Elizabeth Boyle (8 page)

Giles nodded. “I suspect so.”

Monty waved his hand. “That makes no sense whatsoever. You said yourself that her predictability would be her downfall. She’s never appeared two nights in a row. Just once a month, under the light of the full moon. What makes you think she’d change her plans now?”

“You’ve forgotten your Angel went home empty-handed last night. She hasn’t the time to find a new victim. I think she chooses her targets very carefully. She’ll come back to Delaney. If the look I saw on his face last night is any indication, she knows she’ll have no trouble enticing him.”

“Oh.” Monty shook his head. “Poor girl, the risks she takes.”

The sound of carriage wheels rolling along the cobbled street brought both of them up in their seats. A fancy gilt contraption, emblazoned with the Delaney crest, rolled to a stop in front of the large stone house.

Giles took a deep breath, his heart beating with excitement. This was the part of his business he missed, the quiet waiting for the hunt to begin, then the pounding exhilaration of the chase.

But tonight was more than that, though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone.

His curiosity to see her again ran high. He might scoff at Monty’s infatuation, but he understood his friend’s reaction.

The Brazen Angel was every man’s fantasy. And yet, now that he knew she could possibly be connected to Webb’s death, his attraction to her grew cold.

Dammit, how could he be attracted to a woman who may have betrayed his best friend and robbed another?

Down the street Cyril Delaney leapt down from his carriage. For a moment Giles thought that perhaps he had been too sure of his intuition, that Cyril was coming home alone. But halfway to the door the lady’s prey stopped and looked up and down the street to see if he was being watched. Returning to the curb, he held out his hand to the carriage’s second occupant.

The street had seemed dark until she began her descent. Her white gown, the skirt billowing out in a cloud of glowing silk, illuminated the night. The Brazen Angel looked every inch the role she’d obviously chosen for the night— an innocent young girl. Her wig imitated the look of a convent maiden, falling down her bare shoulders and back in long glorious ringlets of golden blond hair.

As if sensing some unforeseen danger, she turned and looked in their direction.

Both men reeled back in their seats, but in the safety of the darkness Giles could still see her clearly. A mask once again covered her face, concealing her features. Her lips tightened into a serious line. Tipping her head slightly, she resembled a cat considering the safety of continuing into a dark cubbyhole.

She’s afraid.

Giles could see her caution, the war waging inside her. Would she dare continue inside, or bolt and run?

Cyril approached her and said something. She took his outstretched hand. When he bent to kiss her fingers, she laughed, the sound rising lightly across the street and invading the deadly serious calm inside the Trahern carriage.

The melody filled Giles’s ears, tantalizing him to lean closer.

Any sign of indecision or fear melted away as she took control of the situation. She wrapped her fingers around Cyril’s arm and whispered into his ear. Her words, obviously of such a persuasive nature, prodded the man to leave her behind to take the steps two at a time and shoulder open the door for her entrance. The Brazen Angel continued up the stairs, her hips swaying slightly, her head held high and proud. Like a fine, well-fed feline, she sent her prey a benign yet meaningful glance as she swept past him, a look capable of enticing a man to his doom.

Monty nearly called out as the door closed, until Giles’s scathing hot glare restrained the excitable duke down to a moderate squeak.

‘Tis the Angel, Giles. Just like you said.” Monty reached for the latch on the door. “We must stop her.”

Giles stopped him. “Oh, no, we won’t. We’re going to sit here and wait this little drama play out.”

Lights appeared in a ground-floor window.

Tapping the roof of the carriage, Giles whispered quietly, “Michaels, move us slightly closer to the house and stay alert. I’m not sure how this will work, but when it does we’ll have to move fast.”

Monty was less willing to listen to orders. “You cannot intend to leave her inside with him all alone?” He strained toward the door. “Everyone knows Delaney’s a horrible lecher. You’d think he’d have learned a lesson from his father’s example. Obviously, the scandal of having one’s father die the way he did in that disgraceful brothel wasn’t enough tarnish for the family name. From what I’ve heard the young whelp fully intends to take his family traditions to new lows. He pays top money for young girls to be—”

Giles held up his hand to stave off the lurid description. “I’ll wager you a month’s rents from my Chester properties that our Angel will take Cyril’s money in less than an hour.”

