Meet Me at Midnight (30 page)

Victoria sniffled. “I hope so.”

“Very well. Christopher, inform the driver that he is to take us to Miss Grenville’s Academy at once.”

“Yes, Grandmama.”

Tracking down Marley took longer than Sinclair anticipated. After questioning the viscount’s butler and then searching half the gentlemen’s clubs along Pall Mall, he reasoned that his quarry might very well have departed London for his estate in the country.

And if he couldn’t arrest Marley, then Kingsfeld would have no reason to feel easier about his own involvement, and Vixen would continue to remain in danger.

Just as Sinclair decided to return to Madsen House and pummel the butler until he gave up his employer’s location, he spied Marley’s bay gelding at the border of Hyde Park.

“Thank God,” he murmured and kicked Diable into a gallop.

He’d wanted a public setting for the arrest, and it seemed he was going to get his wish. The afternoon crowds had already begun to fill the park’s paths, while vendors offered flavored ice and pastries on the green.

Galloping in Hyde Park was strictly forbidden, in addition to being nearly impossible, but Sinclair wasn’t about to risk losing sight of Marley now. Touching his heels to Diable’s ribs, he sent the black soaring over a park bench and around a crowd of picnickers.

Ignoring the resulting chorus of “You there” and “It’s that damned Althorpe,” he closed the distance between himself and Marley. After this was over he was going to owe the viscount one hell of an apology, but he’d do his best to make Marley come out a hero. As for himself, he didn’t care as long as he didn’t lose Victoria.

“Marley!” he bellowed as he pulled even.

The viscount gave him a startled look and had time for nothing else as Sinclair launched off Diable at him. They both tumbled to the ground in a whirling leaf-and-grass-covered pile. Sinclair got to his feet first and yanked Marley up by his lapels.

“What…is the meaning of this?” Marley sputtered, jerking himself free and shoving Sinclair backward.

“You really didn’t think you’d get away with killing my brother, did you?” Sinclair spat and pulled out his pistol.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t you?” Grabbing the viscount again, Sinclair elbowed him hard in the ribs. Marley doubled over, and Sin leaned down beside him. “Go along with this,” he hissed. “I’ll explain later.”

“I will not!” Marley sputtered.

Sin jammed the pistol in his ear. “I wasn’t asking.”

“You’re…you’re mad, Althorpe!” the viscount sputtered, his expression of fear unmistakably real.

“We’ll see about that, you murderer!”

“What’s all this?” shouted a voice.

Finally! A group of Bow Street Runners pounded up the path toward them, their own weapons drawn. Sinclair waited until they were close enough to intercept Marley if he tried to flee, then lowered his pistol.

“This man killed my brother,” he stated. “I want him arrested.”

“You’re mad! I didn’t kill anyone!”

“We’ll sort this out soon enough,” the largest of the Runners grunted, pulling Marley back upright. “Both of you gentlemen will have to come to Old Bailey with us to swear out a statement,” their captain said, urging Marley back toward his horse.

“You’re insane, Althorpe! I didn’t kill your brother!” Whether Marley was acting or not, he was doing a damned fine job.

A very small part of Sinclair regretted putting the viscount through this, but Marley
had
attempted to convince Victoria to begin an affair.

“Save your denials for someone who’ll believe them,” Sin retorted, noting the rapt attention of the gathered crowd. Kingsfeld should hear about this in no time at all. “Justice will be done,” he added for good measure.

“He’s drunk!” Marley pleaded with the Runners on his either side. “You can smell the whiskey from here!”

“We’ll see this straightened out soon enough, my lord. Come along, now.”

Still breathing hard, Sinclair reclaimed Diable and swung up onto the stallion’s back. The captain stood about for another minute, informing the crowd that there was nothing to see. With a grim smile, Sin turned to follow the parade of Runners. He would have to agree with the captain; the real fun would begin when he and Kingsfeld next met.

“V
ixen?” With a warm, delighted smile, Emma Grenville swooped into her office and pulled Victoria into a tight hug. “You are the very last person I expected to see in Hampshire. What are you doing here?”

In response, Victoria burst into tears for the sixth or seventh time that day. She’d become such a watering pot that she’d lost count. “I need your assistance,” she blurted.

