How to Wed a Baron (13 page)

Alina rubbed her hands together in her lap. “So I am totally alone. Aren't I, Justin? Except for Aunt Mimi, of course, but I could not go back to her. I really couldn't. And…and you won't marry me.”

He took hold of the desk chair and put it down in front of her, backward, and straddled it. His face was so serious, she felt frightened.

“No, kitten, I can't marry you. I told you, I'm a fugitive. Once you're safe, I'll be leaving England, never to return, or at least not until the Prince Regent is dead and unable to refute his signed pardon I have safely tucked away. Even a week ago I would have given everything I own to remain here, but now leaving is not only necessary, but I'm actually glad to be going. There's nothing here I want anymore save for a few friends. My estate is in the hands of my
longtime manager, and will wait for me. It's not entailed in any event. What fortune that has remained here is my own and is already on its way to join with the bulk of my funds in Brussels.”

“It all sounds so neat and tidy, the way you say it. And bloodless. You really don't care, do you? It's not a sham. You'd be safe in Brussels?” She didn't know why she asked that last question, why it was suddenly so important to her that he be safe.

He shook his head. “Once I make it to Brussels, I'll set sail for America. I've had my fill of kings, a surfeit of kings. The Americans got rid of us, and I think they had the right of it.”

“America,” she repeated. “That's a world away.”

“A lifetime away. But you'll be fine here, Alina. While I was in London I made arrangements with my banker. My town house in London is now yours, as is a small estate located very near my friend Tanner Blake and his wife. I've already alerted them that you will soon be taking up residence, and I know Tanner will agree to manage your finances for you until such time as they present you next season in London and you capture the eye of half the gentlemen there. You are, no matter what, the granddaughter of an English earl, the daughter of a war hero. Prinny won't say a word against you. He can't, not after half of London is already sending around the word that I paid him fifty thousand pounds for the pardon he gave me.”

Alina's head was spinning. She would be safe. She would be her own person, here in England. He was giving her the world. This man who barely knew her, this man who owed her nothing, was giving her everything. “I, um, I…thank you. You didn't have to…that is, there was no reason for you to…thank you.”

He reached out and took her hand. “There was every reason, Alina. That's what you don't know but the Prince Regent did. Your uncle's duel was with me, and I fled England to escape the hangman for putting a period to Robbie Farber's existence. The Prince Regent summoned me back, pardoned me, so he could use me to rid Francis of this
Inhaber
Novak. And also to have himself a giggle or two at my expense, I'm sure, knowing I could not turn away from this chance to make up for my crime. I doubt he's considered the possibility of your death any more real than he would a play at Covent Garden. The man already half believes he fought with Wellington at Waterloo. Insanity seems to be his father's gift to him.”

Alina pulled her hand free. “You? You shot my uncle? My mother's brother?
You?
Why?”

“That's not important. I have no excuses to offer you. Only my apology, and my thanks for allowing me this chance to make some small amends in the only way I can. The Prince Regent knew that, as well. He knows I can rid you and Francis of the
Inhaber
because that's what I do, what I've done these past long eight years. I'm not a nice man, Alina. In fact, I am the utter antithesis of the sort of man you deserve.”

She would not listen to such foolishness. He was being forced to assassinate the
Inhaber
—for her! He was doing it all for her, as he was giving her his possessions, cutting himself off from his own country, making himself into a fugitive. As some sort of penance for something that had happened so many years ago? Dear God! He was many thin things, perhaps, as he insisted, but he was not an evil man. How could she convince him? She felt so powerless, and so very sad.

“Alina, don't let your mind wander. Listen to me. Once the
Inhaber
is dead, both Francis and my Prince Regent will know they've gone as far as they can go. That will…be made clear to them. They'll both accept their losses and move on to the next intrigue. With monarchies, there is never a lack of intrigue. The Regent will find it easier to forget I ever existed. Your Romany will get their pitiful piece of land, and Francis will find a way to take it away again, one that doesn't involve you. Please, kitten, take what I'm offering you. It's all I have to give.”

