“If she knew this man when she lived in London,” Christopher said slowly, “you would not have met him.”
“That is true,” Mrs. Shelby contributed. “But she never spoke to me of a gentleman named Crosse.”
Perhaps he had heard of the scandal and rejected her. He had come to Coggleton because he was sorry, only to find her married to another. Emotion twisted through Christopher’s gut. Pity for Deborah. And for him. A lifetime of pain.
Whatever had happened to his blithe proposal of each discreetly following their own heart?
“You are thinking she might love this man,” Lucy blurted. “She doesn’t.”
Christopher tried to smile. “I thank you for saying so, but with respect, you cannot know that.”
Lucy waved one dismissive hand. “Of course, I can. She is my sister. I don’t say she never knew him or never liked him, because she never mentioned him in my hearing. But she does not love him. Ever since she met you, she has loved you. It was clear in her face from the moment she first spoke of you, and it was there in what she said and didn’t say. I know from her words to me about Sir Edmund that she understood love as I did not. And I know she got that understanding from you. I see it in her eyes whenever she looks at you, in her voice when she speaks to you or even about you. Why are men so blind?”
Total silence echoed around the parlor. Everyone stared at Lucy in surprise, no one more so than Christopher.
Lucy smiled wryly. “You think because I am selfish and petulant that I am unobservant?”
“No,” Christopher said. “I think you are like Deborah. There is a great deal more to you than meets the eye.”
“All appearances to the contrary, I want happiness for her. None of this was her fault, from the trouble in London to my broken engagement. It is Deborah who always looks after us. Perhaps it is time I returned the favor.”
Christopher reached for his glass and paused. It is Deborah who always looks after us… Could she somehow be trying to look after him? If Lucy was correct—and God, how he wanted her to be correct in this—Deborah loved only him, and this Crosse fellow was some other trouble from her past.
How many troubles did she have? Was this not most likely to be connected to the scandal? Could Crosse be something to do with the princess? With Barden? Or the other ladies who had been with her that night?
He raised the glass to his lips and drank the rest of it down before glancing at the children. “Did you like this man? Crosse?”
“We never spoke to him,” Giles admitted. “But…”
“No,” Lizzie and Stephen said together.
“No,” Giles agreed. “He was cold and smug, and he made Deborah…as we saw her.”
“His eyes were dead,” Lizzie said.
Christopher’s breath caught. He set down his glass and rose. “I’m glad I came, but I think I need to go home now. Thank you,” he added, encompassing all of them. “You will let me know of anything you might notice?”
“Don’t worry,” Giles said. “We’re keeping an eye on him.”
“Giles!” Their mother frowned.
“Well, we have clearly helped,” Giles argued.
“You have,” Christopher said, “and I’m grateful. But don’t get too close to this man, at least until I see him.”
“Are you going there now?” Giles asked eagerly, as though meaning to accompany him.
Christopher hesitated, torn between competing needs to confront the man who might be threatening his wife and to be with Deborah to protect and reassure her.
“It’s too late to go calling on people, now,” Mrs. Shelby stated.
And Deborah had already been alone in her chamber for the better part of two hours. “I need to go back and speak to Deborah,” he said firmly. “Your Mr. Crosse will keep until morning.”
“Make her speak,” Lucy said unexpectedly, rising to walk with him to the door. “Don’t let her fob you off or change the subject. She is good at that.”
“I rather think she is.” Christopher bowed to Mrs. Shelby and left the parlor.
Lucy accompanied him to the front door.
He glanced at her. “You know, Letchworth is not the only chance you will ever have. You are, in many ways, quite a catch.”
“Neither of us was honest, even to ourselves.”
“Perhaps you should start again. And see if there is something you like. You might be surprised.” He held out his hand, and she gave him hers. “Thank you, Lucy. Good night.”
He retrieved Nightshade from the garden fence to which he was somewhat insecurely tethered and rode back through the quiet village for home.
