Julia Justiss (25 page)

As she had once before, she would probably have remained defiant in the face of all his threats. Then while distracting him by feigning collapse, she’d have bashed him with the wine bottle and escaped into the night.

“You’re in love with her, too, aren’t you?” Lucinda Blaine had accused. “Why? She’s not even beautiful!”

“She has a beauty of soul and character that will endure long after yours has faded,” he’d told her.

But only if Jenna lived long enough. There being no question now that she was in danger—and from whom, he could not afford to wait until socially acceptable calling hours.

He must sneak into Fairchild House and warn her at once.

H
AD
J
ENNA’S CHAMBER WINDOW
not faced over the street, Tony might have attempted to avoid the possibility of encountering servants by climbing up to it, painful as that might have proved with his stiff knee. Instead, drawing upon skills of stealth developed over a misspent young manhood, he used his knife blade to pick the lock of the back gate and the kitchen entry, then tiptoed through the deserted house up to Jenna’s chamber.

’Twas many years since he’d crept into a lady’s bedchamber while her household slept. Before, it had been almost a game, the danger of discovery amplifying his anticipation of the pleasure to come. Though his mission this time was far too serious for sport, still the idea of slipping to Jenna’s bedside and gazing upon her with her hair unbound, her body cloaked only in the fine linen of a night rail, caused his mouth to dry as his mind filled with images of how he might stroke her to wakefulness, had only the peril not been so great.

Forcing his thoughts from those tantalizing possibilities, he primed himself to enter. He’d need to wake her gently, so she did not become frightened and cry out. He’d not be able to get her away safely if she caused an uproar or was paralyzed with fright.

Taking a deep breath to keep his hand steady, he
picked the final lock, pushed open the door and stepped in.

In the next, confusing instant he saw Sancha, outlined by moonlight as she poised to throw her knife, and Jenna holding a pistol aimed at his heart.

F
OR AN INSTANT, NONE OF THEM
moved. Then, shaken by the knowledge that she’d come within a hairbreadth of firing on him, Jenna gasped, “Nelthorpe!”

“What in the world are you doing here?” she whispered, motioning him closer as she set down her weapon. “Sancha, close the door and stand guard by it, please.”

She slid from the bed and took a chair, indicating that he take the one adjacent. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you through the heart. Honestly, this must be the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done!”

“Then you’ve led too sheltered a life,” he drawled, his features silvered by moonlight. “I’ve done things a deal more outrageous, I assure you. But I didn’t sneak in here just to broaden your education. Tonight I induced Lucinda Blaine to admit that she paid the groom to sabotage your ride—on the recommendation of Lane Fairchild. Who most probably arranged to fire upon you and dispatch the groom.”

“And who also may or may not be attempting to poison Bayard and win the title for himself,” she informed him. “Or so Bayard’s valet, at gunpoint, was made to confess.”

“God in heaven!” After following that exclamation with several muffled curses, he sprang up from his chair. “Then surely now you understand how imperative it is that you quit this house. Sancha, pack only those necessaries you can fit in a bandbox and we shall leave at once.”

“And go where?” Jenna demanded.

“To Lady Charlotte’s, I suppose. You did speak with her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I’ll not venture there until a reasonable hour of the morning. Don’t scold me for being foolish,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall his protest. “As you have seen, both Sancha and I are armed and watchful. Besides, though I no longer deny Lane threatens me, as exacting as he is about the honor of the family name, I don’t think he would attempt to murder me at Fairchild House. Such a death would be much too difficult to conceal or explain.”

“An interesting theory, but one I wouldn’t wish to put to the test. Leave now, Jenna.”

She shook her head. “’Tis nearly dawn. As soon as Sancha and I can depart with any semblance of normalcy, we shall proceed straight to Lady Charlotte’s.”

“Thanks be to God!” he said fervently. “Though I still cannot approve the delay.”

