The Love List (35 page)

The man’s ambition and arrogance knew no bounds.  But Aldmere knew how to clip his wings.  “High plans indeed,” he said with a nod.  “And yet so easily brought down.  I do believe you’ve miscalculated.  Despite what you say, all it will take is a word from me.”

Marstoke raised a brow.  “I doubt you are correct, but do go on.”

“You’ve made the mistake of believing your own lies, Marstoke.  You call the Regent a fat fool.  Well, say what you will about his personal habits and private life; you’ve overlooked one thing.  The man has schemed his whole life for the power he has.  A moment’s work to topple him?  Others have tried.  He’s fought his father tooth and nail, betrayed both his first wife and his greatest political friends to gain the position he has today.  Good God, the man is jealous of his own daughter’s popularity.  What do you think would happen, did he hear a hint of what you plan?  One whisper of your threat and that foolish façade will fall away.  He will bring all of his power, all of the might of the English throne, to roll you out flat.”

Marstoke nodded.  “You would have been right, of course, had I not gone to considerable trouble to move up my timetable.  And of course, if that word was not one that you will never speak.”

“Won’t I?” Aldmere growled.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Now who is bluffing?  One conversation and suddenly
I
am the winner.  I’ll clear my brother’s name and earn the Regent’s undying gratitude.  I can leave off this infernal chase and get my life back to normal.  Oh, and yes, don’t forget that I’ll have the extreme satisfaction of bringing down a mad, treasonous villain.”

“All of that—and the love and companionship of my former betrothed, perhaps?”

Icy shock stiffened Aldmere’s spine. 

“I’m afraid you cannot have her, Aldmere.”  It was said in the softest, gentlest tone.

Anger flared high, beyond his control.  He took a threatening step forward.  “Why not?”

* * *

Brynne’s heart sank as Hatch stared at the token she’d picked up from the desk to the one in her henchman’s hand.  The pimp frowned at Francis.  “Decided to turn sides, did you?”  She shook her head.  “The more fool you.”

The other woman moved quickly away from the desk.  Brynne flinched as she stepped close and grabbed her arm tight.  “Move out of here. 
Move
.”  They eased through the narrow entrance and the other woman paused in the act of closing the bookcase door.  “The key.  Where is it?”

Brynne lifted her cloak.  “In here.”

“Hand it over.”  When Brynne didn’t move fast enough she snatched the awkward bundle away and pushed Brynne toward her lackey.  “Rent, sit the girl down and watch her while you bind this one’s hands.”

“Bind ’em with what?”

“Find something.  Check the drawers.  Or tear up her petticoats if you must.”  Hatch had tossed both her pistol and the bundle to the desk and begun to unravel the cloak.

Her heart pounded as the bully leered and knelt at her feet.  “Your name is Rent?” she asked him.

“No.  Name’s Horace, but folks call me Rent.”  He glared up at her.  “And ye say it with respect, girl.  ’Twas me first payin’ job, collecting from those that owed their landlords.”  He grinned.  “When ye saw me comin’ ye knew ye was goin’ ter pay Rent, one way or t’other.”

His eyes gleamed as he lifted her skirts and Brynne considered giving him a good kick.  Not because she thought she could best him, but she might cause a distraction that would allow Francis to get away.  She looked away from the lug lingering at her ankles, thinking to signal the girl, but Francis, as usual, was ahead of her.  She’d taken advantage of the villains’ occupation to slip away.  She paused with her hand on the knob of the outer door, looked over her shoulder, and nodded.

“No need for petticoats!” the bully cried.  He’d found the long pocket sewed into her shift.  “Look what she brung with her!”  He held up the strap and the mask.

Hatch smirked.  “Learned that trick from Hestia’s girls, didn’t you?”  She nodded to her henchman.  “Keep the mask, that’s good silk.  And tie her up good.  Now,” she turned back to the half-opened bundle.  “Let’s see just what you thought was worth taking.”

The pimp lifted the ring of keys with glee.  “Oh, ho!  I know of a couple of spots where these will come in handy.”  The letters she passed right over, but she paused to examine both the testimonies and the bundle of Lists.  “Yes,” she breathed.  “These are what we need to tie Marstoke to the List.”

“Wait.”  Brynne grimaced at the man wrapping her wrists tight and glared at Hatch.  Both because she was surprised and because she hoped to keep them both distracted.  “Aren’t you going to put all of that back?”

Hatch’s expression darkened.  “Do you take me for a fool?”