It was dark now, and there was little moonlight, so as he reached the outskirts, he urged Nightshade off the road, into the lee of the last cottage, while he fumbled in darkness to light the lantern.
As he found the flint, he heard light footsteps on the road, and in the glow of the passing lantern, he glimpsed a woman wrapped in a cloak. The hood was pulled up over her hair, hiding her face, and the only visible part of her was the hand holding the lantern. He only saw her for an instant, and she could have been anybody, but something in the quiet dignity of her posture and, in her unconscious grace of movement, caught his attention.
Dropping the flint back in his pocket with the lantern unlit, he urged Nightshade the few paces back to the road. The woman hurried on before him. He could see now that she looked uncharacteristically furtive, as though she were afraid of being recognized.
No wonder. She was his wife.
*
“It’s late,” Lucy said, scowling at Lizzie and Stephen as she closed the front door behind their visitor. “You two should be in bed. So should the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Shelby said. She had extinguished the lamps and candles in the parlor and carried one to light them upstairs. “All of us to bed!”
Obediently, they let her herd them before her and separated into their own chambers with yawns and goodnights.
But as Lucy closed her bedchamber door, she found Lizzie no longer yawning but taking her hand and squeezing it tightly.
“Chris does love her, too, doesn’t he?” Lizzie said in a small voice.
“I think he wouldn’t have troubled to come if he didn’t.”
“I like him,” Lizzie stated.
“So do I,” Lucy allowed.
A faint scratch on the door was the only warning before Giles and Stephen slipped almost silently into the room.
“I’m going to watch the inn,” Giles said. “Just for a couple of hours.”
Lucy stared. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We knew grownups would say that, which is why we didn’t tell you before,” Lizzie said.
“And why we didn’t tell Chris either,” Giles said. “At least, not in so many words. When I said we would keep an eye on the place, I meant we already were. George and Jack were watching until eleven for us.”
Lucy glared at him. “You told village children our business?”
“Of course not.” Giles glared back. “They only know we’re suspicious of Crosse and want to know what he’s up to. If he went anywhere, Jack would come and let me know.”
“And he hasn’t, so this Crosse is clearly tucked up in his bed,” Lucy retorted. “As you should be in yours.”
“I meant to be there at eleven,” Giles confessed. “But Chris was here. Anyway, things happen at midnight, don’t they? And I should just make it if I hurry.”
“What things?” Lucy demanded. “What exactly do you expect him to do in the middle of the night? Flee without paying his account at the inn?”
“Perhaps,” Giles stubbornly. “I have to know. If nothing moves, I’ll come back in an hour. Or two.”
“No, Giles,” Lucy said firmly. “You can’t.”
“We’re going with him,” Stephen piped up.
“You are not!” Lucy exclaimed.
Lizzie tugged her hand. “Please, Lucy. It might help Deborah.”
Lucy scow
led at her. “I don’t see how!”
“Yes, you do,” Lizzie said with a grin. “Don’t tell, Lucy. Giles will look after us.”
“Yes, but who will look after Giles?”
“We will,” Stephen assured her.
Lucy groaned. “Drat you, am I never to see my bed? Come on then, fetch your cloaks. I know I am going to regret this.”
*
Now that the moment was upon her, Deborah knew she could cope. There was no other choice if she wished to save everyone and maintain the possibility of continued happiness with Christopher.
No one saw her leave Gosmere Hall by the side door, she was sure, and she encountered no one in the long, dark walk to Coggleton. As she hurried through the village, her heart pounded from more than the brisk exercise. She disliked confrontation. She thoroughly disliked Barden. But she would do what she had to.
The houses and other buildings were in darkness, even the inn, where the doors were closed for the night. Her timepiece showed her that it still lacked twenty minutes until midnight, which was all to the good. It gave her time to look around, to become familiar with her surroundings before she confronted Barden and his extortion.
