The Wild One (40 page)

Chapter 32

Friday afternoon.

Six hours to go before the fight with
Scotland's dreaded Butcher.

And no Lucien.

Gareth had spent the morning pacing the
floor like a caged lion, jumping at every sound of voices outside,
wondering if he was overreacting. After all, he had no hard proof,
only suspicions, and it would be damned embarrassing if Lucien came
charging in, only to find that Gareth had built a mountain out of a
molehill ...

He stalked to the window and glanced
nervously outside. Juliet was there in the vegetable garden,
squatting down and planting seeds in the narrow furrow she had dug.
He let out his breath with relief. He must've checked her ten times
in the last five minutes at least. Must've checked Charlotte, who
was crawling around on the floor playing with the rattle he had
made for her out of a hollowed out piece of wood filled with coins,
ten times more than that.

He resumed his pacing, and Charlotte looked
up at him with her big blue eyes, watching him go back and forth,
back and forth like an inmate at Bedlam.

Gareth paused.
What are you worrying so
about?
those eyes, so like Charles's, seemed to say, and he
suddenly relaxed, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. Two
apparently drugged fighters and the word of a chemist and he was
off like a ball from a cannon. Shaking his head at his own
skittishness, he let out a sigh and dropped down beside his little
girl. Immediately, she scrambled over to him as fast as her hands
and knees could take her and climbed happily up into his lap. He
picked her up. Her very presence was a balm to his nerves, a
reassurance that purity and innocence still shone in a world that
had, of late, seemed dominated by wickedness and evil.

But it soon became obvious that Charlotte
wanted more than just a cuddle. Eventually, she began to get
restless, and Gareth had learned enough about her to recognize
immediately what she wanted.

"Hungry, Charlie-girl?"

Raising himself to his knees, he picked up
the bowl he'd excitedly prepared a few minutes ago and sat down,
anticipation lighting up his face. Charlotte was beginning to eat
solid food now, which delighted him beyond words because that meant
he could have a hand in feeding her. Still, Juliet had looked
dubious when she'd left him with the baby an hour before.
Mash
up her food carefully,
she had instructed him, explaining the
procedure with as much care as if she'd been advising an overeager
two-year-old, going on and on while he'd stood there and nodded and
nodded and nodded.
Make sure there are no lumps in it, and don't
make her eat it all if she doesn't want it.

He realized his first mistake as he dug the
spoon into the bowl and eagerly began to feed the baby. "Hmmm …
perhaps I should have mashed up the peas or even the carrots,
instead of these red beets left over from supper last night," he
mused, aloud. Indeed, it soon became difficult to know who was
faring worse in this new venture — his daughter, now smeared from
head to toe in red beet pulp, or her papa, who had it all over his
fingers and in his lap. Charlotte looked up at him and smiled
through the mess. Gareth guffawed. Ah, hell. They were both
laughing and having fun.

They were half-way through the bowl when a
loud hammering at the door nearly caused Gareth to jump out of his
skin.
Lucien.
Scooping up the baby and holding her easily in
one arm, he went to open it — and found Perry and the rest of the
Den of Debauchery standing just outside.

"Bloody hell!" Perry's jaw nearly hit the
floor. "What on earth have you done to her?!"

Gareth looked at Charlotte and fully
comprehended just what a mess the two of them had made. Huge red
blotches stained the delicate skin of the baby's face. Her hands
were bright red, her dress was ruined, and bits of crimson pulp
clung to her chin.
Oh, hell
, he thought wildly,
Juliet's
going to kill me!

He grabbed up a napkin from the table and
began scrubbing at Charlotte's face, to no avail. "Damnation!" he
cried, much to Perry's amusement and the guffaws of the others.

"Playing papa to the hilt, are you,
Gareth?"

"So much for
your
days of
debauchery!"

"I say, next thing you know, he'll be
changing napkins — ha, ha, ha!"

"Sod off," Gareth said, realizing how much
he had
not
missed their immaturity. He was in no mood for
their silly antics, their teasing, nor Chilcot, who had grabbed
Charlotte's rattle and was shaking it in his face with relentless
obnoxiousness. He seized Chilcot's wrist and all but ripped the
rattle from his fingers. "What are you all doing here, anyhow?"

