This Rake of Mine (34 page)

Pulling the plug on the keg, she stuffed an end of the fusing into it, her hands shaking, her heart hammering.

Oh, what was she thinking? She couldn't blow up Alton's Folly. It was hardly sensible and in no way proper.

Well, she had no need for propriety now. For she had to imagine that if she survived this night, the first thing she'd do was anything but proper. She'd find Jack and make him finish what he'd started all those years ago.

With his kiss.

The thought of Jack, his kiss, his arms around her, buoyed her courage.

And when the large, looming man came up through the hole in the floor, went to the window and aimed a pistol at the beach below, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Jack and Temple worked their way up the path, keeping to the shadows but still drawing the fire of their unknown, unseen assailant.

Finally Jack spied where the shots were coming from.

"He's up in the tower," he whispered over to Temple.

The man nodded and drew his pistol, for the marquis was a crack shot and if anyone could hit a target or an enemy, it was Temple.

Jack glanced back down at the beach to see if everyone was safe. He counted one by one, until he came up short.

Where the devil was Miranda?

Then he remembered what Bruno had said.

Miss Porter is fetching the manacles out of the tower.

He reached over and snatched Temple's arm down just as he fired, the bullet pinging off the stone wall, far from its target.

"What the devil did you do that for?"

"Miranda is up there," Jack told him.

"Miranda who?" Temple asked.

"Miranda Mabberly."

Temple looked at him closely. "You haven't been hit, have you?"

Jack shook his head.

"Because then I must be, for I thought you said Miranda Mabberly is in that tower."

"She is."

Another shot pierced the night, this time ripping into the side of Temple's coat. "First my hat, and now my new coat. This fellow is immensely vexing and positively knows nothing about good fashion."

They scrambled up a little higher, gaining better cover. "Save your droll remarks for Town," Jack told him. "We need to get to Miranda."

Shooting another glance up at the tower and then one over at Jack, Temple said, "Are you telling me that you believe Miss Mabberly, the woman you ruined all those years ago, the woman, I would like to point out, who is
dead
, is the one shooting at us?"

"No!"

Temple heaved a sigh of relief. "That's good, because I thought you'd gone around the bend for certain. I've told Pymm I don't know how many times that he needs to let you come up to London periodically. That house of yours is enough to make anyone dicked in the nob, but living without—"

"Shut up, Templeton," Jack told his friend as they eased their way up the final few feet to the top of the cliff. "Miranda Mabberly is in that tower."

Temple rubbed his forehead, as if trying to make sense of the insensible. "This life has turned you mad. Diana is right—I'll be as odd as Pymm in a few more years, and now I am starting to believe her. Look at you."

Jack was done explaining, or trying to explain. He needed to figure out how to get into the tower and stop this fellow without harming Miranda.

So they could find a way to reconcile all their differences. He still couldn't quite believe it.

Proper Miss Porter, breaking a man out of prison.

While it didn't explain the lies that lay between them, the lost years, it gave Jack a glimpse of a woman he'd always suspected lurked behind that tight chignon, beneath that overlaced corset.

And when he held her in his arms again, he swore he'd find a way to undo everything.

Including her corset.

"Let me get this straight," Temple was saying. "You think a deceased debutante is up in your cousin's folly?"

Another shot ripped past them, this one hitting the heel of Temple's boot, damaging his glossy Hessians. "That is an insult no man can endure," he said, and this time he aimed his pistol before Jack could stop him and would have fired if it hadn't been for one small problem.

Albin's Folly, the poor man's enduring monument to his lost love, the lighthouse that had guided spies and friends across the Channel, exploded above them.

Torches and lanterns, ropes and tools were fetched as quickly as possible, but that didn't deter Jack from digging in the rubble with his bare hands in search of the one thing he feared the most.

Finding Miranda.

The top of the tower had been demolished in the explosion, with the stones and rubble falling inward and around it. It truly looked now like an ancient relic, charred and damaged by time.

