My Fallen Angel (22 page)

So she left
with
Garrick. Or at least that was the plan, though escaping from the house had turned out to be much more difficult than expected. Her aunt had waylaid her after dinner, determined to discover if she really wanted to marry Garrick or not. It had taken her nearly an hour to convince her, an hour that ticked away in Lucy’s mind like the hands of a clock.

Thank God she’d finally managed to escape, though she could have sworn her aunt kept her there on purpose, which was why she had gone to the carriage house immediately. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her peach gown, merely grabbed a lantern and set off.

She was grateful for that lantern when she opened the door of the carriage house, her aunt’s elegant landau residing like a giant statue in the center of the aisle. She lifted the light higher. One of the horses nickered softly when it spied her cloaked form.

“Shhh.” She raised her finger to her lips, then rolledher eyes and mentally chastised herself. As if the horse would understand.

Barn dust and bits of straw rose up from beneath her slippered feet as she walked toward the back of the carriage, and more important, to the giant wicker basket strapped to it. The basket was huge, large enough to conceal her small form, though she wasn’t looking forward to feeling like a chicken on its way to market during the ride to Selborne Manor.

One must do what one must do, she reminded herself, releasing a sigh of resignation as she hooked her lantern on the rusted nail somebody had pounded into a post. She then blew out the flame. Immediately, darkness enshrouded her like a cloying, black blanket and despite the wool cloak she wore, she shivered.

It
was
chilly out tonight, though she’d wager the reason her blood ran so cold was nerves. She’d best hurry. According to her calculations, John Coachman wouldn’t be hooking up the horses for at least another half hour, but she wanted to be well settled before then.

Feeling her way along, she headed toward what she hoped was the wicker basket, but turned out to be a multispoked wheel. As luck would have it, her slippered foot sailed right in between the slats and rammed into the hub with a thud.

“Bloody hell,” she cursed, clutching the wounded limb and hopping up and down. When the pain had subsided, she gingerly set her foot down, then limped toward the back of the coach. She felt like a blind man as she ran her hands along the brougham’s side, sighing when she found the wicker basket. She moved herhands toward the latch, then opened the lid. Immediately, the smell of sweaty horse enveloped her, which was to be expected since the basket was used to hold horse blankets. Lucy ignored the violent urge to sneeze and gingerly placed a foot inside.

“Argh, me jewels!” a voice screeched.

Lucy jumped, so startled she fell backward. Her breath left her in a rush as her rear collided with the ground. For a moment she just sat there, mentally assessing if she’d broken anything. She could smell a cloud of stable dust rise up around her, feel it land on her cheeks and nose.

A groan.

“Tom?” she asked when she found her voice.

The boy released another moan. Lucy gingerly rose to her feet, placing her hands on her hips, not that the child could see it. “Good heavens, Thomas Tee, whatever are you doing in there?”

“Gettin’ me beauty sleep,” he grumbled. “Whadda ya thinks I’m doin’ ‘ere?”

Lucy frowned. “Well, you can’t go along.”

“Gonna tell on me?” he mumbled testily. “’Ave a fine time explain’ ‘ow ya come across me ‘iding in ‘ere, you would.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. He had a point, the little beast. She was just about to threaten him with taking Prinny away when the latch on the carriage-house door rattled. Lucy stiffened. Goodness, that couldn’t be John Coachman. But it was. Lucy could hear his obnoxiously cheerful whistle as let himself in.

“Move aside,” she whispered as she leapt toward the rear of the coach.

“Ain’t no room.”

“Move now or we’re both lost.”

Light spilled in through the doorway. She had a glimpse of Tom’s irritated face just before she grabbed her skirts and shoved herself down next to him. “Ouch,” he grumbled as she hurriedly closed the lid; the wicker creaked in protest, its ribbed edges hemming her in like a whalebone corset. Tom shifted, his elbow jutting into her side. She cursed him silently, then jumped at the sound of the wide double doors being pulled open. John was hooking up the carriage.

