Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (22 page)

“Bugger the exchange. My sister is in danger.” Jared’s voice was steely. He straightened, squaring his shoulders.

Morgan’s thoughts reeled as he factored in the changes to the haphazard plan forming in his mind. The details depended upon finding Phil, first. “I thought you wanted to secure your future.”

“Phil is a part of my future. We’ll have to catch Lady Whitewood another way, once my sister is safe.”

At least he’d finally realized that.

Morgan clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Let’s not tarry.” They set off at a run, following his brother’s signal.

The crow calls came at regular intervals, clearly discernible. After this was all said and done, he would have to speak to Gideon about varying the signal so it sounded more natural and was less likely to be noticed by enemies. For now, he trudged toward that sound with single-minded purpose. He soon realized that it was no longer moving; he was approaching it. The call grew louder and clearer as he approached. With Jared next to him, he slowed, rubbing the stitch in his side as he searched for his brother or Phil.

The caw sounded again. He jumped. It sounded like it came from on top of him. When he craned his head back, he could barely discern the shape of the house against the foggy night sky, let alone whether or not someone waited on the roof. He lifted his hands to his lips and made the warbler call.

No response. Had that last caw come from an actual crow? Morgan held his breath as he waited. He heard nothing else.

T
he brigand’s
grip on Phil’s arm was hard enough to bruise. She shook like a leaf as he towed her through the stinking alleys, his partner on her other side with his hand bunched in her dress. Panic dominated her thoughts along with her pounding pulse and for the most frightening moments of her life, she wasn’t able to think. She could only feel her kidnapper’s rough skin, smell the whiskey on his breath mingled with sewage as they deterred into a decrepit neighborhood, hear the rough patter of her heartbeat and the occasional caw of a crow. The fog muffled the clomp of her captors’ footsteps on the ground. The dampness chilled her skin. From time to time, they passed a window with a ghostly-pale face in it, one that soon turned away as if they didn’t see her. Her tongue took up too much space in her mouth to talk, even if she could even find the breath to do so. Several times, she stumbled, her knees buckling, only to be hauled onward by the rough men on either side. They’d spoken sparingly when they’d caught her, indecipherable with the roaring in her ears. Now, neither man spoke a word. They didn’t even look at each other.

The first thought that re-entered her mind was of Morgan. She batted it away, searching for something useful, but it clung to her like seaweed. The shape of his mouth, the way he fingered the white streak in his hair when he thought, the way his piercing gray eyes darkened moments before he kissed her. None of those things would help her out of this dire situation, but she couldn’t rid herself of them. She wanted to see him again with a desperation that defied logic.

That desperate desire solidified, turning into a pillar around which she could build her escape plan. After all, if she was going to see him again, she would have to escape.

She was on her own. That vital thought cut her deeper than she’d thought it would. Ever since her parents had died, she’d been on her own. But now, with Morgan, she had a partner. Someone to always stand beside her. Someone to save her from danger.

Except he couldn’t follow her. The fog was too thick, they were in the middle of a pivotal spying mission for Britain, and by the time he realized she was gone, it would be too late. The brigands had snatched her from the ladder when she’d gone to help Gideon don the LEGs correctly. He’d been fumbling, twisting them, getting them all wrong. Without the goggles, he wouldn’t have seen her. Why had she insisted on going alone?

No, blame wouldn’t help the situation. She had to think clearly. It had all happened so fast—the man’s hand over her mouth cutting off her air, being ripped from the ladder and carried away. She’d thrashed, to no avail, and then the numbness had set in.

She wasn’t numb anymore. And she was going to get out of this.

The men slowed their breakneck pace. Phil’s legs held her better than before, but she pretended otherwise. She stumbled, letting the men catch her as she trembled. She widened her eyes so far that the sting of the stink made them water. Until that moment, she’d never seen the value of acting like a ninny. Right now, it would be to her advantage if they underestimated her.

A house loomed out of the darkness. The stucco was chipped, along with the ratty paint on the door. Were those scratch marks marring the paint? They rose as high as her shoulder. The windows facing the alley were boarded up with smoke-streaked wooden boards and rusty nails that jutted out. The brigand holding her dress released her to shoulder open the door. He preceded his cohort into the lamp-lit room inside. As she was shoved through the entryway, she stumbled over the raised lip of flooring. The brigand holding her tightened his grip. She yelped as her arm was nearly yanked from its socket. She staggered to get her feet beneath her again.

