Ethan: Lord of Scandals (23 page)

“And what was my excuse?” Nick said, self-disgust resurging. “I went larking and swiving on my merry way, content to leave you to your suffering.”

“That is your heartbreak talking,” Ethan said gently. “You were the one who arranged for us to meet at Lady Warne’s after so many years of silence. That… was timely. I was done with university, and I still hadn’t been able to regain my balance in certain areas.” The word for it was impotence. Ethan had read the medical treatises, hoping desperately it was a medical problem, knowing it was not. “I was on the verge of”—he looked for another delicate phrase, and abandoned the search—“making a permanent mistake. I felt hopelessly dirty, unlovable, useless, and ugly. It was five years later, and I still felt… Then I got your note, and you said you had to see me again, that my siblings worried for me and asked for word of me. It was more timely than you will ever know.”

Silence stretched, while Ethan’s gaze sought the miniatures of his sons. A man could not promise to keep his loved ones safe from all harm, else Joshua would not have fallen ill. If any son of Ethan’s had endured what transpired at Stoneham, then Ethan could only hope he’d be the sort of father to know about it and take appropriate measures.

Somewhere in that sentiment lurked forgiveness for the old earl—an astonishing notion, and welcome.

While a weight rose from Ethan’s heart, Nick remained by the window, staring down at the Tydings park. “Ethan, what is that pony doing without its rider?”

Ethan was at the window in two steps, a father’s dread congealing in his gut.

“That is Jeremiah’s pony,” Ethan said, “and he said nothing about riding out this morning, Nick. I don’t think he’d leave the stables while his brother lies ill, not without a gun to his stubborn little head.”

“Let’s go.” Nick beat Ethan to the door. “Alice went down to the stables with him, and I doubt she’d get on a horse without you there to supervise.”

“For God’s sake, make haste. We’ve trouble afoot.”

***

“Why in the hell did you turn the damned pony loose?” While Alice watched in horror, Hart Collins turned his gun barrel on his own minion.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Thatcher drawled back. “You were going to shoot the pony, and that would have brought half the shire down on us in a heartbeat, since Grey is known not to hunt game. The little beast will stop and graze hisself into a colic as soon as he’s over the rise. Now, we’d best stop arguing and get moving, or your little plan to hold the brat for ransom will be over before it starts. With these two”—he gestured to Alice and Jeremiah doubled up on Waltzer—“we’re not going to move quickly.”

“Oh, yes, we are.” Collins’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Grey’s mounts are prime flesh, and we’ve got three of his best horses here. If anyone slows us down, it will be you, and if you’re caught, you’ll hang for horse thievery.”

Alice knew not how it was possible, but in twelve years, Hart Collins had become uglier, meaner, and stupider. She sent up a prayer that Jeremiah at least came through this debacle safely.

“Let’s go.” Collins kneed Argus sharply, as Thatcher kept a sullen silence. “And you.” He turned an evil smile on Alice. “Keep the boy quiet, or it will be a well-used body Ethan Grey ransoms—or two.”

Alice nodded, but inside, her guts were churning as the horses cantered off at Collins’s direction. Twelve years without laying eyes on Collins, and still, she became a terrified fourteen-year-old at the mere sight of him. He’d gained weight, and his hair was thinning, and the air of pure evil was thick around him, like a stench.

His plan was clear: hold Jeremiah for money, lots and lots of money. Ethan had the money and would turn it over along with both of his arms, his eyes, and his very life if it meant Jeremiah would be safe.

When Collins sent them pelting off through the woods, she clung to that thought, even as Jeremiah clung to her, his arms locked around her waist. He managed to whisper the occasional word of advice to her regarding control of the horse, but mostly, Alice sought not to fall off. She held the reins, but her control was limited by the lead rope kept in Thatcher’s gloved hands and by the skirts she’d had to bunch awkwardly in order to sit astride the horse. Thatcher was mounted on Bishop, the gray nervous but still sane. Collins had appropriated Argus for himself and was apparently enjoying the horse’s fights for control—enjoying the excuse to use crop and spurs on a high-strung animal.

