter off of it.

  Could she reach the stun gun in her reticule? If she had the right distraction . . .

  “Why not have me break off with Sebastian? Why go to the trouble of a love letter?” She gestured toward the paper he held.

  Mace and a stun gun. Both were in the room. Though there was always her taekwondo training too. Granted she was in a heavy ball gown.

  “What? And have Stratton chase one of those wretched Burbank chits? Some pale London miss? No, thank you. My intentions are to ensure Stratton is convinced of your affections until after his birthday has passed.”

  He regarded her with a leering smile that made her flesh crawl.

  Again, not in an exciting way. Unfortunately.

  “Let me be clear, shall I, my dearest Georgiana.” He ran a finger along her jaw. “From this point on, your future will be tied to your ability to make yourself . . . useful . . . to me. And we both know what happens to foolish women who stop being . . . useful.”

  “Like poor Miss Franklin?” Georgiana was proud her voice didn’t quiver like her knees.

  “Precisely like Miss Franklin. She proved most helpful for a while. I always like keeping a talented artist on hand for . . . projects.” He waved the forged letter. “Fortunately, Lady Ambrosia has been an excellent replacement. She has truly captured your handwriting, I think.”

  Clenching her hands into fists to stop their trembling, Georgiana swallowed.

  “Something tells me you were never actually a captain in His Majesty’s army.” His head reared back, indicating she had scored a hit. It was strictly a guess on her part, a delay tactic.

  “Forgery has all sorts of uses. Letters of recommendation from a dead Canadian general, which gained me entry into any number of officer’s billets—”

  “And thereby enabling you to meet leaving officers who you could either extort or befriend, becoming a sycophantic hanger-on.”

  He studied her for a moment. “For being military men, soldiers are far too trusting of their own kind. Of course, forging love letters is decidedly more diverting.”

  He smirked, folded the letter and slid it into his coat pocket and regarded her with another of his sneering smiles. “I am always happy to have a new recruit.”

  “And if I refuse?” Georgiana said, voice resolute.

  Phillips chuckled.

  An ugly sound.

  “Ah, Georgiana. You are indeed a lady with pluck. It is obvious why Stratton is so smitten with you.”

  She stared at the door beyond him. It was still slightly ajar. She only had to distract him long enough to make a break for it.

  Despite all their precautions, she had landed in a dreadful fix.

  But was she really . . .

  Half the county was within earshot.

  And heroines in gothic novels were invariably stupid. Which she would like to think she was not. Stupid, that is. Heroine, definitely.

  Summoning her courage, she shrugged and made to stand up. Phillips pushed her back down in the chair.

  She raised her eyebrows haughtily.

  “Need I remind you, Captain, we are in my home. Surrounded by scores of people who will come running to my rescue should I scream—”

  “And that is why you will not raise any alarm—”

  “Why? Why would I keep silent?”

  Phillips blinked. “We are alone together. The scandal of being caught—”

  “Pfft! I am practically an engaged woman, and I do not think Sebastian will care overly much. Particularly once I reveal your identity—”

  “You are truly a foolish woman.” He leaned over her again, shaking his head. “I could wring your neck before a single cry could pass your lips—”

  “Are you so sure? I am not much use to you dead—”

  “This is what will happen.” He bit off each word, enunciating it clearly. “You and I are going to walk out of here. You will plead a headache to your brother and then retire to your chambers where I will meet you. You will then accompany me—”

  “Why?! Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”

  “Because . . . I will kill you if you do not.” He cocked his head, as if explaining something to a remarkably stupid child.

  Mimicking his look, she leaned toward him. “Really. And accompanying you into the night will save my life? I would rather take my chances in your speedy ability to, as you put it, wring my neck. Or, even better, put a bullet through me in my brother’s ballroom if you must—”

  “Ah, but I am currently holding Lord Stratton as a hostage. My men accosted him as soon as he left Haldon Manor. Will you risk his life too? A bullet could just as easily find him.”

  She froze. Gasped. Terror raced down her spine, choking in its ferocity.

  No! Not Sebastian.

  “Exactly, my dearest Georgiana.” Phillips’ lip curled, noting her reaction. “You see the seriousness of this situation. One word from me and boom. Lord Stratton is no more, lying dead in a puddle of his own blood.”

  No! The room swam before her eyes. She would do anything—

  He took her distressed silence as agreement. “Excellent. I am glad that we are in agreement here. I trust I now have your full cooperation?”

  She swallowed, staring at him. Phillips was all smug confidence.

  If he had Sebastian . . .

  But, as she thought about it more, she wondered. Had he captured Sebastian?

  Emotional manipulation like this was exactly what made gothic heroines so dimwitted. She forced through her panic and looked at the situation rationally.

  Threatening a peer of the realm was an extremely serious, hangable offense—one that Phillips had just confessed to her—turning her into a disposable witness. Leaving with him would be unbelievably stupid.

  And if anything happened to Sebastian before his birthday, the earl’s will would become null and void. All of Phillips’ scheming would be for naught . . .