A toss of her head shook away the auburn strands obscuring her gaze and provided her the first glimpse of her captors. She would rather not have seen them. The one across the room was as tall and broad as Morgan, with a crooked cast to his nose, a short beard of unkempt stubble along his chin, and bushy hair snarled into a rat’s nest. The one next to her had a patch over his eye, a pink scar poking out of the bottom. She shuddered, her mind conjuring gruesome images of the tissue beneath that black patch. In front of an unlit hearth stood the puppet master of Phil’s kidnapping.

Lady Whitewood.

Phil’s heartbeat kicked into a gallop as she stared into the woman’s cold, cruel eyes. She knew. How had she known that this was a trap?

Ice flooded Phil’s veins. The floor in here was just as grimy as the dirt outside. Her shoes scraped against it as Patch dragged her to one of two pieces of furniture in the wide room. A wooden chair that didn’t even look good enough for kindling rested next to Lady Whitewood. Along the right wall, where the lamp stood, was a table that seemed to have been put together by spare boards, none the same length.

Patch shoved her into the chair. It creaked alarmingly as Phil clutched the arms for balance. Her heartbeat pounded painfully in the base of her throat.
Think.
What would they do with her now?

The reticule on her wrist weighed heavy with the muff gun Morgan had insisted she carry. She couldn’t pull it out, not with both fearsome men and Lady Whitewood staring at her. She would never reach it before they snatched away her only weapon. Could she fool them and grab it in the distraction?

There were three of them and she had only one bullet. What could she do? She started to tremble, for real this time. She pressed her lips together as she examined the room. She faced the front door, where she’d come in. Both men were in the way of freedom. There had to be another door out of sight behind her but she hadn’t marked where.

Lady Whitewood sneered as she sashayed into Phil’s line of sight. The French spy glared at her lackeys. “I told you to bring the inventor.”

Patch nodded. “You said the ‘un waiting wit’ the plans. That’s who we brought.”

Whitewood narrowed her eyes at Phil’s hands. “She has no plans, you fool.”

Patch looked confused. “But she had ‘em in her hand afore we grabbed her.”

The spy whirled to face Patch, her fists balled at her sides. “I said the
inventor
, Phil…” She trailed off, her eyes narrowing as she swung to face Phil.

Hell and damnation! She must have put together that “Cousin Phil” and Philomena St. Gobain were the same person. Phil curled her fingers toward her wrist, searching out the mouth of her reticule. It was out of reach. Could she run?

The lamp light glinted off the barrel of a pistol as Lady Whitewood withdrew the weapon from the cloak swathing her figure. “You idiots! Don’t you know who she is?”

“The inventor,” Patch grumbled, sullen. His expression pulled at the pink tissue peeking out from beneath his eyepatch.

“No.” Irritation flashed across the traitor’s face. “She’s Tenwick’s lover. He’s a spy for England. I caught him snooping in my room.”

Morgan.
His face flashed across Phil’s closed eyelids as she blinked. She had to think of a way to escape. Would Lady Whitewood harm him, too? Phil canted her wrist, trying to tilt her reticule near enough to pry open the strings with one hand.

Patch chuckled. “I bet she’s only taking the credit and that duke of hers did all the work.”

Lady Whitewood’s arm vibrated with the force of her anger. Would she shoot Phil by accident?

“
That duke
was likely watching her. The Crown could be on its way here now.”

Unfortunately, Phil knew the truth of that statement.

Lady Whitewood, on the other hand, looked sickly pale. Her mouth was tight and thin. She rounded the chair, striding out of sight. The click, click, click of her heels echoed off the wood floor.

“Wait until I’m gone, then kill her.”

Phil’s fingers slipped on the drawstring to her reticule. Her heart skipped a beat.
No.
She had nowhere to run. The two ruffians blocked her path out the front, and Lady Whitewood blocked her way out the back.

“What of the plans?” Patch muttered under his breath as he pulled a gun from his pocket and cocked it.

She still had leverage. “I have the plans,” she lied. Her voice was high and thin.

Patch hesitated, waiting. His companion shifted from foot to foot.

Unfortunately, she had nothing to give them. She’d passed off the fake scroll to Morgan so she didn’t have to climb with it. She didn't even have her pocketbook with her ideas in it. All she had was…

The muff gun.

“The plans are in my reticule. I’ll get it for you,” she said, keeping her voice small. “Then you’ll let me go?”

“That’s right, love. Give us the plans and we’ll let you go.”