“Don’t think I am not deeply appreciative of your concern—and your efforts on my behalf, but ’tis not your decision to approve. Indeed, I am almost tempted to remain in spite of what we’ve discovered.”
Garrett would not run away with the murderer of his child unpunished,
she thought. “We still have no proof that Lane attempted to harm me—only the suppositions of a valet and a faithless jade. If we could force him to take some further action—”

“Absolutely not, Jenna! I won’t let you risk it.”

“Then how shall we ever bring him to justice—or protect Bayard, for that matter?”

“Jenna, get dressed and, Sancha, start packing. We can argue strategy to your heart’s content—once you are safely out of this house.”

“Very well, we shall plan later. But I will not leave the house until morning. If I do, Lane will surely know
that I am suspicious of him, and become so careful that we may never be able to prove his guilt.”

In the thin moonlight he studied her face and seemed to realize she would not be budged. “Morning, then,” he agreed with a sigh. “But I’ll not leave until dawn breaks. Three can keep watch better than two.”

“No, you must go at once! The longer you remain, the greater the risk of some servant—or even Lane himself—becoming aware of your presence. Which, in addition to the scandal, would be just as plain an indication of my suspicions as if I fled in the night.”

Nelthorpe proving as stubborn as she, they argued the matter until Sancha prosaically observed that if he didn’t leave soon, the disagreement would be moot.

“Please, Tony,” Jenna whispered, risking the jolt of awareness that always shook her when she touched him to take his hand. “Please, though you cannot like it, let me do this my way.”

After a start of surprise, he gripped her fingers fiercely, his jaw working as he gazed at their joined hands. “All right, Jenna. Your way. But for God’s sake and mine, be careful!”

“I will. Meet me at Lady Charlotte’s later and we shall plan what to do next. Now, use your vast experience to good advantage and creep back out of here undetected.”

He gave her fingers another hard squeeze before releasing them, then stood, hesitating as if he wished to say something more.

In the end, with a “God be with you,” he limped out.

Over the next few hours as the new day brightened, having given up the fruitless effort to sleep, Jenna dressed and discussed strategy with Sancha. By morning, they’d decided to modify the plan.

They would leave together, but not with a bandbox—an irregular item that would surely be noticed and cause
speculation among the staff. Having agreed that, not knowing the extent of the conspiracy, it would not be wise to trust the grooms or any of the staff, they would announce they wished to take a morning walk.

Once safely away from the house, they would hail a hackney to convey Jenna to Lady Charlotte’s house. Sancha would return to Fairchild House with a tale of having met Lady Charlotte in the park, after which her mistress had been invited back to breakfast. During the meal, while discussing her imminent departure to spend the holidays at her country house, Lady Charlotte had begged Jenna to accompany her, and at length, her mistress agreed. Sancha was to pack her trunks and return with them.

Though Jenna was pleased with the plan, the wait for full morning light seemed endless, both she and Sancha starting at every small noise. Her nerves were worn raw when at last, they descended the stairs, her back prickling with a sense of threat as they walked away from the house.

They halted a block away, Jenna’s breath as shallow as if she’d run every step.
“Madre de Dios!”
Sancha said with a triumphant chuckle. “Mistress, we have done it!”

A few moments later, she helped hand Jenna into a hackney. “Come quickly, Sancha,” Jenna murmured, giving the maid a hug. “I will not rest easy until you too are safely out of Fairchild House.”

“Nay, my lady, the plan is sound, nor am I in danger. I will pack quickly and join you soon.”

Jenna nodded and, after giving the driver her direction, settled back against the squabs, her mind moving forward to the next challenge.

How could they prove Lane Fairchild’s part in this?

After reviewing all her dealings with him since arriving in London, she had to admit it still seemed incredible.
His concern for her welfare, unless he was the most skilled actor she’d ever met, appeared genuine. That Lucinda Blaine had bribed the groom to change horses, on Lane’s recommendation, was the only fact definitely linking him to the events—assuming they could trust Lucinda’s word.

Frankston’s belief that he intended to dispose of his cousin was unproven speculation, though a speculation that made the shot fired at her and the groom’s fatal accident fit into some logical order.