Emma gestured her to a chair and sat in the one opposite her. “You have it,” she stated in her usual comforting, practical tone. “I’m just sorry I was away earlier and you had to wait so long.”

“That’s all right. I needed time to think.”

The headmistress gazed at her. “Molly said you arrived in the company of a young gentleman and an older lady, but they left without you.”

“Yes, Sinclair’s relations. They continued on to Althorpe.”

“Without you, and with your Lord Althorpe nowhere to be seen, apparently.”

Astuteness had never been something that Emma
had lacked. “It’s a long story, and I’m not certain how much time I have to tell it.”

“Then you’d best tell it quickly.” Emma rose again, taking Victoria’s hand and pulling her to her feet, as well. “Over dinner, I think. You’re pale. My girls will enjoy meeting you, anyway. You’re notorious, you know.”

Victoria managed a chuckle. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.” She took a breath. As nice and comforting as it was to be able to pour her troubles out to practical Emma, solving hers and Sinclair’s dilemma was more urgent. “I promise to tell you the entire tale soon, but right now I need a carriage, or a horse, or a hack. I’m going back to London.”

Emma hesitated. “And why is that?”

“Sinclair and I quarreled, and he sent me away. I have been considering his motives, though, and I think he was concerned over my safety and wanted to remove me from danger.”

“Danger,” the headmistress repeated. “Then perhaps you should do as he says, Vixen.”

Victoria shook her head. “I am concerned over
his
safety.” Her voice shook, but at least she seemed to have run out of tears for the moment. “I will not abandon him just because he thinks he knows what’s best for me. Ha. I don’t even know what’s best for me—but I do know it’s not being sent away to the country so he can risk his own life.”

Her bright hazel eyes sympathetic, Emma squeezed Victoria’s fingers. “I would like to meet your Lord Sin some day,” she said softly. “I never thought to see the Vixen lose her heart.”

“Oh, Emma, I hope the same thing may happen to
you one day. When it’s not the most awful thing on earth, it’s quite…wonderful.”

Laughing, Emma hugged her again. “Based on that recommendation, I think I’ll stay a spinster, thank you very much. And you may borrow Pimpernel, of course, but I’m certainly not going to allow you to go galloping off in the dark.”

Victoria scowled. “You sound like a headmistress. You’re only three years older than I am.”

“I am a headmistress. And you will have to set an example for my students. You may leave in the morning—which I hope will give you enough time to tell me your tale.”

Despite her desire to leave immediately, Victoria knew Emma was right. Riding out in the dark would likely see her lost, or killed by highwaymen. She rubbed her still-flat stomach. And she had more than herself, and even Sinclair, to consider now.

Angry as she had been with Sinclair and furious as she still was with him over his presumption in sending her away, she missed him terribly. Her heart ached to see him again, to be held in his arms and finally have no secrets between them. It might be nothing more than a fairy tale, but she wanted to tell him they were going to have a child, and have him finally tell her that he loved her.

She sighed. “It all started one night in Lady Franton’s garden.”

Emma smiled. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”

Victoria nodded. “And it doesn’t even have an ending yet.”

“So he didn’t come by at all?”

“No, my lord.”

Sinclair glared at Milo, willing the butler to alter his answer, but that seemed about as likely as Prince George taking up ballet. He’d missed luncheon, but Kingsfeld had had no way of knowing he hadn’t been at home. The earl should have been eager to discover whether Marley had been arrested or not.

“Was there a note, then?”

“No, my lord. No visitors, and no correspondence.”

“Damnation,” Sinclair murmured. He hated this part of an investigation, when he’d done everything he could and had to wait for the target to walk into the trap. “I’ll be in my office if anyone should call.”

“Yes, my lord. Might I presume you are at home to receive correspondence, as well?”

Now Milo was just being insolent, but Sin could hardly blame him for it. “Yes. And any artworks, musical serenades, or dancing bears that might happen by. I want to see anything and anyone that comes calling.”

Sinclair stalked down the hallway to the office. As soon as he stepped through the door, though, he realized it was a mistake. Victoria’s desk, neat and bare, stood beneath the window in the pale afternoon sunlight.