Rent had finished with Brynne and turned to notice the empty chair.  “Where’d the little chit get to?”

“Damn!”  Hatch snatched up her gun and turned toward the closed door.  When she rotated back, her pistol still up, it pointed straight at her lackey.  “I told you to watch her!”

The big man held up his hands and took a step backward.  “You did, and I’m sorry, Hatch.”

The other woman visibly reined in her temper.  “Let her go,” she said through gritted teeth.  “I don’t suppose it matters.”  She shot Brynne a dark look.  “Although the next time I see the little turncoat, it won’t go well for her.”

She set the gun down again.  “Fine.  It’s fine.  Here’s what we’ll do.”  She nodded at Brynne.  “Leave her to me.”  She looked over at the clock on the mantle.  “Marstoke is likely still at the lordling’s.  Red Lion Square is not far.  You can catch him there.  Go and tell him we have her.”

Rent nodded and turned to go.

“Wait.  Do you still have that wooden token?”

“Aye.”  He fished it out of a pocket. 

“Give it to him.  Tell him it belongs to her.  Obviously it means something.  He may know more about it.”  She gazed thoughtfully at Brynne.  “Tell him we’ll meet him at the theater.”

The henchman lumbered out.  Brynne glared at the other woman.  “I don’t understand how you think that is going to help you.  Marstoke has no interest in me.”

Hatch laughed.  “He wanted you once, though I didn’t understand it at the time.”  She glanced over at the now invisible secret door.  “It’s grown more clear over time, I admit.”  She shrugged.  “In any case, he certainly wants you now.  He wants you under his thumb and regretting your actions every damned day.”  She pointed at the chair.  “Now sit your arse down.  My patience has been tried enough.  Give me an excuse and I’ll shoot you and damn the consequences.”

Still muttering, she began to gather the edges of Brynne’s cloak back around the pile of stolen documents.  “Nothing is as it was meant to be.  Marstoke pulls away as we come to the end.  I was to work at his side, but he schemes now with his grand European allies and I am snubbed.”  She frowned at Brynne.  “I see the direction the wind has taken.  The lordling may not be enough of a scapegoat—and if that is the case then I shall be served up for a hanging next to him.”

She hoisted the bundle to her shoulder.  “Marstoke will learn differently, though.  Does he think that I dragged myself from hell just to be betrayed by a
man
?”  The ragged edges of her laugh stiffened all the hairs on Brynne’s neck.  “Well, the tables have turned, have they not?  I’ve got something that he wants and something that he doesn’t want me to have.  Now we shall see who is betrayed and who is not.”  She picked up her pistol again and motioned to the door.  “Let’s go.  The performance at the theater tonight is not to be missed.”

* * *

Marstoke didn’t flinch as Aldmere spoke with true menace.  “What makes you think I cannot have Brynne Wilmott, should I choose to take her?”

Marstoke sent a questioning look past his shoulder, to the still-open door.  Then he smiled.  “Because I have her.”

Fury and a searing anxiety lent Aldmere speed.  He snatched up the Grecian urn and pulled out the small handgun he’d instructed his footman to deposit in there.  He had it out and cocked before Marstoke could so much as blink.  He spun around, to the spot beyond his right shoulder that Marstoke had focused upon—and came face to face with the business end of a long, elegant dueling pistol.

The man wielding it—tall, familiar and in formal dress—grinned.  “Mine’s bigger.”

Aldmere knew him.  Yes.  The man with the accent, the one following the Russion girl in Hungerford Market.  He shrugged.  “Mine’s just as deadly.”  He shifted his aim higher.  “Right between the eyes?  I could likely kill you with a quill at this distance.”

The stranger smiled.  “Then we both die—and your woman goes to him.”  He jerked his head toward the marquess. 

Was that a German inflection?  Austrian?  “I don’t believe you do have her.  It’s a bluff.”

“Perhaps this will convince you?”  The stranger held up a wooden token.  “I have just been told it comes from her.”

Aldmere could see the etched swan.  A chill swept through him.

From his seat, Marstoke chuckled.  “It would appear we are at a stalemate.”

Aldmere’s mind raced.  That token might have come from Francis.  It might have come from another urchin or the bakery that fed them.  But could he take the chance?

“What do you want?”

The marquess beamed.  “My four favorite words, I believe.”

“Marstoke.”  He growled the warning.  He and the stranger stood with pistols still drawn and pointed.

“Very well.”  Marstoke sighed audibly.  “Lower your weapons, both of you.”

