Ransomed Jewels

by Laura Landon

  “Claire?” Huntingdon shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I doubt Claire even realizes I’m assisting our government. She’d be appalled to know she’s married to a spy.”

  “But she may have—”

  Hunt slammed his fist down on the table. “No! Leave Claire out of this, Sam. To her, the trip to Paris was nothing more than a gay holiday to see a few sights and come home with a new gown or two.”

  “And what is her connection to Roseneau?”

  Hunt looked shocked. “She has no connection to Roseneau. In fact, I’m not sure she even likes the man. She only tolerates him because I told her an association to him is important to me.”

  Sam watched the struggle on his friend’s face, the wretched turmoil that darkened his eyes. Slowly, the corners of Hunt’s mouth lifted to form a bittersweet smile. His face held a look of defeat. “Just leave Claire out of this. She isn’t involved in anything, Sam.”

  Sam lifted his gaze and nodded. “How soon can you get the papers to me?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll leave my downstairs study window open. Don’t come before midnight. Claire doesn’t always retire early.”

  Sam nodded, then buttoned his jacket. “I want the traitor caught before he causes the death of one more innocent young man.”

  “Until tomorrow night, then,” Hunt said, his gaze locking with Sam’s long enough to share a silent vow. Then Hunt turned his back on Sam and walked to the window. Hunt’s usual tall and dignified posture was marred by a slight a bend to his shoulders. As if the weight of the lives for which he was responsible was more than he wanted to bear.

  Hunt sucked in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

  “I left a command dinner engagement with my father to meet you,” Hunt said, slipping his hands into his gloves.

  “How is His Grace?” Sam asked.

  “Bridgemont’s health is failing. He made it to the Biltmore ball last night, but in a month he plans to retire to the country. I doubt he’ll see another Season.”

  “I’m sorry, Hunt.”

  “So am I.”

  Hunt hesitated a fraction, as if he intended to add something pertinent, then appeared to change his mind. “I ran into your uncle last night at the Biltmore ball. He said he hasn’t seen you in ages and is most anxious to talk to you.”

  Sam’s smile was hollow. “The Marquess of Rainforth must be on the outs with his son again. Every time he and Ross argue, he seeks me out. My cousin can be quite exasperating. I’ll have to drop by when this is over.”

  “Yes, do that.”

  Hunt fit the sweat-stained hat back on his head. “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow night after midnight.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Watch your back, Sam.”

  “You, too.”

  The Marquess of Huntingdon walked across the room and waited until Sam extinguished the lantern before he opened the door. “You go first. I’ll wait to make sure no one follows you.”

  Sam nodded and checked the dark hallway before going to the stairs. No one was there. He made his way down the worn steps and through the kitchen. He listened, opened the door, then looked around before he stepped out into the narrow alley. He made his way to the side of the Armor’s Inn to where his horse was tethered, keeping to the shadows as much as he could. The bay pawed the ground in welcoming. Or in warning. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and, before Sam could reach for the pistol in his pocket, Hunt’s voice bellowed into the darkness.

  Sam turned, but not in time. A searing pain stung his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He pulled out his gun, but his fingers lacked the strength to hold it steady.

  Sam heard the muffled pop of gunfire as another bullet slammed into the muscled flesh of his arm. He spun around to face his attackers.

  “Sam! Get down!”

  Hunt’s voice came from the side of the inn as a shot rang out, then another. Two of the gunmen fell to the ground, but a third stepped out, his gun pointed at Sam’s chest.

  “No!” Hunt yelled.

  Sam spun to the side, praying he could step out of the gunman’s line of fire, but realized it was unlikely. Before he could move, Hunt pummeled into him, using his own body to shield Sam. The gunman fired two more shots.

  “Hunt! Hunt!” Sam pushed Hunt’s body off him and twisted to the side as a dozen or more men streamed from the Armor’s Inn. Sam found his gun and fired, but the attacker was already gone, having run into the thick woods surrounding the building.

