Julia Justiss (26 page)

Anguish scouring him, Tony jumped to his feet.
Three hours.
Somehow, Lane must have learned of their sus
picions—and captured Jenna. And they had no idea even in which direction she’d been taken.

“Three hours!” Lady Charlotte exclaimed, echoing his thoughts. “How do we begin to try tracking her?”

Telling himself to calm, Tony started pacing. He must think clearly, devise a workable plan.

At that moment, another knock sounded and Tony’s pulses leapt.
Dear Lord, let it be Jenna,
he prayed,
even if I will strangle her afterward for changing our plan and scaring us half to death.

But the figure that stood upon the threshold when the door opened was not Jenna Fairchild, but Lord Riverton.

“Mark!” Lady Charlotte cried, running to him. “Thank God you are here! The most dreadful thing has happened.”

“Jenna left London this morning in a hired vehicle?”

Shocked, Tony stopped pacing. “How did you know?”

“Come with me, all of you. I’ll explain as we go.”

After hurrying them to a traveling barouche that stood before the townhouse, horses at the ready, Lord Riverton gave orders to the driver and joined them in the coach.

“Tell me everything!” Tony demanded.

“First, let me explain that, on behalf of our government, for a number of years I have concerned myself with matters of…security.”

A spy,
Tony translated. A quick glance at Lady Charlotte showed her face registered no surprise.
She knows,
he realized.

“When Charlotte confided to me Jenna’s suspicions concerning her accident, I was sufficiently alarmed to take the liberty of establishing a surveillance over her.”

Bow Street? Tony wondered.

“Unfortunately,” Lord Riverton continued with an expression of disgust, “I did not convey to my assistants the gravity of my concern, for they did not notify me
until after my meeting a short while ago that they’d observed Jenna entering a hackney—which sped her out of London. I assume by your distress that she did not leave willingly.”

“You know where they’ve taken her?” Tony broke in.

“I’ve had a man trailing the carriage, yes, and expect to hear from him shortly. The coach took the Great North Road. There’s a tavern just outside the city where he will have left word for me.”

“Then let us spring the horses,” Lady Charlotte said.

Lord Riverton gripped her hand. “So we shall, as soon as we leave the city. We will get her back safely.”

Though Tony had kept his own counsel while he waited with Lady Charlotte for Jenna’s arrival, under the circumstances it only seemed prudent to share the information he’d gathered. After listening to the whole, Lady Charlotte gasped, “Mark, they intend to harm her!”

“We don’t know that,” Riverton said soothingly. “The sudden disappearance of a peer’s widow would not go unnoticed, making it much more difficult for someone to profit from arranging her demise, as her abductor must surely realize.”

Tony had a sudden image of Jenna rising from her bed, pistol trained on his chest. With just such skill and daring had she dealt with his threat long ago. For the first time since he’d heard of her disappearance, a small bubble of hope buoyed his spirits.

“Her abductor will find Jenna Fairchild is not so easily dispatched,” he said to Lady Charlotte.

Riverton gave him a long look. “Then may she shoot straight,” he replied.

To Tony’s relief, at the inn they found Riverton’s agent waiting. He had indeed trailed the hackney, to a manor not far north of their current location, he told them. Leaving Sancha and Lady Charlotte, over their strenuous ob
jections, at the inn for safety, Riverton gathered Tony and his men and headed there on horseback.

The afternoon light was dimming when at last they reached a winding carriage road. “We’ll leave the horses here, approach the house from the shadow of the woods,” Riverton told him. “I’ll have my men creep in to ascertain her position and then bring her out.”

“No!” Tony said urgently. “Let me help. I’ll go mad if I can’t do something, and I know a bit about creeping into houses.”

Riverton studied him. “You will follow my orders.”

Tony nodded.

“Come along, then.”

