by Cheryl Bolen
"I wish I'd retired my blasted sword a year ago," Jack said ruefully, "before... Beau, I had nothing to do with those murders—those women. I would never have—"
"You don't have to claim innocence with me. If I found you bending over their bodies, your sword dripping blood, I would not believe you capable of such a horror."
"For that I thank you." He pulled away from her, turning to rake agitated fingers through his hair. "But someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make the rest of the world believe that it is so. Someone with enough power, enough wealth, and enough cunning to weave a web around me so stealthily that I didn't even realize I was snared inside it until I was so bound up I couldn't breathe."
"Who? Who could hate you enough to concoct such a diabolic scheme?"
"I don't believe he hates me. He doesn't even know me, aside from the stories he has heard at his club or amongst the fetes of the ton. I was a convenient scapegoat to pin his evil upon, and it was easy—so infernally easy. If I'd only taken things more seriously in the beginning, I could have averted much of this. But I was so all-fired confident, so complacent in the common folk's regard for me, I thought that nothing could breach their faith."
"You think some aristocrat has stirred up this tempest? On purpose? I don't understand."
"It is beyond understanding, the magnitude of his perversion, his sickness. I had been attempting to uncover his plots for weeks, since the moment I knew it was no game. And I've found all the evidence I needed to expose him, except that now"—he laughed bitterly—"now who would believe me, Isabeau? Take my word against that of a blasted marquess when I stand accused of his crimes?"
"We must find a way to make them listen."
"Nay, it is too late. But since my life is already forfeit, I shall have one last revenge. There is to be a ritual tonight... an initiation ritual where another innocent girl is to die. But I fully intend to make certain it is his blood that drains on the stones this night, his soul that is cast into hell."
"Whatever this is about I'll aid you, Jack. We'll ride—"
Beau suddenly stiffened, aware of a commotion in the corridor. Her heart leapt into her throat as she tried to close off the secret room, but the heavy panel squeaked its disapproval, the aged wood seeming to infuse steely tentacles into the guide board along which it ran.
"Damn it, Beau, push!" Jack commanded, their desperation only making the sheet of wood jam more tightly still. With one mighty shove it finally gave way, slamming into place, but not before Beau had glimpsed the doorway to Nell's chamber being filled with at least a score of burly figures that were even now spilling into the room.
Swords had gleamed, pistol barrels waved in countless hands, and Beau turned to Jack, yanking her own weapons free. "It seems we're going to be leaving Nell's sooner than we'd intended," she said, trying to flash him a bracing smile. Ramsey's sword whisked free of its scabbard, his eyes glittering, dangerous.
"Beau, I'll not let you hurl your life away for me. Surrender."
"Bloody hell! And let you claim all the glory?" The jest was filled with desperate bravado, her words drowned out as something crashed into the portal of the hidden room. The aged wood creaked, buckled, splintering in a score of pieces as the tiny room filled with men—not the surly mob from the tables below, not the cold-eyed runners from Bow Street, but rather the burly servants that had graced Ravenscrest—grooms, footmen—while at their head stood a hard-eyed, raging Griffin, his face deathly gray, his sword gleaming.
"You... you followed me," she choked out, sick with fury and grief and rage. "My God, how could you?"
She saw something fleeting within those tormented eyes, something like regret, anguish, before it was crushed into steely resolve. "How could I not? This man is a murderer, Isabeau. God knows how many innocents have been his victims besides William. But no more, Beau. No more. Ramsey, it is my steel you shall taste this night, you twisted, craven dog. And I defy you—dare you to carve your bloody initials upon my chest."
"I'm no murderer." Jack's fingers clenched upon the hilt of his sword. "But if you are so eager to die—"
"Nay, Jack." Beau clutched her pistols in trembling hands, leveling them at Griffin's midsection. "Griff, I'll not let you do this. I won't let either of you do this."
His eyes seemed to pierce her. "And what are you going to do, Isabeau?" There was such tortured gentleness in his tones, such infinite loss. "Are you going to shoot me, love? Kill me?"