“My life. You're offering me my life.”

“On the contrary, Alina. I prefer to see the thing as you saving mine. As for the rest—for tonight—
that was my mistake, not yours. It's best if we simply forget it ever happened.”

She nodded, unable to say anything else, knowing he would not listen to her anyway, and got to her feet. She walked toward the door slowly, stopping once to look back at him, and then left, softly closing the door behind her.

J
USTIN MELTED INTO THAT
peculiar darkness that comes just before dawn. The ground was unfamiliar, but the rules remained the same. See. Do not be seen. Act, don't think. Don't look in the face, not if you can help it. No one's nightmares were ever haunted by the remembrance of a turned back, a soft sigh as a soul surrendered to the afterworld.

Never hesitate.

Don't think of the child. Never, never think of the child….

He'd left the first body behind the buttery. The man had been easy, half asleep at his post. Another reason to strike just before dawn: guards were at their most vulnerable as the night ended, as they congratulated themselves for a job well done and dreamed of a hot breakfast.

The second had proved more difficult, one of those rare soldiers that actually possessed some skills other than marching in a straight line and never thinking independently. But, in the end, he'd
been no match for Brutus, and his neck had snapped like a dry twig.

Justin tapped Brutus on the shoulder and pointed toward the stand of trees set back about fifty yards from the gravel drive that led to Ashurst Hall. He then pointed to himself, and then to a similar grouping of trees on the other side of the drive. Brutus could move with the grace of a much lighter man, but he could not hope to conceal his bulk out in the open, crossing the drive.

No words were necessary. The man nodded once, showing his understanding, and the two parted ways.

Bent nearly in half, his knife concealed up his sleeve so that the blade didn't glint in the fading moonlight, Justin moved soundlessly over the gravel and slipped into the shadows.

There had been four men. Now there were two. Rafe's estate manager had seen the strangers indiscreetly and fatally advertising their presence in a local tavern, and they'd been under observation ever since. For two days and nights, as they'd watched Ashurst Hall, Ashurst Hall had been watching them. Now it was time they were gone.

Justin circled through the trees, his breathing slow and measured, his eyes on the ground, avoiding any errant twigs or loose stones, yet always flicking up, watching the shadows, separating tree from
bush, at last locating the shadow that didn't fit either category.

Waiting, his ears alert for Brutus's signal that he'd gotten his man, Justin slid the blade forward, his hand closing familiarly on the hilt of the knife he'd had specially made for him at considerable expense in Spain after nearly losing his life to an inferior weapon. A workman is only as good as his tools, he'd known, and when your work is kill or be killed, there is no room for mediocre tools.

The short, shrill whistle broke the early-morning silence, and Justin was running and on his man before the fellow could fully rise from his crouch at the unexpected sound.

One arm encircling the man's chest, the tip of the Spanish knife lightly pressing against his throat, seemed to steal all thought of resistance, and the fellow began pleading in German, “Don't kill me, don't kill me.”

“But it would be so easy, and relatively painless,” Justin replied in flawless German. “Are you quite sure? Why should I spare you?”

“I do only what I'm told. A man has to live.”

“Not necessarily. But you're a very fortunate man. Your companions are dead, all four of them.”

“Four? But there were only three others. Please, sir, don't kill me.”

At times, it was almost too simple to present a challenge. Having had Rafe's reconnaissance so
easily proved correct, Justin slipped one leg between the man's thighs and, with a flick of his bent leg, had the man sprawled on the ground on his back. His captive lay there, showing no inclination to run, panting beneath his ridiculous mustachios and sideburns that had helped identify him and his compatriots in the village. After all, who outruns a knife in the back?

The knife was replaced by the pistol Justin carried in his waistband.

“We will now have a friendly chat about
Inhaber
Novak, my fuzzy friend.”

“The
Inhaber?
But how did you—”

“Shh,”
Justin warned affably. “You have but one job now, my friend, other than to remain alive, and that is to answer my questions. Now, are you listening carefully? You really don't want to get any of the answers wrong, do you?”