As they waded into the debris, Jack nearly stumbled over the body of a man. Once they'd pulled him free and rolled him over, Temple stepped back and shook his head.

"It cannot be," he whispered, catching up the torch that Birdwell held and bringing it closer. "Jean-Marc Marden? How is this possible?"

The other Frenchman was brought forward, and with some convincing, he explained how this man, of all men, was here…

And what the wily spy wouldn't tell, Temple filled in.

The marquis had captured and stopped Jean-Marc Marden, one of Napoleon's most dangerous agents, nearly a year before (and saved his beloved Diana in the process). However, Marden had managed to escape the English authorities and had come searching for his adversary and all those connected with him.

"He sought revenge for all he'd lost," their captive told them.

"And may have gained it," Jack said softly, his heart torn with grief.

Undaunted by Marden's fate, Temple and Jack dug through the rabble, pulling aside the heavy stones, digging through the wreckage of the explosion. It wasn't until dawn that Jack spied a hint of red hair peeking out from beneath the buried stairwell.

Quickly, he and Temple tore away the stones that lay around her. At first, Jack's worst fears seemed to be true—she was truly lost. Then Temple pressed forward, placed his fingers to the lady's neck, and said the words that gave Jack hope.

"I think she's alive."

When she was freed, Jack carried Miranda all the way back to the house and laid her in the music room.

Everyone gathered around and waited for the surgeon who had been summoned.

"This is your fault," Jack said, pointing a finger at Aunt Josephine.

"My fault?" she said. "I don't see how—"

"Only you would come up with such a harebrained scheme. Going down to the beach with two schoolgirls, no less. Breaking into a jail."

"Saving your life," Felicity muttered.

"I'll get to you, Miss Langley, in a moment," Jack told her, before he turned back to his aunt and started giving her a wigging that would have put Miss Emery to shame.

Temple pulled the girl aside. "Let him scold, Duchess. He's in a foul mood and of no mind to listen."

"None of this would have happened if he had just admitted he has a
tendre
for Miss Porter," she protested.

"Miss Porter?" Temple asked.

Felicity nodded over at the sofa. "Our decorum teacher. At least she was until the end of this term. She inherited a large fortune last winter and is off to live in Kent, and they will never realize that they are meant to be together." She sighed. "Lord John thinks he is cursed to remain true for the rest of his life to his long-lost Miss Mabberly. Uncle Temple, can't you convince him otherwise? Miss Porter is the perfect lady for him, if only he'd believe."

Temple took another look at the woman on the sofa. The red hair, the face. Then he looked a little bit harder.

No, it couldn't be.

For dear God, Jack wasn't mad. This Miss Porter
was
Miranda Mabberly. Alive all these years.

It had been nine years since he'd last seen her, a girl barely older than Felicity, and betrothed to the Earl of Oxley. The mere thought of that arrangement still made him nauseous. But he had never forgotten her, and had thought her death a terrible shame. Now he realized that old Mathias Mabberly's grief hadn't been so much at the loss of his daughter but at his inability to marry the scandal-ridden heiress to some other worthless, easily manipulated sot like Oxley.

"Duchess, my dear girl, I wouldn't worry about Jack," he told her.

Besides, the man was still ringing a peel over his aunt's head. "And furthermore, now my folly has been blown up—"

"There is a jest in that statement somewhere," Temple mused to no one in particular, "but I daresay now isn't the time."

"It wasn't her fault," came a weak voice.

Jack turned. "Pippin, I don't see how you—" His face paled as he realized that the confession hadn't come from her.

"Do stop scolding everyone, Jack," Miranda told him, her eyes open at half mast. "You are giving me a frightful megrim with all your yammering."

He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees and taking her hand in his. "You're all right."

"Of course I am," she said, struggling to rise, but he held her down.

"Stay still until the doctor has a chance to look you over."

She opened her eyes and looked around. "How did I get here?" Then, as if the events of the night came back in a rush, she struggled up, despite Jack's hold. "The tower. I was in Albin's Folly."