His words had so ravaged her spirit she had not noticed him slowly pacing toward her until he was so near she could smell the rich scent of sandalwood and leather that always clung to him.
"Griff, do not make me..." Her hands quivered, her heart threatening to beat its way from her breast. "It is lies, all lies about Jack, I swear it."
"As you swore you loved me? Strange, it is difficult to believe that now, when you stand ready to blast a pistol ball into my heart."
"I do love you, damn your stubborn eyes! Too much to let you cut down an innocent man. Too much to let you destroy—"
"Then, milady rogue, you shall have to kill me."
He stood bare inches from the barrels of her pistols, his eyes boring into hers, waiting, watching.
Beau felt as though she were being torn asunder, knowing that in his own way Griffin was trying to give her this chance to wreak her own vengeance upon him. To shoot him, to kill him if she could, knowing it would not save Ramsey from the king's justice.
It broke her heart. A sudden, ragged sob rose within her as his hands, those hands that had spiraled her into wonder, closed about the barrels of her weapons, taking them from her numb fingers.
"I hate you," she cried out, flinging herself against him, driving her fists against the hard wall of his chest. "I hate you, hate you, hate you—"
"I know." The words were soft. He did nothing to defend himself, only standing there rigid as she battered her balled hands against him.
"My lord." A voice broke through Beau's anguish. "Do you want us to take the murderin' wretch?"
"Nay! Don't you dare! Damn you!" Beau cried, but her protest was drowned out by Ramsey himself as the highwayman flexed his daunting sword arm.
"I'd not advise it, my friend," Jack drawled. "That is, unless you'd like to be lighter by the weight of, shall we say, one ear." His gaze fixed upon that feature, the dancing of his sword point making it obvious to all that Ramsey did indeed possess the prowess to relieve the young footman of that article.
Despite their far superior numbers, some amongst Griffin's servants took an involuntary step back. But the tension within Beau snapped wild, making her half crazed with terror as Griffin's hands closed about her wrists, pinning them against him. "Take her," he ordered, thrusting Beau into the grasp of the giant of a man who had served as Ravenscrest's coachman. "And damn it, don't let her go."
"Griffin—for the love of God." She begged him to see reason.
But all words died. Even time seemed to freeze into a scene worse than the most hideous nightmare as menacing storm-blue eyes glanced past her to lock upon Jack Ramsey's face.
"It seems my lady could not bring herself to kill me." Griffin's voice was cold, yet wracked with hopelessness, pain. "Perhaps, sir, you would care to try."
His fingers closed about the hilt of his own weapon, and he drew the blade with a deliberateness that drove Isabeau insane.
"Griffin! Both of you! Stop! Sweet Savior, stop!" Beau fought madly against the man who held her, knowing it was futile.
"Get back, the lot of you," Stone commanded. "And no matter what the outcome, no one is to interfere."
"My lord—"
"It is madness, sir—"
"Nay—" Protests rose from the cluster of men at his back.
"Damn it, that is an order! A direct order! Any man disobeying me will be dismissed without a farthing."
"It is a most generous gesture, this matching of swords," Jack drawled, lifting his blade in salute. "It is a pity such an honorable man must lo
se his life over a lie."
"It is you who will die, Ramsey. For William. And for the innocents you slew."
Beau screamed as the first crack of blade against blade echoed through the tiny chamber, the two men graceful as dancers in a most deadly pas de deux. Like whipcords they coiled and struck, steel glinting as it slashed near arms, belly, chest. With each thrust, each parry, it was evident that both men were the most daunting of masters, evenly matched in this, their dicing with Dame Death.
And as Beau watched in horrified fascination, in the rawest terror she had ever known, she hated herself, hated herself because she had indeed betrayed Jack Ramsey's trust. Even though she knew Griffin was wrong, she could not bear the thought of him falling beneath the sword.
At the cost of Jack's life? A voice shrieked inside her. Nay, I cannot bear to lose either of them, cannot bear it.
She cried out as Ramsey's blade bit through the fabric of Griffin's coat sleeve. A small crimson stain began to spread across the dark velvet. But only the whitening of Griffin's lips betrayed his pain. Even his wound failed to slow the inexorable onslaught of Stone's weapon.