Though free for the moment from menace, a shiver traveled down her spine. Had Lane truly designed this elaborate scheme? Was he capable of murder? Or might someone else be responsible?

She was still mulling over that disturbing question when it suddenly occurred to her that by now, she should have reached Lady Charlotte’s. Had the driver not understood her directions?

She banged on the forward wall. When the vehicle did not slow, she banged again, then reached over to put up the window shade, latched to keep out the morning chill, so she might determine their location.

Only to find the curtain nailed into place.

For a shocked second she sat immobile. Then, dread gathering in the pit of her stomach, she seized the door handle.

She wasn’t surprised to discover that it, too, was bolted shut.

P
ANIC SWEPT THROUGH HER
,
swiftly succeeded by a rage that tempered her fear. After a few moments speculating about how their plan had gone awry, she set her mind to determining what she would do when the carriage arrived at whatever destination to which she was being taken.

Her abduction could, she decided, be an advantage, for whoever had arranged it was likely responsible for all the rest. If she were lucky enough to be able to face the perpetrator, rather than being held or dispatched by hirelings, she would discover the true face of her enemy.

It must be either Bayard or Lane. Having caused her pain and cost her Garrett’s child, Lucinda Blaine would have little to gain by killing her. Indeed, she would probably prefer Jenna alive, her grief-stricken presence among the ton a constant reminder of Lucinda’s cleverness in punishing the woman she held responsible for “stealing” the man she claimed to have loved.

Bayard or Lane? The new viscount would appear to have had the most to gain. She’d not searched to discover whether the tray Frankston had carried that night held something more lethal than food. Both Bayard and his valet were odd enough that she had no real grasp of how vile a crime they might be capable of committing.

Setting her mouth in a determined line, she patted the pistol in her reticule and adjusted the knife in her half-boot. Whomever—Bayard or Frankston or Lane—she en
countered once freed from this prison would find her much more difficult to eliminate than her unborn child.

Despite her perilous position, with a soldier’s appreciation for resting when he could before the battle to come, she dozed. So when the vehicle finally halted, she was not perfectly sure how long they’d traveled.

She could make a break immediately when the door was opened. But she had only one shot in the pistol and her knife would not prove adequate against a crowd of brigands. Better to wait, assess the odds against her, and pray she found another chance.

And to improve that possibility, better to appear the terrified, trembling female they were no doubt expecting.

So when the door was opened, she shrank back. “What is the meaning of this outrage? Where are we?”

“Get out with ye now, so’s I kin get back to Lunnon,” the driver replied, motioning to her.

“You will return me immediately,” she said, ending on a frightened squeak that belied that demand.

“Nay, the gent only paid me to transport ye here. Out, or I’ll have to pull ye out.”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she said, clutching her reticule and feeling for the grip of her pistol. Avoiding the man’s hand, she swung down, scanning the scene outside.

They had stopped before a well-kept country manor bordered by a small wood that obscured the drive as it stretched away from the house. Allowing an occupant to hear approaching vehicles before those within it could observe him.

In addition to the hackney driver, two burly men approached from the house, their mounts tethered nearby. Even if she made a dash for the box and tried to drive away, on horseback they would swiftly overtake the carriage.

No, for the moment she must acquiesce. “Who are you?” she asked. “You—you had better do me no harm or my cousin, Viscount Fairchild, will see you hang!”

One of the men laughed. “Feisty little filly, ain’t she?” he asked the other as he paced closer.

She backed away with a strangled sob. “P-please, I beg you, do not h-hurt me!”

“No need to turn on the waterworks,” he said, stepping by her to pay the driver, who quickly remounted the box and set his team in motion. “Ye’ll be safe here. Fact is, yer cousin hired us to protect ye. ’Twas why he had you removed from London, he said.”

“Why did my cousin say nothing to me of this?”

“Didn’t want to frighten you, I suppose. Come in, now. Inside there’s food and a woman to wait on ye.”

“When will I see my cousin?”

“I expect he’ll be along directly,” the man replied.