“How much farther are we going?” Thatcher shouted to Collins. “Ye can’t run the horses like this much longer.”

A quarter mile later, Collins halted Argus with a jerk on the curb and led the way through a break in the trees lining the bridle path. Thatcher followed, with Waltzer on the lead rope bringing up the rear.

“Don’t go inside the building,” Jeremiah whispered. “I’ll say I have to use the bushes.”

Alice nodded, keeping her eyes forward. Her hip hurt like blazes from riding astride at breakneck speed, her hands ached from gripping the reins, and her head pounded with fear.

And anger.

She knew Hart Collins, knew him and hated him. She owed him two years of barely being able to walk, ten years of recurring pain in her hip, twelve years of not being able to look her only sister in the eye, and a lifetime of never feeling quite safe.

But Ethan would come. She’d stake her life on it. The question was, would he come in time?

***

“Miller!” Ethan’s bellow elicited a groan from an empty stall. Nick, Fairly, and Davey crowded on Ethan’s heels.

“I’m aright,” Miller muttered, but he needed Ethan’s assistance even to sit up.

“Fairly, you’d best have a look at him. Nick, help me saddle whatever’s in here of the riding stock.”

A big grey mare stood in her saddle and bridle in a loose box, her ears twitching in the direction of any sound.

“The bastards coldcocked me,” Miller said as Fairly peered into his eyes. “I wasn’t all the way gone. I heard ’em, and they got Miss Alice and Master Jeremiah. Damned if Thatcher didn’t saddle the horses hisself.”

“How many?” Ethan asked, barely able to keep from pounding something.

“Two, Thatcher and some nob.” Miller winced as Fairly’s fingers probed the back of his head. “Thatcher’s on Bishop, Miss Alice was on Waltzer, the boy on his pony, and some fat, prancing ninny took Argus, gut rot him.”

“Some fat, prancing ninny?” Ethan pressed. “Did you hear them address him? Did he have a name?”

“His lordship.” Miller squinted, as if trying to force memory into the light. “Collard? Collar? No, Lord Collins. And baron. Thatcher called him baron. His lordship was not getting along with Argus.”

Fairly glanced up from his patient. “Miller will be fine, eventually. If you’re prudent, you’ll wait for me and Nick to find mounts. If you’re going to go off like a one-man column of dragoons, you’ll take my mare and follow the pony’s back trail.”

Ethan nodded his thanks. “I’ll need weapons.”

“Pistols are in the coaches,” Miller reminded him. “You can have my knife.” He extracted a wicked-looking bone-handled weapon, provoking raised eyebrows from the other men. “You can’t always shoot a horse what needs it, which means you have to cut the poor bastard’s throat.”

“Take mine as well.” Nick held out a more delicate weapon, while Davey loped off in the direction of the coach house.

“Take mine too.” Fairly’s knife was plain, conveying its deadliness all the more effectively for the lack of ornamentation. “And the lady’s name is Honey. Don’t argue with her, ask. She’ll take care of you if you’re deserving.”

“Honey.” Ethan stuffed knives in his boots and at the small of his back. “Don’t argue.” He speared Nick with a look. “Heathgate’s often out hacking at this hour. If you fired a shot, you might rouse him. I’ll leave as much of a trail as I can, but they can’t have gone far. Alice will slow them down if at all possible.”

Nick led the mare from her stall. “I know this mare. You let harm befall her, Fairly will call you out.”

“I’ll send her home when I’ve found my quarry,” Ethan replied, swinging up onto the horse right there in the barn aisle.

“Godspeed,” Nick said, stepping back.

The mare trotted out into the brisk, early morning sunshine, responding to the tension around her despite the previous day’s long journey. Ethan saw when he gained the lane that luck was with him. A layer of hoarfrost lay on the grass, the pony’s little hooves leaving a clear trail to where a bridle path emerged from the trees. In the woods, the size of the group made the trail equally easy to follow. They’d been heedless of their trail, traveling two and three across, snapping branches, shuffling through fallen leaves, and stomping through damp ground at every turn.