After a nerve-straining interval advancing through the woods, they reached the manor, where a dark-clad man slipped up to inform Riverton he’d observed three menservants, a handful of maids and a lady, who’d been seen at the window of an upper chamber at the back of the manor. A well-dressed gentleman had arrived and joined her a short time ago.

Riverton motioned them to follow. As they rounded the corner, Tony’s breath froze and his heart skipped a beat.

Framed by the window, Jenna stood facing Lane Fairchild—both with pistols raised.

“U
P THE STAIRS
!”
Riverton ordered his men, who set off at a run.

“Too late,” Tony told him. “She’s close enough to the window to escape, but she needs a diversion
—now.
”

Without waiting for Riverton to reply, Tony launched himself toward a thick growth of wisteria that trailed up the wall and framed the window. Willing his knee to cooperate, he climbed swiftly upward until he paused, his body parallel to the window, one foot braced at the ledge’s outermost edge. Then he pried free a sturdy branch and swung himself through the casement, booted feet first.

The window shattering before him in a hail of glass and splintered wood, he staggered to a landing between Jenna and Lane—as both discharged their pistols.

A searing tongue of flame blasted through his shoulder. Praying his rash action had saved rather than condemned her, he spun backward into darkness.

A
FTER DINNER TEN DAYS LATER
,
Tony limped up the stairs to his bedchamber, glad of the returning strength that made such simple movement possible. After awakening the day after Jenna’s rescue from a hazy, pain-filled daze to see her face hovering over his, feel her hands wiping his brow, he’d made rapid progress toward recovery. But like a man who has supported a burden for so long that when it is lifted, he is more disoriented than
relieved, he could not decide what he should do now that Jenna was no longer in danger.

Lane Fairchild was dead, she’d told him, her aim under pressure being better and her finger on the trigger faster than her cousin’s—fortunately, she’d scolded him, else she might have blown a hole through his back rather than Fairchild’s chest. In a final twist of irony, she added, the local magistrate had promised to put abroad the story that Lane had died in a hunting accident—so as not to tarnish the Fairchild name.

Over the days of his convalescence at Lady Charlotte’s country house outside London, where they’d brought him after the incident, Jenna tended him faithfully, seeming to enjoy his company, even with the physical pull that still buzzed between them despite his injuries.

He was terribly tempted to accept Lady Charlotte’s invitation and linger on for the holidays, to tease and cajole Jenna with enough evidence of his continuing need for character improvement that he persuaded her to renew the bargain she’d tried to repudiate. He no longer questioned the certainty of loving her or the knowledge that each day together was, for him, a gift.

But it was also torment. Torn between wishing he’d spoken to her the words of love that had trembled on his lips that night in her moonlit bedchamber and believing it wiser that he’d kept silent, he knew he soon must leave.

Not that he wanted to. He thirsted for her touch, her smile, her laughter like a badly wounded soldier in the wake of a battle craves water. She’d brought into his life a dimension of joy and peace he’d never known, and he desperately wanted to hang on to it.

He would be good for her, he tried to convince himself, amuse her, challenge her reforming abilities, and bring her limitless pleasure.

Add the power of a declaration of love to the gratitude
she’d already voiced about his rescue, and he might be able to talk her into marrying him, binding her sweet courage and passion to him forever. But he didn’t really want her to marry him out of gratitude, did he?

With a sigh, he had to admit he was still enough of a rogue that he’d take her on any terms he could get.

But with the danger past, she no longer needed a rogue. He couldn’t seem to force from his head Colonel Vernier’s disparaging final words: if he truly cared for Jenna, he would walk away and leave her to a better man.

He had to admit that in reputation, character, wealth—everything except love for her—the colonel was superior.

He thought, too, of Miss Sweet, who’d begged him to redeem the sins of the father by becoming the man she’d hoped he might be.

Could he do that without a heart? For if he walked away from Jenna, he’d leave that in her keeping.

