“Aren’t you going to do something about him?” Fitz asked. “You do like to rush in.”
“Where fools fear to tread. Yes.” She took an audible breath. “But I’ve come to suspect you are right.”
He glanced up at the intricately plastered ceiling. Susan had said he was right—surely this house, and civilization as he knew it, would fall into ruins.
The ceiling looked sturdy, and he didn’t speak for fear he would frighten her off—again. Still, she couldn’t mean what he thought she meant. Not Susan.
But she said, “I am a fool. Or rather—I have been one.”
Fitz turned quickly, half afraid it was a chimera that spoke so lucidly, and not his upright, overbearing, arrogant Lady Goodridge. She connected with his gaze for one moment, then looked down, to the side, anywhere but at him. “Do you mean it?” he asked.
A blush crept up from her chest to her forehead, but she sounded remarkably composed as she said, “I would like to reconsider your proposal.”
He caught her hand. He moved in close. “I would like that, too, Susan. Won’t you look at me?”
He could almost see the effort she put into it: the steadying of her nerves, the gathering of courage. Then she did look at him, and the calm strength assured him of her resolve.
“Susan.” He threaded their fingers together. He smiled with undeniable pleasure. In the low, intimate voice of a lover, he asked, “Why did you change your mind?”
She answered in much the same tone, but with her own special way of articulation. “I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t come back to London. But Ransom made me, and I watched you charming the other ladies and never looking at me, and I…missed you.”
His plan had worked. His plan had worked! He wanted to do a jig on the gambling tables, to laugh in the faces of other fortune hunters. “Did you think about what I said? That a poor half-Irish lover is better than no lover at all?”
“No. That didn’t matter. I’d already watched you for years, and thought I would much enjoy having you in my bed.”
The shock of that made him sway back.
“But you were my brother’s friend, and you didn’t think of me as anything but an older sister…until you needed to marry for your mother’s sake.”
That bit of truth had pricked at her, and he said, “I didn’t lie to you about that, my dear.”
“No, to your credit, you didn’t. And I am pleased to do what I can for the dear lady. The air at Goodridge Manor would improve her lungs, and my cook will fatten her up.” Susan’s mouth got that thin, pinched look he hated. “I confess it was vanity which caused me to at first reject your proposal. I didn’t like being perceived as older, desperate, and the easy mark.”
She’d surprised him with her acceptance, but now she had astonished him. He stared with what he knew must be goggle eyes. Then, throwing back his head, he burst into laughter.
Mortified, she glanced around at the crowd milling about. “What are you laughing about? Stop.”
“Easy?” he hooted. “You?”
“Stop, I say. People are staring.” She punched him in the arm, and it was no love pat.
Holding the stitch in his side, he calmed enough to say, “Better get used to that. They’ll always stare at us.” He couldn’t contain his grin. “My dear Lady Goodridge. My dear Susan—as I’ve always called you in my mind—you are the epitome of a difficult mark. You are too proper, too rich, too intimidating. That’s why no man has swept you up. It takes nerve and skill to approach a woman like you, and the only reason I even dared dream of success was that hint—just a mere hint, mind you—of hunger when you looked at me.” Throwing propriety to the winds, he slipped his arm around her waist. “So tell me how long you’ve lusted after me, and I’ll tell you what I plan to do to assuage that lust.”
Her back was so stiff it might crack, and her outrage rolled off her in palpable waves.
What a time they would have, he and Susan! She’d make him rich, and he’d make her happy, and—
“I don’t know what you’re doing with my sister, Fitz, but I wish you’d stop it for a minute and pay attention.”
“The whole damned family can be trusted to have a delicate touch.” Fitz swung Susan to face Blackburn. “Do you have to interrupt? We’re getting betrothed here.”
“I’m pleased you finally convinced her.” Blackburn bowed with no ease and much hurry. “But this is a public place and you must have known someone would interrupt sooner or later. I need your help. Someone must watch Adorna for me.”
