On A Wicked Dawn (56 page)

“Amelia!”

She turned back, met Anne's eyes. “I truly can't stop now, but I promise we'll explain all tomorrow morning. Please—just go back to bed.”

Fervently hoping Anne would do so, Amelia hurried out, closing the bedroom door behind her. She started down the corridor, then remembered Emily. She paused by Emily's door, listening, then eased it open. She tiptoed in, just close enough to be sure Emily was still sound asleep—doubtless dreaming innocent—or possibly not so innocent—dreams.

Inwardly sighing with relief, she retreated, then hurried on toward the stairs. At their head, she came upon Helena and Minerva being escorted down by Simon.

Simon looked up. “They've got her.”

“I know. I saw.”

Minerva sighed. “The poor child. We'll have to get to the bottom of this, for I simply will not believe it was all her doing. She was
never
a bad girl.” She paused, one hand gripping the balustrade, a frown forming in her eyes. Then she glanced upward. “Someone should check on Portia and Penelope.” Minerva glanced at Amelia.

She nodded. “I will. Then I'll come down.”

Minerva resumed her descent. “Tell them they must stay in their beds.”

Already headed up the stairs, Amelia doubted any such injunction was likely to stop those two; to her mind, their only hope was that they'd slept soundly and hadn't been disturbed.

That hope was dashed the instant she cracked open Portia's door—and discovered Luc's younger sisters fully dressed, leaning far out of the window, presumably watching Fiona being led into the house two floors below.

She stepped inside, shut the door with a click. “What do the pair of you think you're doing?”

They glanced back at her; not a glimmer of guilt showed in either face.

“We're observing the culmination of your plan.” Penelope turned back to the window.

“They've got her inside.” Portia straightened, then walked to Amanda.

Penelope followed. “I really didn't think the plan would work, but it has. I did think it might be Fiona—she was at all the places where things were taken, after all.” She fixed her spectacled gaze on Amelia's face. “Do we have any idea why she did it?”

Amelia had no idea where to start in the task of putting these two in their place. She wasn't even sure it was possible. Nevertheless, she drew a deep breath. “I bear a message from your mama—you're to stay in your beds.”

Both girls looked at her as if she'd run mad.

“What?” Portia said. “While all this is going on—“

“You expect us meekly to close our eyes and fall asleep?”

One breath wasn't going to be enough. “No, but—“

Amelia broke off, raised her head. Listened.

Portia and Penelope did, too. An instant later, they all heard it again—a muffled scream. They rushed to the window.

“Can you see . . . ?” Amelia asked.

They all scanned the gardens, even darker now; the moon was rapidly waning.

“There!” Penelope pointed across the lawn to where two struggling figures were just discernible on the path beside the rose garden.

“Who . . . ?” Amelia asked, but the clenching of her heart told her.

“Well, if Fiona's downstairs,” Portia said, “then that must be Anne.”

“The fool!” Penelope said. “How senseless.”

Amelia didn't stop to argue; she was already out of the door.

“No—just think,” Portia said. “That man must be part of the syndicate—“

Amelia left them to their deductions—they were better at it than her—and with luck it would keep them where they were, arguing, well out of harm's way. She plunged down the main stairs, screaming for Luc, knowing she dared not stop to explain.

As far as she'd been able to see, the man—whoever he was—had his hands around Anne's throat.

“
Luc!
” She hit the front hall at a run, skidded on the tiles as she turned and flung herself down the east corridor. Via the garden hall was the fastest route to Anne—she took it without thinking.

She burst onto the lawn, much closer to the struggling pair—still struggling, thank God! As she pounded on, she realized, and called, “Anne!
Anne!
”

The larger figure stilled, then the configuration rearranged itself—then with a curse she heard, the man flung Anne aside and raced for the wood.

She was gasping when she reached Anne; at least the blackguard had flung her onto the lawn, not into the stone wall. Anne was coughing, gasping, struggling to sit up. Amelia helped her to sit. “Who was it? Do you know?”

Anne shook her head. “But—“ She wheezed, then tried gamely again, “I think he was among the guests last night.” She hauled in another breath. “He thought I was Fiona.” Her fingers clutched Amelia's. “If you hadn't called . . . he was trying to kill me—her. As soon as he looked and realized I wasn't her . . .”

Amelia patted her shoulder. “Stay here.” She looked at the darkness of the wood. She had to make an immediate decision. Had Fiona taken the necklace and passed it on before being caught? She didn't know. Nor did Anne. “When Luc comes, tell him I've followed the man—I'm not going to tackle him, just keep him in sight until Luc and the others reach us.”

Freeing her fingers from Anne's, Amelia rose and ran on. The path led straight into the wood; the trees closed around
her, enclosing her in gloom. She hurried on, no longer running but moving fast, her slipper-shod feet padding all but silently on the leaf-strewn paths. She knew these woods, not as well as Luc did, but better than anyone who'd only recently come to the area possibly could.

There were only so many ways the man could go; it was easy to guess he'd veer to the east, putting as much distance between himself and the Chase as he could. She doubted he'd keep running—crashing along the narrow tracks would invite pursuit—so with luck . . .