Which cousin? Jenna wondered as she followed him. Had she been sent here in someone’s misguided attempt at protection—or so she might fall victim to a conveniently fatal accident, far from the interested gaze of the ton?

Far from the friends who might help her. Like Nelthorpe, she thought despairingly, whom she had forced from her side.

For a moment, panic seized her, but once again she called on anger to loosen its grip.

It appeared she would not be bound or molested. She would have time before her cousin—whichever cousin—arrived to assess her surroundings, the number and intent of her captors. And to prepare for the confrontation to come.

About midafternoon, as near as she could tell by the position of the sun outside the room to which they con
veyed her, a knock sounded at the door. A moment later, Lane Fairchild strode in.

“Jenna, you are safe,” he cried, advancing toward her. “And not too frightened, I hope. I apologize for removing you so…abruptly from London, but given the doubts you’d expressed about Bayard, I dared not let you remain. Should he have learned of your suspicions, I fear he might have made another attempt to do away with you.”

“So the accident was
his
doing! How can you be sure?”

“’Tis true, I’m afraid. I’ve just returned from tracking down the groom I’d dismissed. Under threat of the magistrate, he confessed that Bayard paid him to change you to a horse he felt certain would unseat you.”

Except, Nelthorpe had told her, the man had been dead for more than two weeks.

A coldness settled in her bones.
Liar, liar,
she thought contemptuously.
Just what other lies will you spin to try to tangle me in your web?

“But that’s dreadful! What are we to do?”

He stepped closer and took her hands. It required every ounce of her soldier’s discipline not to snatch them away when he raised them for a fervent kiss.

“I know ’tis still so soon, but will you not grant me the privilege of protecting you forever? With us wed, I would be much better able to safeguard you. Together we could work to insure Bayard was held accountable for his dastardly acts, perhaps even force him to quietly renounce the title and live in exile where he could no longer threaten you.”

“You think you could manage that?” she asked, wondering how he’d planned to frame his hapless cousin.

“One way or another. Ah, the future we could have! Garrett chose wisely when he selected you to be his vis
countess. Together, we can maintain the prestige and honor the ancient name of the Fairchild deserves.”

Lane was clever—so very clever. Had she not already discovered enough to see through his deception, she might well have been taken in by his accusations against Bayard.

But he had underestimated both her will to uncover the truth and, she thought, her eyes dropping to her reticule, her ability to resist.

“Flattered as I must continue to be by your regard, cousin, as you say, ’tis still too soon for me to think of marrying again,” she said, pulling her hands free.

Lane gave her a deprecating smile. “I trust in time to inspire in you a tenderness as deep as that which I cherish toward you. I surely hope so, for in my haste to secure your safety, I’m afraid I’ve forced your hand. Cousin I may be, but once it becomes known that you are here in my company, you will be ruined if we do not marry.”

She shrugged. “As I have no desire to cut a dash among the ton, I care little for that.”

“Now I know you’re upset, or you’d not be talking such nonsense,” he said patronizingly. “Once you are calm again, you’ll realize you cannot risk exposing the Fairchild name to scandal.”

“Cousin, I’m afraid I care as little for the ‘honor’ of the Fairchild name as Bayard.”

Lane’s smile grew strained. “Why not rest now? I’ll rouse you shortly, and trust by then you will be reasonable again. Indeed, I am counting upon it, for I brought a special license with me and have summoned a vicar to attend us in an hour. I apologize again for the haste, but I promise, you may have a wedding dinner in London afterward that is as lavish as you could desire.”

She stared at him, amazed that he could possibly misinterpret her refusal. “Cousin, I have no intention of mar
rying you, in an hour—or ever. Would it not be even more an affront to the honor of the Fairchilds to have me repudiate you before the vicar?”

His smile vanished altogether. “I’m beginning to lose patience with these missish megrims, Jenna. Reconciled to it or not, in an hour we will wed. If you choose to resist, those two stout fellows below will assist you, even repeat the vows, if necessary.”

“I can’t believe any vicar would officiate at such a farce!”

