A Gentleman's Honor (40 page)

They loved each other, equally completely, equally deeply; she no longer questioned that. Once they were past this, free of Sir Freddie and his deadly scheme, she would speak with Tony. He might not yet see things as she did, but she was perfectly marriageable, after all. He’d established her as his equal in the eyes of the ton; if his mother was anything like Lady Amery and the Duchess of St. Ives, she doubted she’d have any difficulties there.

She wanted to marry him, and if that meant she had to broach the subject herself, then she would. Brazenly. After last night, she could be brazen about anything, at least with him.

The prospect—her future as she would have it with Tony by her side—filled her mind. Joy welled; fear hovered that it would not come to be, but she shunned it, clung to the joy instead.

Held to the vision of a happy future. Let it strengthen her. Her determination to make it happen—that it would be—soared.

Unexpectedly, she slept.

The noisy rattle of the wheels hitting cobblestones jerked Alicia from her doze. It was deepest night, past midnight; she’d heard the sound of a bell tolling twelve as they’d passed through Exeter, now some way behind.

Sir Freddie had fastened back one of the window flaps. Through the window, she glimpsed a hedgerow; beyond it, the ground rose, desolate and empty. The coach slowed, then halted.

“Well, my dear, we’re here.” Through the gloom, Sir Freddie watched her. Holding to her resolve, she didn’t react.

He hesitated, then leaned past her, opened the door, and climbed down. He turned and gave her his hand; she allowed him to assist her to the cobbles, leaving her cloak on the seat. When the time came to run, she didn’t want its folds flapping about her legs. Her skirts would be bad enough.

She’d slipped the cloak off sometime before; Sir Freddie didn’t seem to notice—there was no reason he should care. He’d stepped forward to speak to the coachman; she strained her ears and caught the words she’d hoped to hear.

“Wait here until I return.”

When she’d first emerged from the coach at an inn, there’d been no footman; she assumed he’d been set down in London. The coachman had avoided her eye; she knew better than to expect help from that quarter. All she needed was for the man to wait until his master returned. If things went her way, his master wouldn’t return, not before she did and raised help from the cottages she could see just ahead, lining the road.

Sir Freddie turned to her. Again, he studied her; as she had all along, she met his gaze stonily.

He inclined his head. “Your composure does you credit, my dear. I really do regret putting an end to your life.”

She didn’t deign to answer. Sir Freddie’s lips quirked; with a wave, he indicated a path leading from the narrow road. Within yards of the hedge, the path plunged into a dark wood; beyond, the moors rose, alternately illuminated, then shrouded in gloomy shadow as clouds passed over the moon.

“We have to walk through the wood to reach the moors and the mine.”

Sir Freddie reached for her arm, but she forestalled him and turned, and calmly walked to the opening of the path.

Tony swore; hauling on the reins, he swung the latest pair he’d had harnessed in Exeter onto the road to Hatherleigh.

Why here, for heaven’s sake? Was it the isolation?

He’d had hours to consider what Sir Freddie was about while following his path across the country. It had been decades since he’d driven at breakneck speed—he’d been pleased to discover he hadn’t forgotten how—but even the exigencies of managing unfamiliar cattle hadn’t stopped him from thinking first and foremost of Alicia, of the danger facing her.

Up behind him, Maggs was hanging on grimly, every now and then muttering imprecations under his breath. Tony ignored him. He’d caught up with Maggs at Yeovil; before then, whenever Maggs had stopped to change horses he’d sent a rider wearing a red kerchief back along the road. Tony had stopped each flagged rider, and thus known which road to follow.

As it happened, it was a road he knew well—the same road he’d traveled countless times between Torrington Chase and London. The familiarity had helped; he’d have missed their turning to Hatherleigh if he hadn’t known to ask at Okehampton.

Sir Freddie taking Alicia so far from London had been a boon initially, giving him time to catch up. Even though Sir Freddie had been rocketing along, always using four fresh horses, Tony knew he was close on their heels.

While they were traveling, he had no fears for Alicia. Once they stopped…

His experience lay in pursuing someone he needed to catch, not save. Every time he thought of Alicia, his heart lurched, his mind stilled, paralyzed; shutting off such thoughts, he concentrated on Sir Freddie instead.

Why this route? Was Sir Freddie intending to drive through to the Bristol Channel and rendezvous with some lugger? Was Alicia a hostage? Or was she intended as the scapegoat Sir Freddie had from the first sought to make her?