Beau shuddered. Her heart seemed to cease beating as the battle between the two men waxed grimmer, more deadly. Griff gashed Jack's taut thigh, and sweat soaked the shirts of both men. Their faces gleamed with it, their hair sticking to their brows as they battled on.
Breath rasped in their chests, the only sounds within the chamber the hisses of blades as they dodged slashing blows, the grunts and curses as the weapons crashed together.
Beau struggled desperately against her captor, seeking some way, any way to escape. But the man who bound her was diligent, leaving her no means to elude him.
It seemed the battle had lasted forever then suddenly it was finished. Griffin hooked his blade in the handle of Jack's sword and flung Ramsey's weapon from his fingers.
The sword Jack had treasured spun through the air, skidding to a halt against one wall. Ramsey's fingers stretched toward the weapon as if some sorcery could make it fly back to his hand, but after a moment Jack let his arm fall to his side, his eyes meeting Griffin's gaze with a courage that twisted talons deep in Beau's breast.
The tiniest of smiles crooked Jack's lips as he faced his death, Griffin's blade gleaming a mere hair's breadth from his chest.
"You are the first man who has ever bested me," Jack said softly. "Maybe it is indeed time to die."
"You killed my brother." Griffin's voice was low. "Damn you, you killed William."
"You have won the right to believe that I did," Jack said. "Wash free your grief with my blood."
Beau couldn't stifle a sob as Griffin's gaze flashed from Jack's face to capture hers with anguish, longing. "Nothing will ever cleanse away my grief now, Ramsey. Nay, nor cleanse away this sin. Will it, Isabeau?"
Beau held her breath endless seconds, her chest seemingly crushed in a giant fist. She cried out as Griffin cursed brutally then hurled his own sword against the wooden panel.
"Take him," he said, jerking his head toward Ramsey. "Bind him and tie him astride a horse. We'll take him off to Newgate to let the king's courts wreak fair justice."
Beau felt her knees buckle with momentary relief at Jack's reprieve, time giving her some small hope that she could save him. If she could only reach her horse when Griffin's party rode away.
"And as for Isabeau"—Griffin gestured toward the tiny chamber—"drag that armoire over to block her inside this cranny. If you let her escape, it will cost your life."
"N-nay! Griffin," Beau cried. She battled with renewed frenzy against her captor as raw terror jolted through her, flooding her with horrifying memories of childhood, of being barred within her mother's closet, helpless, half crazed, while her beloved father was carried off to die.
"Don't struggle so, miss, I don't want to hurt you," the coachman pleaded, hauling her toward the small cubicle as four of Griffin's other servants moved to reposition the heavy piece of furniture meant to form her prison door. But Beau did fight—desperately—clawing, flailing as she was thrust into the smugglers' den.
"Keep her here a full two hours. By then Ramsey will be safely behind bars, and she won't be able to get into trouble."
"Aye, milord. But I fear we'd best take the candle," the coachman said softly. "She might injure herself or set the place afire."
"Aye." Griffin's face was twisted with regret. He stepped into the chamber, his fingers closing about the single candlestick illuminating the tiny den.
"I'm sorry Isabeau," he said with devastating gentleness as he stepped from the tiny room. "I'd ask you to forgive me, but I know you never will."
"Griffin." She choked out his name as he turned his back upon her. "Griffin, please... oh God, don't..."
Then there was nothing but the horrible grating sound of the armoire being slid into place, the meager light vanishing into an abyss of despair.
Chapter 20
An eternity seemed to creep by in the hours Beau was locked inside the tiny, pitch-dark room, alone with her terrors, her furies, her fears. Helpless. Hopeless as she paced the small length of floor.
Time and time again she cracked into some object, bruising her flesh, but she was so numb she scarcely felt it. Still, she had to slam her fists against the unfeeling plane of the armoire's back, had to damn Griffin Stone, his servants, and herself to hell a thousand times or succumb to madness in that tiny, windowless room.