  So even if Phillips held Sebastian—which she was starting to doubt he actually did—she still had at minimum two days to find Sebastian and free him. Something she could hardly do as Phillips’ captive.

  Phillips eyes narrowed, noticing the change in her.

  “You’re bluffing.” She gave her head an calculatedly careless toss. “You don’t have Sebastian as your captive. And even if you did, you would not risk his life. He is far too valuable to you alive. I, on the other hand, have no such protection. You will let me go—”

  She pushed him again, trying to rise out of the chair. He was a large man, taller than James but not nearly the height and size of Sebastian. Even so, his chest was a solid wall. He shoved her back down.

  What t
o do? She ran through her options.

  She could scream. But how much of a scream could she manage before he choked her? He was less than an arm’s length away.

  The stun gun was on the desk, out of reach. The mace was in her stays, but he would stop her before she could retrieve it. Taekwondo was less effective when seated in a ball gown. But at the moment, a physical attack was probably her best option.

  First, however, she needed to be free of her skirts. She rose again, acting like she wanted past him, but using the forward motion instead to lift her skirts up to her calves, loosening her legs.

  With a low chuckle, Phillips pushed her down again.

  “We can play this little game all night, Georgiana. You are going nowhere.”

  She quickly ran through all the paegi options in her head, trying to decide which freeing technique would be best for this situation.

  Did she want to go with a cat stance or walking stance? Both were difficult when seated, but if she scissored her legs—

  Oh, forget it.

  With a quick jerk, she feinted to the right and used the slight distraction to plant a hard, solid kick to Phillips’ groin. A satisfyingly direct hit. Simultaneously, she swept his body with her right arm, giving him a jarring knock to the skull.

  As Phillips fell, she darted up, intent on the door. A scream ready in her throat.

  But Phillips was faster. Moaning from her decidedly well-placed foot, he snagged her leg, sending her tumbling. Knocking the wind out of her, turning her scream into a muffled oomph.

  Gasping, she flipped to her back and attempted a sweeping kick at his head. But the heavy fabric of her dress hampered her movements.

  Stupid dumb dress.

  With a snarl, Phillips crawled up her body—still panting—pinning her legs at the knees.

  “You bloody little—”

  Sitting up, she chopped his neck with the edge of her hand and scissored her legs, loosening his grip. She managed to free her right leg and delivered a solid foot to Phillips’ solar plexus, freeing her other leg.

  Rolling away, she tugged the mace free of her bodice and was nearly on her feet, when Phillips bear hugged her from behind. Her hands were still at her bosom, elbows bent. His tight grip trapped her hand with the mace at the level of her shoulder.

  Thank goodness he had no clue what the black can contained. Holding her breath and closing her eyes, she twisted the nozzle so it pointed at his face behind her and sprayed the mace at point-blank range. The angle was awkward, so only a small amount of the pepper spray deployed, but it was enough.

  With a howl, Phillips’ hold loosened. Forcefully, she slammed the back of her head into his nose and delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs. He staggered back, coughing uncontrollably.

  Without looking around, Georgiana dashed for the door and escape.

  Only to run into the rotund chest of Sir Henry coming through it—Blackwell right behind, moving as quickly as he could in his high-heeled dancing shoes.

  “I say!” Sir Henry gasped, grabbing her arms, taking in her disheveled appearance.

  “Thank heavens!” Georgiana gasped, clutching at Sir Henry.

  Both men looked past her to Phillips, still coughing violently, rubbing his eyes.

  With a flourish, Blackwell pulled a hefty pistol from inside his elaborate coat, cocked it and pointed it at Phillips’ head. Hearing the noise, Phillips froze and lifted his face, nose bleeding, eyes red and swollen.

  “A pistol, Bertie? And in a full evening kit, no less?” Sir Henry chuckled.

  “They don’t make clothing like they used to, Henry.” Blackwell shrugged. “Dratted newfangled coats are far too tight to hold decent weaponry. Are you unharmed, Miss Knight?”

  Georgiana nodded, noting a slight irritation from the pepper spray still lingering in the room. Phillips was coughing uncontrollably again, palms pressed to his eyes. He was obviously having trouble seeing.

  Sir Henry patted her back. “Stratton said we were to keep an eye on you, m’dear. I am grateful we came looking—”

  “He is Lord Zeus.” Georgiana gestured toward Phillips.

  Both men froze, staring at her.

  “Why do you believe him to be Lord Zeus?” Sir Henry frowned. “He has always seemed most amiable to me.”

  Coughing a bit herself, Georgiana stepped back from Sir Henry and held up a staying hand. Just a moment.

  Crossing the room, she skirted the still incapacitated Phillips and opened the large windows behind the desk to air out the room. The relief was almost immediate.

  Feeling the fresh breeze, Phillips turned toward the window, still coughing.

  “I would recommend staying where you are, Captain.” Blackwell said grimly, his pistol trained on Phillips. “Keep your hands where I can clearly see them.” Phillips shifted and Blackwell stiffened. “Or not. I should dearly love an excuse to shoot you.”