That was Tony’s blackest fear. The landscape, the desolate sweep of the moors rising up on either side of the road fed it. If Sir Freddie intended to stage Alicia’s murder and make it appear a suicide, and thus quash the investigation…

Tony set his jaw. Once he got hold of her, he was taking her to Torrington Chase and keeping her there. Forever.

Sending the whip swinging to flick the leader’s ear, he drove the horses on.

A
LICIA EMERGED ONTO THE MOOR WITH A SENSE OF RELIEF
; the wood had been dark, the trees very old, the path uneven and knotted with their roots. Here, at least, she could breathe—dragging in a breath, she looked up, tracing the path they were following to where it skirted a pile of rocks and earth, the workings of the disused mine in which Sir Freddie planned to drown her.

Every nerve taut and alert, she kept walking, head high, her pace neither too fast nor yet slow enough to prompt Sir Freddie to hurry her. Scanning the area, she searched—for a rock, a branch, anything she could use to overpower him. Closer to the mine would be preferable, yet the closer they got…

She was supremely conscious of him walking steadily at her heels. He seemed relaxed, just a murderer out to arrange another death. Quelling a shudder, she looked again at the mine. The path rose steadily, steeper as it led up the shoulder of the workings before leveling off as it skirted the lip of the shaft itself.

The clouds were constantly shifting, drifting; there was always enough light to see their way, but when the moon shone clear, details leapt out.

Like the discarded spar she glimpsed, just fleetingly, to the right of the steepest section of the path.

Her heart leapt; her muscles tensed, ready…

Quickly, she thought through what would need to happen. She had to distract Sir Freddie at just the right spot. She’d already decided how, but she needed to set the stage.

Reaching the spot where the steep upward slope commenced, she halted abruptly. Swinging to face Sir Freddie, she found the slope was sufficient for her to meet his gaze levelly. “Do I have your word as a gentleman that my brother won’t be harmed? That he’ll be released as soon as possible in Upper Brook Street?”

Sir Freddie met her eyes; his lips twisted as, nodding, he looked down. “Of course.” After a fractional pause, he added, “You have my word.”

She had lived with three males long enough to instantly detect prevarication. Lips thinning, she narrowed her eyes, then tersely asked, “You haven’t really got him, have you? There is no second carriage.”

She’d wondered, but hadn’t dared call his bluff or even question him while trapped in the carriage.

He looked up, raised his brows. Faintly shrugged. “I saw no reason to bother with your brother. I knew the threat alone would be enough to get you to behave.”

The relief that surged through her nearly brought her to her knees. The weight on her shoulders evaporated. She was
free
—free to deal with Sir Freddie as she wished, with only her own life at stake. A life she was willing to risk to secure her future—what choice did she have? She fought to keep any hint of her upwelling resolve from her face. She glared at Sir Freddie, then swung on her heel and walked on.

Trusting to his overweening confidence to keep him from wondering at her continued acquiescence for just a few steps more…

From behind, she heard a faint chuckle, then his footsteps as he followed. Up ahead to her right lay the wooden spar. Just a
little
farther; she needed the greater steepness, the change in their relative heights…

Again she stopped dead, swung to face him.

At the last second let her contempt show. “You
bastard
!”

She slapped him. With the full force of her arm as she delivered the blow, with him lower than she, his face at the right height to take the full brunt of her momentum.

He had no chance to duck; the blow landed perfectly. Her palm stung; he staggered.

She didn’t pause but turned and raced, scrambling up the few steps to the spar. She heard him swear foully, heard his boots scrabble on the path. Bending, she locked both hands on the spar, hefted it, and swung around. Driven by resolution laced with very real fear, she put every ounce of strength she possessed behind her swing.

He didn’t see it coming.

She wielded the spar like a rounders bat. He was still lower on the path than she; the spar hit him across the side of the head.

The spar cracked, broke, fell from her hands.

He slumped to his knees, groggy, dazed, but not unconscious. He weaved. Desperate, she glanced around.

There were no other spars.

She grabbed up her skirts, stepped around him, and ran. Fled like a fury down the path, leaping down from the workings and streaking across the moor to plunge into the dark wood.

Chest heaving, she forced herself to slow. The roots were treacherous; she couldn’t afford to fall. If she could get to the cottages and raise the alarm, she’d be safe. She didn’t even have to worry about Matthew anymore.

