Shameless (10 page)

Neil was also aware that it was quite possible, nay, likely, that there were others searching for him as well. Those who would order his death would be unlikely to rely solely on a single team of assassins. They would send out multiple tools, who would do whatever was required to get the job done. An attack could occur anywhere, at any time. He was acutely aware that a gunshot or a thrown knife or any of countless other stealth techniques could do for him in an instant. He could die right now, or five minutes from now, or five hours or five days from now, with no warning whatsoever.

Which was a cheering thought indeed.

The hard truth was that, once set in motion, this kind of death sentence was both immutable and, ultimately, all but inescapable.

Unless he could outwit them, outrun them, or outkill them, the sad fact of the matter was that he was not long for this world.

To worsen the situation, he had a lowering presentiment that, if they succeeded in killing him, heaven was past praying for. He was going straight to hell. And since that idea didn’t appeal, the only real solution to his problem was, simply, stay alive.

Which he was trying his best to do.

The best option he could come up with given his limited choices boiled down to cutting out the eye of the beast that sought him. Only a very few knew of his existence, and only one of those knew enough about him to find him if he chose to go to earth. Not by happenstance, that was the man at the top of his particular food chain, one of the last who would have had to sign off on the order to eliminate him. By killing that man, he hoped to save himself.

And never mind that he had once, a very long time ago, counted that man as a friend.

The deed would have been done already were it not for a certain fiery-haired chit whose interference had ended most disastrously. Since then, since Neil’s escape from Clapham, his quarry had gone on alert. The man remained in London, at the heart of the organization as always, but he was being careful, surrounding himself with guards, taking every precaution.

He knew better than anyone just how dangerous Neil, his former prized weapon, could be.

What he did not know was that Neil had discovered a weakness in his defenses, an Achilles’ heel, as it were.

The taste of betrayal had long since ceased to be bitter in Neil’s mouth. As he had learned so many years ago that it seemed like another lifetime, it was simply the way the world worked. He expected nothing more.

The sad truth of his existence was, one killed, or one died.

“Come along, then, Florimond.”

Neil heard her voice before he actually saw her, which wasn’t wonderful considering that he was lurking concealed behind a nearly impenetrable thicket of thorny hollies that bordered the west edge of the ornamental dairy in Green Park. His horse—well, it was his horse now, as he had stolen it the night before—awaited him near the rarely used north entrance, tied to a tree.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said softly, way too softly for anyone save himself to hear. He had timed his arrival nicely, and had been waiting perhaps only five minutes. It was a beautiful morning, bright and breezy, with the promise of a warm afternoon to follow. Birds twittered cheerily all around him. Butterflies flitted. Insects buzzed. Abundant trees and bushes clothed in the fresh new green of spring added to the feeling that he had stumbled upon a small island of country right in the midst of town. The musky smell tainting the fragrant air—even ornamental dairy farms had an unmistakable aroma—served to underline the rural comparison. The magnificent outline of Devonshire House—a veritable palace—rising on the eastern horizon, its towers and turrets just visible from where he stood, provided a stark contrast
to the bucolic surroundings. It marked the Clarges Street entrance that he had thought she was almost certain to use. At the realization that he had guessed right, he felt a quick rush of satisfaction.

Once again, his instincts had not failed him.

This wasn’t the ideal solution, not by a long shot, but it was a workable one. As always, he would do what he needed to do.

Kidnapping was one of the few crimes he had never before committed, and under most circumstances he would have scorned to lower himself to it. But these were not most circumstances. His survival was at stake.

Therefore, kidnapping it was.

A couple of steps took him around the thicket and brought his quarry into view, although—he was fairly certain—he remained concealed by shadow. The speaker, whose voice he was slightly surprised to realize he had recognized as readily as if it were one he knew well, was Lady Elizabeth, the remark was addressed to a stout, wheaten-coated little terrier that had stopped to sniff a willow trunk, and the tone was impatient. It was early, a few minutes or so past ten, and there were not many others about. Only a pair of unfashionable riders (the truly fashionable patronized Hyde Park, and at a much later hour) cantering away across the lawn and a nursemaid pushing a pram were visible from where he stood. Lady Elizabeth was, as she had told him was her daily custom, clearly out for her morning constitutional in the park. The dog (which would probably bark) and the bored-looking maid following her were impediments to his plan, but only minor ones that could be easily dealt with. The lady herself might prove more problematic, but he had done her a signal service and was reasonably certain that as a result he could persuade her to do what he wished her to do.