Her captors were unyielding, their gentle yet firm voices muffled as they pleaded with her to calm herself, stop torturing herself. It would all be over soon.
Over... as her father's death had been over that long-ago day. Over, with such grinding finality that she had never been able to make things right for bold Six Coach Robb, so that she was racked with guilt and tormented by her own helplessness against the cruelties of fate.
But this time it was not cold-eyed soldiers who had shattered her faith in herself and in those she dared love. It was the stormy-eyed man who had taken her heart. That vulnerable rogue who had raged at her, laughed with her, and tumbled her back into coverlets with such infinite passion and tenderness, that she had begun to believe in miracles.
Griffin Stone had betrayed her. Betrayed Jack. Destroyed her in ways that could never be made right. So why did the darkness all around her taunt her, not with Ramsey's resigned eyes, but rather with Griffin Stone's anguished face?
Beau bit her lip, driving her foot against the table leg in frustration. "Blast it, he took Jack! To Newgate, damn it! To hang!"
But how many times had she herself experienced the raw rage that she had seen in Griffin's face? How many times had her own temper broken free, lashing out at any who stood in her way?
If it had been Molly who had died so hideously, would she, Isabeau, have been able to remain calm, listen to reason, and trust?
How could it be that even now she could feel that uncontrollable tug, that kinship of souls between her and Griffin that made her feel the guilt twisting inside him, the loss and acid regret?
He loved her with a depth that had humbled her, awed her, and yet his honor, his loyalty to his brother, and his relentless sense of duty had left him no choice. No choice but to destroy the love he had shared with her. No choice but to betray her.
Beau ground her fingertips against her burning eyes, wanting to drive back the image of his face as he had stood inches from the loaded barrels of her pistols. He had faced her for long seconds that had spiraled into eternity, allowing her the chance to take her own revenge upon him, if she so chose.
It had been a heart-wrenching gift, the only one he'd had the power to offer her. But she had not been able to pull the trigger any more than Griffin had been able to cut down Jack, because he had known how deeply Beau cared for the highwayman rogue.
Nay, Beau thought with sudden, stinging bitterness, Griffin had not possessed the will to cut Jack down, but he had no difficulty in dragging Jack off to Newgate to face the gallows. Griffin Stone would have Ja
ck Ramsey's blood upon his hands, even though it was not by the honest thrust of his own blade.
"Blast it, there must be something—something you can do!" she railed at herself aloud. "Think, Isabeau! Damn you, think!"
She jumped as there was a sudden scraping sound, a strip of light piercing her eyes as the armoire was shoved back inch by grinding inch. The brace of burly servants Griff had left to guard her stood sheepish, their eyes full of regret. "Ah, miss, miss, what did ye do to yerself?" the coachman lamented, stepping in to take up her battered hand. "Ye must let me tend—"
"Take your hands off her!" A shrill, sobbing cry rent the quiet as Molly plunged past the shattered doorway to catch Beau in quivering arms. "Haven't you already done her enough harm?"
The coachman flinched, a dull red flush creeping up his neck. "I—I was but following my lord's orders."
"Your lord is a monster!" Molly's face was mottled with anger, wet with tears.
"Mistress DeBurgh, he... I..."
"You've done your cursed duty," Beau snapped. "Just go now. Go!"
The two servants eyed each other uneasily, then one nodded, and the pair of them started toward the corridor. The coachman paused, glancing back as he fidgeted with a button upon his waistcoat. "Mistress DeBurgh, you'll look after those cuts—otherwise they'll fester and scar."
Beau's gaze tracked down to her fingers, a laugh filled with bitterness rising within her. "I've suffered far worse scars today." She hated herself for the next soft words that fell from her lips, but she could not stop them. "Take care of my lord Stone. He'll need..."
Someone to love him, someone to make him laugh, she thought, someone to show him the beauty deep inside his soul.
The coachman nodded as if he had read her thoughts, then vanished through the doorway.
"Take care of that beast?" Molly's voice shook with revulsion. "Isabeau, how could you even think of Griffin Stone without loathing him? He's turned Jack over to Bow Street, to the hangman!"
