Emma Jensen - Entwined (34 page)

The pistol was heavy in his hand. He had not fired a gun in months, not even held one since leaving Lisbon. What use would it have been? Hitting an elephant in broad daylight would be a challenge. A slick, shadowy figure at midnight was all but impossible.

Still muffling his steps, he headed for the stairs. The first floor was smaller than the entry, only three rooms. One, he remembered, did not have a window. That was where he would wait—and hope that the other man had decided against carrying a lantern.

He reached the landing, and turned down the hall. It seemed his instincts had been accurate. He was as yet alone in the building. Again, surprise was only worth so much when a blind man faced a seeing one, but a wise man took what he could.

Second door? Third? He could not remember which was the windowless chamber. He took a chance on the second and, as he stepped inside, knew he had made a terrible mistake.

"Clever, Oriel, but you should have remembered that we all learned our trade at the same knee."

Nathan took a shallow breath as he felt the gun barrel dig deeper into his abdomen. "Until you took further lessons from the French."

"Oh, please. Could you not have left the dramatics at the door?" The barrel poked at his ribs. "Hand over your weapon, if you would be so kind.

Slowly."

Helpless to do otherwise, Nathan obeyed. Much of his bravado slipped from his grasp with his gun. Some small voice deep within him cried for mercy, called Isobel's name.

He quashed it. "Will you keep at it until we're all gone? Is Rotheroe next? Montgomerie? Brandon?"

"Give me a bit of credit. Montgomerie is already dead. Brandon, too.

They've been dead some weeks now."

Nathan's gut twisted. "And Rotheroe?"

"Rotheroe. Rotheroe could have walked away from all this none the wiser. Damned fool had to get himself involved with you."

"Stone."

"What of him? He was a rodent."

"You don't deny it, then." Nathan's mouth was dry. He still held his cane, had climbed the stairs with it tucked under his arm. Perhaps if he could get one good swing...

"Deny what?"

"That you shot him."

St. Wulfstan's harsh laugh echoed through the empty room. "And deny myself credit for perhaps my best aim ever? Of course I shot Stone." He lifted the gun and pushed the barrel into Nathan's chest. "Dead center."

CHAPTER 20

Isobel leapt from the carriage just as a distant bell chimed one o'clock.

Driven past exhaustion into numb terror by the rattling ride, she rushed up the stairs and pounded on the door. She had left her key in Hertfordshire.

It seemed an eternity before Milch appeared, hurriedly buttoning his coat as he pulled the door in. His heavy eyelids shot up as he saw her. "My lady!"

She shoved past him, ran for the stairs. "His lordship—"

"Is not here, madam."

"What?" She skidded to a halt.

"He went out before midnight in the carriage."

"Where? Where did he go?"

"I don't rightly know, my lady. He received a message, instructing him to meet at Ten House."

"Ten House?" She racked her brain but could not remember ever having heard of such a place. "Ten what?"

The butler flushed miserably. "I really can't say, my lady. I... assumed it was a private residence."

Truly frantic now, Isobel all but knocked the diminutive man off his feet when she rushed back and seized his lapels. "Is there a pistol in the house, Milch?"

"A pistol? I, ah, believe his lordship keeps a pistol in his desk. If I may say so..." But Isobel was already running for the stairs again.

She emptied every drawer in Nathan's desk. There were countless papers, a wealth of long-dried ink bottles, several pouches of coins, but no gun. Breathing heavily, her mind blank, she pounded her fists against the blotter, sending the single sheet of foolscap sliding off the far side and onto the floor. She went after it.

Midnight,
it read,
Ten House.
It was signed with a scrawled Sr.
W.

St. Wulfstan.

"Dear God," Isobel whispered and, note clasped to her breast, rushed from the room.

She overturned all the drawers in Nathan's bedchamber but found nothing save his clothing, his toiletries, and the three miniatures. There was no pistol. A few minutes later, she shoved past the sputtering Milch again and ran out the door.

She lost precious minutes hauling an unwilling Aingeal from his stall, more in fighting him with saddle and bridle. By the time they rounded the corner of Grosvenor Square and stopped in front of Nathan's parents' home, both horse and rider were wild-eyed and winded.