Monty sat back, his nose twitching with indecision. “And if she doesn’t? If . . . if . . . that wretched Cyril …” The poor duke appeared unable to finish his postulation.

“If she’s not out in an hour we’ll go after her, pistols blazing and a detachment of the King’s own regiment at our backs.” Smiling, Giles leaned back in his seat.

Monty’s gaze flitted from the house across the street back to meet Giles’s. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “You’re on.”

They waited for nearly an hour. Giles was starting to wonder if he’d overestimated his adversary’s abilities.

But the lady didn’t disappoint him.

“That’s what we’ve been waiting for.” Giles pointed toward the side of the house.

Monty’s eyes squinted as he stared into the darkness.

Giles was the first to make out the ground-floor window slowly sliding open. One long leg slipped through, then the next followed. With them came the whoosh of white glowing skirts. Their volume took some time to push through, but when they did, the rest of the lady followed quickly.

She moved to the edge of the shadows and stopped, looking up and down the street.

It was then that Giles heard the sound of hooves and the crunching wheels of a carriage as it passed by their vantage point. He recognized it in an instant. The same plain black carriage that came to her rescue the night before.

He reached for the trapdoor immediately. “Now, Michaels. Quickly. Put us between them.”

The Trahern carriage sprang forward.

Giles’s muscles tensed. “Move over, Monty. Give me all the room you can.”

Monty scrambled to the opposite side of the careening carriage, his face white.

They passed the surprised driver of the Angel’s carriage and came to a sudden halt in front of the woman. Giles swung open the door, leapt to the walkway, and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Before she could even utter a protest, he called out to Michaels, “Get us home, now.”

Giles caught hold of the outside handle and hoisted himself and his prize inside, just as the horses found their freedom. The carriage took off, and he landed hard on the floor.

His fall, however, was cushioned by the shapely Angel, who finally found her voice.

“Get off me, you great ponderous ape.”

They were face to face. The triumphant gaze now belonged to him, but her eyes, blazing with fury and fire from beneath her mask, burned through him. He started to inch back.

But not before her balled fist swung hard and efficiently, hitting him square in the jaw.

Giles sat back, rubbing his aching chin. He had never struck a lady in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now, but this woman was going to learn some manners.

“Oh, no, no more of that, milady,” Monty interrupted as the Angel started to wind up for another punch. He shoved his cane between the two of them, as if he were separating two squabbling schoolboys. “No one here is going to hurt you,” he said, his statement aimed squarely at Giles.

Giles responded with a mumbled agreement and straightened himself up and onto his seat. He lit the inner lamp in the carriage, and its meager beam gave enough illumination to watch her every move.

She still lay in the middle of the carriage, her skirts up to her knees, the breezy fabric filling the remaining space. Everything about her was in
dishabille
.

But with Giles’s trained eye he knew it hadn’t been his abduction that left her wig askew and the front of her dress torn. Even in the dim light he discerned the beginnings of a bruise on her fair cheek. An ugly bright blossom peeked out from beneath the edge of her silver mask.

Stark evidence of Cyril Delaney’s handiwork, of which Monty had tried to warn him.

Giles didn’t dare look his friend in the eye, knowing full well the censure and blame he’d find there.

Perhaps he’d been wrong to wait, to let her go in alone. Damn that fool Delaney. What kind of man would do such a thing to a woman?

He shook off the queer feelings of regret. He had to keep remembering she was the enemy. Possibly even responsible for Webb’s death.

But that still didn’t quell the nagging doubt that Monty had been right. They’d let her go into the lion’s den alone, a mistake on his part. While she’d survived, she hadn’t escaped unscathed.

The duke appeared to reach the same conclusions. “Oh, my dear,” he choked out. “You’ve been hurt.” He reached out to help her up onto the seat next to him.

When Giles leaned forward to assist, she shrank away from his touch. Her scathing look sent him back in his seat.

I couldn’t care less what you think of me, you little minx
, he thought.

