A Lady's Revenge (2 page)

Guy cracked the butt of his pistol against the guard’s temple and dragged him inside the last of the empty cells. He glanced back at Danforth, who hovered in the shadows, holding a precious bundle of feminine skin and bones in his arms. As he stared at the two deBeaus, a heavy weight of dread pressed down on his shoulders.

What if he couldn’t get them to safety? What if one of them died during their escape? He closed his eyes briefly, pushing back the pain. For as far back as he could remember, the deBeaus had been a part of his life. Every time his parents had found some new pleasure, they had readily abandoned their only son to unsuspecting family and friends, or they simply left him at Eton and made him the headmaster’s problem.

The boisterous and unconventional deBeaus had given him more than a place to stay for a few weeks. They had given him a glimpse of what a real family could be,
should
be. They had given him a home.

He set his jaw and motioned Danforth forward. No one was going to bloody die. No one.

Then he caught a glimpse of Cora’s wide-eyed countenance as Danforth strode by and felt another volley slam into his chest.

Sweet Jesus, she was a mess. And frightened as hell.

He wished he could sweep away her time in Valère’s dungeon like a broom swipes cobwebs from a darkened corner. But he couldn’t, and the realization nearly destroyed him.

How long had she been held captive? How long had she suffered? Questions without answers ricocheted through his mind in an endless, haphazard circle.

Getting Cora to safety was his only clear thought. The mystery of the empty cells, the absence of the Raven, and the reason for Cora’s presence in Valère’s dungeon all paled in comparison to getting out of this warren of dank passages that teemed with squealing rodents and rotting refuse.

Guy bent to retrieve the guard’s lantern and then led the way toward the secret portal they had used to enter the Frenchman’s lair. “This way.”

Every corridor he turned down looked the same as the last. The same musty smell, the same abysmal darkness. There were no chambers here, only unbroken stone wall. Even the floors were more primitive, nothing but hard-packed dirt.

None of it mattered, though. Guy had memorized every turn in direction and every change in elevation. Had ticked off each alteration in his head, one by one, storing them in a compartment until it came time to use the information. The underground system of passages proved no challenge for his near-perfect memory.

“Helsford, wait,” Danforth said.

Guy came to an abrupt halt and swiveled to look at his friend, who had his ear cocked toward the unlit tunnel behind them. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

Mimicking Danforth’s stance, he strained to isolate the noise that had caught the viscount’s attention. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing penetrated the silence.

Could he have missed a chamber somehow? Had Danforth picked up the distinctive rattle of a prisoner’s chains or someone’s moan of distress? Cora’s frail hand clutched the lapel of her brother’s coat with a desperation that tore at Guy’s heart. In that moment, he no longer cared about the consequences of leaving England’s most valuable spy behind. Whatever punishment Somerton and his conscience dealt out later, he would accept.

Right now, he had two friends to protect, and his world narrowed down to that singular, inviolable goal.

“Danforth,” he warned, eager to be away. Then he heard the sounds of pursuit. Masculine shouting and pounding feet echoed through the dungeon, pulsing down a multitude of passages, making it difficult to gauge their enemy’s location. He locked eyes with his friend and found the same feral determination to survive this night that pumped hotly through his own veins.

“Go,” Danforth urged. “Run.”

Guy was already turning away. No longer concerned with stealth, they bolted the final distance, nearly missing the portal leading to the outside. The flush surface of the door blended with the dungeon’s wall in both color and texture, giving the illusion of another unbroken corridor.

He stood to the right of the door, waving the lantern in a systematic pattern, searching for the small, rectangular protrusion. When he found it, he handed the lantern to Cora so he could use every bit of strength at his disposal.

With only the blunt tips of his fingers, he pulled and tugged at the stone device until he heard a distinctive click. The door cracked open and was followed swiftly by a suction of air. Now for the hard part. After three fortifying breaths, he braced one foot against the wall, curled his fingers around the door, and pulled.

“Hurry, Helsford.”

“I am,” he gritted out.