Which was, in a word, come with him. Persuading her to do so was so much more efficient than forcing her, although he was prepared to use force if he had to. Lady Elizabeth
Banning
—oh, yes, he had learned her identity during the past three days—was about to repay him for sparing her life by luring her brother-in-law the Duke of Richmond, now one of the directors of England’s far-flung spy network and his own long-ago friend, to his death.

Only if Richmond died did he have any reasonable hope of living out his natural life span.

There was indeed, as his mother had once told him, purpose in all things. If he had killed lovely Lady Elizabeth as he should have done, he would not now have this most promising weapon to use in the battle to preserve his own life. He’d already made arrangements to have, on the following morning to give him plenty of time to get his prize safely away from London, a missive delivered to Richmond informing him that his most charming sister-in-law was in his quarry’s hands. More instructions, he had promised, would follow. Neil had no doubt at all that he could lure the always heroically inclined Richmond into coming for the chit, and thus to his own death.

Watching as she strolled all unsuspecting along the gravel path toward him, Neil realized that he was feeling more optimistic at that moment than he had in the fortnight or so since he had learned that the organization that had made him what he was had turned on him with a vengeance. Lady Elizabeth, he was certain, was going to prove to be the surprise trump that took the game.

If Muhammad could not go to the mountain, then the mountain would be made to come to Muhammad, as it were. If he could not get to Richmond, then he would get Richmond to come to him.

With his lovely little sister-in-law as bait.

Savoring the thought, Neil waited for Lady Elizabeth to draw closer, and in the meantime enjoyed the view.

“Florimond, you may not stop to sniff every tree and bush and blade of grass in the park,” she scolded the dog. “We are
walking
.”

The animal had brought her to a halt once again, and she addressed it with some exasperation. But she tugged only gently on the slender lead that stretched between her and it, and it continued sniffing around the base of the massive oak with impunity.

“Perhaps we should have left him behind, Miss Beth,” the maid, a round-faced young woman with dark hair concealed under a mob cap and a sturdy body clad in a light blue dress and apron, said in a slightly wooden tone that told Neil that her own view of the merits of walking the animal was strong despite being dutifully suppressed.

“Oh, Rawlings, you know very well I promised Lady Salcombe I would look after him while Lady Anders is her house guest,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Lady Anders breaks into the most dreadful fits of sneezing every time he comes near. And he’s a very good dog, aren’t you, Florimond? The trouble is that he has very little experience with parks.”

“Or carriages, or horses, or children chasing hoops.” The maid’s voice had a long-suffering edge to it now. “’Tis a very pampered dog, Miss Beth. I doubt he has ever been beyond his own garden before.”

“Then it’s nice for him that we are broadening his experience. Come
on,
Florimond.” Lady Elizabeth tugged on the lead, and the dog reluctantly abandoned the oak to toddle after her.

She regained the gravel foot path while the dog kept to the grass, its gaze now glued to the pair of ducks that flapped noisily overhead. She glanced up, too, and the bright morning sun struck the plethora of curls that cascaded out beneath the straw bonnet framing her face, making them gleam like a profusion of rubies and making her identity impossible to mistake even if he hadn’t known from her voice who she was. No other woman of his acquaintance had hair like that.

Slender and graceful, she was clad in pale yellow, some filmy material that floated behind her in the slight breeze, with a matching fichu, and it struck him that she looked like a sunbeam herself, or certainly some bright, shiny creature that did not belong in the same world as the dark and desperate labyrinth he inhabited. Almost he hesitated. But then he remembered that if he didn’t find a way to turn the tables on his enemies soon, he would be dead. And the certainty proved very persuasive.

