Once an Innocent (28 page)

As soon as a pink blush limned the horizon, Naomi called for Brenna. With her maid’s help, she dressed and headed for the dining room, hoping to meet Jordan. She considered looking for him in his own room, but after yesterday’s events, the thought of finding him in bed was too upsetting.

Twice yesterday, she’d given herself to him. The first time was an error. She’d been swept up in the moment. Jordan hadn’t intended to take her maidenhead. It had just … happened. One indiscretion might be understandable, but last night’s interlude in the lady’s apartments quite obliterated any illusion that Naomi was anything but fallen.

Jordan had done the honorable thing and proposed, albeit with obvious reluctance and suffering delusions of Naomi’s unwillingness. She had accepted him, as was only right after the intimacies they’d shared. Marshall loomed large in Naomi’s conscience. Without a doubt, she knew her brother would want her to marry at once. He’d sworn never to force her into marriage, but in this situation, he would encourage her in the strongest possible terms to do so. Being one of his closest friends, Jordan must know this, too. Why, then, did he refuse to go speak to Marshall — or even to write?

It was this that had kept her awake all night. She simply could not imagine a reason sufficient to justify a delay. And so she must have it out with her erstwhile fiancé.

In the dining room, she did not find Jordan, but a footman gathering up used plates.

“Has his lordship already eaten?” she asked the servant.

“Yes, milady. You’ve missed him by about ten minutes. He and his friends have already gone out hunting. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Naomi tapped her hands together as she strolled back the way she came. Perhaps Clara could offer her some guidance. Jordan’s stepmother possessed valuable insight into his personality, after all.

“Brenna,” she said as she walked back into her chamber, “would you please inquire when I might have a word with Lady Whithorn?”

Her maid paused in plumping the pillows on Naomi’s bed to answer. “Lady Whithorn isn’t here, milady. She’s gone.”

“How can that be? I just saw her last night at supper.”

Brenna shook her head. “She and Lady Katelin left during the night. Downstairs is all abuzz, wondering whether she’s had a row with Lord Freese.”

“I hope not,” Naomi murmured. She drifted to a chair and sat, staring hard at the rug while she tried to make sense of things. It didn’t seem likely for Clara and Jordan to have argued to such a degree, especially since they had been cordial with one another last night. When would there have even been time to fight between then and when Clara had left in the middle of the night?

All the oddities since Naomi’s arrival at Lintern Abbey swirled through her head. The precise pairs of one gentleman and one lady, excepting Aunt Janine and herself. The propensity for several gentlemen to miss supper every night. The shooting at the shed, which Jordan claimed was a misfired hunting piece. The signals. Enrique — gracious, she could write a whole list on the topic of Jordan’s ward alone. And now this, Clara and Kate’s sudden departure.

Fear trickled down the back of her neck. She had to speak to Jordan as soon as possible. Briefly, she considered going out and finding his hunting group, but she discarded the idea almost at once. After she’d been escorted back to the house by way of the flooding ha-ha, she knew Jordan didn’t want her getting in the way of whatever was happening. He’d asked her to look after the ladies. She had to keep her promise.

The next few hours passed in a daze as Naomi forced down a few bites of food at breakfast. Conversation flowed around her. She responded automatically to questions. Later, she blinked, suddenly aware she was in the sitting room with a group of ladies, embroidery hoop in hand. When had this happened? The strawberry fruit and flowers she’d been working on for a week now looked as though an elephant had trampled them.

She was trying to pick out the damage she’d done when the sitting room door burst open. The ladies all looked up at the intrusion. Naomi recognized the footman she’d seen this morning.

“Lady Naomi, come with me, please. Lord Freese requires your presence at once.”

Ignoring the quizzical looks from the other women, Naomi set aside her work and followed, fighting to master the knot of dread that was threatening to choke her.

The servant led her to the study and opened the door. Jordan was in an armchair, bent nearly double with elbows on knees and his hands fisted behind his head. Mud spatters marked his Hessian boots and buckskin breeches.

Nothing good began this way. She took a tentative step inside. “Jordan?”

Grim lines etched the face that turned to her. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” His voice reminded her of Mr. Ditman’s, harsh and empty.