From behind her came a roar; the thud of heavy footsteps reached her, rapidly gaining.

Fighting down panic, she kept her eyes down, locked on the path, feet dancing over the tree roots—

She ran into a black wall.

She shrieked, then stilled as the familiar scent, the familiar feel of Tony’s body against hers, of his arms wrapping about her sank into her senses. She nearly fainted with relief.

He was looking beyond her, over her head. “Where is he?”

His words were a lethal whisper.

“On the path leading up to a disused mine.”

He nodded. “I know it. Stay here.”

With that he was gone. He moved so swiftly, so silently, surefooted in the darkness, that by the time, dazed, she turned, she’d nearly lost him.

She followed, but carefully, as quiet as he. She’d expected him to wait in the shadows and let Sir Freddie blunder into him as she had, but instead, he paused, waited until Sir Freddie was nearly to the trees, then calmly, determinedly, walked out of the wood.

Sir Freddie saw him. Pure horror crossed his face. He skidded to a halt, turned, and fled.

Back up the path.

Tony was at his heels almost immediately. Following as fast as her skirts would allow, she could see that he could have overhauled Sir Freddie anywhere along the upward slope. Instead, he waited until Sir Freddie gained the level stretch beside the gaping mine shaft before he reached out, spun Sir Freddie around, and plowed his fist into his face.

She heard the sickening thud all the way down the path where she was laboring upward. The first thud was followed by more; she couldn’t see either man but felt sure Sir Freddie was on the receiving end. She hoped every blow hurt as badly as they sounded. Gaining the level stretch, she looked, just in time to see Tony slam his fist into Sir Freddie’s jaw.

Something cracked. Sir Freddie fell back, onto a pile of rubble. He slumped, winded, but quick as a flash he grabbed a rock and flung it at Tony’s head.

She screamed, but Tony hadn’t taken his eye from Sir Freddie. He ducked the missile, then, lips curling in a snarl, bent, grabbed Sir Freddie, hauled him to his feet, punched him once in the face, grabbed him again, shook him—and flung him backward into the mine shaft.

There was a huge splash; water sprayed out.

Tony stood where he was, chest heaving until he’d regained his breath, then he stepped forward and looked down just as Alicia joined him.

She cast one brief look at Sir Freddie, spluttering, desperately searching for handholds on the slippery shaft wall, then looked at him. Reached out with both hands and touched him. “Are you all right?”

He looked into her eyes, searched her face—saw she was far more concerned for his well-being than hers— and felt something inside him give. “Yes.” He briefly closed his eyes. If she was all right, he was, too.

Opening his eyes, he reached for her, drew her to him. Wrapped her in his arms and gloried in the reality of her warmth against him. Cheek against the silk of her hair, he sent a heartfelt thank-you to fate and the gods, then, easing his hold on her, looked down at Sir Freddie, fighting to hold his head above the dank water. “What do you want to do with him?”

She looked down. Her eyes narrowed. “He told me he’d killed Ellicot, and he was going to kill me. I say we let him drown—poetic justice.”

“No!” The protest dissolved into a gurgle as Sir Freddie’s terror made his fingers slip. “No,” came again as he scrabbled back to the surface. “Torrington,” he gasped,

“you can’t leave me here. What will you tell your masters?”

Tony looked down at him. “That you’d sunk before I reached you?”

Folding her arms, Alicia scowled. “I say we leave him—a hemlocklike taste of his own medicine.”

“Hmm.” Tony glanced at her. “How about a trial for treason and murder?”

“Trials and executions cost money. Much better just to leave him to drown. We know he’s guilty, and just think—
who
forced him to come here from London? Did
I
make him spin me a tale about kidnapping Matthew?”

Tony stiffened. “He told you that?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “And just think of all the brave sailors he’s sent to watery graves! He’s a disgusting and debauched worm.” She tugged Tony’s arm. “Come on— let’s go.”

She didn’t mean it, but she was more than furious with Sir Freddie, and saw no reason not to torture him.

“Wait! Please…”Sir Freddie coughed water. “I know someone else.”

Tony stilled, then, releasing her, he stepped closer to the edge and crouched down to peer at Sir Freddie. “What did you say?”

“Someone else.” Sir Freddie was breathing shallowly; the water in the shaft would be freezing. “Another traitor.”

“Who?”

“Get me out of here, and we can talk.”