Liar.

She opened the drawstring on her reticule and slipped her hand inside. Her heart pounded so loud, it was the only sound that filled her head. She only had one shot. Mustering her courage, she cocked the gun as she yanked the reticule off. She hurled the sack in the face of the nearest assailant, Bushy, and raised her other hand and aimed at Patch.

J
ust as Morgan’s
lungs started to ache from holding his breath to better hear Gideon’s caw, a muffled thump rent the air along with muttered cursing. Morgan exhaled with relief. He pinched Jared’s sleeve and drew them closer to the house, away from the narrow street as he squinted to see his brother.

Evidently, Gideon was able see better than he could, because Giddy muttered, “It took you long enough.”

Morgan nearly jumped out of his skin. His brother was standing right beside him. Blast this fog!

“Where is she?” Morgan demanded.

Gideon lifted his arm. Morgan squinted, following the line of his sleeve as he pointed across the street. Jared coiled to move, but Morgan held him back.

“Take a breath. We need to assess the situation first.”

Unfortunately, Morgan couldn’t see a damn thing. With an exasperated huff, Giddy tore the goggles from his face and held them out.

“Here.”

As Morgan lifted the light-enhancing goggles to his face, his brother muttered, “Wow. Those things really do make a difference.”

The street, slathered in shades of gray, came into a dull kind of focus, like a blunt knife. Thanks to the goggles, he could make out the silhouette of a ramshackle building across the street. The bottom windows were boarded up. On one of the second-floor windows, a shutter hung loose. A thin, sputtering sort of light seeped out from beneath the cracks of the boards on the ground floor.

Gideon said, “She’s been in there five minutes or so. No one’s come back out.”

What were they doing to her? Morgan examined the other buildings nearby, trying to formulate the best line of approach. With his stomach shriveled like a raisin, he couldn’t think clearly. All he wanted to do was kick down the front door. Given the way Jared shifted, antsy, he had the same thought. But if either of them did that, one of the ruffians might kill her.

“Did you get a good look at her attackers?”

“It was too quick. Burly low-class fellows, though, and it sounded to me like they were hired help, from the snippets of conversation I was able to catch.”

Morgan stripped off the goggles and returned them to his brother. “Stay here and keep watch. I’ll circle the house and see if there’s a better mode of entry than the front door. Then I’ll meet you here so we can—”

A gunshot rippled through the air, cutting off his words. He clapped his hand to his chest, sure that it would be wet with blood. He felt as though his heart had burst.

Phil.

He charged across the street to the abandoned building, the other two men hot on his heels. God, what would he find inside? He banished the image of her cold, bloody body on the ground as he turned his shoulder to the door to break it down.

Please, God. Let me not be too late.

T
he vibration
and recoil numbed Phil’s hand. The gun dropped to the ground, useless. She had no more balls or powder to reload, let alone the time to do so. The floor shook as Patch collapsed in a heap. A sharp tang stung her nose. She had to get out of here.

She bolted from the chair and dashed toward the nearest door, behind her. Lady Whitewood blocked the entrance. As wood splintered behind Phil, the French spy levered her gun and shot.

The bullet hit Phil beneath her breast bone. She doubled over, stumbling through the doorway deeper into the house as she fought to retain her balance. The pain was crippling, mind-numbing. She couldn’t take a breath. White spots marred the silhouette of the corridor.

I’ll need to fix that.
Phil had one last absent thought before the hot flare of pain consumed her.

Lady Whitewood’s footsteps grew fainter, but a stampede thundered in the front of the house. She needed a place to hide. She groped along a hall until she found another door, unlocked.

A heart-rending crash sounded behind her. The blood roared in her ears as she stumbled into the dark room and slipped to the ground beside the closed door to the hall. She pressed her palm to her middle. The lightest touch sent a renewed jolt of pain through her. She fought to think.

She’d left one man uninjured. If he barreled in, she would run past him and out the front door. Was there anything in here she could use as a weapon?

In the dark, her mind’s eye conjured the image of Patch’s shocked face as he collapsed. Had she killed him? Did he have a family? She wiped her damp cheeks, refusing to give in to hysteria. She wasn’t done fighting yet. She had a family to return to, as well. She wasn’t yet ready to die.

The swell of pain subsided enough for her hearing to return. She panted as she strained her ears. The sounds of tussling in the other room ceased. Silence rang throughout the house. What was happening? This might be her only chance to escape. Was there a back entrance through this room?

