Refocused, he forced his attention to the bushes ahead. He could not see any of the other searchers; only trusted that they would keep their movements quiet as instructed. He sent up another prayer for Tessa’s safety. While he trusted Featherington would make his case to guard and protect plain—and hoped the man lived up to his boast of shooting prowess at Manton’s—he also hoped George would understand Ben’s quickly scrawled message, though he felt sure Mattie and David would. They’d have locked all doors and windows and have surrounded her like lionesses around their cubs.
Another crack of colored lightning lit the sky.
He glanced back at the Pavilion. The earl’s tall figure had detached from the group. Ben gritted his teeth. He did not like Hawkesbury making himself an obvious target, but he had agreed, and any subterfuge such as disguise would scarcely fool either Richard or Hawkesbury’s former agent. What hold did Johnson have over Clara’s brother? How could a viscount’s son be inveigled in such a miserable business? And how could any man permit hatred to take hold to the degree that he was prepared to injure his sister?
His hands fisted, he shook his head. What a situation to be embroiled in, to embroil the man he would call father-in-law. Especially as it involved his son …
A third set of fireworks exploded, this time a set of three, one echoing after the other. More light spilled from heaven. More oohs and ahhs floated across the lawn.
Ben forced himself to sift the bushes and trees; these moments of light were the best chance to see the intruder. There was another crack, another wash of color. He blinked, forcing himself to watch closely. Was that—
No. He’d been mistaken. Just a branch.
The fireworks continued their relentless blooming in the skies. He examined the foliage carefully. What if Richard had lied? What if there was no other man, and all this was a set up to take aim at the earl? Nausea sloshed through him. Would a brother take such chances, even one as depraved as Richard obviously was?
There!
A glint of metal. On a cylindrical tube. A tube, pointed at the man separated from the others at the Pavilion.
There was another roar of fireworks, only this time followed immediately by a bang and spurt of fire. Amid screams from the Pavilion, he rushed to the man holding the weapon, saw the man’s face, recognized the features, and hurtled towards him, even as the weapon was lifted once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NİNE
HE WAS DEAD!
Clara’s eyes flew open, and she sat upright in bed, dragging in frantic breaths. Darkness still filled the room, though a hint of the coming dawn seeped around the curtained windows. No. She placed a hand on her chest, willing her heartbeat to calm. It’d been a dream, a bad dream. That was all.
She sagged back onto the pillows, closing her eyes, but the images refused to leave. Mr. Kemsley, lying injured, helpless, and bloodied, as a faceless man took aim, and—
No!
Her eyes cracked open. No. He was safe. He had to be! Surely they would have heard otherwise by now …
Lord, protect him.
A creak outside alerted her to someone’s presence, just before the door opened silently. Her heart played allegro as she huddled against the head-board. Was it Richard? Johnson? What should she use as a weapon? She spied her Bible on the table beside the bed. Would God forgive her if she used her Bible for such a purpose?
A shaft of light traced Meg’s features.
“Oh, it’s you!” Relief made Clara chuckle at her misapprehension. “I thought—”
“The master wants you downstairs, miss.”
“Father?” Clara glanced at the curtains, around which bled a thin, gray light. She rubbed her eyes, then studied the maid, who seemed abominably happy for the early hour. “What would Father want at such a time?”
The maid glanced down, cheeks flushing. “I couldn’t say, miss.”
No, Clara thought. Why would Father tell a servant of the plans? Her heart wrenched. He must have had news! Oh, how she hoped her dream wasn’t a sign!
“Tell him I’ll come right away.”
Mind still half-fuzzy from lack of sleep, Clara shoved her feet into comfortable house slippers, then snatched up a thin robe, wrapping it around her as she descended the steps. Early morning chill ate through her shift and light nightgown. Normally she would never appear before Father dressed so dishabille but this was obviously important. She walked through the drawing room’s opened door. A fire glowed in the grate. She moved directly to it, hands outstretched, hoping to ward off dawn’s coolness.
“Hello, Clara.”