The half moon cast long shadows over the Selborne estate, bright enough to see by, and bright enough to make out the familiar contours of the landscape. Emotions assailed Garrick as he stared at the home—self-loathing, fear, anger—emotions he struggled to seal behind the wall he’d built around his heart, a wall which crumpled more and more each day.

Damn Lucy’s aunt and her probing questions.

The lady had been relentless this afternoon, and her final words were that she would speak to her niece before putting her final seal of approval on their marriage. But he would marry Lucy in Scotland if need be, marry her and cherish every precious moment he had left with her.

The carriage shifted, bringing Garrick back to the present. He had a job to do, he reminded himself. One last job. He owed Lucy that much.

There was no light shining through the windows of the estate, which was to be expected given the latenessof the hour. Now all he had to do was find a way inside and be lucky enough to locate the papers he sought.

For once, luck seemed to be on his side, for it wasn’t long before he discovered a paneled glass door left ajar. Someone must have forgotten to shut it after visiting the small garden located outside. Garrick hardly dared believe his good fortune as he cupped his hands and peered through the glass. Nothing. Just blackness. He straightened, then gently pulled on the brass handle, watching his reflected shadow as he pulled open the door.

The room was even darker inside. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust, the inside walls materializing slowly before him: long shelves that reached nearly two stories high, a scattering of furniture, most noticeably a massive desk. It smelled musty, an odor that was at once familiar. Books. A great many of them, if Garrick didn’t miss his guess. He’d found the library, or perhaps the earl’s study.

Garrick almost smiled. Instead, he paused a moment to ensure there were no sounds coming from outside the room, most especially footsteps. There was nothing but the odd stillness that settled around a house during the night. He permitted himself a small smile. His plan was simple: confront the earl and the countess with the letter still in his possession and hope to God the earl would believe him. Would it work? He had no idea if God still listened to his prayers, but he hoped he would. Hoped for Lucy’s sake.

By now his eyes had adjusted enough for him to make out everything but the darker recesses of theroom. Feeling more and more confident, he strode forward.

He’d only taken three steps when the hiss of a lucifer flared, the sudden brightness momentarily blinding him.

“Welcome, Garrick.”

Garrick blinked to dispel the bright spots, but he didn’t need his vision to know who was in the room with him, for the voice had been all too familiar. It was Lucien St. Aubyn, Duke of Ravenwood, aiming a pistol at him.

Lucy peeked out the top of the basket, the evening sky seeming almost bright after the total blackness of her confines.

“Are we there?”

“Yes, Tom, we are.”

She pushed herself to her feet and tried not to groan. Her neck felt as if she’d slept with her head on backward and her back felt as bowed as an old crone’s. Forcing herself to straighten, she darted a glance around her. John was nowhere in sight. She wondered at that for a moment, then gingerly stepped down. Tom dropped down next to her.

“Where’s the coachman?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps inside the coach?”

“Nah, we’d a ‘eard ‘im enter. Probably ‘e went ta empty ‘is pisser or somethin’.”

“Tom,” Lucy scolded.

The boy shrugged, and even in the moonlight Lucy could see the mischief shining from his eyes.

“A man’s gotta pee.”

She ignored him and pulled the hood of her cloak up around her face. “You stay here.”

“Not on yer life.”

“’Tis safer here.”

“I’m goin’ with ya,” he stated firmly.

Lucy swallowed back her annoyance. If the boy chose to go with her, there was very little she could do about it. It wasn’t as if she could tie him down, though the idea was incredibly tempting right about now.

She shook her head and strode toward the house, once again wondering where the coachman had gone to. She had her answer a moment later. They had just gained the crest of the knoll when she looked down and saw John at the bottom of it, his pants around his ankles, the twin cheeks of his rear nearly as white as the shirt on Tom’s back.

