Dangerous to Love (22 page)

S
erena was lying fully dressed on top of the bed, listening to the storm that raged outside her window when she heard the sudden commotion of doors slamming and voices raised in anger and alarm. Then she heard Julian’s voice above the rest, and she came off the bed like a panicked wild thing. Alert now to every sound, every danger, she stood there poised for flight.

Something was wrong. He wasn’t due back till tomorrow. She had counted on him not returning until tomorrow. Her plans were set. As soon as the storm abated a little, she was going to slip away. There was a punt concealed in a thicket of bushes close to the river’s edge. That punt was to take her downstream, out of Julian’s domain, to the Seven Stars tavern, on the next bend in the river. Once there, she would find help.

She’d spent the day plotting and planning, verifying facts with unsuspecting caretakers and stableboys, as she devised a means of escape. Even now, she was fully dressed, her cloak folded over the back of a chair, waiting for the right moment to arrive to set her plan in motion. She had not anticipated this. More doors slammed, then Julian’s voice issuing orders rose above the clamor. Moving to the door, she opened it a crack, then slipped through it. After listening for a moment, she edged closer to the balustrade so that she could see the entrance hall below. Men were milling about as two of their comrades used a blanket as a stretcher to carry an injured man through the front doors. The housekeeper, in dressing gown and papers in her hair, was in a flutter, asking
questions of all and sundry. A few words of conversation reached Serena’s ears. She heard the words
ambush
and
highwaymen,
then Julian’s voice again, commanding someone to fetch Dr. Ames. When the hall emptied, Serena returned to her chamber.

She had scarcely closed the door when she heard feet taking the stairs. She gasped in alarm, doused the candles, and quickly threw herself into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. When the door swung open, and he stood framed in the doorway with a candle in his hand, she blinked rapidly as though coming out of a deep sleep.

The candle cast grotesque shadows. His face was mask-like, with huge black sockets where his eyes should have been. She had an impression of cruelty and thoughts so dark and barbarous that she flinched involuntarily.

“Julian?” Her voice was shaking. “What is it? What’s happened?”

He was so still, so controlled that she thought her words had not registered. Then the tension across his shoulders relaxed and he said softly, “Nothing of any significance. I should not have disturbed you. Go back to sleep, all right?”

When the door closed and darkness blanketed her, she inhaled a shivery breath. Her thoughts circled and delved, trying to make sense of what was going on. There had been an armed confrontation of some sort. One man was injured. Naturally, they were not going to confide to the housekeeper the nature of that conflict. Highwaymen? She, for one, did not believe it.

Pictures flickered behind her eyes. She saw underground passages and unsuspecting Jacobites trying desperately to fight their way out of a trap. The connections that her mind made—Flynn, Lord Alistair, her own abduction, Julian’s abortive trip to London—left her sick and shaken.

*  *  *

Julian descended the stairs in a meditative frame of mind. He thought it extraordinary that Serena would have slept through so much noise and commotion. He halted with one hand on the banister, half turned to look back over his shoulder, but the housekeeper coming up at that moment to ask where she should set up a bed for the injured man changed the direction of his thoughts.

In the kitchen, the injured groom had been
set
on a table in anticipation of the doctor’s arrival. One of his mates was dosing him with brandy to help ease the pain. Thompson was the only one of the party to be injured in the attack, having taken a bullet in the shoulder almost with the first shot that had been fired. The other men who had made up the convoy had removed their hats and cloaks and were nursing tot glasses of brandy Mrs. Forrest had dispensed.

As was often the case after battle, when the threat of danger was removed, the survivors were making light of their hair-raising experiences.

“England must really be in a bad way,” said one, “if our bleeding highwaymen can’t make an honest living without having to work on nights like this one.”

“Highwaymen? Who says they was highwaymen?” demanded another. “If you wants my opinion, I thinks they was well-breeched lordlings out for a bit of sport.”

“What makes you say so?” asked Julian sharply.

“They didn’t ask for no money, did they? No, they just came riding hell-bent out of the storm with pistols blazing. And when we returned their fire, they fell back like whipped dogs. Highwaymen has got more spunk.”