Neither moved.

“Rodya!” Marstoke barked.  “Enough. Put the weapons away.  We all know of them now.  Let us speak as gentlemen, with might veiled behind our words.” 

Aldmere took a step back.  He didn’t lower his gun until the strange man pocketed his.

“I daresay this is premature, but truly, Aldmere, you have seriously damaged all of my carefully plotted timing.  Though you’ve made mistakes, you really have impressed me quite thoroughly.”  He stood.  “Join us, your Grace.  I’m sure we can find a quite comfortable space for you.”

Aldmere knew better than to take the offer seriously.  Marstoke would know by now that he was not a man to commit treason.  He raised a brow.  “Be serious and tell me what you really want.”

The marquess did not grow angry.  Instead his expression spoke of interest and pleasure.  “Very well.  It had to be asked.”  He pursed his lips.  “Very good.  You are interested in getting the girl back, yes?”

“Yes.  Quit dancing around the subject.  What do you want in return?”

“I want you to do as I’ve already said.  Get your brother out of the country.  Hide him well so that the hunt consumes the Regent and his men.  Then you will come back.  Alone.”

“And?”

“And you will vow never to speak of what we have discussed here today.  Not to a soul.  Not to the Regent or his advisors, not to the girl, not to your brother.  You will come back and take up your usual routine.”  He smiled.  “And you will know.  You may do what you can to oppose me, without speaking of this day.  In fact, I’m counting on it.”  He turned away.  “Only one other has ever proved truly worthy of battling me—and tonight I deal her a killing blow.”  His eyes dipped in half-lidded pleasure.  “It is only one of the victories that I will savor tonight.”

He straightened, opening his eyes.  Aldmere was sickened by the nearly coquettish look tossed his way.  “But that does leave me with a sad vacancy.  Fortunately, I believe you will do nicely as a replacement.”

“Should I agree, you will give me both my brother and Brynne Wilmott.”

The smile faded.  “Agree, and you will have them both.  If not—I’ll have the chit’s throat out tonight—and I’ll make sure, as she dies afraid and hurt, that my face is the last thing she sees in this world.”

Tension thrummed through him, and squeezed through every pore.

Marstoke waited.

“I want them both now.”

Marstoke flicked a hand.  “Your brother you will find downstairs in the landlord’s apartments.  He is unharmed.”

“And Brynne Wilmott.”  He spoke her name deliberately.  “I want your word as a
player
that I’ll have her tonight.  Unharmed.  Untouched by you or any of your people.”

A muscle jumped in Marstoke’s jaw as he hesitated.  “Very well.”  He nodded at the stranger, and suddenly the dueling pistol jumped back in the man’s hand. 

“We’ll leave you now.”  Marstoke gave him a wide berth as he strolled to the door.  “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement at the theater this evening.  Goodbye, your Grace.  I look forward to your return.”  He nodded and the pair of them slipped through the door.

As soon as they were beyond his sight, Aldmere whipped his own gun back up and followed them into the passage.  Somehow he contained himself as he watched another figure melt from the shadows and join Marstoke and the stranger.  All three moved quickly out the door and into the night.

Aldmere was at the landlord’s door almost before the outer portal had swung shut.  The damned thing was locked.  He was almost glad of it.  It gave him excuse to take his frustrations out on it through a mighty blow from his shoulder.  A second crash and the door creaked open.

Tru was there.  Trussed up, gagged and tied down to a worn easy chair.  Furious too, judging by the jerk of his limbs against his bonds and the frustrated sounds coming from behind the gag.  An incredible weight lifted from Aldmere as he stumbled to his brother’s side.  “Thank God.”  From a throat tight with emotion, the words emerged, jagged with relief.  “Thank God, you are all right.”

He pulled a knife from his boot and cut the strip of cloth holding the gag tight.  Tru choked and coughed as the thing came out.  He glanced about, fetched a half empty glass of clear liquid from a table and held it for his brother to drink.

Tru sputtered as it went down.  “It’s not water,” he gasped.  “It’s that damned Russian rot-gut.”

Aldmere knelt and set his blade to sawing at the thick rope restraining Tru’s hands.  “I’ll get you free and you can get your own damned drink,” he said roughly. 

“Never mind that.”  Tru grimaced.  “Hurry.  We must stop Marstoke.  I think it’s happening tonight.”  His right hand came free and he clutched Aldmere’s arm.  “Aldmere—the man’s run mad!”