“What’s happened?” Naomi took his hands. The fingers of one loosely responded to her squeeze. The other remained fisted.

“Two of my men are dead.” His eyes were shards of ice, stark against his wan face. “Mr. Elton and Mr. Young. They’re dead.”

“Oh, God.” Naomi swayed. Her head swam. She clenched her jaw and drew a deep breath. Poor Miss Knight! To lose her betrothed. And Miss Elton! Naomi pictured the frail creature, just a wisp of a woman, now lacking a brother. “How … ? What … ?”

“You have to help me, Naomi. Please. I need you.” His one hand gripped hers almost painfully. The other squeezed harder into its white-knuckled fist.

Tears stung her eyes, and her throat started to constrict. “Have you told them yet? Miss Elton and Miss Knight?”

He sniffed loudly and swiped his sleeve across his brow. Twin splotches of color spread over his cheeks. “The women must leave. All of them. You, too, but you have to organize things for me. One hour. I cannot give you more than that. Faster, if you can manage it.”

A strange numbness consumed her. Her thoughts felt slow, clumsy. She took his fist in both of her hands and pried at his fingers. Jordan needed to relax, she thought. If only he would calm down a bit and stop making that whimpering sound, she could concentrate on what needed doing.

He grabbed her arms and shook her. Something dropped from his hand and hit the floor with a heavy thud. “Naomi!” he snapped. It was then she realized the noise was coming from her, not Jordan. “You must see to the women for me. I have to gather the men and head back out before — ”

The object on the floor caught the sunlight and glinted gold. Naomi stooped and picked it up. A ring.

At first glance, she thought it a signet ring, perhaps belonging to Mr. Elton or Mr. Young. Closer inspection revealed an eagle worked into the face of the ring, wings spread, beak open in a defiant scream.

“The French Imperial Eagle,” she said. “Bonaparte’s device.” She looked up to see Jordan looming over her, wary and guarded. “For the love of everything holy, what is this doing in Yorkshire?”

• • •

Having been summarily evicted from the study with no answer but an ill-tempered snarl, Naomi set about evacuating the ladies. That wasn’t the word Jordan used, but clearly this was, in fact, an evacuation. Two men were dead, by what means Naomi still did not know. Jordan must suspect an imminent threat to all of Lintern Abbey’s occupants to order them out of the house.

Instead of sharing the news directly with the ladies, Naomi flew belowstairs and called for help. The housekeeper, Mrs. Walker, appeared.

“What is it, my lady?” she asked, clearly startled by Naomi’s alarm.

“Muster every servant,” Naomi said, panting from her race through the house. “Lord Freese has ordered all female guests from the house immediately.”

“My gracious!” the woman exclaimed. “Why?”

Naomi made a sharp gesture. “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. The ladies cannot take more than a few essentials. There isn’t time for anyone to pack properly. Have the maids help. The footmen and hallboys can help ready carriages. Once the ladies are off, you and the other servants must all go, too.”

Mrs. Walker inhaled deeply, puffing her bosom like a hen defending her nest. “Of course, we shall do as his lordship says. But I’ll not abandon Lintern Abbey. I’ve served here for twenty-eight years. If Lord Freese wishes me gone, he and I will exchange words on the matter.” Her tone made clear Jordan would have an uphill battle convincing Mrs. Walker to go.

“Then stay,” Naomi replied. “But we must see the ladies gone at once.”

She left things in Mrs. Walker’s very competent hands and dashed up the stairs. Naomi’s lungs were beginning to ache from all the running about.

Getting Aunt Janine prepared for departure was her priority now. It would take both her and Brenna working together to convince Auntie to leave behind her academic accoutrements and take only her toiletries and a change of clothes.

Around Naomi, the house pulsed with fearful anticipation, as though a monstrous wave was about to break on the roof. The news made its way faster than she could. From the direction of the sitting room, she heard cries of alarm and the footfalls of half a dozen women running for their rooms.

Naomi made for the library, which had been her aunt’s haunt since the day they’d arrived. The room was quiet and still. The table that had been the site of Auntie and Sir Randell’s fierce debates was vacant, without so much as a single volume littering the top.