At one point, Ethan thought he heard a twig snap behind him, but he wasn’t about to pull the mare up and investigate. Collins had forced his party to move through the woods at a brisk canter, then stopped, paused, and turned the pony loose. He should have at least kept the pony with them, unless he wanted to invite pursuit.

But Collins was evil, and according to Heathgate, in need of coin—not brilliant. Ethan pressed on, one eye on the trail, one eye looking ahead for sign of the kidnappers. He wasn’t even off his own property when he heard voices up ahead and brought his mare to an abrupt halt.

***

“For God’s sake, we’re not even off Tydings land, Baron. Ye cannot stop here.” Thatcher’s tone was equal parts pleading and exasperation.

“He won’t look in his own backyard,” Collins retorted from atop a dancing Argus. “They never do, and there’s no point haring all over the countryside when we can spend the morning in more enjoyable pursuits. Come nightfall, we’ll meet up with my coach.” His eyes landed on Alice, still glued to Waltzer’s back, then his gaze narrowed, some of the avarice receding.

“I know you,” he said. “I don’t like you, but I know you.”

“That be the governess, ye fool,” Thatcher said. “Not somebody ye’d know.”

“Baron Collins to you.” Collins regarded Alice steadily. “Take off your glasses, governess, and be quick about it, or you’ll regret it.”

Her hands being tied at the wrists, Alice pulled her glasses off and handed them awkwardly over her shoulder to Jeremiah, whose hands were not bound.

“By God.” Collins’s face broke into a parody of a smile. “If it isn’t little Lady Alexandra, slumming in the schoolroom. I knew her sister,” he informed Thatcher. “In the biblical sense. Bitch threw me over just as we were about to cry the banns, if you can credit such a thing.”

His jocular tone made Alice’s flesh crawl, as did the surge of lust in his eye. Fortunately, he was enjoying his boasting and very likely enjoying the fear he saw in Alice’s eyes as he nudged Argus over to stand next to Waltzer.

Collins used the butt of his crop to raise Alice’s chin. “This one could have sworn out information against me, but she didn’t. Probably hoping I’d be grateful, weren’t you?”

“You are vile, and I should have laid information.”

“You still could, but you won’t, because there won’t be enough left of you to speak coherently when I’m through with you. We’ll let the lad watch, so he’ll learn early the true purpose of a female.”

“Not so fast, my lord.” Ethan stepped out of the surrounding woods. “She might not be willing to swear charges against you, but I certainly am, now that you’ve been foolish enough to return to English soil.”

“Well, if it isn’t Bellefonte’s by-blow, all grown up and calling me foolish.” Collins sneered, dropping his crop. “I’m armed, I have the child, and I’ve reinforcements available. You’re one man—half a man, if memory serves—and I’ve your son quite literally in my crosshairs.”

Collins raised a pistol and cocked the hammer, the barrel aimed directly at Jeremiah. Alice succeeded in shifting Waltzer so her body was between the gun and the child, but Collins only grinned.

“Oh, well done.” He leered at her over the gun, and Alice felt her gorge rise. She did not, however, feel her breathing hitch—not in the slightest. “You won’t do the boy any more good than you did your sister,
your
ladyship
. At this range, the bullet will pass through you and make quite a mess of him as well.”

“Shoot them both,” Ethan said, sauntering forward. “She’s a governess, and he’s a brat. Why on earth would you trouble yourself to make off with a little pismire pony like him anyway? It’s my horseflesh I object to parting with.”

It was an odd way to refer to one’s firstborn son, but Jeremiah was small, if not quite ant-like. He was also paying attention; behind Alice’s back, she felt him tense, as if readying for something.

“His pismire pony of a brother is just as bad.” Ethan’s tone was bored, while Alice felt the child’s arms tighten around her waist and wondered what had just passed between father and son. If somebody yelled that particular phrase, there was a good chance…

Ethan arched an arrogant eyebrow. “So what do you want, Collins? You expect me to pay money for this folly? And you, Thatcher. Perhaps you’re another one of Collins’s reluctant conquests. Welcome to the club, I understand there are more like us. Phillip Edmonton, Beauvais Morton, Henry Fentress, and many others.”