Shading her lantern with her cloak, she entered the inn gates, which, fortunately, remained open, and crept around the side of the house, keeping close to the walls.
The stables were at the back in a sprawling single story. She doubted any of the ostlers slept there since Coggleton was some distance from the main roads, and no night coaches stopped at the inn. Deborah flitted across the yard.
She passed a bolted door and then came to the corner of the building. Another door was closed but unbolted. She paused and listened. Hearing nothing, not even the breathing of horses or shifting hooves, she pushed open the door, hoping it wouldn’t squeak.
It didn’t. Holding the lantern in front of her, she stepped inside. It appeared to be a storeroom for hay. An inner door led, presumably into the main part of the stables that she had just walked past. She stepped further into the storeroom.
“Good evening, Mrs. Halland,” murmured a bland voice to her right, making her jump. “How punctual you are.”
“As are you,” she replied, recovering, although she couldn’t help being annoyed that he was so early that she couldn’t look around for either hidden dangers or advantages she could use. But her plan still stood.
“Does anyone know you are here?” Barden asked, stepping into her lantern light. He laid his own on a shelf beside his head.
“Of course not.”
“And you have the money?”
She took a hastily wrapped parcel from inside her cloak.
“Two hundred pounds?” he asked casually, taking it from her.
“One hundred,” she replied, returning to her pocket as though for the other parcel. Instead, she brought out Christopher’s dueling pistol and pointed it straight at Barden’s chest. She was pleased to feel her hand steady.
His eyes widened. “What the devil is that for? For God’s sake, point it somewhere else. It probably has a hair-trigger!”
“I believe it does,” she said. “So, you had better not upset me. Being a lady on my own, I felt it necessary in order to enforce a fair bargain. Which is that you get one hundred pounds now and the rest when I see the printed retraction. Not just for me but for Lady Sayle, Lady Juliet, and Lady Meg.”
He curled his lip, although he kept his gaze warily on the pistol. “Anything else?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes. That two hundred pounds is all you will ever have of me. Dare to contact me again, and I will simply shoot you.”
“My dear,” he mocked. “Will it benefit your estimable husband to have his wife hanged for murder?”
“It might when I reveal at my trial what an utter scoundrel you are. It will all be revealed, and I shall have many credible and well-born witnesses to your conduct. Then again, I might hire an assassin. I believe they are not expensive in London if you know where to look. Or,” she said as his eyes flickered behind her, and he began to move, “I might just shoot you now and be done with it. No one will look for the strange Mr. Crosse, and we’ll have buried you long before Mrs. Briggs even starts bemoaning her unpaid bill.”
Her voice rose through a heady combination of anger and nerves, but it seemed to work in her favor, for she really did sound mad.
Barden held up his hands, palms outward. She was glad to see they were sweating.
“Now, my dear, do nothing hasty,” he begged. “We can still make a civilized bargain. I will agree to your terms if you just lower the pistol.”
“You can agree just as easily with the pistol aimed. More easily, I daresay.”
And then something cold pressed into the back of her head, and Barden leapt sideways as if she might shoot in accidental reflex. Instead, she stood perfectly still as her blood ran cold. Someone held a pistol to her head, and unlike her own, she knew it would be loaded.
Is this it? Am I about to die without ever telling Christopher I love him?
“The same can be said of you, ma’am,” proclaimed a male voice behind her, one she had never heard before. “Give me the pistol.”
The hairs on her neck stood up. She could only let the stranger’s fingers close around the barrel of Christopher’s pistol, easing it upward and then dragging it from her hand.
“My valet,” Barden said by way of introduction. “He is quite eager to be paid, so he will just remove that other hundred pounds I’m sure you brought with you just in case of necessity.”
The cold barrel of the valet’s pistol left her, but she was still afraid to move as his hand drew back her cloak.
