In Bed with a Spy (27 page)

S
HE WOKE IN
darkness. And silence.

Through the pounding in her head, Lilias struggled to discern where she was. She lay on the floor, though there was a rug beneath her cheek. A bed was beside her, but—yes. It was her bed. Her coverlet. Her bedside table.

She sat up, biting back a moan as blinding pain darted through her head. She didn’t need even a moment to remember what had happened. Crawling to the door, she set a hand on knob. She had to hurry. To warn Angel. She jiggled the knob, tried to turn it.

Locked. She was locked into her bedroom.

She swallowed a panicked sob and sat back on her heels. What of Catherine? The servants? Grant could not keep her locked in here for long without some explanation.

She stood, staggered as her head pounded anew. She had to leave, by any means possible. She had no skill picking locks, and she couldn’t break down the thick, solid wood door. It would alert Grant.

She spun around, stared at the window. If the Death Adder could get in, then she could get out.

A scratch came from the other side of the door, a sort of scrabbling. Then, “Ma’am?” The whisper was hardly perceptible. “Are you awake yet?”

“Graves?” Hope sprang inside her chest. “Is that you?”

“He’s dismissed the servants for the evening. All of us.” She could almost picture Graves’s mouth at the keyhole. “He won’t let me stay much longer, but he’s hidden the keys to your room. I can’t get them.”

“Catherine?”

“She’s at a soiree and plans to attend a ball after that. She won’t return for hours yet.” Graves’s breath was harsh and shallow. “What’s happening?”

She shook her head. It was too much to explain. Too strange. “Get out of here, Graves. Find the Marquess of Angelstone and tell him I’m locked in. Then don’t come back. Keep as many of the servants away as you can. Catherine, too, if you can find her.” Was that enough? Would that save them?

“What of you, ma’am? He’s in a cold rage. I don’t know what he’s capable of.”

She turned to look at the window again. “I’m getting out.”

—

F
A
IRCHILD
H
OUSE WAS
dark aside from a single window on the first floor. Angel reined in his horse a few houses down the street and jumped from the saddle. With a quick loop he tied the reins around the iron area fence to secure the horse.

Drawing his pistol, he moved down the street. The weapon was solid and heavy in his hand, and as familiar as his own breath. His gaze scanned the street, the windows, waiting for an ambush. Few houses had lighted windows just then, and an attack could come from anywhere. Fairchild had to know Angel was coming for Lilias.

Pistol at the ready, Angel strode to the door and pressed the latch. Unlocked. The door was open.

Fairchild was waiting.

Angel slipped in through the door and let his eyes adjust to the interior darkness. The house was silent and seemed unoccupied. The usual signs of life—servants’ bustle, voices, candles—all were missing.

Sliding through the hall, he did a quick visual search, letting his pistol lead the way. Entry, clear. Hall, clear. He toed open a door to the drawing room. Empty and quiet. The adjacent dining room was the same. He finished searching the ground floor and began a slow ascent to the first floor.

He saw the open door to the study and the light spilling out of it. It was the only room that seemed inhabited on this floor. Angel checked the ballroom, the card room, even the small salon before moving to the study. If there was anyone else on this floor, he wanted to know.

He went into the study pistol first, and found exactly what he expected. Lord Fairchild sitting casually in an armchair facing the door, holding a pistol at the ready. Angel’s gut twisted as he saw it was Lilias’s pistol, one of the matched set that had belonged to her husband.
Where was the second pistol?
A flick of his gaze around the room revealed the second pistol nestled in its box.

“Ah, Angelstone. How good of you to finally arrive. I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour.” Fairchild gestured to a brandy decanter and snifter on a table beside him. Firelight glinted on the empty crystal of a second glass. “Would you care for a drink?” He gestured with the pistol at the empty glass.

“No.”

“Pity. I poisoned it, in the event you were stupid enough to drink it.” He lifted his own snifter, pretending to be unconcerned. He swirled, sniffed, then sipped the amber liquid, his eyes never leaving Angel. The pistol stayed steady, its dark opening ready to take Angel’s life.

“Where is Lilias?”

“Ah yes, my delectable little cousin-in-law.” He set the snifter down and easily crossed his legs, as though their conversation was nothing more than two gentlemen meeting in the card room at a ball. “She has been quite busy, searching my house. In fact, I believe she has given you something of mine that I need back. I require my journals for my work.”

“I don’t have them,” Angel answered conversationally. “Unfortunately, I already surrendered them to my superiors.”

Angel tensed as Fairchild half rose from the chair, rage distorting his face. But the man sank back down into the seat. He sucked in a slow, calming breath.