The ache settled deep within him at the certainty of what he must choose. If he were ever to break away from his father’s pattern of selfishness, ’twas time to begin. Christmas was almost upon them. Tomorrow he’d seek out his hostess, express his gratitude, and leave.

The season of miracles, he’d once called it. But though he knew he was making progress in putting his wastrel’s life behind him, even the holy season wasn’t miraculous enough to turn Tony Nelthorpe overnight into the caliber of man Jenna Fairchild deserved.

Knowing his only partly reformed character would never withstand the temptation to stay if he had to say goodbye to Jenna in person, he decided to borrow her tactics and leave her a note. Which he would compose—tomorrow.

Stifling the clamor of his protesting heart, he turned his thoughts to where he would go. London? But the thought of encountering his father didn’t appeal.

Hunsdon, perhaps. ’Twas also time he began learning to manage the estates his old comrade’s father, Banker Harris, had salvaged for him. And perhaps eventually, if the adage that virtue was its own reward had any truth, he’d find a measure of solace for his lonely soul.

E
ARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Jenna answered a rap at her chamber door to find Lady Charlotte on the threshold. Wondering what news would have brought her friend to her room before breakfast, she ushered her in.

“Jenna, Nelthorpe just came to bid me goodbye,” Lady Charlotte said, taking the chair Jenna offered. “He insists that he must depart this morning as soon as he completes packing. Something about pressing business awaiting him at Hunsdon. Did he mention this to you?”

An unpleasant tightness squeezed Jenna’s chest. “No. He didn’t say a word about leaving.”

Lady Charlotte watched Jenna’s face. “If you mean to do anything about it, I advise you to make haste. I’ve had the staff delay finding him a trunk, but that will not slow him for long.” She swept Jenna into an impulsive hug. “You have more courage than I, dear friend. Use it.”

After Lady Charlotte went out, on legs gone suddenly weak Jenna stumbled back to her chair. What
did
she mean to do about Anthony Nelthorpe?

Perhaps it was good that he was leaving. She had grown quite attached to seeing him every day. She wasn’t sure she had the strength of mind, in the wake of her recent ordeal, to demand that he go.

Once he left, she could rebuild the serenity that had shattered while she’d watched in horror as he took a bullet meant for her. She could return to the business of purchasing property for the soldiers, anticipate the return of the eminently more suitable Colonel Vernier.

Except, as perfection sometimes does, Vernier inspired
her to admiration but not to affection. She enjoyed his company, but did not pine for it. She found him attractive, but experienced no unquenchable desire to touch, taste and explore him.

Unladylike reactions, those latter. But honest ones.

She now knew Tony Nelthorpe was far from as venal as she’d once thought him, though admittedly a man who could sneak into ladies bedchambers, deceive country people with Banbury lies, and threaten a peer’s wife was not the sort of upright man Garrett would choose for her. But as many imperfections as she’d recently uncovered in her own character, who was she to cast stones?

Perhaps her greatest flaw was in believing she could master this weakness for Nelthorpe’s company and his caresses. If she were to stop denying the truth and allow herself to consider the possibility of a legitimate relationship between them, that weakness would become not a flaw but a bond. Based on what happened between them whenever he was near, a powerful one.

Besides, this was not Garrett’s choice, was it?

Follow your heart, my darling,
she seemed to hear Garrett say.

A deep sense of peace settled over her, dissolving the guilt that had pressed heavy at her chest each previous time she’d considered a future beyond Garrett.
Thank you, my love,
she whispered back.

What did her heart desire?

’Twas still too soon after Garrett’s death to know for sure. Should she eventually choose Nelthorpe, she might not occupy a high position or conduct herself always with propriety, but she’d never be bored. He was likely to challenge, amuse and keep her deliciously satisfied for a lifetime.

And though he was a far better man than she’d once
thought, he had the potential to become even better—with a little work by a determined woman.