Upstairs, she rapped on Aunt Janine’s door and opened it. “Auntie?” she called. Behind her, the corridor buzzed with frantic activity and voices. A clatter outside drew Naomi to the window. Several carriages, their teams led by grooms and footmen, were making their way toward the front of the house.

A cold fist squeezed around her heart. She pivoted on her toe. “Aunt Janine!” she called as she stepped into the corridor.

Naomi struggled against the stream of women and maids flowing to the stairs. In her own room, Brenna was flying about, grabbing needful articles and thrusting them into a valise.

“Do you know where my aunt is?” she demanded.

The maid spared her but a glance from her work. “She went for a walk this morning, to see some standing stones, she said. But that was hours ago. I couldn’t say where she is now.”

“Oh, no,” Naomi whispered. The thought of her dear, distracted aunt outside, with danger circling her like wolves, was more than Naomi could bear. “Nonononono. We have to find her, Brenna. I can’t leave without her.”

God damn the Foreign Office straight to the infernal pits of hell. And damn Castlereagh, too, Jordan thought crossly. Now that things had finally gotten interesting, Jordan wanted no part of his work.

Right now, all he wanted was to grab Naomi and take her far away from Lintern Abbey, as fast as he could. He hated that he’d put her in harm’s way. He cursed the day he’d ever concocted this house-party scheme. As a front, it had failed miserably. It had, however, succeeded beyond all expectations in killing two men and endangering a dozen innocent women.

The closed study door did little to muffle the sounds of frantic leave-taking. His men could scarcely hear his orders over the din. “Perry, Richard, and Herrick, take the drive. Make sure the carriages all make it safely through the gate. If there’s any trouble, shoot. Don’t bother trying to apprehend them, just kill the bastards.”

A wild gleam flared in Mr. Richard’s eyes. He nodded once and led the other two out.

Thank God he’d convinced Clara to take Kate and depart during the night. It might take months to repair the damage he’d done to his friendship with Clara, but at least two women he loved were safe. If only the one he loved most would hurry away, as well.

“Bates.” The man Jordan addressed looked up from checking the priming on his pistol. “You, Wood, Price, and Sidney take positions around the house.”

Mr. Wood raised a hand. Nervous blinking had his eyelids beating like hummingbird wings. “Sir, four of us aren’t nearly enough — ”

“Fair point,” Jordan interrupted. “Too bad some of us are dead. Go.”

And the devil take Napoleon Bonaparte and prance about on his entrails for depriving Jordan of the chance to consider the fact that he’d just realized himself to be in love for the first time in his misbegotten life. It might be nice to ruminate on that discovery for a moment, but no. International catastrophe was beating down his bloody door.

Oh, how he wanted to beat it back. Rage pumped through his veins, screaming for an outlet. How dare those Frenchmen skulk about his estate, ambush his men, threaten his family — Enrique and Uncle Randell, Lady Janine and Naomi.

Naomi was already lumped in with his primitive concept of family, he thought abstractedly.

She was his. His family. His to protect. To hold. His to love.

Unbidden, he pictured Naomi carrying his child, a beautiful, fertile goddess, with a rounded belly and heavy breasts. Some primeval bit of his brain snarled in lustful appreciation at the image. He would do his level best to make that fantasy a reality as soon as possible. But he had to get her to safety before he could think about the spring planting.

After dismissing the others, Jordan’s eyes narrowed in steely determination on the silent man brooding in the corner. “That leaves you and me, Ditman.”

The man with the scar so like his own stepped out of the shadows. “Where’s the Frenchie, Freese?” His jaw clenched and released. “I don’t know what tale you’ve spun for the toddlers,” he said, jerking his head to the door, “and I haven’t nosed about nearly so much as I’d like to’ve, but you must confide in me now. If we’re to succeed, I must know what, exactly, we’re guarding.”

“I should like to know, as well.”

Jordan squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head at that angelic voice.
No, God, not now.
“Why haven’t you gone?”

“Aunt Janine is missing.” Then she was shaking his arm. Her eyes were wide with fear. “What have you done to us? Aunt Janine is missing, Jordan. I can’t leave.”

Oh no.
The news was a punch to his chest.
Not Lady Janine.
“You will.”

Her hands balled into bloodless fists at her side. “I won’t.” The stubborn set of her mouth told him she wasn’t about to be budged.