“Are you all right, my dear girl?” Monty continued, fussing over her like a nursemaid, straightening her skirts, sighing over the torn lace and the ruined state of her silks.

A deep sigh escaped her pink lips. “I’m well enough.” She brushed her skirts out and with the movement cast off Monty’s hand.

Her eyes remained downcast, as if to ward off any invasion into their dark blue depths. Still, Giles noticed she was taking a furtive inventory of everything and everyone around her and, more importantly, watching the passing scenery to determine her destination.

He pulled the cord on the shade so it dropped and blocked her view.

She looked up and directly at him—a slight nod acknowledged his small victory, but also told him he hadn’t yet won the war.

As the carriage careened through the empty streets, Giles knew he should be planning his questioning, considering alternatives for his investigation if the Brazen Angel refused to cooperate with the Crown. But he found himself unable to concentrate.

Instead, his gaze wandered down to catch stray glimpses of her trim, silk-clad ankles poking out beneath the edge of her skirts. He inhaled the scent of her perfume filling the carriage with its witchery and promise. Nor could he miss the triumphant glow of her eyes behind her mask.

She was plotting her escape.

It was there, so obvious, in her eyes. They burned with something so mysterious, so intimate, he felt as if she knew him, knew him like a lover, and would use that power to outwit him.

She caught him staring at her and smiled in return. At first it was so slight he barely discerned it, but then it curved at her lips, her lashes fluttered over her eyes, her head tipped slightly. Somehow, her shoulders rolled back, her breasts pushed upward against the tattered remains of her bodice.

An open invitation for him and only him. At least that was how she made him feel.

He forgot Monty, forgot why he wanted this woman, knowing only
that
he wanted her.

Looking away, Giles ground his teeth. If only he could dismiss this woman from his thoughts as easily as his wayward bride. Of course he hoped Lady Sophia was well and safe. But she certainly didn’t leave him wishing for—

The carriage came to a stop.

Monty sprang out before Giles could stop him. The duke held out his hands to the lady as if she were a princess.

She shot a look back at Giles, her brows arched above her mask, a smug smile on her lips.

You see
, her expression seemed to say,
this is how a lady is supposed to be treated.

Regally, she began her descent from the carriage.

“I hope you will forgive us for these high-handed antics, but you are in terrible danger, my dear,” Monty fussed.

She paused at the bottom of her step. Giles couldn’t see past her wigs and skirts, but from Monty’s tone he was positive his friend was in high form.

“I hope,” she stated in sweet, innocent tones, “you will forgive me.”

Before Monty could respond, she whirled around, slamming the carriage door shut on Giles. The latch jammed in his hands, but he was able to jerk aside the window flap just in time to see her put both hands on Monty’s chest and shove the smaller man backward into a heap of puce and green brocade. His wig rolled off his head like a top, spinning toward the gutter.

She whirled once again, this time to grin at Giles, before she was off and running.

“Damnation,” he cursed as he struggled with the handle. Furious at this turn of events, he put his shoulder into the carriage door. It sprang open, the force carrying him sprawling onto the walkway next to Monty.

Giles looked up to find his butler, Keenan, standing at the front door, his mouth wide open. The man, known for his stoic features, rarely batted an eye at even the strangest of His Lordship’s coming and goings. The tall man was now stuttering for something to say.

“I think … I mean … I mean to say . . . the lady . . . she’s getting away, milord.” The butler pointed down the street.

“Thank you, Keenan,” Giles muttered as he got to his feet. She was already halfway down the block. Within moments she would turn down a side street and disappear from sight.

Sprinting down the street, he caught her just as she was about to slip into a dark alley. She twisted and fought like a cat. An alley cat to be exact, he thought as he caught her by the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“You beast,” she sputtered. “Put me down or I’ll scream.”

“Go ahead,” Giles dared her, pushing aside her skirts so he could see his way clearly back to the house. “Would you like that? For the guards to come? And what name would you use? Lady Brazen? I’m sure Lord Delaney and the others would prefer the term “thief.” Or, to be more exact, Lady-soon-to-be-hanging-from-the-nearest-gallows.”