A Secret Love (50 page)

He landed blow after blow, focusing on Crowley's face and gut. Crowley laid not a finger on him. Crowley bellowed and raged, staggering into punch after punch. Gabriel concentrated on softening him up, on enraging him further. On finally beating him to the ground.

But the man's skull felt like rock; knocking him unconscious was not going to be accomplished by one lucky blow.

Backed against the wall, Alathea watched, her heart in her mouth, her breath suspended. Even to her untutored eyes, the fight was a battle between steely reflexes governing strength honed and refined, pitted against sheer brawn and a blind belief in the power of weight. Gabriel was clearly winning, even though he was now risking more to step closer, well within Crowley's reach, to where he could deliver his blows with more force. One of Crowley's swinging fists caught him as he retreated, snapping his head back. To her relief, Gabriel didn't seem to feel it, returning the blow with one that connected with a sickening crunch.

Crowley couldn't possibly last much longer.

Crowley must have come to the same conclusion. The vicious kick came out of nowhere. Gabriel saw it, but only had time to swivel. It caught him high behind his left thigh. Crowley clumsily pivoted. Gabriel lost his footing and fell.

Alathea smothered a scream.

Gabriel's head hit the desk's edge with a dull thud. He slumped to the floor and lay still.

Massive chest heaving, Crowley stood over him, fists clenched, blinking his piggy black eyes, both bruised and half-closed. Then his teeth flashed in a vicious smile. He looked around, then swooped on the saber, scooping it up, hefting the blade as he took up a stance beside Gabriel's twisted legs. Crowley shuffled his feet apart as he settled his hands about the saber's hilt.

Gabriel groaned. His eyes were closed, his shoulders flat to the floor, his spine twisted. He lifted his head slightly, struggling up onto his elbows, frowning, blinking dazedly, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Crowley's gloating expression filled his face. His eyes glittered. He smiled as he slowly raised the saber.

Alathea inched along the wall, unable to breathe, barely able to think through the flood of emotions swamping her. But fear and fury were the strongest; she knew what she had to do. Setting her teeth, she passed behind Crowley, creeping silently further along the wall.

Crowley stretched upward, raising the saber high above his head, tensing for the downward stroke—

Alathea leaped the last feet, grabbed the second saber, and yanked it from its sheath. The angry hiss filled the room.

Crowley's head snapped around. Teetering, he took an instant to regain his balance. He started to shift his bulk, to realign his saber, turning to swing at her—

The weight of the saber flying out of its sheath swung Alathea away from Crowley. With a gasp, she hauled on the heavy sword and sent it arcing back toward him—

Shoulders and torso still turning, Crowley raised his saber—

Gabriel finally refocused—what he saw stopped his heart. Hauling up his legs, he kicked at Crowley, catching him high on the thigh.

Crowley stumbled. His weight shifted. He staggered helplessly sideways toward Alathea, into the arc of her wildly swinging saber.

Powered by its own weight, the saber flashed in, burying itself in Crowley's side. Alathea gasped and released the hilt. The saber remained, its glistening tip barely disturbing the front of Crowley's coat, the hilt quivering behind his back.

Crowley's face leached of all color; shock overlaid all expression. He regained his balance, both feet settling square, the other saber held tight between his fists. Slowly, he looked down, then, equally slowly, turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the saber sticking out from his back. His expression said he didn't comprehend . . .

He shuffled his feet, turning to Alathea, still holding the other saber—

In a rush of footsteps, Chillingworth appeared in the doorway. He took one glance, raised his arm, and shot Crowley.

Eyes wide, Alathea made no sound as Crowley jerked. The ball had found its mark in the left of his huge chest. Slowly, he turned his head to stare uncomprehendingly at Chillingworth. Then his features blanked, his eyes closed, and he pitched forward.

Gabriel pulled his legs clear and struggled to sit up. Still dizzy, his head ringing, he leaned his shoulders against the side of the desk.

Chillingworth stepped into the room, frowning as he took in the saber sticking up from Crowley's back. “Oh. You'd already taken care of it.” Then he looked at Gabriel, back at Crowley, then back to Gabriel, frowning even more. “How the devil did you manage that?”