She spun around. “Richard!”
Her heart beat forte staccato at the look in his eye. Meg moved from the room’s shadowed recesses to stand beside him. He smiled down at her, and Meg gazed up at him.
Clara’s insides gave a sudden heave. She recognized that look. It was one she’d worn too many times. “You … and Meg?”
He gave a grating laugh. “Why not? Meg is good and pliable enough. She’s never minded helping me when I needed information, or a door left unlocked, especially in exchange for a few favors, shall we say?”
Meg ducked her head as Clara sent her a narrow look.
Bile filled her mouth as she returned her attention to her brother. Unlike his latest conquest, Richard’s face wore no shame. “How could you?”
He shrugged. “I’m the son of a lord. This is what we do.” He pinched Meg’s rear, to her squeak of approval.
Clara shivered. Did her brother hold no compunctions? “I don’t know how you had the nerve to come here again.”
“After you told people, you mean?” He shot her a sardonic look. “Didn’t you think I’d know you would? You’ve never been able to keep a secret, always thinking you know best, and look where that’s got us.”
“You blame me for your actions?”
“Of course! I never would’ve been in this mess if it wasn’t for you and that fool Hawkesbury.”
She bit back a hot retort at the familiar refrain, endeavoring for a calm tone when next she spoke. “So you saw Lord Hawkesbury at the Pavilion?”
“Kissing his wife, no less.” He shook his head. “Seems he doesn’t want you anymore, Clara.”
She aimed for nonchalance as she shrugged. “I knew that long ago. Your plan was never going to work. Everybody knows how devoted they are to each other.”
He muttered a curse. “Everyone but that fool Johnson. He insisted—”
“Where is he now?”
Another profanity. “Fool got spotted at the Pavilion and got caught. But not before he took out a few of your desperate helpers.”
“What?” Her heart raced. Not Mr. Kemsley, not Mr. Kemsley!
He uttered a low laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid your sailor has sailed his final voyage.”
“Mr. Kemsley?” She licked dry lips. “Is he—”
“Is that his name? Such a common, coarse-looking fellow. I cannot understand why my sister of all people should take a fancy to him.” He smiled evilly. “No need to mind now.”
She felt the room sway. “Is he dead?”
“Dead, or at least will be soon enough, judging from the amount of blood I saw.”
She closed her eyes, hopelessness gnawing at her. Dear God, please keep him alive …
“She looks like she might faint, Master Richard.”
“Hush yourself. She’s only shamming.”
Despair wove icy fingers through her soul, squeezing her heart until it seemed all hope had gone. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be! She bit her bottom lip to stop the tremble, sucked in a huge gulp of air, and finally opened her eyes. Fainting would not help anyone.
“What do you want, Richard?”
“What I want is impossible. The past two years to be altered, to not be on the run, so desperate for money that I—” An odd light kindled his eyes. Was that regret shading them?
He shook himself. “‘What’s done cannot be undone,’ so Hamlet once said.”
“La
dy Macbeth,” she murmured.
“What?”
A persistent throb of anger slowly intensified as she studied his once-handsome features, traces of the debonair youth he’d once been still faintly evident. “I think it more apropos to say that ‘fair is foul, and foul is fair,’ wouldn’t you? How sad to learn those one thinks should be trustworthy cannot be trusted.” She eyed the maid, who ducked her head again.
Richard’s eyes slitted. “Just like a witch, aren’t you, with your spiteful tongue? Well, come along.”
Clara took another pace back. “I’m not leaving.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Quick as lightning, he dashed forward and grabbed her arm, wrapping a hand over her lips as she opened her mouth to scream. “And there’ll be none of that, either. You might think you outsmarted me, putting those men to safeguard your precious little friend, but I still know where Hawkesbury lives, and I’ll take great pleasure in finishing what I started with his countess so long ago.”
She wriggled, but he twisted her arm harder until she was sure it would nearly break.
“I saw you talking with her last night, acting so friendly, like you actually cared,” he breathed in her ear. “If you actually do care, then you’ll stop protesting. You’re coming with me, and not a sound will you make.”