Susan and Fitz exchanged glances.
“Watch her?” Susan said delicately.
“She’s been passing messages to the French, and I’m afraid someone might try and kill her.”
“Ransom, my friend.” Fitz placed a hand on Blackburn’s arm. “Are you feeling quite healthy?”
“She didn’t know she’d been passing messages.” Blackburn blew out a sigh. “She still doesn’t know, but the spies know and they are ruthless and perhaps vengeful.”
Susan and Fitz looked at each other again, Fitz with rising amazement.
“You and that spy rumor. It was really true.”
“It really was,” Blackburn agreed. “Now, will you watch her? Especially watch out for Athowe. I thought he might be here, but he’s not in sight and I’m feeling rather uneasy about Jane.”
“Is she a spy, too?” Susan asked, too sweetly.
“No, but I thought she was, and she’s dreadfully angry about it.”
Susan blanched. “You thought she was a spy, and you married her?”
Fitz experienced a sinking feeling.
“No wonder she’s angry,” Susan said.
“You’ll watch Adorna?” Blackburn said with a fair amount of desperation.
“Wait.” Fitz glanced from his friend to his betrothed. “How do you know I’m not a spy?”
“Then Mr. Smith will be most pleased we are working together,” Blackburn snapped.
“No. I mean”—this wretched honesty was hell—“what if I’m a spy for the French?”
Now Blackburn and Susan stared at each other.
Then, grabbing Fitz’s shoulder, Blackburn shoved him into the throng around Adorna. “I don’t have time for this. Just watch her and stop trying to cut up.”
“I’m serious!”
Susan followed at her own dignified pace. “Fitz, you couldn’t even propose to me without explaining you were doing it because of my money.”
Wrestling himself free, Fitz said, “I am serious. I talked to de Sainte-Amand about it last night.”
“What’s your first assignment?” Blackburn asked.
“I didn’t get one. He looked ready to flee, so I—”
Blackburn pointed at him. “You’re the one that convinced him that they were going to arrest the wrong man, didn’t you? You convinced de Sainte-Amand it was safe to stay.”
Curiosity prodded Fitz. “Did he stay?”
“He was arrested this morning.” Hands on hips, Blackburn looked Fitz over. “You’re a lousy traitor, Fitz.”
In her usual colorless tone, Susan said, “You trust Fitz very easily.”
“Of course. He’s my friend.”
“And Jane is your wife.”
Blackburn stared at her without expression. Then, turning to Fitz, he snapped, “Just protect Adorna and I’ll give you my sister’s hand in marriage.”
As he walked away, Susan breathed, “The man understands at last.”
Driven by an ever-increasing sense of unease, Blackburn urged his grays along briskly. What had he been doing, watching over Adorna when any one of a hundred gentlemen would guard her on command? If not a suitor, then the Tarlins, or Fitz and Susan, or even old Viscount Ruskin, who had sat not far away and watched the girl with a bit of a smile playing around his mouth.
Blackburn’s place was at home, talking to Jane, making her listen, forcing her to understand what he’d done and why he’d done it. Explaining why he trusted Fitz, that flighty char
mer, but not her.
And that would take some explaining, because he didn’t quite understand it himself. He suspected it had something to do with his emotions, which he viewed with suspicion, and how they influenced his reason. He had vowed to protect England, but this uncomfortably romantic attachment he’d formed for Jane always seemed to be intruding, distracting him from his duty, modifying his opinions.
He’d heard of men so wild with love they’d betrayed family, home, and country, and a Quincy would not succumb to such an extravagant feeling.
Except he had.
He’d married her thinking her a spy, thinking he had tainted his bloodlines, and thinking none of that mattered as long as he could protect her from the hangman.
Then he had thought she would be impressed by his seeming sacrifice.
Damn. What an ass he’d been.
Pulling up in front of the town house, Blackburn handed the reins to his stableboy and strode into his home. Servants milled about without direction, and they flinched at the sight of him.