Gabriel looked at Alathea's white face. “It was a joint effort.”

Chillingworth followed his gaze to Alathea, still pressed back against the wall, her stunned gaze locked on Crowley's body.

Footsteps approached; Charlie looked in. “I heard a shot.” Eyes growing round, he peered around Chillingworth. “I say—is he dead?”

Gabriel smothered a crazed laugh. “Very.” His grim expression only tangentially due to the pain in his head, he studied Alathea, then softly asked, “Are you all right?”

She blinked, then she lifted her head and looked at him. “Of course I'm all right.” Her gaze traveled over him. Wild concern flared in her eyes. Picking up her skirts, she leaped over Crowley's body. “
Good God
—the bastard cut you! Here—let me see.”

Gabriel had forgotten about the cut on his arm. Now he looked and discovered his coat ruined, blood pouring afresh thanks to Alathea's probing. Crouched beside him, she was tweaking the slashed material, trying to see . . .

“Can you stand?” She looked into his eyes, then grimaced. “No, of course, you can't. Here.” She waved Chillingworth closer as she wriggled a shoulder under his. “Help me get him up.”

Frowning, Chillingworth lent his aid.

“Just watch out for that damned dress.” Hauled to his feet, Gabriel settled against the desk.

Alathea pressed close, pushing his hair out of his eyes to peer into them. “Are you all right?”

Exasperated, Gabriel opened his mouth to tersely inform her it would take rather more than a severe blow on the head and a shallow cut on his arm to incapacitate him. Then he caught a glimpse of the arrested expression on Charlie's face, and substituted, “Of course not.” He gestured to the blood darkening his sleeve. “See if you can stop the bleeding. Just be sure you don't damage that gown.”

The gown was a fantasy he had every intention of peeling from her, inch by sweet inch.

“Crowley must have some linen stored here somewhere.” Alathea glanced at her brother. “Charlie—look around.”

By the time Charlie returned, Alathea had eased Gabriel's coat off and laid bare the wound. It was a shallow but wide cut, lifting inches of skin but nowhere deep enough to be dangerous. It had, however, bled copiously and continued to do so.

“Here.” Charlie handed Alathea a pile of clean shirts. He glanced at Crowley. “He won't need them anymore.”

Alathea didn't spare a single glance for Crowley as she picked up a shirt and started ripping.

Straightening from examining the body, Chillingworth stepped around it. He glanced at Gabriel's wound, and stilled. Alathea bustled to the sideboard in search of water or wine. Chillingworth watched her go, then sent a disgusted glance at Gabriel.

Who met it with a bland if not challenging stare.

Chillingworth raised his eyes to the skies. Alathea returned, a bowl of water in her hands. Chillingworth surveyed the room. “While you're having your strength restored, perhaps Charlie and I should search.”

“Good idea,” Gabriel concurred.

“So what are we looking for?” Chillingworth rounded the desk.

“The promissory notes?' Alathea paused in her dabbing. “Would they be here?” She looked at Gabriel.

He nodded. “I think so. Presumably, the reason Crowley is here tonight and not in Egerton Gardens is because he got the wind up when he learned of our investigations.” His expression grew grim and he glanced at Alathea. “I assume Struthers's activities kicked up too much dust. Did Crowley say?”

Alathea's eyes dimmed. “He killed the captain. He said so.”

Chillingworth cast a dark glance at Crowley's body. “Obviously destined for Hades.”

Gabriel caught Alathea's wrist. “Are you sure the captain's dead? Crowley didn't just say it to frighten you?”

Alathea shook her head sadly. “I think he's already thrown the body in the river.”

Gabriel caressed her inner wrist, then released her.

Chillingworth grimaced. “Nothing we can do for the captain now. The villain's already savored his just deserts. The best way to avenge the captain's death is to make sure Crowley's scheme dies with him.” He pulled out a desk drawer. “You sure these notes will be here?”