Ten minutes into the wood, her decision bore fruit. She caught a glimpse of a large shadowy figure through the trees ahead. A minute later, she saw him clearly.

He was walking, striding along, quickly but without panic.

Silent and determined, she settled to track him.

Astonished, Anne watched Amelia disappear into the wood, her throat too raw to voice any protest. As soon as she'd caught her breath, she struggled to her feet and limped back to the house.

She didn't have to go far to find Luc. He was standing on the path outside the east wing, looking up at the window high above from which Portia and Penelope hung, yelling and gesticulating toward the rose garden and the wood.

They saw Anne, and shrieked, “There she is!”

Luc swung around, then he was beside her, hugging her, holding her. “Are you all right?”

Anne nodded. “Amelia . . .”

Luc felt his heart plummet. “Where is she?”

He held Anne away from him and looked into her face.

She coughed, then hoarsely enunciated, “In the woods—she said to tell you she wasn't going to try and catch him, just keep him in sight until you came . . .”

He smothered a curse—an expression of sheer horror Anne didn't need to hear. Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed Anne toward the house. “Go inside—tell the others.”

His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.

Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular thud of the man's boots; he wasn't trying to skulk but was steadily tramping on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.

He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing—one trip over a tree root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home, assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.

The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot in front of the other.

Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she craned her head, trying to fix his direction—her foot hit an exposed root. She stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole—and snapped off a dry twig.

The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.

She froze.

About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited—only then remembered that her gown, the walking gown she'd changed into, was primrose yellow. If she was visible from where he was. . . .

Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same direction.

She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more cautiously than before.

He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she'd lost the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that signified man.

Yet . . . she couldn't see how she'd lost him.

Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.

Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her slippers whispering on the soft leaves.

She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.

She glanced back.

Gasped.

Whirled to face the man she'd been following.

His bulk blocked the path between her and the Chase. He was tall and wide, with close-cropped dark hair . . . her mouth dropped open as she recognized the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.

He smiled—evilly. “Well, well—how helpful.”

Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. “Don't be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way.”

Her only hope was to keep him talking—here and as loudly as possible—for as long as she could.

He took a swaggering step forward, eyes narrowing when she only tilted her chin higher; she'd had years of dealing with men who sought to intimidate with sheer size. Apparently accepting she was not about to make a bolt for it—into the dense woods—she knew how far she would get—he halted and looked down at her, lip curling with contempt.

“Ah, but you will help me, you see—to a nice slice of your husband's wealth. I don't know what happened back there”—with his head, he indicated the Chase—“but I'm experienced enough to know when to cut my losses.” His chilling
smile returned. “And when to seize an opportunity fate throws my way.”

He tensed to step forward and grasp her arm; she stopped him with an utterly patronizing look. “If you really are clever enough to know when to cut and run, then you'd better start running. There's absolutely no possibility my husband will pay very much for my safe return, if that's the direction your mind is taking.”

His smile didn't waver; he nodded. “That's my tack, right enough, but you can save your breath—I've seen the way he looks at you.”

She blinked. “You have? How?”

The look he gave her suggested he wasn't sure what her tack was. “Like he'd cut off his right arm before he'd let you go.”

She fought not to grin delightedly. “No.” Lips pinched, she stuck her nose in the air. “You're quite wrong you know—he never did love me. Our marriage was arranged.”

He gave a disgusted snort. “You can stow the guff. If it'd been Edward, I might have believed you, but that brother of his always was a painfully straight dealer. Arranged or not, he'll pay, and pay well, to have you back unharmed—without any public fuss.”

His eyes narrowed to mean and heartless shards as he emphasized the last words. He went to step forward.

Again she stopped him, this time with an abject sigh. “I can see I'm going to have to tell you the truth.”

She glanced up through her lashes, could see the urge to get on, get away, taking her with him, war with the need to know why she thought his plan doomed. He knew better than to argue, but . . .

“What truth?”

It came out as a growl, a warning to be quick.

She hesitated, then asked, “What's your name?”

His eyes glittered. “Jonathon Kirby, although what that's got to do with—“

“I do like to know to whom I'm confessing.”

“So tell me—and make it quick. We don't have all night.”

She lifted her head. “Very well, Mr. Kirby. The truth I apparently need to confess to you concerns the how and why of my marriage. Which is also the reason my husband won't pay any great sum for my return.”

She rushed on, speaking the words as fast as they came into her head, knowing she had to keep him there for just a little longer—Luc and the others couldn't be far away. “I said our marriage was arranged, and it was—for money. He doesn't have much—well, that's an understatement—he doesn't really have any, not . . . well, what one might call cash as such. Land he has, but you can't eat land, can you?—and you certainly can't gown girls for their come-outs in hay—so you see, it was imperative he marry for money, and so we did, so he got my dowry, but with all the urgent bills and the repairs and so on—well, if you've been about here for more than a day, you must have seen the working gangs—so what I'm trying to say is that there's hardly any left, and he won't pay you much because he can't.”