“Buggery?” Thatcher’s brows drew down in horror. Alice gathered that in Thatcher’s personal hierarchy of felons, the baron’s predilections placed him well below a mere kidnapper of children, horse thief, or raper of women.

And there Ethan stood, facing the one who’d done him such violence.

Behind her, Jeremiah tightened his arms more, as if he were tensing—

When Collins swung to face Thatcher, Ethan threw up both arms and charged Argus, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Jeremiah added to the commotion by similarly hollering at the top of his lungs then wrenching himself over Waltzer’s side, dragging Alice off the horse with him. Bishop, apparently at his wits’ end with the morning’s doings, reared until his burden fell from his back. As Argus shied violently, the baron toppled from the saddle then rose to his feet, aiming his pistol directly at Ethan.

“Get back, Grey, or I’ll shoot!”

Ethan charged him, grabbing the gun barrel and forcing it aside. Ethan was larger than Collins and likely in better condition, but Alice suspected meanness also gave a man strength. They grappled over the gun while Jeremiah struggled to undo Alice’s bonds.

As the binding on Alice’s wrists gave way, Ethan’s knee came up into Collins’s groin with savage force. Collins dropped like a stone into the dirt while Ethan held the gun on him.

“Heathgate,” Ethan called. “Show yourself.”

The marquis emerged from the trees, leading both his chestnut and a gray mare Alice did not recognize. He tied up the mares and headed for Collins’s prone form as Jeremiah pelted across the clearing into his father’s body.

“We did it!” Jeremiah crowed. “We sent the bloody blighters packing! Wait ’til I tell Joshua. Papa, you were wonderful, and I got it, didn’t I? I’m a pismire pony!”

“You are brilliant.” Ethan picked his son up and hugged the child tightly. “You saved the day, and likely Miss Alice as well.”

Both of them turned radiant smiles on Alice where she sat with no dignity whatsoever on the hard ground.

“Alice?” Ethan knelt beside her, Jeremiah standing at her shoulder. “Sweetheart, is something amiss?”

Now he called her sweetheart, before the child and with the marquis hovering nearby. Alice closed her eyes and swallowed. “Something’s wrong with my back or my shoulder.”

Or both and everything in between. She did not want to cry before Jeremiah, did not want to diminish the heroics of the moment, but she could hardly draw breath for the pain.

“Hurts?” Ethan asked quietly.

“Hurts badly.” Alice tried to nod but abandoned the movement. Even swallowing somehow hurt her shoulder, and now—how marvelous!—the marquis was glowering down at her too.

“It’s probably dislocated,” Ethan hazarded. “We’ll fetch Fairly, and he can have a look at you. Can you sit up?” She did, but only with Ethan’s assistance, and she felt a cold sweat on her forehead before they were finished.

“Is Miss Alice going to die?” Jeremiah asked quietly.

“I am not.” Alice winced as Ethan set her on her feet. “Though you are growing rather substantial, Jeremiah, and I don’t think my shoulder was quite up to breaking your fall and mine.”

“Sorry.” Jeremiah looked distressed. “That man was going to shoot you to shoot me.”

“He was,” Ethan said, expression grave, “and Miss Alice was willing to protect you at the cost of her own life. You did the right thing, Jeremiah, and we’ll soon put Miss Alice to rights. Fetch the mare for me, lad.”

Before Jeremiah had taken a step, Alice saw that Collins had managed to drag himself to his feet.

“Ethan, he’s getting away!”

Heathgate moved first, while Ethan put himself between Alice and Collins. The marquis was lethally quick for such a big man, but Collins was desperate. He caught up Argus’s reins and grunted his way into the saddle. With a vicious jab of his spurs into the gelding’s sides, Collins took off at a gallop for the woods.

“Horse thievery,” Heathgate spat over the sound of retreating hooves. “As the local magistrate, I am happy to report this is a hanging felony.”