Nestled inside the stone façade sat a heavy iron door. The slab must have weighed as much as a horse, for his muscles stretched and groaned and strained. Earlier in the evening, with the two of them pushing it wide, the barrier had challenged his strength, but not like this gut-ripping test of pulling the damned thing open unassisted.

After what seemed like an eternity, he straightened and then squeezed through the twelve-inch gap. “Hand her to me.”

Silent until now, Cora shoved against her brother’s shoulders. “You needn’t toss me from one pair of hands to the next like a sack of grain. I can walk.”

Guy glanced at the stubborn set to her jaw, so familiar and dear. She never liked feeling weaker than them and would always push herself to try and match their strength, sometimes beyond what her body could bear. As she was now. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time for his usual cajoling methods to soften her hard head. He held out his arms. “The burns on the soles of your feet tell me otherwise.”

She turned her head away while Danforth maneuvered her through the narrow opening and handed her off to Guy.

When she stiffened in his arms and a soft whimper escaped past her lips, sweat broke out on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered against her burning temple.

Another shout from behind reached them, this time closer. Much closer.

“Go on,” Danforth said. “I’ll get the door.”

Guy wasted no more time. The narrow tunnel opened on the far side of the stables, a clever escape route built hundreds of years ago during one of France’s many religious wars. Whatever the reason for its existence, he was thankful for it.

And he was glad to be partnered with Danforth on this particular mission. The viscount’s special talent lay in his ability to charm secrets from the most skittish female, a trait Somerton had put to good use over the years.

Every powerful, self-serving man generally aligned himself with one of three types of women—a submissive woman, an embittered woman, or a stronger, more intelligent woman. Danforth had a way of flushing out a wife’s hidden desires and turning them to his advantage. The women divulged their husbands’ secrets, and Danforth satisfied their craving for a handsome, virile, attentive man’s devotion. His talent was both ruthless and effective.

Cora pressed her insubstantial weight against his arm, straightening her back. “How much farther?” she whispered.

Even in the dim light, he could see the battle she waged against an unseen foe. Had she sustained some type of internal injury? Broken rib? Punctured organ? Could she even now be bleeding to death? “Where are you hurt?”

She started to laugh, but it was cut short by a swift intake of breath. After a moment, she managed, “An easier question might be—where am I not?”

Unable to share her humor, he said, “Be specific.”

She sent him a cross look. “Ribs. Broken or bruised, I’m not sure which.”

Pausing midstride, he adjusted his hold. “Better?”

She nodded, releasing a breath. “Thank you.”

“The draught grows stronger, warmer—a good indication we’re nearing the entrance to the tunnel.” He resumed his ground-eating pace, terror prodding him to greater speeds. The sound of metal against rusted metal reached his ears, indicating Danforth was making progress. Incapable of completely setting aside his original mission, he asked, “Have you seen other Englishwomen here?”

The ends of her butchered hair brushed the underside of his chin. “No.”

He grew more and more weary of this damn espionage business. The out-and-out lies, the half-truths, the realities that were distasteful but necessary. Not knowing friend from foe. The life no longer held the glamour it once had. If not for a pair of anguished blue-green eyes, he would have moved on a few years ago.

He shook off the thought. His reasons for becoming a cryptographer for the Nexus no longer mattered. Over the past year, he had worked with Danforth on several cases and was grateful for the added distraction. His restlessness had increased over the last few months when Cora’s society reports to Somerton had become scarcer.

A few feet before the overgrown opening, Danforth overtook Guy and pushed the tangled vines aside.

Guy dragged in a deep breath. The cool night air washed away the oppressive stench of the dungeon. But the horrific image of Cora fettered like a rabid animal would stay with him forever.

Cora’s brother blew out the lantern and led the way to their awaiting horses.

Guy pressed his lips to Cora’s ear. “Almost there.”

Her head jerked once in acknowledgment.

He couldn’t help but notice the foul odor coming from her weightless body. Rage burned anew. When Guy returned to retrieve the Raven, he would make sure Valère paid for the atrocities he had forced on Cora.