He nearly turned around and left again, but that wouldn’t have been much use. Everything in Grafton House reminded him of Victoria: every flower in every vase, every strip of wall covering, every patch of sunlight seemed colored by his thoughts of her.

After two years, he was about to apprehend Thomas’s murderer. He should have been pleased, relieved that they’d come within sight of victory and justice.
Instead, he paced up and down the office missing his wife and wondering whether he’d hurt her too badly to earn her forgiveness, much less her love.

He was used to regrets, but never one that stabbed into his heart like sending her away had done. Victoria’s parents had treated her like a child, distrusting her common sense and locking her away—sending her away—when that had become the easiest alternative. He’d just done the same thing, knowing it would hurt her enough to make her want to leave. He would never do it to her again.

For an hour he paced up and back along the carpet, until he thought he would go mad from waiting. Parliament would go on all afternoon, but he had thought Kingsfeld’s curiosity would have sent him home early—to find his house ransacked and with Sinclair the most likely culprit. The front door finally opened, and at the sound of a female voice he strode to the entryway. To his surprise, Lady Kilcairn stood in the foyer, speaking to Milo.

“My lady?” he said, brushing past the butler. “What—”

She hit him in the jaw.

“Damnation,” he grunted, staggering. The blow hadn’t hurt, but it had bloody well startled him. “What was that for?”

“How could you let her leave?” Alexandra snapped, coiling her fist and looking as though she wanted to punch him again.

“That’s none of your affair,” he said stiffly. If he couldn’t tell Victoria what was going on, he damned well wasn’t going to tell her friends.

“Will you excuse us for a moment?” the countess said, glancing pointedly at Milo.

Sinclair took her arm and led her down the front steps to the graveled drive. “I apologize if I’ve offended you,” he said, urging her toward her waiting carriage, “but I don’t intend to stand about and argue with you about my wife. Not today.”

“Very well, I’ll go. I just wanted to let you know one more thing that isn’t any of my affair.”

He rubbed his jaw. “What might that be?”

“Your wife is carrying your child,” she shot, her eyes flashing.

He blanched, the ground rolling beneath his feet so wildly that he had to sit on the bottom step. “
What?
”

She nodded. “Given the way you yelled at her, I didn’t think she would tell you, but I also think that she deserves a chance at being happy. She thinks that chance lies with you, Lord Althorpe. I don’t think you should disappoint her.”

Gathering her skirt, she climbed into her carriage and instructed the driver to leave. Sinclair sat at the edge of the drive for a long time, staring at the ground without seeing anything at all.
His child
. That was why she’d been so upset. And he was an absolute blundering, blithering, idiotic boor. He was going to be a father, and he didn’t deserve it—or her.

He’d definitely done the right thing, though, sending her away. At Althorpe she would be safe until he could go to her and apologize and tell her that he loved her. Slowly he rose and went back inside, barely noting Milo in the doorway as he walked past. He was going to be a father. Good God.

It was dusk when he finally heard the front door open and the low murmur of male voices. He seated himself behind his desk, his pistol in one hand. For a moment he wished he hadn’t removed Thomas’s mas
sive desk from the office; putting a ball through Kingsfeld from that seat would have seemed poetic justice. This, though, would be enough.

The office door opened, and he curled his fingers around the pistol’s ivory handle. The widening doorway, though, remained empty.

“Sin? It’s Crispin. Don’t blow my head off.”

Sinclair cursed. “Get the bloody hell in here.”

The tall Scot stepped inside, and Sinclair’s breath stopped in his throat. Crispin’s face was drawn and serious, and an even grimmer-looking Wally followed on his heels. When Bates appeared behind them, Sin stood so abruptly that his chair went over backward.

“What happened?” he snapped.

“We’re not sure. We dumped Kingsfeld’s desk drawers out and pulled half the books off his shelves in case he needed more convincing that he’d been ransacked.” Crispin drew a breath, his expression becoming even more dour. “It’s my fault. I rode straight here in case you needed assistance. Wallace stayed to keep an eye on Hovarth House.”

“And?”