“Papa,” Jeremiah said worriedly, “Argus is bolting.”

Jeremiah had the right of it. While Alice watched, Argus flattened from a gallop into a dead run. The horse’s ears were plastered to his head, and Collins was sawing frantically at the reins.

Ethan shifted so Jeremiah’s face was hidden against his father’s side, but over Ethan’s shoulder, Alice saw Argus thunder beneath a low-hanging branch, the rider flopping to the ground like a rag doll.

Justice, Alice thought without a shred of remorse. She’d been dragged and lamed by a horse, thanks to Collins, her sister had been emotionally lamed, and apparently others—Ethan included—had suffered at the man’s vile hands as well. The pain of that knowledge rivaled the throbbing in her shoulder.

“I’ll see to him,” Heathgate said, striding off in the direction of the fallen baron.

How long Alice stood there in Ethan’s embrace, her hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, she did not know. The morning was crisp and sunny, the birds were singing, and nothing but the hurt felt real.

“Neck broken,” Heathgate reported when he returned. “He didn’t suffer, which is a great injustice, though the Crown might get its hands on his private holdings. I suppose that’s something.”

Because Alice was leaning directly against Ethan, she watched his expression shift from consternation to, not resignation, exactly, but acceptance.

“Ethan!” Nick’s call was followed by his appearance through the trees with Fairly at his side. They were riding bareback, mounted on matching chestnut draft horses. “All’s well?”

“Hullo, Uncle Nick,” Jeremiah called. “Hullo, Doctor Lordship. Miss Alice is hurt, but she’s not crying.”

“Always a good sign,” Fairly said as he slid off his horse. “Any bleeding?” he asked as he approached Alice.

“I’m not bleeding,” Alice said. “It’s my shoulder.” Fairly did not reach out and touch her shoulder, he walked around her, gesturing to Ethan to drop the arm he had around her waist.

“Dislocated,” Fairly said briskly. “Easily fixed, but more than a bit uncomfortable.”

“Will she cry?” Jeremiah asked.

Fairly smiled slightly at the child. “I might cry. Grey, take the lady in your arms as if you’ve the honor of a very friendly dance. Miss Alice, let Mr. Grey support you, and close your eyes.” Alice obeyed, letting Ethan’s embrace and the warmth and scent of him sink past the pain. She felt Fairly’s hands on her back, then on her neck, finally on her shoulder.

“We’re going to do this on the count of five,” Fairly said, taking a firmer hold of Alice’s shoulder. “Deep breath, Miss Alice, then let it out and hold onto Mr. Grey tightly. One, two, three, four, five.”

Except on “three,” Fairly had deftly wrenched her shoulder, putting it back in place with an audible click. Alice saw stars and would literally have been felled by the pain except for Ethan’s hold on her.

“Catch your breath.” Fairly’s gaze was sympathetic. “When you can see straight, have a nip of this.” He tucked a silver flask into Ethan’s pocket. “You’ll be sore for a few days, and you shouldn’t lift anything substantial until the soreness passes.”

“My marchioness would be more than willing to have you recover with us,” Heathgate said. He’d bound Thatcher’s hands and left the man sitting on the ground. “Fairly will be in residence at Willowdale, if he knows what’s good for him,” Heathgate added with a sardonic smile. “You could be spoiled and attended by your personal physician.”

When Alice might have demurred, might have expected Ethan to intercede, Nick came stomping over.

“Ethan?” Nick called. “Argus won’t let me near him. We’ve too damned many horses, and something will have to be done with Collins.”

***

The next few minutes were spent organizing the ride back to Tydings, and all the while, Ethan wanted to tell his friends, his neighbor, his brother, and even his son to take themselves off so he could speak with Alice.

And yet, he dreaded what they might say to each other.

When all was sorted out, Collins’s body was draped over the back of one draft horse, Thatcher sat bound on the other, Nick was up on Bishop, Fairly on Waltzer, each towing a draft horse. Heathgate had Alice up before him, while Ethan put Jeremiah up before him on a perfectly composed Argus and gave Jeremiah the reins to Fairly’s mare.