“They wasn’t to know that we were all troopers at one time,” said the first voice. “They got more than they bargained for, that’s for sure.”

Another speaker entered the conversation. “Looks to
me, Joe, that you’ve been chasing the wrong skirt. Next time, do us all a favor, leave the married ones alone, else you’ll get us all killed.”

“What, me?” asked Joe innocently. He was a good-looking fellow, in his middle twenties, and was reputed to have a way with the ladies. “You’re barking at the moon there, Davie m’boy. It’s you married lads who should be looking over your shoulders. I ain’t got no wife, see, so there’ll be no widow to claim all my worldly goods.”

“Yes, well, when you gets spliced you’ll discover that your better ’alf spends your money before you gets it, and you still won’t ’ave no worldly goods to leave when you kicks the bucket.”

This sally brought forth muted guffaws of laughter. There was more in this vein, most of it an attempt to keep the injured man from dwelling on his troubles. Only with the doctor’s arrival did the men make a move to return to their own quarters in the stable block.

Another hour was to pass before all was quiet in the house. A bed had been set up for Thompson in a small anteroom off the back parlor, close to the Forrests’ quarters. Julian was the only person in the house who was still up and about. He was too wound up to seek his bed, his mind teeming with unanswered questions about the odd attack that had taken place when they were no more than a mile from home.

Highwaymen? Well-breeched lordlings? And if not, who else could it be? Ensconced in his favorite armchair in the library, he stretched out his long booted legs, resting them on the brass fender. In one hand, he held a glass of brandy from which he occasionally imbibed.

If they were highwaymen, why hadn’t they commanded them to hand over their valuables? Coming up with no answer to this, he moved on to the next hypothesis. Well-heeled lordlings out for a bit of sport? He hardly
thought so. This attack did not have the feel of mischief-making, not when firing pieces were involved. There had been something vicious about it, as though their object was .  .  . what? Murder? But who would wish to see him dead? Who would profit by it?

Leaving aside these fruitless conjectures for the moment, he retraced in his mind the day’s events as if the answer was to be found there. On arriving in town, he’d made his first port of call his solicitor’s office. He was now a married man, and he’d wanted to set his affairs in order. There were settlements to be arranged, and a will to be drawn up, and things of that nature. His next stop had been Ward House, to confer with Flynn. By Julian’s reckoning, there had been more than enough time for Jeremy Ward to complete his business in France, and he meant to discover the reason for the delay.

Taking a long swallow from the glass in his hand, he rolled his neck on the backrest of his chair and closed his eyes as he contemplated the ambiguity of his position. On the one hand, he deemed it his duty to inform his wife’s male relations of his marriage to Serena before they learned of it from another source. Whether or not they regarded him as a rogue and an upstart carried no weight with him. In his own mind, he had taken the only honorable course.

On the other hand, he was quietly plotting to bring his wife’s father to ruin. That, too, was a matter of honor. He would not allow that his marriage to Serena was inconsistent with his purpose. It was mere chance that she happened to be the daughter of the man whom he was bound and determined would pay for his crimes. Not even for Serena’s sake would he be deflected from bringing retribution down on Sir Robert’s head. This was not revenge; this was justice.

For some few minutes, his thoughts dwelled on Serena.
Not liking his speculations, he turned them once more to his interview with Flynn.

There was no news of Sir Robert, Flynn had told him. In truth, Flynn was surprised to see him. As he pointed out, a scant fortnight had passed since Jeremy and Clive Ward had set off to fetch Sir Robert home. There could be any number of reasons for the delay, if delay it was. Sir Robert was known to be in poor health. Weather conditions in the English Channel were notoriously unpredictable, etc., etc., etc. And with that, Julian had to be satisfied.

“Now tell me ’ow Serena is going on,” said Flynn at one point.

Julian did, making light of Serena’s accident and subsequent concussion. The last thing he wanted was for Flynn to go chasing out to Twickenham to make sure she was well. Serena was now his responsibility, and he would allow no man to come between them.

