Captive Scoundrel (30 page)

Justin stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Good day, madam,” he said, and went out the door, bag in hand.

Faith wept.

A minute later, her mother came bustling in, took the baby, handed Beth a cookie, and Faith a handkerchief. “If you ask me, he looked like he could sit down and bawl with the rest of you.” Faith almost smiled.

“This was your first fight. Don’t worry. That man loves you and he’ll be sending a note of apology in no time.”

“No, mama. He may love me, but he doesn’t trust me. And it would be too dangerous for us to be sending notes.”

But that afternoon, a messenger arrived and her mother’s look was smug.

Faith’s hands shook as she wiped them on her apron and opened the note. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she sat in the nearest chair. “Vincent says if I want to keep Beth, I have to meet him at the London house in three days time. He’s on his way there now.” She bit her trembling lip.

“And so is Justin.”

Justin and Harris approached the house after dark. Justin was exhilarated, yet he bore a heavy-heart. But if he let himself dwell on the way he’d left Faith, he’d fail them all.

First, he was going to stop Vincent, then he was going to fetch her and their children. No matter what she had done—and her betrayal still stung—but he loved and forgave her.

The Boltons, the new caretakers, welcomed Harris; he’d stayed there before, and Justin presented his letter of introduction, his own crest sealing it. Afterward, in the cubicle that would be his room, Justin sat on the small rope bed, Harris on a lone straight chair. A cracked ewer crowned a chest that bore testament to the indifference of the master—him. “This place is a dump.”

“’T’aint right you staying here,” Harris mumbled.

“It’s not right for anyone to stay here. When things are back to normal, you can bet there’ll be some changes.” He put his hand on his man’s shoulder. “I apologize for me and my kind.”

Harris was appalled and discomforted by this breach of class distinction, so Justin changed the subject. “Ready to transform me into a gentleman, so I can break into Carry Muggeridge’s house?”

“He one of the scoundrels?”

“Not one of the originals. More like a hanger-on, but handy in a crooked pinch.”

Harris rolled his eyes. “Thought you wished not to be recognized.”

“If I should be caught, a gentleman can name the prank a wager. A retainer would be clapped in irons.”

Harris slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “We’d best get ye cleaned up, then.”

At Carry’s house Harris kept watch and Justin climbed inside.

The wait was long. When sounds of merriment approached, Justin cursed himself and jumped behind a curtain to be certain his friend was alone. God, he’d missed the drunken fool.

“Ye’re a cool one, Carry, you are, ashking your … hic butler to take Lady Shilverley’s wrap.” The lady dragged out each fractured word. “Oooo,” she cooed. “Good show, ol’ boy!”

Justin peeked out to see the woman slip her hand into Carry’s trousers as Carry nuzzled her.

Justin let go the curtain as if it caught fire.

Finally, Tess needed the convenience, and the second she left, Justin came out. “Hello, old friend. Is my face red?”

Carry didn’t react. He didn’t move or blink.

Justin looked him in the eye. “Carry? I meant to surprise you, not give you—”

“Aayyeeeeee! Aayyeeeeee!” Carry buttoned his pants and shook his head. “You came back to punish me, but I couldn’t prove a thing. Knew it was a plot, but Vincent plugged the chinks.” He stepped back. “I tried to set the runners on it. Laughed at me.” The wall stopped his retreat. He wailed again and made a cross with his fingers.

Justin wanted badly to laugh. “Carry, I’m—”

Tess bounded into the room, and stopped, greed in her eyes. “Shee here,” she intoned. “Itch double the priche for two.”

Justin grinned. Taking advantage of Carry’s glassy-eyed state, he paid Tess and instructed her to remove herself. With glee, she tucked her boon between her breasts and scurried off.

Justin clapped a hand on Carry’s shoulder. “Carry, listen, I’m here to get—”

“Me! Please no. Too young for the old beyond. You were my friend, Justin. Tell ‘em I’m not ready!”

“I’m not dead, you old sot. I didn’t bloody well die.”

Awareness flickered in Carry’s eyes. He examined Justin with sudden sobriety. “Wha’d’y’mean, you didn’t die?”

“It was a lie that I died.”

Carry opened and closed his mouth like a fish, then he shifted his stance and studied the floor. A minute more and he looked up, eyes bright, and enveloped Justin in a bone-jarring hug. “Damn it to hell and back, Justin Devereux, you devil-dodging bastard, you’re alive! Welcome back to the world, old man. By God, welcome back!”

Justin chuckled. “I might make the same welcome.”

Carry grimaced. “I should call you out, you near scared me into my own grave, skulking like a spectre from hell.”

“Carry, did you think I’d gone to hell?” He laughed. “Almost, but an angel brought me back.” He told his friend about Faith.

Before parting, they decided to meet that night with Marcus. Grant was rusticating. New baby, or some such, Carry had said.

Back at his house, no maid in sight, Justin visited his library where he’d known peace, the kind he craved for himself and his family. But the chaos in the hall reminded him that luxury was yet to be found, and would likely be hard-won.

He heard Mrs. Bolton speak with agitation. “But you didn’t…that is to say…if we had been told…hire a staff…nothing ready…the best we can.” She was apologetic, fearful.

“Prepare our rooms, immediately,” a brazen harpy said. “And have our dinner ready within the hour. Our servants, they follow, demain, tomorrow.”