Isobel pounded relentlessly with the brass knocker on the Abergele door, not caring if she woke the entire family. She was greatly relieved to find Will in the upper hall when she finally got inside. He was in his dressing gown, hair standing in dark licks about his head.

"Isobel?" he said vaguely. "What on earth...?"

"I need a pistol, Will. Now."

"A pistol? Whatever for?"

"William, please. No questions. Where do I find one of your father's guns?"

He gestured toward the duke's library. "But, Isobel..."

Will made it into the room as Isobel was tossing a pistol aside. There were several more on the desk, a legion on the wall.

"These are not loaded!" Isobel reached for another, and William grabbed for her hand.

"None of them are. Mother will not allow ammunition in the townhouse."

Not quite believing her ears, Isobel slumped into the massive desk chair.

"None at all?"

"I'm afraid not. She's always worried he'll shoot someone. Probably wise..."

He broke off as Isobel seized him by the collar. "Gunpowder. Your experiments. You must be able to load a pistol for me."

"Wet."

"I beg your pardon?"

He raked his fingers through his already wild hair. "The gunpowder is wet." He flushed. "Mother again. After I caused a bit of an, er, explosion in the cellar last year, she had all my gunpowder soaked with water. She did the same with the gunpowder I bought recently. Now I am experimenting with it wet. Could be of great use to the navy, you know."

"Dear Lord." Isobel dropped her head into her hands. "I have married into a family of clowns!"

"Now see here, I have made great progress in the past weeks. Genius is always destined for derision."

"William." She got a new, tighter grip on his dressing gown. "Where is Ten House?"

"Ten House?"

"Aye! Where is it?"

Now he was looking at her as if she had a cog or two loose. "I have no idea about any Ten House. Isobel, you are clearly distraught. Perhaps a warm glass of brandy..." At her responding snarl, he took a wary step back.

"I, ah, you might want to ask Rotheroe. I believe I've heard him and Nat muttering once or twice about a ten of something."

He reached out as she shot past him but ended up getting tangled in his own dressing gown. Isobel ignored the thump and groan and, not even bothering to wave to Nathan's pale parents or her sister-in-law, who had now appeared in the hallway, Isobel headed for the street. In her hand was one of the duke's guns. It was useless, of course, but no one need know that but her.

It was a moot point unless she discovered just what and where Ten House was. Finding Lord Rotheroe was the only place to start. He lived in one of the narrow houses just off Hyde Park. Which one was another matter.

Well, she would simply pound on each door until she found him.

It never occurred to her to question the horrible vision she had had in the cottage. She was a practical woman, but she was also an Island Scot. No one raised among the lore and tradition of the Highlands would ignore so vivid an omen. None would dare.

Aingeal was where she had left him, against the cast-iron rail in front of the house. There was someone with him now, one of the duke's grooms, she assumed. Isobel offered silent thanks to the man's staff. She had not bothered to do more than toss the horse's reins over the rail. All things considered, had someone not intervened, the animal would have been back in his own stable by now, happily tucking into the oat bin.

"Thank you," Isobel panted, reaching for the reins. A hand shot out and encircled her wrist. Stunned, frozen, she tried to scream, but another hand clamped over her mouth.

Struggling was no use. The man subdued her easily and, Aingeal trailing behind, dragged her quickly away from the house. As she watched, helpless, Abergele House, and the help that was just inside its walls, disappeared behind a hedge. On they went, she dragging her heels and thrashing uselessly against the iron arm, he cursing and tightening that grip.

In seconds, they were deep within the shadows.

"Now, my lady, I will remove my hand. But if you so much as open your mouth to scream, I will be forced to silence you again. Is that clear?"

Isobel nodded, planning even as she did to scream the Square down as soon as he released her. She twisted against the restraining arm, trying to get her bearings for flight. In that fleeting second, her attacker's features were visible.

The scream died, forgotten, in her throat.

"Dia s' Muire,"
she breathed. "You."

Nathan's eyes fluttered open. He groaned with the resulting pain and let them close again. Scattered sensations flashed through his mind. A gun at his chest, a shove, flaring pain.

