Her Reluctant Viscount (Rakes and Rogues) (25 page)

Alive and uncomfortable beat dead and comfortable any day.

She rode, draped over the horse like a sack of grain for a while longer. Once they stopped they dragged her unceremoniously off by her hair. The ground delivered a bone-jarring hit as she landed.

Yanked to her feet and propelled forward, she stumbled as she fought to maintain her footing. Down some stairs she went, she could hear doors closing, or opening, behind her.

“Here you go.”

Her hands were freed, bag yanked off, and she was shoved hard from behind. She landed painfully on her hands and knees upon a cold stone floor. She glanced back in time to see a door slam. She was in a cell. The pain in her wrists and knees from the fall she ignored as she took in her newest surroundings.

One torch lit the area allowing her to see. It was horrid. Her area was small with bars on three sides. A cold wall at her back. No bed. No anything.

Well, that was not entirely true. She could see a skull across from her in another cell. She shivered and rubbed her hands together in an attempt to get warm.

“Who are you?” A small voice questioned.

She peered around yet did not see anything. “Hello?”

“Here.”

To the right a hand waved by another bar. More than only her sat here in this place? She pushed on the door, trying to open it. No good.

“It needs the key.” The feminine voice had a slight accent.

“My name is Jo. Who are you?”

“Vittoria.”

Italian. “Do you know where we are?”

“The Devil’s house,” she spat.

Jo shivered again but did not back down from trying to see Vittoria. “How long have you been here?”

“Shh. Here they come. They do not like it when we talk.”

“Wait. Who are they?” She strained and could make out a small figure huddling in a corner.

The door swung open and two large men entered first followed by the man who had been part of the group who had brought her here. It was the one after that who drew her attention.

Dressed all in black, the fire from the torch did nothing to add warmth. The second those eyes met hers she knew. The Alchemist was a woman.

Darkness lingered, making everything fuzzy. The touch on the back of his head blasted it to the back as he reacted. Trystan rolled, striking out with deadly precision. It would have worked too, if the person there had not had the same training and blocked him.

“Calm down, Trystan! It is me, Anthony.”

One of Cam’s men. He struggled to sit up, no longer in the kitchen but on a couch. “Where is Jo?”

Anthony shook his head, his dark hair moving at the motion. Trystan swore, then swore again when he realized by the sun’s location it was almost afternoon.

He had failed her. Surging to his feet, he ran hard upstairs and grabbed his bags. He grabbed Jo’s sketchbook and flipped through it. One picture in particular grabbed his attention and he tore it out before shoving it into his pocket.

God, his head hurt like an explosion or blast went off in it. He stared at his reflection as he passed the mirror. One day’s growth on his face and no expression. At the bottom of the stairs, he drew up when Jack walked in the door. Even more surprising was who came after him. Duchess Haversham.

“Where are you going?” Jack asked.

“Hunting.” He would find her one way or another.

“You do not even know where she was taken.”

“I
will
find her.”

Jack shrugged. “Eventually. I saw the note and you do not have that kind of time.”

“So why are you standing here wasting what I have?” he snapped.

The duchess cut off Jack’s reply. “It is a wonder anything gets done with men in charge. So much bickering. Tell him what you did, Jack.”

Tryst had not ever seen a look of such discontent on his handler’s face. In addition, were he not so concerned about Jo, he would have been amused by it. As it was, he wanted to get on his way. “Tell me what?”

“Either you tell him or I will.” Duchess Haversham’s voice injected coldly.

“Jack?”Trystan questioned.

He blew out a breath, shoved a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then crossed his arms. But still said nothing.

Trystan’s annoyance rose with each wasted second. “What are you two talking about?”

Jack ground out, “He does not need—”

“Ballocks!” Haversham bit off the curse. “You increased the risk on Jo by leaking out the information of what she had seen.”

Trystan glared at the man who he had trusted for years. “What did you do?”

“It got out she had seen the face of the traitor.”

Trystan frowned. “Traitor?”

Jack nodded then cut his eyes toward Anthony. No way. Trystan huffed as he glanced between both Jack and the duchess. He read the truth in their eyes and dropped his bags. He spun and headed for the man by the entryway to another part of the house. It was a fluid move and he grabbed the man only to slam him back into the wall. Anthony’s eyes were wide.

“Where. Is. She?”

“Wha…what are you talking about?”

Trystan scowled. “You are a traitor. Where is she?”

He expected another denial. He did not get it. Anthony’s green eyes narrowed and gleamed with calculating coldness.

“You will never find her. Not alive anyway.”

Trystan wrapped a hand around his neck and began to squeeze. The defiance, which had blazed so brazenly moments ago, flickered, giving way to panic. He did not stop until Jack forcibly pulled him away from the mottled face.

“Enough!”