“See to it, man! We’ll wait in the library.”

Vincent! But it was too soon.

Justin sprang to the French doors and slipped into the garden, the latch closing as the library door opened. Fear of being taken again seized Justin, and he stood like a granite vine against sun-warmed brick, heart pounding, fists clenched. But within minutes, reason returned. He was no longer so ill as to be carried senseless to his doom. He was safe in London. Harris was near, as were any number of constables and magistrates.

He inhaled and released his breath. Upon the heels of relief came whimsy, and Justin imagined Vincent’s face should he throw open the French doors and face him. If only he could.

In the library, Vincent and his wife bickered, the woman holding her own in the battle of wits.

“You’re a heartless bitch, Aline,” Vincent said. “I wish to God I had married a pure, unsullied maiden.”

Justin almost hooted.

“Any maiden would be stupid to marry a lazy excuse for a man like you,” the harpy hissed.

“And so you must be. Take yourself off, slut, you bore me. If not for your fortune, I would rid the world of your presence.”

That started the woman laughing.

Justin was surprised. Even Vincent, rapacious as he was, usually remained more circumspect. Getting careless. About time.

“I demand respect. I’ll brook no insolence from you or your servants. If they do not perform to satisfaction, they will be terminated.”

Vincent laughed. “And how many have you discharged for their performance, ma petite? You tried them all, did you not?”

Someone got slapped. China shattered. Wood splintered.

Justin enjoyed himself prodigiously and wished to hell he could witness his brother’s temper letting go, but it never did.

Instead, to his utter shock, he heard sounds of copulation, but when Vincent shouted Catherine’s name, the fight began anew.

Justin took advantage of their distraction to get away. When he reached his stark room, he lay on the bed and pillowed his head in his hands, more shaken than he would like.

Vincent, here. With a wife as greedy and grasping as he.

Was she Vincent’s ally or foe? Hard to tell. And was it luck or misfortune brought them together after all these months?

Twenty four hours after his first intrusion into Carry’s home, Justin didn’t have long to wait. He stood when he heard Marcus and Carry.

Carry threw the door open and allowed Marcus to enter first, prepared to be entertained.

Marcus stopped. “My God!” With a smile, he embraced Justin. “I knew you didn’t stick your spoon in the wall.” He looked at Carry. “Didn’t I tell you Carry? Justin isn’t dead, I said.”

“No Marcus, you most certainly did not say. I wish to hell you had,” Carry returned churlishly.

Justin caught Marcus up on his life, then he asked both men to help him prove Vincent’s guilt.

The following afternoon, Justin waited in the garden.

“Muggeridge, Fitzalan, this is a surprise,” he heard Vincent say. “What brings you here?”

“We’re here to invite you to dine with us at Portman Square tomorrow evening,” Carry said.

Vincent sounded marginally surprised and definitely delighted. Justin could even imagine his chest expanding.

Aline joined them then, and by the time Marcus and Carry left, they seemed well entrenched in Vincent’s good graces. Justin was satisfied. Marcus and Carry would be there should Vincent’s composure slip. They even planned to nudge it.

Vincent’s pride was strong. Justin hoped there would come a moment when he would not be able to keep from bragging about his success. As a matter of fact, Justin was counting on it.

Did they think he was stupid? Vincent slouched in a deep parlour chair, as he watched the Crown’s public room through the barely-open door of the establishment’s best private parlour.

A comely tavern wench snuffed a brace of candles proclaiming morning. His quarry, Marcus, Carry, and a third man, had been laughing and whispering all night.

He had been stalking Justin’s friends for days and had seen nothing amiss…until tonight…until the third, the stranger. He saw only his back, and once his profile. The man’s hair was gray at the temples. But there was something disturbingly familiar, yet elusive, about him.

Vincent was unnerved. Marcus and Carry had befriended him too readily, and he wanted to know why. After all, they’d been Justin’s friends forever.

He was skittish too about what Hemsted had accidentally revealed. Justin’s nurse had borne a child. The child of Justin Reddington, if the wench was to be believed, if Hemsted was to be believed, though the details had been nearly impossible to get.

Had their cousin, Justin Reddington, returned from America, after all these years? And why did the dratted man’s name have to be Justin? It had puzzled him as a child. It alarmed him now.

By all that was righteous, his brother had to have died. He’d been given enough poison to fell an ox. Vincent started with awareness. Where had that come from? Why did he expect a dead man to walk into the room?

He lifted his tankard and took a long, deep draft, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Sometimes he feared he was losing his grip on reality.

Was it so impossible that Justin’s friends should come offering hands in friendship? Except they’d come right after he’d got the news about Justin’s nurse and her unexpected bundle. Damn it was irksome, this unending night of clandestine merriment and secrets, for all the world as if they were poking fun at him.

Vincent shifted in his chair and pretended to sleep. But he couldn’t still his shaking hands…and that made him angry. Furious. Mad enough to want to hit something, or someone.

When renewed laughter came from the trio, Vincent clenched his fists. If he didn’t get a glimpse at that man’s face soon, he’d go look. By God he would.

Vincent knew he was nearly out of control, and he tried to think rationally. Marcus and Carry could be in earnest in their offer of friendship. He could be mistaken in his distrust.