The man shook his head furiously, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the pistol.

“Good. You know the
Inhaber
's location, hmm?”

“Lon-London, sir. There is a hotel…the Pulteney. The Russian Tsar headquartered there during the Allies Peace Celebrations, so the
Inhaber
wished to set himself up there, as well. It…it is very fine.”

“How personally gratifying for the
Inhaber
and his consequence, I'm sure. The Pulteney is quite a lovely establishment. Now, if it wouldn't be too much
trouble, you will tell me where he is.” To be certain the man understood the seriousness of his question, Justin cocked the pistol.

The man swallowed, shook his head. “But I told you.”

Justin sensed Brutus's presence behind him. “Brutus, do I look stupid? More importantly, do I look harmless? And even more, do I seem to you a man who suffers fools gladly?”

Brutus growled low in his throat.

“He…he's on his way here,” the hireling said quickly, his terrified gaze on Brutus. “We were to watch here, and wait for him, and the others. And…and have two of us follow you if you tried to take the girl away.”

“Thank you. Brutus's imposing presence to one side, I had begun to worry I'd somehow lost my touch.” Justin eased his pressure on the hammer of the pistol and returned the weapon to his waistband before pulling a folded letter from his pocket. “Not to insult your powers of retention, my good man, but I have composed a missive to your employer, one which you will deliver personally. You are hereby commissioned to present my compliments to the
Inhaber,
as well as the information that the lady has departed Ashurst Hall as of this morning. Observe.”

As if to give credence to his words, the sounds of harness and coach horses could be heard from the
drive. Brutus hauled up the man by his collar and turned him to watch as two coaches appeared out of the early morning mist and then disappeared into the distance. Brutus's whistle had not only alerted Justin. Wigglesworth had been stationed just outside the front door to Ashurst Hall and had flown into action the moment he'd heard the signal, quickly herding Alina and her small entourage into the pair of traveling coaches.

Once he had seen what he was meant to see, the
Inhaber
's minion was roughly redeposited on the ground. He drew himself up into a fetal position, covering his head with his arms. “Please don't let him hurt me.”

Justin rubbed at his forehead and sighed. “More and more, the world is populated by idiots, Brutus,” he complained wearily. “He won't hurt you,” he then assured the whimpering man. “This letter saves your life. Here, sit up, take it. There's a good fellow. Now, why don't you just run off and play postman. Go on,
run.
”

The man didn't need a second invitation. He snatched the letter and took to his heels, heading, Justin knew, for the place where he and his compatriots had tied up their four horses, knowing that what he would find there would be those same four horses, only now, thanks to some of Rafe's men, three of them were roped together into a line and had bodies strapped across their saddles.

When it came to making statements, Justin knew nothing made more of an impression than a show of power. In this case, his.

It also made it easier for him and Brutus to mount their own horses and follow.

“Lovely morning for a ride,” he remarked to his friend as the now-rising sun made it less than child's play to follow the tracks of the four horses. “And much too lovely a morning to die, Brutus, so we will approach with caution. The
Inhaber
may not believe I am a gentleman of my word and am in fact breaking it by following that fool up ahead of us.”

Brutus made a noise that could be interpreted as amusement.

With luck, and he knew he'd need it, the
Inhaber
also would still be abed, wherever he was, and his guard would not be too numerous, and as hapless as the four he'd put to guarding Ashurst Hall. Money could buy many things, even men. It could not insure competence or inspire loyalty.

Justin wanted this over, the
Inhaber
dead, Alina safe. He and Rafe had agreed that this would be the easiest, the quickest way to guarantee both. That success this morning would also hasten Justin's departure from England, never to see Alina again, could not be a factor. Giving her his possessions to make up for having killed her uncle, no matter how justified, was not his penance, as he'd thought it would be. Never seeing her again, never holding
her, never smiling at her frank speech and her attempts at being worldly and sophisticated? Never really
knowing
her?

That was to be his true penance, and it would last a lifetime.