“Fiend seize it,” he growled. “Again you used her as bait.” Whirling on Anthony again, he got right up in his face. “You know my reputation, right?” Anthony glared but remained mute. “I will take that as a yes. It was no lie. And neither is this, if anything,
anything
happens to her, I will kill your family. And I will make sure you are there watching it all.”

He figured it was the lack of emotion in his voice, which resonated the most with the man. Anthony’s eyes widened before he wrested himself back under control.

“You cannot.”

“Why do you think that?” He withdrew a razor-sharp blade from his waistband and began cutting buttons off Anthony’s shirt.

“Sir?” Anthony peered past to where Jack watched.

“You believe he can stop me before I stop your heart?” Trystan baited.

“Kill me and you will never find her.”

Trystan swallowed back more anger. “You will not get whatever promised you.” Narrowing his eyes, he continued, “Or are you willing to die for his cause. And condemn your family to the same fate?”

“You will never win.”

“And you will never—”

“Trystan!”

He paused at the shout, halting the knife, which sank into Anthony’s chest. “Tell me,” Trystan growled. Pain filled eyes watched him in disbelief. “Tell. Me. Because, trust me when I say I have no problem assisting you in your goal to die for his cause. Easy or hard, however is your decision. Either way, you still watch your family die.”

“Let him go, Trystan.”

He twisted the knife, slightly, uncaring about the gasp of pain. “Where? How do you think your father will withstand this? Or your wife?”

“Do…Dover.”

“Damn you, Trystan. Step away from him!”

He withdrew the blade and leaned in close to whisper. “Enjoy your death.”

“I told you,” Anthony said.

“And you had better be honest about it or you will see exactly what I promised.”

Trystan released his grip and pivoted around. Anthony crumpled to the floor and Trystan sheathed his weapon.

Jack moved in front of him, arms crossed.

“Out of my way, Jack.”

“You are being foolish.”

He sidestepped only to snarl softly when Jack mimicked the move. Twice more he tried to go by only to have Jack continue to block his way.

“Move.”

“No. We need a plan,” Jack demanded.

He snorted. “You and your plan can go to hell. Now move or I
will
move you.”

Jack straightened and glared down his nose at him. “Do not forget who you are talking to.”

Tryst blinked then launched a fist, clipping him hard in the jaw. Jack dropped and he barely caught him before the floor stopped him. Lowering him to it, he peered at the unconscious man.

“I have not forgotten. You are the bastard who made it worse for Jo,” Trystan whispered.

“He will not be happy when he wakes.” The duchess had an amused tone only to have it sober. “Go. I will wait with him. And Trystan?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Bring her back safely. I have grown fond of her.”

He rose to his full height. “I will.”

It did not take long for him to be on his way. Ptolemy ran hard and sure; he was well rested. He pushed hard, resting the bare minimum. Slowing only upon reaching the outskirts of Dover a few days later.

Under the cover of darkness, he entered the town and headed for the first tavern. He was filthy and scruffy, not a problem for the type of place he was going clean-shaven members of peerage did not go. Not if they valued their life, anyway.

He tied Ptolemy and went to the door. As expected, the inside was loud and raucous. Tired barmaids squealed and flirted as they delivered tankard after tankard. No one paid much attention to him.

Securing a table of his own, he waited for a drink. Time for him to find out what he needed to know. It may have been a while since he had played a man who fit in well here, but he had not forgotten.

It still took him almost all night to get the information he desired. It had cost a bit of coin for drinks, however, he did not care. He had a location and that was all that mattered.

His opportunity came two nights later. It had killed him to wait, but he had had to, knowing full well he needed to not rush headlong into the situation. Numerous people came and went but he never saw Jo.

Tonight they had heavy cloud cover which added to the darkness. Content it was sufficient, he made his way in. There was no killing of those standing guard; he avoided them, not wanting to send out an early alert of his presence if he could help it.

He made his way through the house, frustration increasing with each passing moment. She was not there.

“I have to give them something!” a feminine voice declared.

Tryst retreated into the shadows and watched two maids stroll by.

“Why? They all die. I do not understand why we have to feed them.”

“The Alchemist wants it that way. Makes them last longer.”

Both women shuddered a bit and went in different directions. He followed after the one who mentioned feeding “them”, whoever they were. He watched with disgust as she ladled some slop in a bowl and spat into it before wiping the back of her mouth with her hand.

His stomach rolled at the thought of that being served to Jo. The woman went to a panel in the hall, near where he had hidden by a statue of a pharaoh and touched it, causing it to slide soundlessly back, disappearing to the side and leaving a dark opening.

He took a deep breath and slipped into the thick blackness. Sword drawn, he crept down the stairs. Eventually he saw a faint light and heard some muttered words. He hesitated and ducked into a small alcove as she passed back, the empty tray tucked under one fleshy arm.