His threat wormed into her heart and she ceased her useless struggle. No, he would not hurt Lavinia. She would die rather than let her brother hurt Lavinia again.
Maintaining his firm grip from behind, he forced her to walk to where Meg had the door opened. She was wrenched to one side as Richard gave Meg a loud smack of a kiss before he pushed Clara out into the hall.
Clara’s thoughts raced frantically, nothing settling, nothing firming into purpose. At this early hour, the likelihood of encountering someone who could help her was virtually nil. And even if she screamed, Richard would run away, and doubtless fulfill his evil intentions against Lavinia. Her eyes pricked with tears as she was half dragged to the front door, Meg following close behind. She stumbled. If only Mr. Kemsley—a sob wrenched in her throat—No! She could not think like that! Oh, Lord God, please help me!
Benjamin rubbed his eyes, gritty with lack of sleep. Beside him, Braithwaite mumbled something as they continued their vigil watching the Winpoole residence. He ignored him, just as he worked to ignore the stench of failure wafting in the predawn breeze. His bloodstained shirt stank of sweat and regret. How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly? One minute he’d held the wretch in his hands; the next he held nothing but a probable broken nose, and misery that his fool knee had given way just as his captive had wriggled free, escaping into darkness. Apart from an unexpected encounter with Braithwaite, who had offered his services the minute he saw Ben’s distress, the only good outcome of the past three hours had been the capture of Johnson, who had admitted—under Hawkesbury’s interrogation, and threats of the hangman’s noose—to the whereabouts of the earl’s missing money.
But money held little value when weighed against another’s life. Especially the life of the woman Ben knew he loved. He loved her, with a gut-wrenching force equivalent to the most immense gale encountered at sea. But whether that love was enough—
“Look!”
Braithwaite’s rum-soaked breath hissed through the murky dimness as a group of three individuals descended the stairs and made their way along the Crescent. Although sound might not travel quite as well as over water, the rough cobblestones and as-yet absence of early morning bustle would still make a whisper too loud. He tugged at his friend’s arm, motioning him for silence, and they made their way closer, keeping low as they inched along the headland.
Why three?
Ben squinted, trying to make out the figure of the third. Had Lord Winpoole decided to forgo Ben’s carefully laid out plans and determined a course of his own making? Did his wife and daughter accompany him?
No, he was being ridiculous. Ben shook his head at himself and crept closer.
Now he was nearer he could see just how ridiculous that thought was. The figures were all tall and slim, none having the viscount’s rotundity. And he could not envisage Lord Winpoole holding another in such a cruel grasp. His mouth dried. That must be DeLancey, holding Clara!
A quiet clatter of hooves dragged his attention to where a carriage had drawn up at the corner of Marine Parade and Burlington, to where Clara was being slowly but surely hauled. But how could he save her? He had no weapon, nothing that could secure her release.
Long ago lessons of His Majesty’s service resurfaced, mingling with verses read far more recently. Christians, like sea captains, did not sink under fear. He shook off his doubts and pushed to his full height. “Miss DeLancey!”
The figures turned. In the dawn’s dim light, he saw Clara’s widening eyes, saw the man shift in front of her, before hissing, “Leave us alone.”
Ben rushed forward, eyes fixed on Clara. Her face wore traces of tears, her attire indicated she’d been rushed from the house without opportunity to change. “Clara?”
“How dare you address my sister so?” Richard DeLancey whipped out a small knife and held it to his sister’s throat. “Get back.”
Ben’s heart drummed with fear. He stood his ground, maintaining DeLancey’s gaze, even as the other lady climbed into the carriage. “Please release her. I don’t care where you go, and I promise not to follow—”
“You think it’s that simple? I’ve desperate men after me …” DeLancey swore a vile oath. “I’d rather swing than see a naval upstart have anything to do with my sister. She is a viscount’s daughter, for goodness’ sake!”
“And I am a baronet.” Well, he would be soon. “A baronet who loves her.”