His teeth snapped together. Why were they cowering?
“Where is my lady?” he demanded of the butler.
Whent’s wig was askew on his head, and his hands trembled. “My lord, we don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“She was in the library. She had a visitor. And now she’s gone out the garden door!”
“A visitor?” This couldn’t be happening. “Who?”
“Lord Athowe, my lord.” Whent’s voice rose in a wail. “My lord, where are you going?”
Running back to the street, Blackburn looked for his little sentinel. She wasn’t in her place at the crossing, and her broom lay where it had fallen. “Wiggens!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
In the distance he heard a faint call, and then another, this one a little closer. His bootheels snapped on the cobblestones as he strode to the corner and looked wildly around.
Down the street, her arm clutched to her middle, limped Wiggens.
“Wiggens.” Had Athowe hurt her? Blackburn would add that to the score. Hurrying to her, he picked her up. Bones and skin, the child was. “What happened?”
“That toff took Lady Blackburn out the alley, and she a-strugglin’ something fierce.” The child dragged in each breath, her thin face weary with exhaustion. “I shouted and ran at ’em, but ’e got ’er inside afore I could stop ’im. Then I ran after his carriage until I couldn’t run no more. But I lost ’em. I’m sorry, m’lord. I failed ye.”
“Nonsense.” Blackburn stalked toward his open door and up the stairs. “You couldn’t keep up with the horses. But what direction did they go?”
“I couldn’t keep up,” Wiggens repeated. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes. “But I’ve got somethin’ for ye.” Digging in her grubby clothing, she pulled out a sheet of paper and spread it out before Blackburn’s eyes. “M’lady dropped it out the window. Does it mean anythin’, m’lord?”
Stepping inside, Blackburn handed Wiggens to the hovering butler and took the paper. It was one of Jane’s drawings of ships on the open sea. He stared at it and wondered—
“My lord.” Whent held Wiggens in his arms, and both of them looked disgusted. “What should I do with the urchin?”
“I ain’t no urchin,” Wiggens said. “I’m English, same as ye!”
Blackburn drilled Whent with his gaze. “Give her a bath, get her some clean clothing, and feed her as much as she wants.”
“A bath!” Wiggens shrieked.
Ignoring the struggle that erupted, Blackburn hastened into the library. There, on the floor by the door, was another loose piece of paper. Perhaps…Picking it up, he saw it. Athowe, complete with fangs and hair. Glancing out into the yard, he saw another by the open gate.
Jane had left a trail for him to follow.
Chapter 31
“Jane. May I call you Jane?” Athowe smiled affably above the barrel of the small pistol he held trained on her.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Jane,” he said deliberately. “Get out of the carriage now.”
His coachman held the door and seemed not to notice anything unusual about the situation. As he probably didn’t, if he’d been working for Athowe long.
Slowly Jane stepped onto the step and then down into the muck of the street.
Rank with garbage, the Thames swept by, slapping against the dock that extended into the river. The ship anchored there dipped with the current, and the gangplank rested on the end of the dock, waiting for Jane and Athowe to make their way aboard.
Jane glanced behind her, but she had no chance for escape. Athowe had pulled the pistol in the carriage and taken careful aim at her, and the barrel hadn’t wavered since.
She stared ahead at the water that gleamed red in the sunset and wondered if she’d live through a dive. Probably not. If she dove in, and if he shot her, and if she somehow survived the wound, the sewage would probably smother her.
Yet if she didn’t dive…She swallowed as she considered that gangplank. If she didn’t dive, she’d be trapped on a ship with Lord Athowe, a man crazed with greed and—it made her ill to imagine it—with lust for her.
“You only want me because of the guilt, you know,” she said in a conversational tone, dropping another drawing and stomping it into the mud. “You’re embarrassed that you ran when I needed you.”
“That’s true.” He was quite genial when he was getting his way. “But taking you to Italy is my way of making reparation.”