They picked their way around protruding boulders, low-hanging limbs, and thorny bushes until they approached the area where their horses were tethered. Anxiety drove through Guy at the thought of Cora being jounced around on horseback at full gallop with a rib injury.

He glanced down and found her gaze probing the darkness.

Alert.

Tense.

Expectant.

She appeared so vulnerable wrapped in her brother’s coat, but her brutalized face revealed nothing but an unflinching resolve. Guy had always been protective of her as a child, but seeing her in this state, stripped of all vitality, heightened his natural instincts.

What the hell was she doing in Valère’s dungeon? The question continued to echo through his mind. The last he had heard she was still in Paris with her great-aunt, Lady Kavanagh, feeding
on
-
dits
of Parisian intrigue to Somerton.

Jesus.

The deep quiet of the forest was his first clue they were not alone. No insects chirped. No small animals scurried for cover. No wind whistled through the leaves.

The second clue came in the form of a hushed yet heated conversation beyond the low rise ahead.

Where they had left their horses.

A cold wave of anxious fury swept through Guy’s body. He crouched low, peering into the distance. Danforth followed suit.

Escape was impossible without their mounts. One hour before sunrise they had a rendezvous with a fishing boat that would take them to their awaiting ship.

The waning moon seemed to mock them with its steady descent to the horizon.

He backed up a dozen feet and deposited Cora inside a shrubby alcove. Her fingers dug into his arm with unexpected strength. She looked up at him with fretful, swollen eyes. “What are you doing?”

Bending close, he whispered in her ear. “Getting our horses. I’ll be right back.”

She gave him a short nod before shrinking into the shadows. Guy chafed at the meager protection, but it would have to do.

He rejoined Danforth and, with a few hand signals, they set out in opposite directions, intent on surrounding their quarry.

As they closed in, Guy began to decipher the intruders’ whispered argument.

“We must do something, you old fool,” one intruder said.

“They’ll return, don’t ye worry,” said a rougher but equally low voice.

Guy knelt down. He located the two dark silhouettes huddled against a large tree trunk about twenty feet away. To his left, he spotted Danforth, who nodded his readiness, but his assessing gaze lingered on Guy.

He set his jaw and waited for Danforth to turn away before swiping the moisture from his forehead.
Backbone, Helsford
, he chided himself.
Don’t turn into a piss-in-your-pants cub like last time.
Make the kill; retrieve the horses; get out of France. His chest rose high and then folded down on a long exhalation.

Danforth looked back at him, waiting for the signal. He gave it, and they both pulled lethal knives from hidden sleeves in their boots and stepped forward as one. Silent. Intent. Deadly.

“I’ll never forgive you if my little mite dies in there,” the smaller but no less sturdy silhouette muttered.

Guy and Danforth halted.

Little
mite?
Cora’s brother mouthed to Guy.

A memory flashed so swiftly through Guy’s mind that he couldn’t latch on. It hovered teasingly out of his reach.

He frowned and motioned to Danforth for them to move closer.

“Stop your blathering, woman,” the other silhouette grumbled. “The two gents will take care of them toad-eaters, if Miss Cora hasn’t already.”

Guy eyed the two until recognition dawned. The hard knot of tension eased from his shoulders, and a smile danced across his lips. Danforth stared at the silhouettes, shaking his head in disgust or amazement; Guy couldn’t be sure which.

He and Danforth stood less than five feet behind the bickering couple. Near enough to lunge forward and dispatch them with a single slice of their blades. His blood beat in thick waves at how close they had come to eliminating Cora’s beloved servants.

They put away their weapons. The rush of energy that always prepared him for a kill took much longer to sheath.

An amused smile cut across Danforth’s face. “Listen to him, Dinks.”

The maid yelped and lost her balance. She would have landed on her bum had it not been for her companion’s quick reaction.

“Unhand me, you old goat,” Dinks sputtered, righting her tangled cloak.

“Bah,” Bingham said. “Next time I won’t save your contrary woman’s pride.”

“Quiet,” Guy warned, his gaze skimming their surroundings.