Masquerading the Marquess (32 page)

Terrence glanced nervously back at Calliope. "Why are you discussing this in front of her?"

"Oh, she won’t talk. My associate here will make sure of that."

Calliope rose to her feet and the earl arched an eyebrow. "And where do you think you’re going
, Calliope
?"

Her breath caught.

Terrence frowned. "Her name is Margaret."

The earl sent a condescending look in Terrence’s direction. "That is why I let you trail Angelford. You would have too difficult a time keeping up with his woman."

Terrence looked thoroughly confused. It showed in every muscle of his body. "I told you, the woman is at her house."

"Would you like to tell him or should I?"

Calliope sent him an angry look and mustered her temper. "No, my lord, I would not deny you the chance."

"Feisty little thing. I see why he keeps you around. I thought I was rid of you after the Killroys’ ball. A couple of well-meaning hints in Lady Simpson’s ear . . ." He smiled and shrugged.

So her firing had nothing to do with James after all. Calliope balled her hands.

"Are you implying that Miss Stafford is that Esmerelda woman?" Terrence was naive and a bit slow at times, but not stupid.

"Actually, there is no Miss Stafford. There is no Esmerelda either. I have no idea how many other guises she has taken, but this is Miss Calliope Minton, daughter of the Viscount Salisbury."

"And I assume you are the man who killed him."

The earl cocked an eyebrow at her. "That credit will fall to Holt, not to me."

"I don’t know why you did it. I barely know who you are. But it was you."

The earl produced an unpleasant laugh. "My dear, you wound me to the core. Nevertheless, Holt will take the blame for your father’s untimely death and your dear lover will die proving it."

A surge of fear shot through Calliope, but she tried to maintain her composure. "How exactly is that going to happen?"

Terrence was looking at the earl as if he were the Hydra, sporting multiple heads. "See here, what is this about dying and murdering? I don’t want anything to do with that. You said I could court Lucinda and marry her if I fulfilled my end of the bargain."

"Keep your mouth shut and stop blubbering, you twit."

"Lucinda?" The pieces began to assemble.

"He’s her uncle and guardian. Lucinda listens to him, she’ll eventually begin to know the real me."

"Oh, Terrence," Calliope said sadly. He looked miserable and her heart went out to him, but she focused on the scowling earl. "Terrence was just supposed to keep tabs on James, wasn’t he? He knows nothing about any of this."

"Now that he does, however, we will need to rearrange our bargain."

Terrence looked terrified and Calliope didn’t blame him.

"Miss Minton, tell me where the ring is."

"A ring?
That is what this is all about?" she asked innocently.

The earl was not amused. "Where is it?"

"Did my father take it from you? Is that why you killed him?"

"It is my ring and I want it back."

"And our townhouse . . . you set the fire to destroy the evidence, didn’t you?"

"Give it to me."

Calliope gave him a superior look. "By now James has shown Holt the ring. It will only be a matter of time before they find you."

The earl gave her a withering look. "I doubt that, my dear, but if so it will be of no interest to you."

The stocky man ambled forward. He had crooked teeth, a hooked nose and an extremely pockmarked face. "Shall I take care of both of them now?" His eyes didn’t touch on
Terrence,
he was totally focused on Calliope.

"We don’t want to worry our young helper, Curdle. He is still our friend, after all. Come, Terrence, tie up Miss Minton, here, and then we’ll talk."

Terrence looked at Calliope but she gave a firm shake of her head. It would do no good to argue. Save that for later.

In fascinated horror Calliope watched as the stocky man moved forward, but Terrence had obviously read his intentions correctly because he reached out and gripped Calliope’s arm.

Curdle yanked her away and roughly pushed Terrence back. Her body instinctively recoiled and she struggled.

Curdle laughed unpleasantly.

They tied a cord around her arms and legs and she was helpless to move. His fetid breath brushed her brow. She spat in his face and he backhanded her and stuffed a wad of cloth in her mouth. He grabbed the top of her dress and callously ran his hands over the material.

"Enough, Curdle," ordered the earl. "There will be time for that later."

After some argument, Curdle shoved her in a small, dark storage room. Terrence was barely able to throw the cane in after her before Curdle slammed the door. She could hear them arguing on the other side.

"I’ll stay with the filly. Never know who might be visiting."

"You can have your sport later. She’s not going anywhere. I need you to head over to Holt’s. If Angelford is there, kill them both. Terrence and I will be waiting for your return."

A shuffle of footsteps echoed down the hall.

"Where are the papers, Terrence?"

"They are in a safe place." The frightened note in Terrence’s voice was audible through the door.

"I want them. Where are they?"

"I—I won’t give them to you. I want to know what is going on. What are you going to do with Miss Stafford--er, Miss Minton?"

Calliope heard a loud thump and the sound of a heavy object hitting the floor.