  Sam lifted Hunt’s head to his lap and felt the warm wetness of his friend’s blood against his hand. “Lie still, Hunt. Someone will send for a doctor.”

  “Too . . . late.”

  “No! Don’t you dare die.”

  “Listen . . .” Hunt gripped Sam’s jacket and pulled him closer. “The necklace . . . she has it. My marchioness has it.”

  The effort to speak took its toll. A fierce, wracking cough sucked the air from Hunt’s body, and he struggled to take in air. “I didn’t mean for it to . . . turn out this way.”

  “I know.”

  Sam ignored his own wounds and held his friend while he gasped for breath. Blood ran from Sam’s shoulder and arm, and his head spun in dizzying circles. But that didn’t matter. The best friend he’d ever had was dying, and there was nothing he could do to save him.

  “The papers . . . and necklace. Get them, Sam. Claire’s not safe until you do.”

  Sam waited while another coughing spasm consumed Hunt’s body.

  “I’ll get them. Don’t worry, Hunt.”

  Hunt lifted a trembling hand to the front of Sam’s jacket and Sam leaned down to hear him.

  “Tell Claire . . . I’m sorry . . . In my own way . . . I loved her.”

  “I will, Hunt. I’ll”—Hunt’s body went limp in his arms—“I’ll tell her.”

  Sam held his friend’s body long after his last breath. There was a rush of activity around him, but he ignored it. Just as he ignored the suggestion that he let someone help him up. That he let the men carry Hunt’s body back into the inn. That he let someone look at his wounds. He only wanted to be left alone.

  When he was able, he helped carry Hunt back into the inn and penned a note to Lieutenant Joshua Honeywell, requesting his help. Honeywell was the only person Sam could trust now.

  Sam sat in a room in the Armor’s Inn, ignoring the all-consuming pain that enveloped him, and guarded Hunt’s lifeless body. He kept his gun drawn in case the assassins returned. But they didn’t. Only Honeywell came. When he walked into the room, Sam closed his eyes and let the blessed darkness consume him.

  Chapter 1

  London - June, 1855

  Claire wasn’t sure the exact moment she realized someone was in her bedroom. Wasn’t sure if she’d heard him move across the floorboards, or if she’d imagined him sifting through the shadows. Or simply felt him intrude on her sleep. But he was here, and she knew why. She’d received enough threats in the four months since her husband’s death to know what he’d come for.

  A sense of panic washed over her, but she reminded herself she wasn’t alone in the house. There were the footmen, and Watkins, the butler. Unfortunately, they were too far away to hear her. She’d positioned them at the downstairs entrances, never dreaming the intruder would climb the roof and enter from an upstairs window.

  Claire fought the fear that threatened to engulf her as she slowly inched her hand upward, sliding it beneath her pillow, stopping only when her fingers came in contact with hard metal.

  The intruder made his way across the room, his rapid, shallow breaths knifing through the silence. She clasped her hand around the gun and waited, forcing herself to lie still until he was close. So close she couldn’t miss.

  The drapes were pulled back, allowing moonlight to stream into the room. The bright beams illuminated the large man enough to outline his broad shoulders and massive bulk.

  Her heart thundered so loudly against her ribs she feared he could hear it. If he did, it
didn’t stop him. He slowly inched his way toward her, keeping in the shadows until he was beside her.

  With movement as swift and lethal as a practiced marksman, Claire twisted beneath her covers and lifted the weapon. She aimed the barrel at the middle of his chest and—

  Before she could fire, his hand slashed through the air. His fist struck painfully against her arm.

  The gun flew from her fingers and skittered across the floor, out of reach. Claire opened her mouth to scream, but before she could utter a sound, his big, beefy hand clamped down across her mouth, stopping any cry for help.

  Panic surged through her and stole her breath. Fear consumed her. She swung her fists, praying she was strong enough to fight him off. But rough, bruising fingers pulled at her, making it impossible to move.