"Yes, and it blew up," Jack told her. "The Frenchman who was there, shooting at us, his name was Marden. He must have used the powder keg in the chest as a last resort. Perhaps in hopes of destroying the tower."

She shook her head. "No, that's not it at all. He didn't blow it up."

Jack sat back and stared at her. "If Marden didn't, then who did?"

" 'T'was me."

"Mademoiselle, get up and stand where I can see you," the man by the window said in a low and deadly voice.

Miranda reluctantly rose, leaving behind the powder keg but carefully unwinding the fuse coil behind her.

"
Très bon
." he said. "If you dare move or say a word, my next bullet will be for you."

Silence filled the tower, and Miranda didn't know what to do.

"Do you understand?" he snapped at her.

"Of course," she bit back, suddenly finding a bit of irony in the situation. "But you told me not to speak."

He snorted, as if he had to admire her spunk. "You have a sharp tongue for a woman who is going to die."

"Then I might as well put it to good use," Miranda said brazenly, realizing the more she spoke, the less time he had to shoot. "Who are you?"

"That is unimportant," he told her, firing down at her friends.

She flinched at the sharp retort. And did so again as he pulled another pistol from his jacket and took aim. "It is important to me," she insisted. "I'd like to know the name of the man I am going to consign to perdition."

He laughed a little. "You think so? Then if you must know, it is Marden. Jean-Marc Marden." He bowed his head slightly to her.

"Monsieur Marden, why don't you just put that gun down. Perhaps we could settle all this—"

The man whirled around and aimed the pistol at her. " 'This,' as you so blithely put it, will be settled when I have killed my enemies, the men who have ruined my career." His voice held a tightness to it that hinted to Miranda what his "career" might be.

Goodness, what was it about this spy business that made all the people involved ever so unhinged?

But that might make it to her advantage, since her only claim to insanity was when she was near Jack.

Jack…

The urge to stop this man, to end all this madness filled her heart with courage and a rage that burned like a torch. She'd bring an end to this Marden before he harmed Jack or anyone else.

The Frenchman fired again, then reloaded, which he did with alarming speed.

But in those precious seconds, Miranda hoped she just might have time to…

Glancing back behind her at the black and eerie stairwell, she paused, then fingered the fuse coil in her hands, mentally measuring the length and trying to calculate the seconds it would take to ignite the keg…

Her father had dealt in these goods and she knew them well, though that didn't mean she'd ever done something like this.

Mostly because she also knew what would happen if she failed.

Miranda took a slow, deep breath. No, she couldn't consider the notion that she wouldn't make it down in time. She just had to.

Marden was taking aim again, and while he did, she got the flint out of her pocket. She'd have to get it lit on the first strike, for there would be no other chances.

The beast fired, and Miranda sent up a small, urgent prayer that his bullet was like his intent—unbalanced.

Marden cursed, and not in a triumphant way, so Miranda had to believe her plea had been answered. He'd missed.

Just let his next shot go awry as well…

Even as he fired, the retort echoing piercingly through the tower, she took her chance and struck the flint.

It sparked, and for a second nothing happened. She thought for certain that she'd failed, but then the fuse ignited, in a hissing, burning fury.

Miranda dropped it to the ground and fled down the stairs, in an equally furious flight.

Ten… nine… eight, she counted as she whirled down the staircase. Above her she heard Marden curse again, and this time it wasn't because he'd missed.

Five… four… three…

Oh, dear heavens, she'd never make it to the bottom in time.

And so she leaped into the darkness, falling the last story. She hit the ground even as the powder keg exploded.

Rolling beneath the stairs, she looked up to find the tower blasting into a shower of flames. She ducked and covered herself, with only one last thought, one tiny prayer rising from the bottom of her heart, the depth of her soul, and hopefully above the din around her.

Please, let me have just one more kiss from that rake of mine…

Miranda finished her story, and Jack stared at her in disbelief.

Miss Porter, Miss Proper By-the-Book, Decorum-Loving Porter had blown up Albin's Folly.