St. Wulfstan.

Had he been shot? He could see nothing but blackness. No light, no hazy shadows. Numb, he tried to move and realized he was lying on the floor, his cheek pressed into the wooden floor, his arms behind his back. He moved his fingers, felt the heavy twine binding his hands.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," a voice mocked from nearby. "I thought I might have to kiss you and damned if the idea didn't turn my gut."

With the words, memory came rushing back. The air had erupted suddenly with a whoosh. St. Wulfstan had grunted, gone down, his weight knocking Nathan backward. Before he could regain his balance, he had felt the first blow to his temple. Lights exploded behind his eyes. He remembered falling, remembered a second blow. Then nothing.

"St. Wulfstan?"

"Who did you expect? Some benevolent fairy?"

"You—someone—"

"Someone indeed. I don't suppose he left your arms free."

"No. Legs, either." Nathan tested the bonds, giving up with a moan as his head protested.

"Don't bother. He's a fair hand with the rope. And the cosher. My head feels as if it's been bashed with a mace."

Gritting his teeth, Nathan rolled over onto his elbows. An agonizing few minutes later, he was sitting up. The ropes were tight about his wrists and ankles, tight enough that his feet were numb and his fingers fast getting there. "Tell me this is all part of your depraved plan."

St. Wulfstan snorted. "Well, that would be handy, wouldn't it? Come now, Oriel, I never took you for stupid. Full to the brim with naive nobility, perhaps, but not stupid."

"I would be careful, calling me stupid. You're the one who has been double-crossed here."

"Double-crossed? What are you blathering about now?"

No, Nathan was not stupid. And he was having some extremely disturbing thoughts. "Why did you choose this place to meet?"

"
I
choose? It was your choice. I simply arrived early."

"You did not send the note."

"What note?" St. Wulfstan swore, low and harsh. "I take it back, Oriel.

We're a fine
pair
of idiots."

They had been duped, brilliantly, each turned against the other. "Were you at Watier's last night?" The MacLeods would not have known St.

Wulfstan, Nathan thought. Someone else could have easily used his name.

"Oh, I was there."

"You drew my wife's brothers into deep play?"

"I did."

"For God's sake, why? Surely not for the money."

St. Wulfstan grunted. "Don't go all dense on me again, man. Same reason I sniffed about your wife. I wanted to get to you. There was no question of those carbuncle-faced fools having the funds to pay up, nor of your letting the matter go quietly. I knew you would contact me."

"I did, this morning. I assumed the message was your response."

"All I got from you was a note tonight, telling me to meet you here."

Nathan didn't want to believe him. But he had seen too much strategy and deceit to reject obvious truth. "What of Montgomerie and Brandon?

Are they really dead?"

"I would imagine so. Who knows? I thought you—"

"You thought I was responsible." Of course. "What of Stone? I thought you said you shot him."

"Damn it, man, I
did
shoot Stone. He'd made one attempt too many on me in Spain. I didn't expect him to come back here, but when he did... He had Rotheroe in his sights. Or at least I thought he did. Now, of course, it appears he was working
for
Rotheroe. He got Brooke, Montgomerie..."

Rotheroe.

"I was in the Park that day," Nathan said dully, remembering a torn coat sleeve, which quite probably was not the fault of a low-hanging branch after all.

"I know. Not ten feet from where Stone was hiding when I first saw you."

"You didn't kill him."

"Stone? Of course I did. The ball struck dead center."

"Yes, so you told me. But he did not die. Gerard got him to a surgeon."

"Well, splendid. I should be ecstatic, I know. But his talking won't be worth a damn to us. We'll be dead by then."

Nathan considered mentioning that Stone probably would never talk again, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. St. Wulfstan was absolutely right. They would be dead anyway. He tried again to slacken the rope around his wrists and succeeded in doing nothing more than chafing his skin and setting his head pounding anew.

"Rotheroe," he muttered. He heard the man's indignant words, thought of his ruined arm. Ruined arm. How simple it would have been for the earl to exaggerate his injury, make himself seem harmless. "What has he to gain from allying himself with the French?"