"Why, we've come to see you fight
tonight."

"Yes, there are posters up all over
Ravenscombe: 'Will the Scotsman Butcher the Wild One?' Oh, they're
playing this up big, Gareth. You're a celebrity!"

Gareth swore under his breath. "Listen," he
said, "I'm glad you're here because I believe something evil is
going on, and I may need your help."

"What are you talking about?"

Hurriedly, he explained to them what he had
learned and what he suspected.

"Yes, but Gareth, you can't
prove
any
of this —"

"No, I can't.
Yet.
But I will. A man
has died, and I shan't rest until I expose the snake who murdered
him."

~~~~

Eager to explore the town, the Den members
did not stay long, but Gareth at least felt reassured that they
were there in Abingdon. Chilcot was a fool, the others thought it
was all a big adventure, and only Perry seemed to take him
seriously. Good old Perry. He knew he could depend on his best
friend.

But damn it, where was Lucien?

It was now just past four o'clock, and the
fight was scheduled for six. Gareth had expected the duke to come
charging in like death on the back of a black horse, but there'd
been no note from him, no acknowledgement of the one he'd sent, and
worse, no Lucien. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

He went to the window and stared out over
the river, his hands in his pockets. In the distance, the pastoral
hills off toward Culham, opaque with haze, rose blue-green against
the sky.

Come on, Lucien. Where the hell are you?

A sharp knock sounded on the door
downstairs. He heard Juliet — who, thank God, had decided the
beetroot stains were not worth killing him over — crossing the
floor to answer it. A moment later, he heard Becky's distressed
voice.

"Gareth!" It was Juliet calling up to him,
her voice urgent. "Come quickly!"

He spun on his heel and took the stairs
three at a time. In the foyer stood Becky and her younger brother,
Tom. Becky looked pale and shaken, her eyes red from crying.

"What's this, now?" he asked, gently putting
an arm around the shoulders of each and ushering them into the
sitting room. "Sit down and tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, Lord Gareth — Tom's got somethink awful
to tell ye!"

And as Tom, rubbing the back of his head,
began to speak, it soon became apparent why Lucien had not come.
Tom had not even made it out of Abingdon when something — or
someone — spooked his horse. He remembered falling, then someone
charging up on him in the darkness — and nothing more than that.
Next thing he'd known, he opened his eyes to find himself lying in
a back street of Oxford, bound, gagged and nursing a headache a
hundred times worse than any hangover. It had taken him the better
part of the day to free himself and find his way home.

"And what happened to the letter I gave
you?" Gareth pressed.

"Gone, m'lord. Me mare was waitin' for me
back 'ome, but the saddlebags, they was gone."

Gareth swore and, running a hand through his
hair, met Juliet's eyes from across the room. She was as white as
the starched mobcap that crowned her glossy curls.

She shook her head very slowly, from side to
side. "Gareth, you cannot fight tonight. Someone now knows what
you
know, and your life could very well be in danger."

"But Juliet, I have to fight."

"No. You do
not
have to fight."

"There are people coming from all over
England! There are thousands of pounds being bet on this! If I
don't fight, I shall never live this down, never be able to hold my
head up again, because everyone will think I'm a coward — why,
we'll have to leave the country, for God's sake!"

Her expression had gone stony. She raised
her chin, hugged her arms to herself, and stared defiantly at him
from across the room. "Gareth, I
beg
you not to do this
fight."

"Juliet, I beg
you
to
understand."

"There is nothing to understand. Your life
is in danger.
I do not want you fighting tonight.
"

Gareth threw a quick glance over his
shoulder at Becky and Tom, who read the unspoken message there and
beat a hasty exit. And then, changing tactics, Gareth crossed the
room to his wife. He slid his hands up her arms, trying to loosen
them. She had no more give than a locked door.

"Dearest," he said, leaning down to kiss her
brow, her temple, putting a finger beneath her jaw to raise her
face to his. He lowered his mouth to hers and found it stiff and
unyielding. Angry. "I promise you that nothing shall happen to me
tonight."

She tightened her arms, refusing to let him
seduce her into agreement. "And I promise you, Gareth, that if you
go through with this fight, I'm leaving."

He pulled back, stunned. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I thought you were going to stick by me,
support me. Damn it, Juliet, you've been saying all along that you
have faith in me; here's your chance to prove it!"

"I'm not staying here to watch you die. I
have a little girl to take care of. Go meet the Butcher tonight if
you have to, Gareth, but I'll tell you right now that you'll be
coming home to an empty house — that is,
if
you come home at
all."

"Juliet!"

"Make your choice, Gareth. Your pride or
your family." And with that, she turned on her heel and left him
standing there in the middle of the floor.

All alone.