  “Not one sound,” he hissed, his Russian accent thick. “Do you understand?”

  His breath reeked of day-old whiskey, and his body smelled of sweat and unwashed flesh. Her stomach knotted, and she fought harder to push him away. But her efforts were useless.

  With an angry growl, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. His elbow dug into her chest when he lunged over her, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but struggle to bring little gasps of air into her lungs.

  Every instinct she possessed compelled her to fight him, but she knew she was no match for someone with his brute strength. Instead, her mind searched for another way to save herself. She relaxed her muscles, giving him the impression of surrender.

  Slowly, he pulled his body away from her and lifted his hand from her mouth. “Not a sound, my lady, or I’ll put a bullet through the first person who comes through the door.”

  Claire’s breath caught and she held still. He eased off her and her heart raced with the hope he’d put some space between them, enough to give her some leverage. But before she could realize any freedom, an even greater terror gripped her as his hand tightened around her throat and squeezed.

  “Are you frightened, marchioness?” he whispered, his voice a menacing hiss that sent shivers down her spine. “Or are you really as brave as you want me to believe?”

  Claire kept her hateful gaze riveted on him. The evil look in his eyes was cold, and threatening. He laughed.

  “I think you are,” he said, leaning closer, his mouth opening to a sinister smile. “Very brave. And that is a big mistake. You should be frightened.”

  As if she weighed no more than a rag doll, he pulled her from the bed and lifted her in the air. His hands clamped around the flesh at her upper arms, his fingers pinching painfully into her skin.

  She fought the pain, fought to free herself from his grasp. But her efforts were useless. He was too strong. With a loud grunt, he took a step forward and slammed her against the wall.

  Her head snapped back, hitting the wood with a thud. She closed her eyes as the room spun around her.

  It took several seconds before everything came back into focus. She had to stay alert. Had to keep her wits about her to have any chance to escape. But before she could catch her breath, he anchored his arm across her chest at the base of her throat and pinned her to the wall.

  For a minute everything went black. The pain was excruciating. When her eyes finally focused again, moonlight from the open window illuminated her enemy’s face with horrifying clarity. His black-as-midnight eyes gleamed in the semidarkness, and the scar that ran down the side of his face was as vivid as if it were day.

  She’d never been so frightened in her life. Never felt so helpless. Claire suppressed a shiver, then bit back a scream when the cold blade of his knife pricked the skin at her neck. She froze, not daring to move lest his knife slice her skin even further.

  “You know why I’ve come, don’t you?”

  He dug his elbow deeper into her chest, and Claire gave a soft, muffled cry. She swallowed, but her throat was so dry she couldn’t have answered even had she any intention of doing so. She took a shuddering breath and shook her head.

  She wasn’t prepared for his sudden outburst of anger. His hand swung through the air. His fist connected with her cheek.

  Her head slammed backward, bouncing as it hit the wall behind her. The whimper she heard was her own. She prayed the end would come quickly and painlessly.

  But she knew it wasn’t her death the intruder wanted.

  “Tell me, marchioness.” The tip of his knife again pressed the flesh at her neck. “Where is it?”

  Her skin burned where he held the blade, and Claire felt a warm trickle of blood run down her throat.

  “Where?” he growled, crushing her against the wall.

  She gasped for air. “I . . . don’t . . . know.”

  “But I think you do. In fact, I am sure of it.”

  He lifted the knife and held it in front of her face. The moonlight reflected off its silvery blade, the tip dark with her blood. With slow deliberation, he touched the knife against the tender flesh at the inside of her arm just above her wrist. Claire fought the fear that raged through her.

  “Where?” He pressed the tip harder against her flesh.

  Claire tried to keep silent, but her scream echoed in the darkness as the knife punctured her skin. Blood roared in her head, her frantic thoughts spinning to find an answer that would save her. She couldn’t give him what he wanted, no matter what he did to her. But if she could get him to let her loose, she might have a chance to escape.