“I don’t want to go to Italy,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
“With me.” The gun barrel poked into her back. “I suppose you’d be glad to go with Blackburn.”
“He’s my husband. It seems more appropriate. Maybe you could get Frederica and we could visit together. Two couples, enjoying the sights.” She stepped onto the dock, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to stop this.
“Don’t be silly. A Quincy would never visit Italy to see the art. A Quincy would never allow his wife to paint. And that particular Quincy will certainly never allow you to sculpt.” The barrel poked a little harder. “Will he, Jane? Will he?”
Ransom wouldn’t, of course. She didn’t want to go back—indeed, she didn’t think she could go back—to a life that stifled her every creative urge. She needed to paint, to sculpt, to draw with all the passion of her heart.
Behind her, Athowe chuckled. “I knew it,” he said. “The Marquess of Blackburn doesn’t have an unconventional bone in his stodgy body. Now, hurry. We have to catch the tide.”
She dropped another drawing and stomped it onto one of the nails that stuck out from the rotting wood.
“What are you doing?” Athowe asked in exasperation, picking up the paper. “Do you really think Blackburn’s going to find these?” He crumpled it in his hand. “He’s not going to follow you like some bird after a stolen worm. He’ll give you up easily enough.”
Her future was as murky as the Thames, but she knew the truth of this matter. Turning to face Athowe, she said, “I’m afraid you have him confused with yourself.”
His pudgy face pinkened. “What do you mean?”
“You gave me up easily enough. My husband would never surrender his wife.”
From the end of the dock came a familiar voice. “How true, Jane.”
Jane and Athowe swung about to see Blackburn standing, fists clenched, head down and mouth set. He looked like a man whose most precious possession had been stolen, like a bull about to charge. “Athowe, I’m going to kill you.”
His guttural voice projected a menace that made Athowe flinch, and Athowe made a desperate grab for Jane.
Dodging him she smacked him on the side of the head with the edge of her beloved portfolio. The thump of leather sounded hollow against his skull and sent him stumbling sideways.
Twisting quickly, she rammed him with her shoulder. The gun sailed out of his hand into the river.
Jane had never
heard a more satisfying splash.
“Bloody damned woman!” His fist shot out toward her belly.
Blackburn landed on Athowe. The men went tumbling.
Jane went tumbling with them. The thump of fists and the pained grunts were too close. Desperately, she crawled toward the end of the dock. Away from the fighting. Away from Athowe and his madness. Away from Blackburn and his stupid distrust and his unjustified superiority.
Oh, Blackburn was going to win the fight. She knew that. No one knew his strength and muscled form better than she did. Blackburn would to beat the stocky Athowe senseless. Easily. Without a doubt.
So why was she looking back? Athowe landed a blow to Blackburn’s eye, and she almost leaped to her feet to help. But then blood flew from the repeated impact of Blackburn’s fist to Athowe’s nose, and she regained her senses.
Yes, Blackburn would win. Blackburn won every battle he began.
And she really wanted him to win this one. Only…she was tired of being his defeated opponent.
Standing, she began collecting her scattered drawings.
Behind her, the steady thump of blows accompanied her search.
Athowe begged for mercy in a choked voice.
Jane tried not to listen.
Finally he quieted, and a large splash reverberated beneath the dock.
When she looked up she wasn’t surprised to see Blackburn, fists clenched and bloodied, standing at the edge of the dock and staring into the filthy water.
Just as she knew he would, he had won.
“Ransom.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of one of her sketches. “Don’t jump in after him. You wouldn’t be clean for months.”
“Bastard escaped. Jumped.” As he stared at her, the fury faded from his gaze, and worry and caution replaced it. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, although he was a little too proficient with that pistol for my tastes.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded rather odd, choked and rather shaky.
She put it down to pain, and resisted the urge to go to him, bandage his wounds, hug him and give him the comfort a woman should give her warrior.
“Jane?”
She thought he did his best to project appeal. She resisted. “What?”
That Scandalous Evening Page 26