Wally cleared his throat. “Kingsfeld went home right on schedule. Not five minutes later he came running outside like a bat out of hell, grabbed his horse from the groom, and rode off.” The stocky man shifted. “I thought he was heading here, so I went to see if Bates was back, to send him after the papers you wanted.”

Slowly Sinclair sat on the corner of his desk. “So where did Kingsfeld go?” he asked, his jaw clenched so tightly that he could barely get the clipped words out. “I know he didn’t come here.”

“We don’t know, Sin. By the time we realized he
wasn’t here, he’d been missing for over an hour.”

“His clubs,” Sin snapped, rising and striding for the door. “We’ll split up.”

“Sin, we—”

“Damnation, Crispin! Why did you wait so long to tell me?” He whipped around, jabbing a finger into the Scotsman’s chest. “Forget I said that. It’s my own bloody fault, for trying to be so damned clever instead of just shooting the bastard.”

“We checked the clubs already,” Crispin countered. “And Gentlemen Jackson’s and every shop on Bond Street.”

Dread made Sinclair’s blood run cold. “Check them again. I’m going to Hovarth House, and Geoffreys had best know where his employer went.”

“Where d’you think he went?”

“Just find him,” Sin said grimly, his chest tight, “because I don’t want to think where else he might be.”

Even without saying it, though, he knew. Kingsfeld hadn’t evaded any hint of guilt for two years by being foolish. Victoria alone might have gone anywhere, but with Augusta and Kit leaving at the same time, the number of possible destinations narrowed considerably. In his anxiety to protect them, he might very well have left them vulnerable to a murderer. If anything happened he would never forgive himself.

“Sin?”

“We’ll meet back here in an hour. If you see Kingsfeld, grab him. I don’t care how.”

Milo stood in the foyer as they exited, his expression a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. The time had come, Sinclair decided, to stop slinking around in the shadows and trust a little.

“Milo, I need you to keep watch here for Lord Kingsfeld. Choose three footmen, and all of you arm yourselves.”

“My…my lord?”

“It is my belief that Kingsfeld is the man who killed Thomas. I don’t want him wandering around where he can hurt anyone else.”

The butler drew himself up straighter. “If he comes here, my lord, he will not be leaving.”

Sinclair nodded. “We’ll all be back here in an hour. You can trust these men,” he said, gesturing at his lads. “And Lord Kilcairn.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Most of the lights were off at Hovarth House, which Sin took as a bad sign. Kingsfeld hadn’t returned, and the servants weren’t expecting him back anytime soon. Sinclair pounded on the door.

It was nearly a minute before Geoffreys pulled it open. “Lord Althorpe? I’m afraid Lord Kingsfeld isn’t home.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, my lord.”

“You had a break-in earlier, didn’t you?”

The butler looked momentarily startled. “Yes, my lord. How did you—”

Sinclair shoved a hand into the man’s chest, pushing him back into the foyer and following him inside. “I know because I did it,” he snarled, slamming the door with his free hand. “Where is Kingsfeld?”

“My—I don’t—please unhand me, my lord.”

“I almost like you, Geoffreys. Don’t make me loosen your teeth with my fist.” He shoved the butler up against the hall table.

“This is highly irregular, my lord.”

“Yes, it would seem to be. Answer my question. Now.”

“I can’t do that, my lord. Arthur! Marvin!”

Sinclair scowled. “That was stupid.”

Two large footmen pounded into the hallway. “You’ll have to let him go, my lord,” the bigger one grumbled, moving toward them.

With his free hand, Sinclair pulled the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Geoffreys’ forehead. “Your so-called employer murdered my brother, Geoffreys. Don’t think I won’t return the favor. Now, for the last time, where is the damned Earl of Kingsfeld?”

The butler gasped. “I don’t…” His eyes rolled back into his head, and with an oddly delicate-sounding groan, he fainted.

“Damn,” Sinclair growled, taking Geoffreys’ weight on his shoulder and letting him sag to the floor.

As he turned, the footmen hit him. He saw them coming and ducked beneath the first one, even as the second slammed into his legs, knocking them all to the floor on top of Geoffreys. With a curse, Sinclair rolled to his feet and caught the first man to rise across the forehead with the butt of his pistol. Flipping the weapon in his hand, he aimed it at the second one, who was just climbing to his knees.