The terror edging Clara’s eyes softened as she gave a weak smile. Her brother blinked, before waving the blade wildly. “I do not care. Get away.” He held the knife close to her throat, the sharp edge pressing into her skin.
Everything within wanted to pound the villain into oblivion. See him flogged with a cat o’ nine tails before being strung from the yardarm of the nearest ship. Richard DeLancey was a traitor to his sister, his family, to gentlemen everywhere. Ben forced himself to remain still, yet poised for action, a lion readying for its prey. He would not see further harm come to Clara. He could not see her hurt anymore.
Richard gave a manic-tinged laugh. “Go away, Kemsley. I have business to complete.”
What?
Before he realized what had happened, Clara was dragged inside, and DeLancey had leapt to the carriage front, pushing the coachman to the ground. The reins snapped, Ben was chasing the moving vehicle, then his knee buckled, and he toppled to join the coachman muttering curses on the ground.
He pushed up with his hands and lifted his head, as the vehicle tilted dangerously around a corner, then was lost from sight. And a wave of despair crashed over him.
CHAPTER THİRTY
CLARA REFUSED TO cry, refused to show fear. How dare Meg betray her family in such a way? How dare Richard? The very fact that Mr. Kemsley was alive—alive!—instilled hope that somehow today would not end as wretchedly as it had started. But it seemed day’s end was still so far away, even as the first rays of gold shafted light through the carriage.
She eyed her captor as the carriage careened wildly around another bend. Meg swayed, one hand gripping the strap, the other holding that venomous knife poised for use.
“I’m disappointed in you, Meg.”
Her maid—or was that former maid?—sniffed. “I do not have to pretend to care about your disappointments anymore, miss.”
Clara managed a raspy chuckle. “You never did a very good job of pretending to care. Although I’ll grant you pretended very well to have no knowledge of Richard’s whereabouts.” She studied her. “How long have you been smitten with him?”
Meg lifted her chin. “I do not have to answer to you.”
“No, but I should think you’d want to tell me. Because it’s obvious you’ve cast a spell over my brot
her.”
Clara offered a smile she hoped did not appear too false, but rather looked inviting of a confidence. Just as she’d hoped, Meg’s face lit up. “You truly think so?”
Clara nodded. Father, forgive me. “I have never seen him so passionate as with you.” She had heard whispers of his exploits, but—thank God—she’d never been witness to his carnal appetite until now. She swallowed, hoping to extract some kernel of information as to her plight. “I imagine he has plans to take you to France or Ireland once all this is over.”
“Oh, not to France, because Richard says that’s where Lord Houghton is taking—” She gave Clara a scared look and clamped her lips, refusing to look at her anymore.
She swallowed, fighting a wave of revulsion, as her father’s words from the previous night sang softly in her mind. Just because her sapskull brother held evil plans did not mean she need acquiesce.
Clara looked through the small sliver of window not obscured by the red leather curtain. They had turned onto the Steyne and were drawing closer to the beach. Wherever she was headed, it seemed they would travel by boat. Nausea surged through her midsection. Suddenly she did not care what impact her actions might have on others. Let the earl take care of Lavinia; she had to take care of herself!
They careened around another corner. This time as Meg was thrown off-balance, Clara was ready, and she threw herself at the door, unlatching it at the same time. She fell onto the road, hitting her head so hard it seemed she bounced. She groaned, placed a hand to her head. Stared at the blood on her hand. What on earth—
Vaguely she became aware of the carriage stopping, of the thud of footsteps. Of a hand grabbing her, dragging her upright. Richard called her a foul name, then pushed her back into the carriage, whereupon she was violently sick. All over Meg’s shoes.
Meg made a noise of disgust. She had at least put the knife away, not that Clara felt up for any more heroics. She huddled on the seat, pain heaving, her vision blurring in and out. If only she’d thought to be sick on Richard, perhaps he’d be so disgusted he would wash his hands of inveigling her in any more of his wickedness. Her heart brightened. Perhaps such a method might work on others, too …
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 28