The door opened and the earl stood tall in the doorway.
"Sorry, my dear.
But I don’t believe you have any more information for me. And unfortunately for you, you have too much information. But not to worry, you won’t die alone. Terrence, here, will be with you. And your dear James will join you shortly after he gives me the ring."

He gave her an almost fatherly smile. "Goodbye, my dear. Your antics were amusing to watch. It’s a shame we couldn’t get along more companionably."

She shrieked at him through the cloth that was tied over her mouth, as he closed the door and she was once more thrust in the dark. Why hadn’t he put a bullet through her?

At the moment she didn’t care; she was still alive. Calliope wondered what had happened to Terrence. Poor misguided Terrence. Lucinda Fredericks would be the death of him after all.

Calliope worked her hands, trying to free the ropes. It was useless, they were wrapped too tightly, but as she struggled, her left hand brushed her cane and a small ray of hope bloomed. Calliope shuffled the cane’s head back to her hands.
A little more.
Just a little more.
The handle was in her fingers. Twisting it was another matter. She couldn’t get her wrists far enough apart to turn the knob. She needed more leverage.

She sat for a second before the idea came. She moved the cane as quickly as she could until she was sitting on the handle. Grabbing the rod with both hands, she twisted. The joyous sound of a click registered in Calliope’s ears.

She moved the cane around and positioned the blade between her tightly coiled wrists. She started sawing at the cord and nicked a finger. She stopped for a second to reposition when she smelled smoke.

The terror paralyzed her.
Fire.
She could smell the pungent fumes. Now she knew why the earl had not returned. Instinct kicked into motion and she began furiously sawing at the cords, heedless of the pain radiating from the nicks and cuts to her hands, wrists and arms. Smoke filtered under the door and she screamed into the cloth.

James walked swiftly down the street. He was off his usual stride, too emotionally wound to saunter as usual. He had told the driver to meet him at Holt’s. He couldn’t stay in the carriage one second longer. He was almost there.

Hurt and anger raged through him. Stephen had obviously known Calliope was the caricaturist. It would explain the political cartoons: Stephen could have easily filled Calliope in on the events at Parliament. It would also explain Stephen’s comical reaction when James had shown him the illustration at White’s. What a good laugh they must have had at his expense. No, that couldn’t be right; Stephen had been surprised. Stephen hadn’t known Calliope caricatured James.

But James should have known. All the pieces had been in front of him, but he had never entertained the notion that Landes was a woman. His thoughts muddled together. The stakes of the game were too high and he needed to sort his personal feelings from his professional ones.

What had happened last night? He was thoroughly confused by her.

James maintained the brisk pace. She had never been intimate with Stephen. That was obvious.
But why?
Was this a part of her caricature scheme? It made sense. It was a good way to get entree into society. And it would explain why she had been a lady’s companion before. But how had she gotten involved with Stephen? That was an especially intriguing question since she was personally tied to
Salisbury
.

He was going to have answers before he wrung her neck. No, he was going to take her upstairs as soon as he got her to his townhouse. Then he would wring her neck.

Of course, her answers probably would not be what he wanted to hear. She had looked at Stephen like the sun rose and set with him. Perhaps now that he was back she would become his mistress in truth. There was nothing standing in their way.

He didn’t care if Stephen was his best friend.
The thought of her with another left a bitter taste.
He didn’t know when he had become so possessive, but the feeling wouldn’t leave.

A hackney barreled past and stopped a short distance ahead. Finn jumped out and ran toward him.

"She’s gone, my lord."

"What do you mean, she’s gone?"

"She escaped through the study window while everyone was busy
. "

"One of the footmen is in my carriage down the street. Tell him to take your hack to the Adelphi Theatre. She is probably visiting her family. Grab my carriage and wait for me here, I’ll only be a few minutes."

Finn nodded and hurried off. The more James thought about the situation, the less he was sure she was at the Adelphi. Why wouldn’t she have taken one of the footmen? He cursed when he remembered giving the instructions that she couldn’t leave the premises. It had been high-handed of him, but he had done so for her safety.

Why did loved ones always disobey?

James stopped cold.

A vision of her in her dowdy garb standing up to the ton harpies was followed by one of her at Madame Giselle’s, defiant in her shift. Her laughter learning to ride, her bravery in the coach during the chase through
London
, the passionate look on her face last
night.
. . the images coalesced into one thought.

He forced his right foot to take a step.
Then his left.

He was in love with her. Now that he acknowledged the emotion, it was apparent to him that such had been the case for a long time. He couldn’t remember ever being as personally interested in a woman before.

It should have been obvious when he looked at the caricature earlier. He had no interest in the ladies of the ton. He abhorred the philandering of the wives and the insipidness of the debutantes. He disliked the games, the gossip,
the
insincerity.