“Unfortunate.” Fairchild’s voice was no longer steady. “I had hoped to trade Lilias for the journals.”

“It’s too late for that. The journals have already been decoded. We know everything.”

Fairchild’s eyes went from cold to hot. “Then I believe we are at an impasse.”

—

W
EAPONS FIRST.
S
HE
flew to the chest of drawers where she’d hidden the pistol case. They would be unwieldy, but effective. She rummaged through stockings and fichus.
Where were her damn pistols?

The case was gone. Grant had taken her pistols.

“Bloody, buggering hell.” She slammed the drawers shut and gritted her teeth. “Fine. Just fine. You might have taken the pistols, but I have the sabre.”

She whirled around and threw open the wardrobe doors. In moments she’d grabbed the sabre, its gleaming scabbard a long, thin line lying against the back of the wardrobe. If that was all she had, so be it.

In minutes, she’d stripped off her gown and pulled on the breeches she wore for riding. She tucked her chemise into the waistband, then shrugged into a short spencer to block out as much of the cold and rain as she could. Not pretty, but it would do.

A quick change from slippers to half boots and she stood at the window, heart thumping in her chest. A flick of the latch and the window popped open. Rain pattered on the side of the building. The wind blew in damp air and sent her mussed hair flying around her face. The street was mostly dark, the inhabitants away from home at dinners and balls and the opera. A single carriage disappeared into the dark at the end of the street.

Leaning over the windowsill, she studied the ground two floors below. She couldn’t accurately toss the sabre that far, so she dropped it onto the balcony below. Swallowing hard, she clambered onto the windowsill. Balancing there, she gathered her strength.

Her lungs screamed with a hideous pressure. How many minutes did she have before Grant decided to check on her?

“Damnation.” She refused to look down again. The ground was too far below, and much too hard. “Grant is going to pay for this.”

She didn’t hesitate again. Bellying over the edge of the windowsill, she fumbled for a toehold. A jagged brick, ropes of ivy. Anything. When she found something, she moved her hands down. Skin tore on the brick as she fought for a fingerhold. Rain pelted her back, soaked her clothes. Sodden breeches clung to her legs. She ignored it all, focusing only on her toes. Her fingers.

Hand by foot, she scaled the building and dropped onto the narrow decorative balcony below. She quickly tossed the weapon to the ground below before readying herself for the final descent.

Then, through the window, she saw Angel crouched in the drawing room door, weapon drawn and aimed at Grant, who sat easily in a chair, brandy by his elbow, pistol in his hand.

Her heart slammed into her throat. She nearly went through the glass, panic beating a wild tattoo beneath her breasts. Caution stayed her. She had no weapon, having thrown it to the ground below. Angel might be facing an assassin, but he was strong. He was quick. He had battled the Adders before.

Except this was Grant, and she no longer knew what he was capable of—certainly more than she had ever thought. Candlelight flickered over Grant’s handsome, cool features, turning them into a grotesque mask of casual elegance. Angel looked just as casual. Just as worldly.

She scrambled over the edge of the small iron balcony and braced herself to drop to the ground.

Then she heard the shot.

T
HE BULLET TORE
into Angel’s shoulder. The force of it swung him around. He staggered, gritting his teeth against the agony blazing through muscle and sinew. He tried to swing his arm up, to aim the pistol at Fairchild and get in a shot, but his right arm was useless.

The pistol fell from numb fingers.

He dove for it, reaching with his good arm. But it was too late. Fairchild was already kicking it out of the way.

He landed hard on the floor. Pain shuddered through him as his shoulder rammed into the leg of a settee. He groaned and rolled onto his back as white-hot pain raged in him. He saw Fairchild’s boot just before it slammed into his stomach. He coughed, wheezed, curling around himself.

“Unfortunately, Angelstone, I can’t wait here for my bullet to do its work. If my journals are decoded, there’s little reason for me to stay in England.”

Fairchild set a boot on Angel’s shoulder, pressed, so that wave after wave of pain rolled through him. Gritting his teeth, Angel groped for the boot to try to knock Fairchild off balance. It was no use. The edges of his vision were going black as excruciating pain radiated from his shoulder.

“Seems your aim needs some work,” he gasped. Even that took effort. “You missed all the vital parts. But then, you usually order others to do the work for you.”

The boot ground into his shoulder and he cried out. Intense, hot pain shuddered through him.

