Sattler, Veronica (50 page)

Brett's
jaws clenched as he recognized the flowing script of his wife, spelling out her
parting words.

"You
dropped this in your haste the evening you left," said his great-aunt.
"One of the maids found it and brought it to me, and I thank Heaven she
did. Imagine the scandal if it were found by one of the servants who can
read!"

Crumpling
the note with a look that denoted weary disgust, Brett met her icy blue eyes.
"So you've come about the content of... this," he said, gazing at the
crumpled mass for a long moment before letting it drop to the thick carpet. His
gaze returned to Margaret. "Well, what of it?"

A
soft knock at the door indicated Higgins had arrived with the tea. Brett
endured the interruption with a growing impatience that was mollified somewhat
by the sight of a brandy snifter and a bottle of his best contraband on the
tray bearing the tea service. He quirked an eyebrow at the sober-faced
manservant as he set the tray before them, but Higgins's only response was a
knowing look, coupled with a quick glance at Lady Margaret before he withdrew.

Pouring
himself a liberal helping of brandy, Brett again faced his great-aunt. "As
you were about to say, Lady Margaret?"

Margaret
finished stirring a lump of sugar into the tea in a delicate porcelain cup, set
aside the silver spoon she'd used, and gave him a prolonged look before saying,
"I've come to help ease the way for your divorce."

Brett's
brows drew together menacingly. "And just what makes you think I'm going
to obtain one?"

Margaret
stopped in the midst of taking a sip of tea and lowered her cup to its saucer.
"Well, isn't it patently obvious? The chit's left you. And good riddance
to bad rubbish, too, I say! Now, I realize there may be a scandal. Divorce
isn't easily overlooked, even for those of our class, but there's where I may
help. I know enough of the old guard of the
ton,
and all it takes is a
few carefully chosen words placed in the right ears—of certain gossipy sorts, I
mean—and I'm sure I can make it appear you were totally blameless in the entire
affair. Why, all I need mention of that girl is that she—"

"You
will do nothing of the sort!" Brett ground out from between clenched jaws.

Margaret
gave no evidence she'd heard the menace in his tone. "Really, Brett, it's
the only way. Face facts. The baggage is gone. What else can you mean to do?
Run after her and cart her back? Why, she's likely halfway to America by now
with that brother of hers. Divorce her, I say! You have no alternative!"

The
turquoise eyes narrowed as he gave her a contemplative look. "But I do
have an alternative."

Margaret
arched her eyebrows over the rim of her teacup. "Which is...?"

"To
remain wed."

"To
a woman who is not here?"

"To
a woman who
is
here!"

The
teacup rattled against its saucer as Margaret's jaw dropped.
"Where?"
she breathed.

"Upstairs
in my chamber, where she's been since the day she left."

The
blue eyes narrowed. "Willingly?"

There
was a second's hesitation. "No."

"Oh,
for God's sake, Brett! What's the point?"

Brett
drained the contents of the snifter, set it down on the tea table, and rose
abruptly from his chair. "The point is," he said, walking toward one
of the tall front windows, "that I've prevented her from deserting me, and
that I
want
her here. At least, until I decide what to do with
her."

"And
when will that be? Brett, don't you realize that every day that passes may make
things more difficult? What happens when her brother comes looking for her? Or
have you detained him, too?"

Brett
shook his head as he gazed abstractedly out the window.

"There,
you see? The man is bound to come around, asking questions. Think of the
scandal if he chooses not to be discreet!"

"Enough!"
Brett whirled from the window to face her; his eyes held a mixture of rage and
frustration. "I don't wish to discuss it further. Perhaps I shall divorce
her. I won't say it hasn't crossed my mind. But, until I decide what's to be
done, I'll brook no more arguments from you. Is that clear?"

Margaret
rose from the velvet settee and gave him a long look. "Perfectly. Now, if
you do not mind, Your Grace, I've had a long, tiring afternoon, and I am no
longer a young woman. I fear you will have to endure my presence in your house,
like it or not. I shall take the green room. Please ring for Higgins to make it
ready for me."

"You
intend to stay, then?"

"Is
it not what I have just said? Fortunately, I've brought my abigail. She's
waiting with my baggage in the coach without. You will please have her—and
it—sent to me." She headed for the double doors.

Brett
watched her cross the room, angry frustration evident in his rigid stance.
"Wait," he snapped as she reached the doors. When Margaret turned to
him, he continued. "Since you appear determined to stay here, you may as
well make yourself useful. Higgins hasn't had as much as an afternoon off in
weeks. I've business at Carlton House of the like that takes me away during the
day and frequently, far into the night. As long as you plan to be here, I'll
want you to... keep an eye on things while I give Higgins the time off that he
has earned."

Margaret's
face registered mild shock. "You wish
me
to be your wife's
jailer?" she questioned snidely.

Brett
made a gesture of impatience as he, too, headed for the doors. "Call it
what you like. Between you and your abigail, you ought to be able to manage for
a few hours at a clip."

Having
opened the doors and passed through them, he headed for the front entrance
before pausing a moment and turning back to her. "Oh, Lady Margaret—"
his tone was deceptively soft "—I wouldn't be entertaining any
enterprising notions if I were you. If my wife is allowed to escape while in
your charge, you will pay dearly for it, I promise you. Remember the dowager's
cottage. Even with its refurbishing, I shouldn't think you'd enjoy inhabiting
it permanently. Moreover, if Ashleigh disappears while under your... care, I
shall
never
seek the divorce you so devoutly crave—
never!
Tell
that to yourself and your darling Elizabeth!"

This
said, he whirled and made for the door.