T
ONY SAT AT THE DESK
in his bedchamber, crumpling his latest effort at penning Jenna a farewell note. Faith, if he didn’t finish one soon, he might as well wait until tomorrow to leave.

Squelching the insidious temptation to do just that, as he dipped the quill again, a knock sounded at the door.

Probably someone with a trunk—at last. Bidding the servant enter, he looked up—to see Jenna Fairchild on the threshold.

Heart suddenly pounding, he set the pen down so quickly, he nearly upset the inkwell.

“Jenna!” he cried. Suddenly recalling the proprieties, he added, “What are you doing here?”

She walked in and shut the door. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye.”

If I had to face you, I’d never leave.
He couldn’t tell her that, of course, so instead he stuttered, “I, ah, was just writing you a note.”

She shook her head reprovingly. “How very rude and unappreciative. Sometimes I almost despair of making something of you. But I did promise.”

He tamped down a wild flash of hope. “I thought we’d agreed that bargain was over.”

“One can’t renege on a promise.”

He looked away from her, willing himself to remain resolute. “It would be wiser. Seeing me would…complicate matters. Besides, I can’t, as you well know, promise not to tempt you into something you may later regret.”

“Isn’t it my choice whether to risk that?”

You don’t know what you risk!
Desperately he put up a hand to keep her from coming closer. “Please, don’t
make this any harder. I can only scrounge so much courage.”

Ignoring his appeal, she approached the desk. “What, you—one of the heroes of Waterloo?”

She was at the edge of the desk now, oh, so close, his fingers itched to touch her face, her hair, run a fingertip along those lips. Her honeysuckle fragrance filled his head, making coherent thought almost impossible.

He curled his fists around the chair arms to keep from reaching for her. “I’m not a hero, as you well know. Not like Garrett—or Vernier.”

“Did you not do your duty, just as they did? Stand by your men and bring them through? There’s as much nobility in that as in winning medals or mention in the dispatches.”

Him, noble.
He stifled the urge to laugh. Did she not know how close he was to chucking nobility and dragging her into his arms?

Then the thought flashed into his head.
Tell her the whole. Admit to her what you’ve never dared admit to any living soul. You’ll have no need then to be noble, for she’ll look at you with contempt.

Though she would never know it, ’twould be the most heroic thing he ever did—sacrificing what little esteem he’d earned in her eyes and pushing her toward someone better in such a way that she would never look back.

I can do it, Miss Sweet.

“A hero, am I? Shall I tell you how this ‘hero,’ after that first ghastly battle at Badajoz, cast up his accounts before every engagement? That only the dread of being humiliated before my men kept me in the saddle, moving forward? That at Waterloo, faced with the mass of D’Erlon’s corps, I would have wheeled my horse and fled, but my knees were too weak. ’Twas my mount, better trained than I, who answered the charge.”

Too ashamed to look at her, sure she’d already turned to leave, the sound of her voice startled him. “But once you charged, you did valiant work. I found you on the field, remember. I saw the enemy dead all around you.”

Bleeding inside at the memories, he made himself continue. “I couldn’t even lift my saber until a lancer lashed out at my horse. Balthasar didn’t deserve to die, so I fended him off. I praised heaven when recall sounded, but—but the regiment didn’t heed it! I would have gone back, but then—oh God, then they were all over Kit, pulling him off his horse, and I couldn’t just watch and do nothing. And then those two lancers and a cuirassier went after Kendrick and—”

Shaking uncontrollably now, he made himself stop. “Lord, Lord, I shouldn’t be telling you this!”

Her voice fierce, she seized his arm. “Who else could you tell? I’ve walked the fields after a battle. I know what war means. I asked Papa once how he could bring himself to fight. He told me those who didn’t fear war’s horror were either madmen or fools. Fear keeps you alive, he said.”

Tony laughed without mirth. “It did that, if barely. But I did nothing compared to Vernier. Standing at the gates of Hougoumont, fighting back wave after wave of attackers!”