“Argus was a good boy.” Jeremiah thumped the gelding on his golden neck. “He remembered the falling-off game even when the baron was riding him.”

“He did.” Ethan sneaked a kiss to his son’s crown. “And so did you.”

“I’m glad Collins is dead,” Jeremiah said on a sigh. “I’m glad Argus killed him. He was mean and nasty to everybody. Worse than a bad dragon.”

“Much worse.” Ethan glanced over at Alice where she rode on Constantina. He’d overheard what Collins had said to her, about knowing her sister and Alice being unable to help her sister. And Alice had overheard
him
, admitting he’d been one of Collins’s victims too.

Was that why she wouldn’t look at him now?

Even had he the courage, Ethan didn’t have the opportunity to confront her. Collins’s body had to be dealt with, Heathgate as local magistrate had to take statements, and Thatcher needed to be dispatched to the back room of the local tavern, which served as a makeshift gaol.

When Ethan saw Alice put into the most comfortable coach he had for the trip to Willowdale, it was close to noon.

“So, now what?” Nick asked as they trudged through the gardens.

“I want to see Joshua,” Ethan said. “I expect you do too.”

Nick turned his head to regard Ethan levelly. “You don’t have to be that generous, Ethan. I’m a big boy. When you swive another man’s wife, you don’t have a claim on the progeny, particularly if your brother is generous enough to obscure the issue of paternity.”

“Don’t be an ass. You didn’t intend to swive my wife, as you so vulgarly insist on putting it, and the progeny you refer to is a little boy who thinks his uncle is—God help you—capital.”

“I may not be his bloody uncle, and if you weren’t so busy trying to out-decent the Pope over having my bas—”

He never finished the word, because Ethan tackled him from the side and sent them rolling across the back gardens. They wrestled, as they hadn’t since boyhood, elbows, knees, arms, and legs tussling, first this one in a hold, then that one, until they were both panting with the exertion.

“Joshua Nicholas Grey is not a bastard,” Ethan hissed, his arm around Nick’s thick throat. He hauled up, the result intended to be brutally uncomfortable but not quite dangerous.

“Joshua
Nicholas
Grey is not a bastard,” Nick grunted. When Ethan relented, and the fight should have been over, Nick moved, quick as lightning, to reverse their positions, putting Ethan’s arm behind his back and kneeling over him.

“Ethan Grey is not a bastard,” Nick rasped in his brother’s ear. “Say it, you stubborn ass.” He tugged up for good measure. Ethan struggled fiercely beneath him, but Nick wouldn’t give quarter.

“Ethan Grey is not a bastard,” Nick insisted, voice hoarse. “Say it, or I’ll break both your arms, Ethan. I swear I will.”

Ethan renewed his efforts to break Nick’s hold, but Nick had several inches and two stone on him.

“Ethan! You are not a bastard. Say it!”

Ethan went still, Nick’s point finally becoming clear. “Ethan Grey,” he said softly, firmly, “is no longer a victim.”

“No.” Nick shifted off of him. “He’s not. You’re not.” He regarded Ethan, who’d pushed up on all fours and then sat back on his haunches, lungs heaving. “You’re not. Come here. God, you’re stubborn.” Nick draped an arm across Ethan’s shoulders and gave his brother one hell of a squeeze. “I have missed you until I’m crazy with it, and all this time, you were just ashamed, Ethan?”

Nick withdrew his arm, and Ethan could breathe again.

“Just ashamed.” Ethan said the words as one might say, “mere plague.”

“I could kill Papa,” Nick whispered. “How could he leave you at Stoneham? How could he have sent you there?”

“I don’t think he knew anything, Nick.” Ethan sighed, settling in the grass beside his brother. “And I don’t care. It’s over. Now it’s well and truly over.”

Nick slugged Ethan on the shoulder. “Call me bloodthirsty, but like Jeremiah, I’m glad Collins is dead.”

“So am I,” Ethan admitted, because to Nick, he could admit such a thing. “Now will you come see the boys with me?”