“See,” Tom observed gleefully. “’E is emptyin’ ‘is pisser.”

“What do you want?” Garrick all but spat, furious with himself for being caught by Ravenwood. With his black hair, black jacket, and black eyes, the duke looked like the devil himself.

Ravenwood came forward and pulled Garrick’s pistol from where he had stored it in his waistband. Garrick’s eyes narrowed, watching, assessing for weaknesses. There were none, at least none that he could see. The duke shoved the pilfered weapon into his own waistband then slowly backed away. His eyes looked blackerthan coal in the flickering candlelight, the flames gleaming off the barrel of his pistol.

“I asked you a question, Ravenwood.”

A voice drifted through the sill. Ravenwood stiffened, crossing the room in three quick steps to shove the pistol in Garrick’s side.

“Move,” he ordered, pushing the pistol against him until Garrick was forced to walk toward the back of the room and out of sight of the door.

Only seconds later a head peeked into the room, a head with long red hair tied back with a green ribbon and emerald eyes that scanned the room. Garrick nearly groaned. He nearly cursed. He nearly turned to Ravenwood and told him to forget the whole bloody thing. The duke could have Lucy, he could bound and gag her and drag her away—with his compliments.

“Don’t make a sound,” Ravenwood whispered from behind him, using Garrick’s own body to hide behind.

Garrick clenched his hands.

“Why, Garrick, there you are.”

At that moment Garrick wanted to ignore the pistol rammed into his back and cross the room to shake some sense into Lucy’s mouselike brain. Instead he stayed put, straightening to his full height.

“What’s the matter?” she said in the dulcet tones of a person extremely proud of herself. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Garrick, ya should’a seen it,” an impish voice said from behind her, and Tom stepped into view.

That was when Garrick
did
groan. “We stumbled upon John coachman emptyin’ ‘is pisser, we did. Should’a seen the look on Lucy’s—”

The boy’s words died an abrupt death. Lucy gasped as Ravenwood made his presence known.

“Why, Miss Hartford,” the duke said softly. “This
is
a surprise.”

“Lucy, run!” Garrick ordered.

“Run and I’ll shoot your lover,” the duke said quickly.

Lucy pulled Tom up next to her, horror spreading through her. Ravenwood used the pistol to shove Garrick toward her, pulling out another from his waistband. Garrick stumbled, then turned back to the duke, his fist raised.

“Ahh, ah, ah,” Ravenwood murmured silkily. “Do that and I shall shoot Miss Hartford.”

After what seemed an age, Garrick finally lowered his fist. Lucy felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders, but it returned full-force as Ravenwood turned toward Tom. She didn’t like the way he stared at the boy. He looked … well, almost triumphant.

“Please, let us go,” she pleaded, her heart pounding so hard, her voice came out strangled. She darted a glance at Garrick, whose fists were clenched at his side.

“Sorry, Miss Hartford, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.” And with those words he aimed his second pistol at Tom.

Lucy screamed as the crack of gunfire filled the room with its deafening roar. “Tom,” she yelled, instant, petrified tears rising in her eyes.

“You bloody bastard,” Garrick bellowed. He took a step toward the duke, but Ravenwood stopped him by raising the second gun higher.

“’E
missed,” Tom yelled, patting himself like a blind man.
“’E
bloody missed me.”

“You’re wrong, young man. I hit my target exactly.” His eyes never left Garrick’s. “Look yonder at the candelabra. Particularly the candle on the right.”

Lucy turned, then gasped. The candle had been cut cleanly in two. “I don’t understand,” she murmured.

“You will in a moment,” the duke answered enigmatically.

Silence descended, but it was only when a half-dressed servant burst into the room that the realization of what he’d done dawned.

“Fetch the earl and the countess,” the duke ordered.

“You
want
the earl present?” Lucy asked as the servant backed out of the room.

“I do.”

And Lucy grew even more confused. Ravenwood was evil.