“I expect so.” Gabriel looked around. “This is not a ship of any line—it's a privateer, and a small one at that, built for speed—for fleeing. My guess is that Crowley moved his operations here, ready to depart at an instant's notice. With Alathea and Struthers removed, he would plan on calling in the notes immediately, and leaving England as soon as he had his hands on the cash.”

Alathea started to bind his arm. “Crowley did say he'd call the notes in immediately.”

Chillingworth continued searching the desk. Charlie drifted off, saying he'd search the other rooms.

Just as Alathea was tying off her bandage, Charlie reappeared, dragging a small seaman's chest. He brandished a document. “I think this is what we're looking for.”

It was—a thick stack of promissory notes filled the chest. Alathea held the one Charlie had brought in, and started to shake. Gabriel slid an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she rested against him. “Take it home, show your father, then burn it.”

Alathea glanced at him, then nodded. Folding the note, she handed it to Charlie with a strict injunction not to lose it.

Charlie shoved it in his pocket, then went back to reading the names on the handful of notes he'd extracted from the chest.

Chillingworth was doing the same. “He preyed on small fry, for the most part. From the addresses, some of these must be shopkeepers.” He pointed to another pile he'd laid aside. “Those are the peers, but most are not the sort who usually invest in such schemes. And the amounts pledged! He'd have turned half of England insolvent.”

Gabriel nodded. “Greedy and unscrupulous. That should be his epitath.”

“So.” Chillingworth restacked the notes. “What are we going to do? Burn these?”

“No.” Alathea was frowning. “If we do that, then the people involved will never know they're free of the obligation. They might make decisions assuming they're in debt to Crowley, when that debt will never be realized.”

“Are the addresses on all the notes?” Gabriel asked.

“Far as I can see,” Charlie replied. Chillingworth nodded.

“Perhaps . . .” Gabriel stared into the distance. “Find something to wrap them in. I'll take them to Montague. He'll know how best to return them to their owners, apparently properly and legally canceled.”

“Our petition, if successful, will cancel the notes.” Alathea looked at Gabriel.

He shook his head. “We won't be lodging it. We won't be doing anything to link ourselves with Crowley.”

“No, indeed.” Chillingworth glanced at the body on the floor. “So what should we do with him? Simply leave him here?”

“Why not? He's got enemies aplenty. He doubtless gave orders to his crew to stay away from the ship tonight.”

“All except the guard,” Charlie put in. “But he never even saw you.”

Gabriel nodded. “Two of the sailors—the ones who delivered the note—will know Alathea was lured here, but no one will know anything more. No woman could have overpowered Crowley. When his men return to the ship, they'll find him here, alone and very dead. They'll assume Alathea left, and
then
someone killed Crowley.”

“I sincerely doubt anyone will mourn him.”

“Other than perhaps Archie Douglas, although even that's uncertain.”

“Crowley probably had his hooks into him, too.”

“Very likely.” Gabriel considered, then continued, “It's my guess that without Crowley, and without those notes, the Central East Africa Gold Company will simply cease to exist. It has no capital, and Swales, from all I've been able to glean, is not the sort to drive this type of enterprise on his own.”

Chillingworth considered, too, then nodded. “It'll do. We'll simply leave and take the notes, and get your Montague to return them to their owners.”

They wrapped the notes securely in a blanket and Charlie carried them off the ship. Alathea helped Gabriel. Chillingworth was their lookout. When he joined the others in the shadows by his carriage, he nodded. “All clear.”

Alathea sighed with relief. “Help me get Gabriel inside.”

Chillingworth stared at her, then, hauling open the carriage door, cast a narrow-eyed look at Gabriel. “I assume,” he asked in a sweetly innocent tone, “I should drive directly to his house?”

“Of course!” Alathea scrambled into the carriage, then turned and reached out to help Gabriel in. “I need to tend that cut properly as soon as possible.”

Gabriel shot Chillingworth a wicked grin, then bent his head and stepped into the carriage. Chillingworth slammed the door shut. “Who knows,” he said, loudly enough for Alathea to hear, “it might even need stitches.”

With that, he climbed to the box seat, took up the reins Charlie was holding, and set his carriage rolling back to London.