* * * * *

Oliver
Higgins was feeling quite pleased with himself as he lurched through the side
door of the Three Coachmen pub, which was located at the edge of London's West
End. He'd more than doubled the five quid he'd brought with him tonight, having
bested Will Barker at four out of five rounds of draughts and then trounced
Geordie MacNeil at the dart board—and with six pints of ale in him, too!

Now
he needed relief from all that ale he'd consumed, hence a trip to the narrow
alleyway before walking home. Positioning himself to face a wall that, judging
by the stench, had endured countless visits by the customers of the Three
Coachmen over the years, Higgins reached for the front closure of his breeches
when he suddenly felt a hard object jam against his ribs.

"Make
not a move," said a deep voice behind him.

Higgins
froze, a lump of fear closing his throat.
Oh, hell!
he thought.
Now
some bloody Dick's going to lighten my pockets of my winnings!

"Answer
my questions satisfactorily," came the voice from somewhere above, as well
as behind, him, "and you'll have nothing to fear, understand?"

"Y-yes,"
stammered Higgins, wondering why a thief should wish to question him.

"Is
your name Higgins?" asked the voice.

Beginning
to wonder at the cultured tones articulated by a man who ought to sound like a
street tough, Higgins nodded.

"The
same Higgins who is employed as valet to the duke of Ravensford?"

Again,
Higgins nodded. Damn, if the voice didn't sound familiar! It had just the
barest hint of a drawl to it. Where had he heard it before?

"Very
well, Higgins, answer my next question correctly and you may soon be on your
way and safely home. Where is His Grace detaining Her Grace, the duchess?"

It
was the brother, the one who'd lived in America! Oh, he was a big one, he was!
But His Grace would have his hide if he—

"Answer
quickly or you'll wish you had!" The object at his rib cage jabbed harder.

Well,
he'd been feeling awfully sorry for the little miss anyway.... "She—she's
here in London, sir."

"At
the house on King Street?"

"Yes,
sir," Higgins paused, then thought,
Ah, well, in for a pence, in for a
pound.
"She's locked up in His Grace's chamber there."

"Thank
you, Higgins," said Patrick. "You may turn around, now."

"Um,
ah, sir?" Higgins squirmed.

"Yes?"

"Before
you came, I was just about to, ah, that is—"

A
snort of amusement met his ears. "Of course. But don't try anything
foolish. I've no wish to harm you, and I've a few more things to discuss with
you."

When
he'd relieved himself, Higgins turned about to see Patrick standing before him
with nothing more than a fashionable walking stick in his hand.
Bloody hell!
he thought, but then, upon considering the size of the hand, not to mention
the man, who held it, he meekly followed Patrick's gesture to accompany him out
of the alleyway.

Twenty
minutes later Higgins was sitting opposite Patrick and Megan in their large,
hired carriage as it sat outside Patrick's lodgings.

"You
understand what you must do, then?" Patrick questioned him.

Higgins
glanced nervously one final time at the ferocious-looking wolfhound who sat on
the floor between them and answered, "It—it doesn't seem too difficult,
sir. I'm to be sure the Lady Margaret is sufficiently distracted after you've
made off with the little—with Her Grace in the carriage, to give you time to
get completely away before her absence is discovered."

"Good
man," said Patrick. "Before that, you need only admit me to see Old
Iron Skirts."

Higgins
smiled for the first time since encountering Patrick this evening. He had
little love for Iron Skirts, and it pleased him to be putting one over on her.
He was beginning to think he might enjoy this after all! It might even
compensate for the guilt he'd feel at betraying his employer. Besides, he'd
already been feeling guilty for keeping Her Grace confined. And helping the
brother and the Irishwoman rescue her was a damned sight preferable to being at
the mercy of the big man, or worse, this hellish hound of theirs.

"The
critical thing," Megan was saying, "is to take advantage of any
distractions available. You say she insisted you be home tomorrow afternoon
because she's expecting someone for tea?"

"Lady
Bunbury, yes," nodded Higgins.

"Perfect,"
said Patrick. "We'll time it so that I arrive just as Bunbury is leaving.
That way Iron Skirts will already be in the drawing room and I can prevail upon
her to offer me a cup of tea. It will give Megan more time."

"You
must listen at the door," instructed Megan, "and when Lady Bunbury
rises to depart, go to the other front room—the library, isn't it?—and twitch
the draperies at the window two times. We'll be in our carriage outside the
courtyard, waiting for your signal... and, Higgins?"

"Yes,
miss?"

"The
beasties will be with us."

Higgins's
eyes flickered to the pig at her feet, and then grew wider as they swung to the
great shaggy animal beside her. He swallowed and nodded.

"Good.
We're all set, then," said Patrick. "I'll let you off a bit of a
distance from King Street, just to take no chances of anyone seeing you with
us, and then, love," he added, looking at Megan, "you and I must make
a stop at the dressmaker's."

While
Patrick and Megan were en route to Madame Gautier's a few blocks away, Brett
stood pondering the locked door of Ashleigh's chamber. It had been a hellish
three days for him, with the nights the worst of all, and tonight didn't
promise to be any better. When he'd first decided to kidnap her and bring her
here, there'd been little in his mind but the need to lash out and punish her
for what she'd done—for revenge. But now that he had her under his roof and
totally at his mercy, he found little satisfaction in it; if anything, he'd
learned revenge is a double-edged sword, quite capable of cutting the one who
wields it, as well as the one at whom it is aimed.

He
should be enjoying the humiliation of this woman who had attempted to desert
him! Why wasn't he? Why, after his government business was done each day, did
he find it necessary to inundate himself with brandy and a string of faceless
women, before he could bring himself back here at night? Upon awakening each
morning, why did he almost run from the sight of her sweetly sleeping face,
eager to throw himself into an endless series of meetings and the like, those
boring yet time-consuming rounds of duty that he hoped would drain his thoughts
of unwanted things, but that never quite managed to do so?