Luka had his orders. Employing a circuitous route, he was to remove Alina to the home of Rafe's sister Nicole and her husband, Lucas Paine, Marquess of Basingstoke, and once she was safe, from there to Malvern, and the home of Rafe's other sister, Lydia, and her husband, Tanner, Justin's closest friend. Once the
Inhaber
was dead, Justin would get word to his friends before himself heading to Dover, the port of choice, it seemed, for those finding it necessary to escape England. Byron had made his a dramatic exit, Brummell had slipped the web of creditors to make for Calais, and soon Justin Wilde would escape the hangman via the same route, his destination Ostend, then Brussels and, finally, a ship bound for America.

A world away, as Alina had said last night—had there been a hint of sadness in her voice?

Brutus put out his arm and grunted, bringing Justin back to his surroundings. Damn. He'd nearly ridden straight down the hill leading into the small village, his mind elsewhere. His friend looked at him quizzically, or at least Justin decided the look was quizzical; with Brutus, it was difficult to tell.

“My apologies,” he said as he saw the four horses
tied up in front of a ramshackle inn, the only building of more than two stories the backwater village could boast of, and only then because there was precious little of note elsewhere on the single street that bisected the rutted dirt road that clearly was meant to lead somewhere else.

He doubted the place even had a name. Which made it perfect, in so many ways, both for the
Inhaber
and for Justin.

They turned their mounts into the trees bordering the road. Battling low branches, they walked the horses a good twenty yards before dismounting and leading them farther into the trees, where they tied their reins to branches. “We don't know how many there are. Are you ready?”

In answer, Brutus pushed back his coat, revealing an amazing total of five heavy, workmanlike pistols stuck into his stout waistband. He then pulled knives from both his boot tops, and two more from elsewhere on his person.

“Only four?” Justin asked facetiously.

Brutus reached up behind his back and extracted a fifth knife from its sheath hidden beneath his coat, this blade even uglier than the others.

“My faith has been restored, but with only a modicum of luck, you won't need any of them. Unless the
Inhaber
is a complete fool, he'll be heading out shortly, to regroup somewhere else.”

Brutus carefully replaced the knives, looking only
slightly crestfallen. The man did enjoy the exercise of a good fight now and then.

Rafe had insisted that he go with Justin, as well as some of his own men from the estate, but Justin had refused. He'd worked alone for too many years, and with Brutus for the last five. He had his own way of doing things, ways the large man understood, and too many people presented opportunities for too many mistakes. Not that he didn't trust Rafe Daughtry, but he would not chance having that man's blood on his hands in order to solve his own problems.

Brutus slung Justin's custom-designed rifle over his shoulder and followed him. When Justin hunkered down at the crest of the small hill that looked down on the few buildings, Brutus hunkered down behind him. When Justin pulled out a collapsible spyglass and lifted it to his eye, Brutus squinted. When Justin inhaled, he smelled the sausages Brutus had ingested for breakfast two hours earlier.

Justin stood up once more and looked about, noting the substantial cover of the trees, the fine elevation that had him looking down at the inn roof and the cleared ground around the building. He could not have asked for better; barely a test of his particular skills, actually.

“Now we wait. This terrain reminds one of Remiremont, does it not? The same sort of fine vantage point. May we have the same success here today.”

No more than ten minutes later, they watched the
team that pulled the black traveling coach being led from the stables, to be maneuvered into the traces with more haste than expertise.

“He's already on the move. Our friend the
Inhaber
must be an early riser,” Justin said to Brutus unnecessarily, thinking of their mounts, which had never been pressed to a gallop on their more than ten mile ride here, but which were nonetheless not precisely fresh. He held out his hand for the rifle. “We'll make the first shot count, Brutus, as we won't get a second chance.”

As Justin dropped to his knees and removed his hat and gloves, tossing them aside, Brutus went down on all fours in front of him, offering his back as a human platform Justin could use to steady his arms and the rifle.

Justin raised the rifle and sighted down it to a spot approximately six feet beyond the door leading to the dirt yard and the coach, his heart rate slow, his breathing slower.