Tony rose; stepping back, he drew Alicia to him, pressed a kiss to her temple, whispered, “Play along.” More loudly, he said, “You’re right, let’s just leave him.” His arm around her, he turned them away.

“No!” Spluttering curses floated out of the shaft.

“Damm it—I’m not making this up. There
is
someone else.”

“Don’t listen,” Alicia advised. “He’s always making things up—just think of his tale about Matthew.”

“That was for a reason!”

She glanced over the edge. “And saving your life isn’t a reason? Huh!” She stepped back. “Come on, I’m getting cold.”

They started walking, taking tiny steps so Sir Freddie could hear.

“
Wait
! All right, damm it—it’s someone in the Foreign Office. I don’t know who—I tried to find out, but he’s wilier than I. He’s very careful, and he’s someone very senior.”

Tony sighed; he moved back to crouch at the edge. “Keep talking. I’m listening, but she’s not convinced.”

In gasps and pants, Sir Freddie talked, answering Tony’s questions, revealing how he’d stumbled on the other traitor’s trail. Eventually, Tony rose. He nodded at Alicia. “Stand back—I’m going to haul him out.”

Tony had to lie full length on the ground to do it, but eventually Sir Freddie lay like a beached whale, shivering, coughing, and convulsing. Neither Alicia nor Tony felt the least bit sympathetic. Yanking Sir Freddie’s cravat free, Tony used it to bind his hands before hauling him to his feet and, with a push, starting him back along the path.

Alicia’s hand in his, Tony followed his quarry back through the wood and out onto the road. Maggs was waiting beside Sir Freddie’s coach.

Alicia looked up at the box. “He had a coachman—he told him to wait.”

“Oh, aye. He’s waiting right enough, inside the coach.” Maggs held out Alicia’s cloak and reticule. “Found these when I shoved him in.”

“Thank you.”

Maggs nodded at Tony. “I was thinking we’d best leave ’em in the cellars at the George. I’ve had a word to Jim— he’s opening up the hatch.”

“Excellent idea.” Tony prodded Sir Freddie along the road toward the nearby inn. “Bring the coachman.”

Maggs had to lug him, for the coachman was unconscious. After a brief discussion with the landlord of the George, they left their prisoners in the cellars under lock and key.

Jim came out and led Sir Freddie’s carriage away. Alicia was on the seat of Tony’s curricle and he was about to join her when they heard the unmistakable rumble of a carriage heading their way.

Tony exchanged a glance with Maggs, then reached for Alicia. “Just in case, get back down here.”

He had her on the ground behind him when the carriage rocked around the corner. The driver saw them and slowed.

“Thank God!” Geoffrey pulled the horses to a halt beside them.

Tony caught the leader’s head, quieted the team. “What the devil—?”

In answer the doors of the carriage burst open and Adriana, David, Harry, and Matthew came tumbling out.

They rushed to Alicia, hugged her wildly, a cacophony of questions raining down. They waited for no answers, but danced and jigged, cavorted around Tony, too, but then returned to hug and hang on to their elder sister.

Geoffrey climbed down from the box; he stretched, then came to stand beside Tony. “Don’t say I should have stopped them—it was impossible. It’s my belief once they take an idea into their heads, Pevenseys are unstoppable.” He smiled. “At least Alicia’s a Carrington—she’s been tamed.”

“Hmm,” was all Tony said.

Both he and Geoffrey were only children. The performance enacted before them left them both bemused and a trifle envious. They exchanged a glance, for once had no doubt what each other was thinking… planning.

“Come on,” Tony said. “We’d better get them moving, or we’ll be here for the rest of the night.”

They rounded up their charges. With joy in their faces, still asking questions, the triumphant Pevenseys eventually climbed back into the carriage. Climbing up to the box, Geoffrey looked at Tony. “The Chase?”

Tony turned from handing Alicia into his curricle. “Where else?” Taking the reins, he climbed up. “It’s the only thing Sir Freddie got right.”

The comment puzzled Alicia. She waited until they were rolling along, heading farther up the road not back toward town with the heavy carriage rumbling behind. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” Tony replied, and whipped up his horses.

She was determined to speak with him, to address the subject of marriage, but no opportunity came her way that night. They traveled for nearly an hour, steadily northward along the country road, then Tony checked the horses and turned in through a pair of tall gateposts with huge wrought-iron gates propped wide.