Flynn’s shrewd eyes held Julian’s in a long stare. “Mmm,” he’d said, “so she’s giving you a spot of bother, is she? Well, that don’t surprise me none. I told you ’ow it would be. If you wants my advice, you’ll show ’er straight off that you means to be master in your own ’ouse. Just so long as I ain’t there to see it, that is, else there’s no saying what I might do.”

And with those cheerful words ringing in his ears, Julian left him. His last order of business was a delicate one.

One by one, he’d called on several female acquaintances in order to end his connection to them, in case they had not already grasped that he was no longer interested. When he decided to set his affairs in order, he did not spare himself.

All the same, he was only human. It would have taken a better man than he not to suffer a few pangs of regret when confronted by those scantily clad temptresses in the
privacy of their boudoirs. Cherry Marshall for one; Lady Amelia for another. His carefree bachelor life had never looked more alluring to him. Somehow he managed to extricate himself with nothing more serious than payment of the obligatory trinkets and a few enjoyable kisses. Very enjoyable kisses.

You degenerate!
he chided himself.
What would Serena think if she knew about those kisses?
His unrepentant grin gradually faded as other thoughts intruded. Even now he knew of a score of beds with willing women in them, where he would receive a warm welcome. Victoria’s bed was one of them. He wasn’t sure about Serena’s bed, and Serena’s bed was the only bed he wanted to be in.

He drained his drink, then stared absently at the bottom of his empty glass. What the devil had induced him to attempt that long ride home in the dark with only grooms for protection? He’d made the decision on the spur of the moment. Once back in his gaming house, he had wandered restlessly from room to room until he had run across Lord Kirkland in the reading room.

The earl beckoned Julian over. “Well, you got your wish, and Sir Robert got his pardon.”

Making light of it, Julian replied, “The report is that you put in a good word for him. But I understood you were not in favor of amnesty for Sir Robert.”

A sly look crept into the earl’s eyes. “I thought about what you said, and revised my opinion. Oh, we d-don’t expect Sir Robert to turn coat, in spite of his oath of allegiance to the Crown. No. What we decided was we’d rather have him where we can k-keep an eye on him. He won’t be able to blow his nose but we shall hear of it.”

Laughing, Julian had turned away, and his eyes had locked with the hostile stare of Lord Charles Tremayne. Lord Charles looked away first. Julian didn’t feel hostile. He was amused. Lord Charles was Catherine Ward’s most
devoted admirer. In his determination to approach Serena, Julian had paid court to Catherine, and Lord Charles had not liked it, not one bit. Julian could almost feel sorry for him. He would have no joy there. Catherine Ward was in love with her own husband.

This thought had made him restless again, and on impulse, he had decided to make for Twickenham. Since the ride home had been unpremeditated, why did he have the uncanny feeling that the attack on him tonight was a deliberate attempt on his life? His assailants could not have been lying in wait for him, since they could not have foreseen that he would return sooner than he had meant to. Had they followed him all the way out of town? And if they were not highwaymen, then who were they? Who had a motive to kill him?

Outside the window, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed almost instantaneously by an earth-shattering thunderclap. Rising leisurely, Julian ambled to the window and looked out. It was as black as pitch. He was on the point of turning aside when the landscape was illumined as though a thousand rockets had exploded overhead, affording him a clear view of the lawns and river. For the space of several seconds he saw it—a figure on the riverbank, a woman, he thought, attempting to launch a small boat. Then darkness blotted out the light.

He must be seeing things. No one, least of all a woman, would launch a boat on a night like this, unless that woman was desperate to escape something or someone. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he had grabbed a candle and was sprinting for the stairs.

Though her bed was rumpled, the room was unoccupied. Without stopping his momentum, he flung into the dressing room. There was no sign of Serena. A plethora of thoughts burst through his mind, allowing free rein to every suspicion he had ever entertained. Like a statue, he
stood there frozen, and then, with a muffled curse, he was off and running.

He descended the stairs two at a time. Though he could hear the Forrests stirring in the back of the house, he didn’t wait. He grabbed his cloak from the chair in the vestibule and pushed through the front door.