“Do you think I would ever use a regular bullet, Angelstone? That one was dipped in poison. Laurel water, to be precise.” Fairchild removed his foot and crouched down. “I was easy on you, Angelstone. A sedative poison, rather than one of those nasty ones that sends a man into convulsions.”

Angel put his good hand to his shoulder, trying to stanch the blood. It slicked his hand and told him he was losing blood fast.
The bullet had gone through.
It was pitifully little hope to cling to. He could feel the heaviness in his limbs and the fog in his brain. It wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to the dark.

“If the bullet doesn’t kill you, which it likely won’t as it’s only in your shoulder, the poison will.” Fairchild’s eyes gleamed as a smug smile spread across his face.

Angel heaved himself forward, intent on setting his hands around Fairchild’s throat. But he knew it was too late. His limbs were already too heavy. His skin already burning as his insides went cold.

Fairchild took the second pistol from Lilias’s case before stepping through the open door to the hallway without a backward glance.

The Death Adder would go free.

—

“
B
LOODY HELL.
”
S
HE
couldn’t manage more than a whisper beyond the terror clogging her throat.

Lilias dropped to the ground, her half boots landing solidly on stones. The jolt sent pain shooting through her legs and her knees gave way. Pushing herself up, she cast around for the sabre.

She had to get into the house. There was no one to ask for help. No one to stop the horror about to happen. Panicked mewling erupted from her throat. She gulped it back, steadied herself even as her fingers continued to search for the sabre.

Please. Don’t be too late. Don’t let him die.

She could picture Grant bent over Angel as he lay dying. She closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against them. Not again. She would not lose another man she loved, whether he was an assassin, a spy or a king.

Fierce determination swept through her. She let it fill her. Breathed deep. Her fingers gripped the sabre and she pulled the blade from the scabbard.

Angel might die. She might as well.

But so would Grant
.

The front door was open and she leapt through it, conscious only of reaching the next floor. Running up the steps, she didn’t bother to move stealthily. She heard a sharp cry rend the air and increased her pace.

When she reached the next floor she charged down the hall to the open door. She heard other running footsteps at the end of the dark hall, then the door to the servants’ stair creak open and slam against the wall. She almost followed those unknown footsteps, but she stopped in the doorway to the study.

Her breath ripped at her throat. Blood roared in her ears to match the panicked beat of her heart and the pounding of her footsteps as she ran across the room.

Candlelight washed over him, shadowing lean features and highlighting his golden hair. He lay on his back, his features slack, his arms limp. Blood soaked his shirt. She smoothed the hair back from his face—that gorgeous fallen angel’s face.

“Angel.” The word croaked out, impeded by the aching lump in her throat. She swallowed and leaned over him. She set a hand against his shoulder, trying to stanch the blood flow. She had no petticoats to rip up to do the job.

His eyes fluttered open, his mouth set grimly. “Don’t bother,” he panted. “The bullet was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Shock spun through her. Words screamed through her mind. Through her heart. She couldn’t voice any of them. Was there an antidote? She didn’t know, and there wasn’t time. A sob clogged her throat, caught there as despair washed over her.

She never thought she could have felt such anguish again after Jeremy’s death. This time, with this man, the anguish was greater.

“Get out of here, Lilias.” He started to roll over, then sucked in a breath and fell onto his back again. “Fairchild is on the run, but he might return. Or the Adders might swarm the townhouse. Go to my townhouse and find Jones. Leave London.” His words were slurred.

“You expect me to flee? To run away and let Grant escape?” The pressure in her chest was unbearable, a tight, aching ball that drowned even her rage. She tasted salt, felt the hot tears on her cheeks. “You expect me to leave you here, like this, alone—” She couldn’t say the word
dying
. She swiped at her tears. “Well, bollocks to that.”

“Christ, Lilias. Bollocks?” A short laugh wheezed out of him. “Is it any wonder I’m in love with you?” His eyes started to fall closed, then rose open again. “My vision is going black, Lilias. Get the hell out of here. Go find Jones.”

“Damn you, Angel.” She pressed a frantic kiss to his lips. Even now, bleeding on the floor with an assassin on the loose, he could infuriate her. And even as he lay dying, he could flood her heart with love.

But he did not kiss her back.

“Angel?”

There was almost nothing from him. Just the tiniest sigh. Then nothing at all.

A violet frenzy beat inside her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. Shoving it aside, she softened her touch and kissed Angel once more. Gently. A last kiss. She wanted desperately to linger. But she knew what she had to do.

With a final caress of his stubbled cheek, she stood. Grabbing Angel’s pistol from the floor, she shoved it into the waistband of her breeches.

“I’m going after that bastard.”