“Phil?”

Morgan?
She rose onto her knees, her limbs trembling as she fumbled with the door latch. “Over here.” Her voice was weak, breathless. Did he hear her?

Footsteps resounded down the hall. Morgan’s or someone else’s. As they came close, she mustered her strength and called, “Morgan?”

“Right here, love.”

It
was
him. By will alone, she staggered to her feet and flung herself into his arms. The strong beat of his heart echoed in her ear as she laid her head on his warm chest. Tears leaked from her eyes, growing thicker. She tried to hold them back. She didn’t want him to think she was a watering pot in a critical situation.

He pulled her into the corridor and shut the door. “Are you in here alone?”

“Lady Whitewood ran out the back.” Her voice was a bit more wobbly than usual.

“I saw her… and I saw…” Morgan ran his hands over her face, her neck, her shoulders, then he held her at arms length, sucking in a breath when he saw the hole in the fabric of her dress right over the throbbing spot beneath her breast bone. He pressed the heel of his hand against the spot. She fell limp against him at the roar of pain that shot through her.

“Come into the light. We’ll fetch a physician. You’ll be fine.”

Adjusting his hold on her, he half-carried her toward the main room. Her faculties returned as the shift of his palm no longer dug into her injury.

“I’m fine now.” Her voice was breathless.

His arm tightened around her. He buried his face in her hair. “Yes, love of course you are. Can you wiggle your fingers and toes for me?” His voice was thick with tears. It wavered as he struggled to keep his tone even and soft.

Phil gathered her strength and pushed his hand away from her middle. At least, she tried. He held firm.

“My extremities are in perfect order.”

He shifted, pressing his hand firmly against her again, and her breath fled. She weakened. Through sheer stubbornness, she forced out the words, “I can’t breathe when you do that.”

“I need to keep pressure on the wound.”

“There’s no wound.” Her head spun as she gasped for air.

“Phil, love, I saw her shoot you.”

“Do you feel any blood?”

His touch lightened, uncertain. She took shallow breaths. Too deep and the sharp pain stabbed her. Thankful for his hold on her, since her knees refused to cooperate, she slid her hand beneath his, groping for the bullet. It had lodged near the bottom of her sternum. Her gloves were slippery as she worked it free.

As he touched the blood-free bullet, Morgan’s body stiffened around her. “How?” His voice was hoarse. He groped around the area, his fingers finding the hole in her dress and exploring the rigid material beneath. “What are you wearing?”

“An armored corset.” Without the round bullet pressing against her sternum, it was easier to breathe, albeit she still couldn’t draw a deep breath. She’d certainly bruised herself, and had perhaps cracked a few bones. “Tonight seemed like a good opportunity to test it.”

“You didn’t bloody well know if it would work?” His voice gained a desperate edge as he leaned them against the wall to the corridor.

She shrugged. “I didn’t set out to be shot. And it did work. They didn’t hurt me. I think I hurt them.”

“That’s the woman I love.” His voice was warm. It granted her strength. “But please, don’t ever do that to me again.”

Light from the ajar door leading to the main room seeped out to frame his features. For a moment, she hadn’t been sure whether or not she’d ever see him again. She reached up, tracing the line of his cheek.

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

He caught her hand and pressed his lips to her dirty gloves. “Always. I would never leave you. God, I thought my heart was breaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He helped her into the main room, supporting her weight. The longer she walked, the steadier on her feet she became. When she spotted the carnage, her knees weakened again. Blood seeped from Patch’s prone body. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon. There was too much blood. Bile rose in the back of her throat and she looked away, to where Gideon was tying up the unconscious kidnapper. The man didn’t look so fearsome with a gag in his mouth and his arms and legs twisted behind his back. They were the only men in the room.

“Where’s my brother? Where’s Jared?”

Morgan met his brother’s gaze and swore under his breath. “He ran out after Lady Whitewood. We have to find him.”

Gideon’s mouth was thin. His face was abnormally pale, but when he spoke his voice was firm. “I’ll stay here in case he wakes up. We need to send him to Strickland, right?”

Morgan nodded. “Thank you.”

Turning her back on the dead man, Phil bolted for the door to the corridor. Renewed strength flooded her limbs. She ignored the throbbing in her torso. She didn’t have time to fall apart just yet. She had to make sure that her brother was all right. Morgan hurried on her heels, his hand never leaving her back, as if he was afraid to be parted from her again.