  “You will tell me where the necklace is hidden, my lady,” the Russian said, moving the knife to her throat, “or this night will become very unpleasant for you.”

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut. She had to get free for a few seconds. Had to convince him it wasn’t here, but in another part of the house.

  “Listen carefully,” he said, clamping his thumb and forefinger on either side of her jaw. “Monsieur Roseneau is scheduled to arrive in England in less than a month. He expects me to give him the necklace the moment he steps ashore.”

  Roseneau. It was a name she’d hoped never to hear again. A name as vile as the man himself.

  “And to make sure you cooperate, Monsieur Roseneau has provided an added incentive. He is holding your brother, the Marquess of Halverston. His life will be exchanged for the necklace.”

  “No! My brother doesn’t know anything about the necklace!”

  “If you want to see your brother alive again, you will give it to me. Now, where is it?”

  Claire gasped for air as her heart thundered in her chest. They had Alex! “Downstairs. It’s downstairs.”

  “Then we will go downstairs to get it.”

  The Russian dropped his hold from across her chest and clasped his fingers around her arm. With brutal force, he shoved her against the bedside table.

  “Light the lamp.”

  Claire lit the lamp with trembling hands, then turned her face away from the bright glare until her eyes adjusted. When she turned back, her eyes rested on the Russian. Her breath caught. He was more frightening in the light than in the dark. The evil she’d only imagined in his eyes was now plain to see. She shivered when he again clamped his fingers around her arm.

  “We will go the back way. I have no desire to meet the guards you have posted at the front entrance.”

  Claire raised the lamp and walked toward the door. The Russian kept a bruising grip on her arm with one hand while pressing the tip of the knife against her ribs with the other. They slowly made their way down the back stairs and into the study from a side door.

  “Not a sound, my lady, or you’re dead. And your brother will die next.”

  Claire tightened her hold on the lamp and led the way into Hunt’s study. Hopefully, one of the guards would hear them. Even though the room was at the back of the house, surely someone would hear something and come to her aid.

  The Russian closed the door behind them and locked it, then quickly went to the windows to shut the drapes. Next, he went to the other door and locked it, too, enclosing them in a tomb from which
she couldn’t escape. “Now, where is it?”

  Claire set the lamp on the edge of Hunt’s desk and moved to the side. Hunt always kept a pistol in the top drawer near the back. After the first threat arrived, Claire made sure it was loaded. If she could just get to it . . .

  “It’s in here.” She stepped around the corner of the desk. “In a secret compartment.”

  The Russian watched her as she sat down behind Hunt’s desk and slowly opened the drawer. She reached in and closed her fingers around the gun. She’d only have one shot—she had to make it good.

  The Russian watched her closely. She could see by the wary look in his eyes he didn’t trust her. Just as she pulled the gun from the drawer, he dodged to the side. Claire fired but the bullet went wide and struck him in the arm instead of his chest.

  “Bitch!” he bellowed, darting around the desk.

  Before Claire could move away, the Russian lifted his arm and brought the knife in a downward arc. Claire protected her face but felt a hot, stinging pain across her shoulder and down her left arm. In a backward swing, he slammed his fist against the side of her face. Blood poured from her nose and mouth, and Claire clung to the side of the desk as her knees gave out beneath her.

  From somewhere in the murky darkness, she could hear the sounds of footsteps racing down the hallway. Help was almost here. They only needed to break through the locked door. And she was not completely helpless. The gun was still somewhere on the top of the desk. If she could only find it, she could . . .

  She pushed herself to her hands and knees while the floor shifted beneath her. Her heart thundered in her head as blood streamed down her arm, pooling in a dark puddle on the floor where her limp left hand hung beneath her.

  Wave after wave of agonizing pain knifed through her, and she wanted to give in to it. She wanted to close her eyes and let blessed darkness consume her, but she couldn’t. Roseneau had Alex. If she gave in to the pain, who would save him? The man rifling through the desk was her only link to where he was being held.