“New bargain,” Barden said smugly. “All the money now, and in return, I will, as I promised, have your name removed from the list of attendees at Connaught Place’s most scandalous soiree. Only yours. And I will contact you when I like for more money. Since a document naming you and your husband will be with my solicitor tomorrow, I really doubt you will add murder to your crimes.”
Meanwhile, the valet’s hand had found the pocket in her cloak. He leaned over her, grinning, and his sour breath filled her senses with revulsion. Then without warning, hand and breath vanished with a massive thud as he flew sprawling across the floor. Another hand entirely yanked her behind him, and Christopher—Christopher!—crouched to seize both pistols from the valet.
Barden’s mouth had fallen open. He began to back away toward the inner door leading to the horses.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Christopher snarled and strode after him.
Barden paused, holding out the parcel of money, almost waving it in Christopher’s face. “Here! Take it, take it! It was her idea to help an old friend, but I—”
Christopher let out a roar of fury. He seized Barden by the collar and then by the seat of his pantaloons and hurled him bodily across the room, where he sprawled next to his groggily rising valet.
“Go, go!” Barden hissed urgently, scrambling to his feet, hauling the servant with him. Together, all but falling over each other, they stumbled toward a third door at the far end of the storeroom, one Deborah had not even had time to notice before.
As they went, Barden swiped something off a shelf. Deborah didn’t care. Her gaze was drawn to Christopher, who walked toward her, still panting with fury. His eyes blazed brighter than the lanterns, yet seemed darker than the deepest night.
“Christopher,” she whispered.
He blinked, and then his gaze flickered to her left, toward Barden’s exit.
“Deborah!” he choked out, launching himself forward, and she jerked her head around to face yet another pistol, this one in Barden’s hold. His face was ugly with determination and fury.
That’s what he hid on the shelf for just this situation. And this time, I am dead…
But a many-headed fury crashed into Barden, and the pistol went off in a mighty crack just as it was shoved upward. Some unseen force seemed to spin her around into Christopher’s arms, and then tog
ether, they were rushing toward the fury, which bore the faces of her siblings. A terrible new fear rushed on her, but it seemed Giles held Barden’s pistol, Lucy at his side. But they didn’t need Christopher’s protection. Barden was haring off toward the front of the inn, and a second later, they heard a carriage and horses leap forward at a gallop.
Christopher made a start after them as the children rushed toward Deborah, then he paused, frowning down at her. “Your gown is wet.”
She swallowed. “I feel…I feel strange,” she said, and then the pain rushed on her, and she fainted against her husband’s chest.
*
Consciousness came to her quite fuzzily at first, a jumble of memories of pain and blood and the realization that Barden’s shot had hit her. Her brothers and sisters were part of the terrible dream, Giles with tears running down his face and Christopher’s voice saying urgently, “It wasn’t your fault. In fact, you saved her life by knocking off his aim.”
Then Christopher was holding a cup to her lips, and she was weeping, trying to explain to him, to tell him she loved him before she died.
“Don’t talk,” he said softly. “Just drink this.” And he tipped some foul-tasting liquid down her throat. She didn’t care because she was so cold, and Christopher’s arms and chest were so warm. There was movement, dizzying and painful, and the clop of horses’ hooves. And then she barely felt the pain as she slid back into darkness.
There had been disturbing dreams, but they seemed to melt away with the last fringes of sleep. Especially when she saw who sat by her bed. Christopher, in his shirt-sleeves and no necktie, his tousled hair fell forward over his closed eyes. She wanted to smile and weep at the same time.
“Christopher,” she croaked.
His eyes flew open, and he leaned forward, clasping her flailing hand. “I’m here.”
His voice was low and intense, stabbing straight to her heart as tears welled.
“Oh, Christopher, I am so sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “I thought I could pay him off and keep him away from us, but I couldn’t tell you in case you did something foolish, and he harmed you. But I never wanted to keep things from you. I never will again. And you have to believe me when I say I love you.” She clung desperately to his hand. “I do.”
Married to the Rogue Page 23