~~~~

"
What do you mean, you won't fight the
Butcher tonight?
" Panicking, Snelling waved Lord Gareth into
Swanthorpe's lavishly appointed parlor, impatiently gesturing for a
servant to bring a decanter of wine and two glasses. "Everyone in
town's talking about this fight! People are coming from three
counties to see it! You can't back out on me now, it'll be a damned
mob scene!"

The young fighter was adamant. "Forget it,
Snelling. I am not doing it."

Snelling's heart was pounding, then racing,
as he tried frantically to think of a way to salvage this emergency
situation.
Calm down!
he told himself, wiping suddenly
sweaty palms on his breeches.
Find out what the problem is and
then do what you have to do to get him back on course.
"Now,
you sit right there and tell me what's wrong," he soothed, using
the parental tone that had often worked with other nervy young
fighters. But he knew he'd taken the wrong approach the moment he
saw the sudden coolness in Lord Gareth's pale eyes; the lad might
be confused, possibly even scared, but he was certainly not a
boy.

Bloody hell, does he
know?
He
can't know, only Woodford and I know, he's just got a case of
nerves, that's all it is!

He began sweating as he thought of how much
money he'd wagered on the Scot and nearly keened with terror.
I'll lose everything I own if he doesn't meet the Butcher
tonight!

"I've had a bellyful, that's what's wrong,"
Lord Gareth said simply. "What more explanation do you need?"

That cool blue gaze bored into his.

Snelling began to fidget. The perspiration
was already beading on his brow, and he was thankful when the
servant arrived with the wine. His hand shaking, he poured two
glasses, setting one in front of Lord Gareth — who, he noted,
looked at it the way he might a poisonous adder and declined to
touch it. Did he know?
Did he?

"Ah, so
that's
it, you've lost your
courage, then!" Snelling said. He wiped his brow and managed to
find his politician's smile somewhere down in the abyss into which
it had fallen. "Happens to the best of them, you know. And you
are
the best, Gareth, probably the best in all England. Knew
it the first time I saw you fight." He gulped his wine. "Now, I
know you might be a little nervous but that's understandable, after
all, the Butcher's got a reputation to strike fear into the heart
of
anyone
; but damn, that shouldn't scare you, there's not a
man in England who can hit like you. Why, look at the two worthies
you've already defeated! Three, if you count Joe Lumford back in
London! You're a natural, lad. A damned natural. You'll take the
Butcher down by the third round. I'll lay money on it!"

Lord Gareth only stared at him for a moment,
then looked away, his eyes bleak.

"I know, I know, it's because of what
happened to Nails, isn't it? Now, Gareth, that was an accident. You
can't be blaming yourself for what happened —"

"I don't." The pale blue eyes looked at him
directly, almost accusingly. "I just don't want to fight the
Butcher tonight. In fact, I don't want to fight anyone. I am
through, Snelling. I've lost my stomach for it."

"But" —

Lord Gareth stood up. "I am taking my family
and going home."

A torrent of raw, uncontrollable rage blew
through Snelling, nearly blinding him. His hands trembled with the
effort it took to remain calm, and he knew, wildly, that if he'd
had a gun, he would've pulled it out and shot this arrogant young
rake dead in his tracks. But he had no gun. He had only the
terrifying knowledge of how much money he'd put on the Butcher
tonight — and how much he would lose if Lord Gareth did not
fight.