  Phillips instantly stilled.

  “So you were about to explain, Miss Knight, why you believe Phillips here to be Lord Zeus,” Sir Henry said as she rejoined him at the door.

  She shrugged. “Check his arm.”

  “Ah, clever girl.”

  Blackwell motioned with his pistol. “You heard the lady. Show us your arm.”

  Phillips glowered at them, jaw obstinate.

  Blackwell gestured again with his pistol. “As I said, I should dearly love an excuse to shoot you . . .”

  With a cough, Phillips yanked up his sleeve. The Zeus symbol stood out in black isolation on his forearm.

  “Well, well, well,” Sir Henry murmured.

  “How did you get yourself involved with this mess, Captain?” Blackwell said almost to himself.

  Eyes swollen and still not quite focusing, Phillips jerked down his sleeve, his face taut. And then broke into another fit of uncontrolled coughing.

  “Makes no sense, really.” Sir Henry stroked his whiskers for a second. “Lord Zeus is linked to GLIB, but Phillips here was supposedly an army captain in Canada—”

  “Phillips admitted he was never actually an army officer. He forged all his papers and letters of recommendation from Canada—” Georgiana snapped her fingers. “Wait! The giant golden gooseberry of Labrador!”

  Sir Henry’s mustache bounced. “Jack Tangert, old Lord Tangert’s younger son—”

  Blackwell hissed through his teeth. “Of course. I only met Jack Tangert once. He was barely a lad of seven at the time but . . .”

  Both men paused, studying Phillips as he continued to wheeze.

  Phillips sat on the floor, back against the desk, shooting them all angry looks when he could muster them.

  “The resemblance is still there, in the eyes and cheekbones. Would not have thought to look for it, however,” Blackwell said.

  Georgiana surveyed Phillips, he seemed to be getting himself under control, though his eyes remained unfocused.

  Wasn’t this the point where the criminal mastermind told them his story?

  But Phillips sat stonily on the floor, staring sightlessly straight ahead.

  He was such a disappointment. In so many, many ways.

  She grimaced. “Well, this has been a delightful evening, Captain Phillips—Lord Zeus—or whatever you would like to be called—”

  “Jack,” he said shortly and then coughed.

  “Jack,” she repeated. How . . . ordinary. Even his name was a letdown.

  She tapped a foot on the floor. “First of all, you are not holding Lord Stratton hostage, correct? Because I am sure Lord Blackwell here would be happy to torture that information—”

  “No!” Phillips eyes widened in alarm at Blackwell’s wicked grin. “Stratton is . . . not in my custody.”

  A wave of relief rushed through her. Sebastian was safe!

  “So . . . aren’t you going to tell us why you did it?” She waited expectantly.

  He said nothing. Just swallowed and rubbed his eyes.

  “Would you like me to help you get started? Let’s see. You clearly surv
ived the trip into the Canadian wilderness that killed your father. Your father is dead, right?”

  He stared beyond her. She took that as an affirmation.

  “And then . . .” She made a rolling motion with her hand. Go on.

  He shrugged again.

  “Really, Jack, you could be more forthcoming.” She pursed her lips. “You clearly do not appreciate the cathartic power of monologuing. All the best criminal masterminds do it. Chronicling your clever plot dulls the sting of being caught.”

  Phillips turned his head, obviously not interested in being cooperative.

  Georgiana sighed. Just such a disappointment. “Very well, allow me to continue to fill in the gaps. I assume, based on what you said earlier about inheriting your title of Lord Zeus, that your father was Zeus before you. With his death, you took over the mantle. I’m guessing you had some sort of interaction with General Brock in Canada, enabling you to forge letters of recommendation. So, you made it back to England sooner rather than later, probably lying and blackmailing along the way. Gathering secrets. I’m guessing poor Miss Franklin last year was just another of your victims. You were blackmailing her and then killed her when she was no longer useful. Did her death force you to lay low for a while? Take your forged letters of recommendation and set off for the Channel Islands?”

  Phillips sat stonily, coughed twice again. Saying nothing.

  “And then you met Lord Stratton in the billet in Jersey. But why attach yourself to him?” Georgiana tapped her lips, thinking. “Obviously, you wanted money. And Stratton’s need to marry would have been a good opportunity. No, but I’m wondering if there isn’t more to it—”

  “Revenge,” Blackwell interrupted.

  “Ah yes, Bertie, it was definitely revenge,” Sir Henry agreed. “Knowing that GLIB was involved, we knew it must have something to do with old Lord Tangert. We spent most of this week discussing the matter with Stratton.”

  “Precisely,” Blackwell agreed. “Tangert hated us—me, Sir Henry and the previous Lord Stratton, John Carew. We called him out for cheating, for injecting water into his gooseberries. Saw to it that he was banished from the Royal Gooseberry Show. Tangert was the type to seek revenge, even beyond the grave.”

  Phillips sniffed and shifted to stare at the door beyond them.