So he stepped out of the shadows onto the sunlit path, still some distance ahead of her but visible now if she chanced to look his way.

But she didn’t. At least, not yet. She was wholly occupied with the uncooperative dog.

“No, Florimond!” she cried as the ducks landed with a splash in the nearby pond and the dog took off like a bullet toward them, yanking its lead from her hand in the process. For a moment Lady Elizabeth
stood aghast, looking after the yapping little dog as it charged toward the ducks, which floated with magnificent unconcern in the center of the mirrorlike water. Then she hiked up her skirts and raced in pursuit, putting a slight smile on his face as he was treated to yet another view of slender, silk-clad ankles and calves.

As an afterthought, he noted that the lady ran with the speed and agility of the boy she most certainly did not resemble.

“Florimond! Florimond, come back here!” she cried. “Here, Florimond!”

“Miss Beth!” The maid ran clumsily after, then was sidetracked by the need to catch her mistress’s hat as it went sailing, tumbling with the wind as it was whipped from Lady Elizabeth’s head and blown toward the cow pasture.

“Florimond!” Lady Elizabeth raced on, her bright hair streaming out like a banner, her skirt bunched around her knees in front and billowing in the breeze behind, legs flashing, truly delectable bosom bouncing.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, Neil allowed himself to enjoy the sight until a stand of willows blocked his view.

Had she not been extremely fond of Florimond, Beth thought with aggravation, she would have left the little dog to his own devices when he darted toward the pond. She was almost sure he could swim—couldn’t all dogs? She had never possessed one of her own, so she couldn’t be positive, but she rather thought they could. Therefore, he would almost certainly have come to no harm as long as she made sure to collect him when he gave up his quest. But, not an hour since, the dog had been bathed by Tom footman on Graham’s orders as a result of having rolled in something extremely malodorous in the garden when said Tom had taken him out first thing that morning. And since Florimond hated being bathed and made that abundantly clear with a series of howls loud enough to rouse the household, she had no wish to add to his, or Tom’s, or anyone else’s misery by putting him through
the process again, should he decide to jump in the muddy-banked, reed-ringed, algae-infested pond.

“Florimond! Here!” she cried, hiking her skirts to indecent levels as she tried desperately to plant a foot on the trailing lead. The grass was slippery underfoot, and the ground was lamentably uneven. Falling flat on her face was a real possibility. Fortunately, a line of gracefully swaying willows between her and the path blocked the view of most anyone who conceivably might be watching. The riders she’d observed earlier, the nursemaid pushing the pram up over the hill—all those were out of sight. There was a closed carriage stopped on the road that led from the park entrance to the dairy farm, embarrassingly close to her projected path. Except for the horse, though, it appeared deserted. Perhaps the driver, instead of waiting for his passengers, had disembarked for a stroll of his own. In any case, she couldn’t worry about it. She had more pressing concerns. Florimond, drat him, was picking up speed.

“Here, Florimond!”

The dog ran on regardless. Beth barely managed to swallow a most unladylike oath. Down in the dumps herself over the tide of gossip that had accompanied her nonengagement, which lurched between the glee of the camp that was sure Rosen had not come up to scratch and the disapproval of the camp that held she had jilted yet another fiancé, she had been profoundly sympathetic to his misery over the bath. Until now. Now she just hoped no one saw her running like a hoyden with her skirts bunched around her knees. As Aunt Augusta had made sure to tell her, her reputation hung by a thread. Much more talk, and she could rest assured that Rosen would be the last eligible suitor she’d be able to bring up to scratch. She would very likely end her days an old maid, living in her sisters’ houses, caring for their children. And that, in Aunt Augusta’s bluntly expressed view, would serve her just exactly right.

The gossip was certainly unpleasant, Beth had to admit, but she felt Aunt Augusta’s view of the situation was too dire. Though some of the highest sticklers might look at her askance, the invitations had not stopped coming, and she still had a number of admirers whose
attentions, now that Rosen had, in their view, withdrawn from the lists, were very flattering. The Earl of Cluny, for one, who was considered to be quite a catch, and the very rich Mr. Charles Hayden . . .