Painted in black and gray shadows, the house was a maze, but not a large one. Upon trying each door, she and Morgan soon found an exit, still ajar and slapping against the side of the house with an idle breeze. They stumbled into the misty, fetid London air. Morgan caught her hand and led her onward. She hiked up her skirt only high enough that she wouldn’t trip on it. She didn’t care if the hem was soiled.

Faint sounds of a tussle led them onward. Her throat constricted. What if Lady Whitewood recognized Jared and realized that he’d switched to working for Britain? If she got away and told her superiors, his life might be forfeit. That was, if she didn’t kill him herself. Phil put on a burst of speed, even though it made her injury throb.

She stopped short in the packed dirt alley, stumbling over her feet as a gunshot rang out. In her mind’s eye, blood bloomed across the chest of a man. Only, this time, that deathly pale face was Jared. She tried to scream, but couldn’t find the breath.

When she tried to lurch forward, Morgan wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against his body. She struggled. “Stay calm, Phil. You can’t gallop into the middle of a gunfight. We have to see what’s going on.”

She fought tears, but nodded. “He could be hurt.”

He slipped his hand into hers again. “We’ll find out.”

Together, they raced toward the meeting place. When they neared a junction of the alleys, Morgan slowed. He edged in front of her, blocking her view. He groped at his pocket, but didn’t emerge with a gun.

She didn’t have one either. She’d wasted her one shot on Patch, never thinking that this meeting would devolve into something so dangerous.
Jared…

The thinning fog blanketed the intersection. By squinting, she discerned a tall, thin silhouette.

“Jared?”

The word slipped from her lips without permission. Morgan’s hand on hers flexed as he urged her back against the nearest building.

The figure croaked, “I had to shoot her.”

Relief weakened her knees. It was her brother. “Jared.” She yanked free of Morgan’s hold and dashed to her brother’s side. The shadows painted his face in black and white. He stared at a writhing bundle on the ground some paces away. The air was sharp with a familiar, sickening tang. The bundle moaned.

“What happened?”

The gun slipped from Jared’s fingers to clatter onto the packed dirt by his feet. “She was getting away. I tried to shoot her leg, but with the cloak…” He groped for Phil’s hand, clutching it fiercely. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck. He was safe.

Wait…had he fatally injured Lady Whitewood?

Morgan crouched by the figure. In the dim light, the cloth bundle looked burgundy. A closer inspection showed that at least some of that was blood. A lot of blood.

The duke swore under his breath as he doffed his jacket. He wadded and pressed it against Lady Whitewood. She emitted a strangled sound between a scream and a sob. “You shot her in the arse. She’ll live, but we should get her to a surgeon as soon as possible. Do you think you can find your way back to the carriage?”

“I think so.”

“Then fetch it here. After that, I’ll need you to run to Lord Strickland and tell him what’s happened tonight. He’ll expect a full report later, but in the meantime, he needs to prepare to receive Lady Whitewood and the man Giddy arrested.”

As Jared bolted into the night to complete his task, Phil dropped to her knees next to Morgan. Her legs didn’t want to hold her anymore. “What can I do? If you think I’ll sit around—”

“Can you put pressure here to slow the bleeding? I have to return to the house,” Morgan said. He guided her hands into the right position. Lady Whitewood had stopped whimpering. In fact, she might have fainted. “With all these gun shots, I have no doubt that the Bow Street Runners will have been fetched. We aren’t terribly far from Bow Street. They’ll likely arrive within half an hour, and I can’t leave Gideon to deal with the Runners on his own.”

Phil tilted her face up to his. “Do you want me to wait for you here?”

“Once Jared returns with the carriage, take Lady Whitewood to Strickland. He’ll arrange for a surgeon to remove the bullet and stitch her wound shut.”

She clenched her jaw. “If you think you’re leaving me behind—”

He reached out to squeeze her arm. “I’d rather have you by my side. If you think Jared can handle the transport on his own, come back to the house once she’s on her way to Strickland. We’ll help my brother together.”

Together. That was a concept Phil preferred, especially after the night she’d weathered. She was afraid to let him out of her sight. She nodded. “I’ll see it gets done. You can trust me to handle this.”

“I know I can. You’re the strongest woman I know. It’s one of the things I love best about you.”

She glowed from his parting words, the warmth helping to banish the terrible ache in her torso. As he strode away with purpose, she smiled and whispered to herself, “It’s one of the things I love best about you, too.”

She shifted to apply renewed pressure on the wound as she awaited her brother.