“Not marry me to my poor widowed cousin who is so deranged by grief that I fear for her sanity? Whom I am marrying so I may assume responsibility for her care—in the best of asylums, if necessary? And who is being very well paid for his trouble?” He shook his head gently, smiling once more. “I don’t believe so. If you need more convincing, perhaps I should summon my assistants now.”

All at once she had a terrifying vision of what it appeared he was planning: to marry her, by force if necessary, declare her mentally incompetent if she resisted him and thus seize from her legal control over both her person—and her fortune.

If he were about to summon his thugs, she could wait no longer, hoping for a better chance for escape. She must deal with Lane now, before he brought in reinforcements.

Seeking to disconcert him while she determined how best to evade him, she said, “So I’m to be shuttled off to an insane asylum, rather than poisoned like Bayard?”

He looked surprised for an instant before that smile returned to his lips. “I thought you might have puzzled that out. Or been alerted by his clumsy valet—who, by the way, suffered a tragic fall down the back stairs this morning. ’Twas why I knew the wedding must be now.
Can’t have you going to the authorities with some wild story of intrigue and ruining all my plans.”

“To murder my child, finish off Bayard and seize my fortune?”

He held up his hands. “I did no murder. Nor did I have any hand in arranging the accident.”

“But you put Lucinda Blaine up to it.”

He shook his head gently. “If Garrett had lived, none of these tawdry actions would have been necessary. He was an exemplary Fairchild, fully worthy of bearing the name. But after his death, I could not tolerate the idea of Bayard as viscount, dragging the family honor into the dust with his odd behavior and bizarre schemes.”

“So you decided to poison him?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the revulsion in her voice.

“A sad task, but necessary. By the time I learned you were with child, I had become…reconciled to taking over the mantle myself. After all, ’twas no guarantee your son would have been as worthy as I of carrying on the honors. Nor could I allow you, my dear, to dispose of your person and your fortune outside the family—or squander your money assisting a pack of indigent vagrants.”

While he talked, Jenna covertly scanned the room. She dare not descend the stairs, where his two cohorts might capture her. Soon after her arrival, she’d seen out her window that the large wisteria had been trained against the wall, its sturdy branches growing up and around the ledge. If she could divert or immobilize Lane, she might scramble down it and make a break for the woods.

“So you tried to shoot me at Richmond Hill?” she asked, edging closer to the window.

“Had I wished to kill you, my dear Jenna, you would be dead. The shot was merely a warning—to frighten off the ubiquitous escort of that coward Anthony Nelthorpe.
No, I envision you by my side, helping me maintain the grandeur of the Fairchilds.”

Jenna felt behind her for her reticule. Under no circumstances did she intend to be coerced into delivering herself into the power of the man who’d set Lucinda Blaine to murder her child. Backing toward the window, she pulled the pistol from her reticule. “I believe I’d rather die first.”

Lane shook his head. “Jenna, Jenna, that was most unwise. I might have to gratify your wish.” With a sigh, he removed a pistol from his own pocket and leveled it.

N
EAR NOON, A GLASS OF SHERRY
untasted at his side, Tony sat tapping his foot in Lady Charlotte’s front parlor. What could be keeping them? he wondered for the thousandth time. He was about to abandon stealth and go to fetch Jenna himself when a maid entered to tell them Sancha just arrived at the servants’ entrance, accompanied by a large trunk.

Cursing a woman’s need to have to carry all her fripperies with her, Tony silently seconded Lady Charlotte’s order that Sancha be shown up directly.

A few moments later, the maid hurried in. “Mistress, all is ready!” she exclaimed, then halted, gazing around the room in confusion. “My mistress has been shown to a chamber?” she asked Lady Charlotte. “Why then did you summon me?”

Tony’s heart plunged to his boots. Before he could question Sancha, Lady Charlotte, her face looking equally stricken, said, “Lady Fairchild is not here. We thought you were to come together.”

“
Madre de Dios,
this cannot be!” Sancha cried. “I myself put her in a hackney three hours ago!”