Kiss the Earl (30 page)

Ella ran as fast as she could, her skirts gathered high to keep from tripping, the dew wetting her slippers through. Her side ached and oxygen burned her lungs as she sprinted through the park. She had to get there, had to stop him. He'd left before she could stop him, and now he was facing the baron.

“Patrick!” Her scream echoed through the trees. “Patrick, wait!”

The path curved just ahead, and adrenaline rushed as she rounded it. Iain's voice called, Scots brogue more prominent as he shouted, “Ready…”

“No!” Ella screamed.

“Fire!”

The clearing came into sight, Patrick and the baron turned to face one another. The baron raised his gun and fired, only seconds before Ella reached Patrick's side.

He crumpled to the ground, red staining his white shirt. He'd never even raised his pistol.

“Please don't die,” Ella sobbed, pressing against the wound to stanch the bleeding. Her hands were coated in seconds. “Please, Patrick, you can't. I love you.”

“I…” Patrick breathed, blood staining his lips. “I…love…”

He couldn't finish the sentence, because he was dead.

“No!”

Ella sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding as hard as it had in the dream. She looked down in a panic. Patrick was there, sleeping beside her. His face looked almost boyish, relaxed. Breathing. Alive.

“I can't let this happen,” Ella whispered, cradling her head in her hands. “I have to stop this.” The vision of Patrick falling, blood staining his shirt as the life left his body would haunt her forever.

She'd meant to go as soon as Patrick fell asleep. But then slumber had overtaken her too. Only that awful dream had woken her, hopefully in enough time to enact her plan to stop this.

As quietly as she could, she slipped out of the bed. With one last look at her sleeping husband, she left the room and went next door, to the chamber she'd been given the day before. She dressed quickly in the dark, grateful for the moonlight that spilled through the windows. She grabbed the faded and worn yellow gown, more for the fact it was easy to pull on without help than for anything else, and jammed her feet into the scuffed boots Patrick had given her what felt like ages ago. When she'd put on a plain, almost threadbare black cloak, she crept down the stairs as quiet as a cat burglar. Her hair was a mess, but what did that matter? With every second, her chances of saving Patrick's life were dwindling.

Fortunately, Yardley had proved really helpful on her fact-finding mission the day before. So when Ella left the house by herself, she had a page with directions on it that would lead her straight to George Harrods, vicar and Amelia Brownstone's betrothed.

Not only was he a preacher, but he wanted to marry Amelia. So if anyone could help her stop this duel, it'd be him.

The early morning was chilly, and Ella was grateful for the cloak as she hurried down nearly empty streets. In a house, a clock bonged the hour. Four a.m. A few hours to go before dawn. Why hadn't she fought harder to stay awake? Hopefully there was still enough time left to stop this duel.

She counted streets as she walked, referring often to the page in her hand. Yardley had such tiny, squiggly handwriting that it was hard to make out sometimes. The farther she went, the worse the streets got, forcing her to trudge through mud and filth. The bottom of her dress was coated with muck, splashes finding their way higher on her skirt as she hurried as fast as she could. Nearly an hour later, her boots squishing and clothes spotted and ruined, she found herself in front of a brick building, much plainer than the ones in the neighborhood she'd set out from. The buildings around it were run-down, as if they'd been nice at one time but poverty and time had combined to make them shabby.

Ella shrugged. It made sense. Patrick had said that the vicar didn't have much money.

Marshaling her nerve, she knocked on the door. Another deep breath for courage, and she waited. And waited. And waited.

“Maybe everyone's asleep,” Ella said, and knocked again, this time more briskly. Wincing at the pain in her knuckles, she waited some more. She scowled at the still-unopened door.

“Okay, Mr. Harrods, it's time to rise and shine.”

Using the side of her fist, she pounded on the door, this time adding a yell. “Mr. Harrods? Mr. Harrods, open the door!”

The sound of a latch rasping met her ears, and then the door was yanked open to reveal a confused-looking man in a robe with a cap.

“Are you Mr. Harrods?” Ella said, straightening her spine. Her voice was shrill, but she was out of breath and panicking.

“I am. And who might you be?”

Ella swept past him and into the house. “I am Lady Fairhaven, and I'm here for your help. We don't have time for coffee, so you're going to have to wake up really quick. We've got a duel to stop.”

The vicar's jaw dropped, but he shut the door and showed her into a sitting room anyway. Ella tried to keep her face blank, but inside she was petrified. She was in a stranger's house and he was her only hope to stop her husband from dueling.

She'd never imagined something like this could happen.

“Perhaps you should tell me the entire story,” Mr. Harrods said in a soft voice, sitting across from Ella.

She nodded and then launched into her tale. It wasn't until she'd gotten to the part about the magic mirror that she wondered if she should have polished the truth a little bit. But as she tried to explain, the vicar's expression grew more concerned. He rose and stood by the fireplace. And when she finished with the fact that her new husband would be dueling Mr. Harrods's future father-in-law if he didn't do something to stop it, the vicar nodded, clasping his hands behind his back.

Ella rushed to his side and continued quickly. “I know all this sounds crazy, but it's true. And I love Patrick. I love him more than anything. If it wasn't for the fact I'm going home to my time soon, I don't know that he would have agreed to the lie. But he did, and now I have to stop this, or he'll die.” Her voice was shrill with panic, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I see, Lady Fairhaven.”

Ella bit her lip. Was it her imagination, or did that “Lady” sound a little bit hesitant? She had to reach him, had to convince him to believe her. So she reached out and grabbed both his hands in a strong grip, more to keep herself from shaking than anything else. “So you'll help me stop the duel?”

Mr. Harrods's smile was kind but strained as he pulled free of her grip. “Of course. If you'll remain here but a moment.” He left the room.

Ella sat there in the cold parlor on a threadbare couch that looked like it should have been retired eight years earlier. With an anxious glance out the barred-up window toward the sky, which looked a touch lighter if she wasn't imaging things, Ella waited. What else could she do? The vicar would help her; he had to. He'd looked nice enough. There was no other choice, was there?

Twenty minutes later, the door flew open. Her heart in her throat, Ella leapt to her feet. Two men approached, followed by the vicar.

“That is her,” Mr. Harrods said in a sympathetic tone as the men came to Ella's side. “Her family must be frantic. The magistrate is sure to know who is looking for her. Please take her to him and ensure her safety. Such stories she told. Magic and mirrors and tales like you would not believe. God has surely cursed her with madness.”

“No!” Ella yelled as the men grabbed her arms. “I'm not crazy, it's true!”

“Don't worry, vicar. We'll see to it that she's put back where she belongs.” The taller of the two men tipped his hat.

“Oh my God, please no, let me go!” Ella jerked and yanked against the men's grips, but they were both big, burly guys, probably used to their victims fighting. She dug her boots against the floor, but they dragged her out the door.

“Do be careful,” the vicar called as they tossed her into the back of a wagon. Slamming the door shut behind her, they laughed as one of them locked it tight.

“Come on, my pretty lady. Back to the madhouse where you belong!”

Gripping the bars of the wagon, Ella shrieked at George Harrods, who was standing on his front stoop in his robe with a sad expression on his face.

“Please help me! I'm not crazy! Patrick will die if you don't stop this!”

The vicar's frown was regretful, but he didn't move toward her. Shaking his head, he disappeared into his home as the wagon lurched to a start.

Ella sank down onto the dirty wagon floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She was well and truly screwed now. Nobody knew where she was, and nobody could stop the duel. Patrick would die, and she would rot in an asylum.

She gritted her teeth and slammed her eyes shut, hoping this was another bad dream that she'd wake up from.

It wasn't, and she didn't.

* * *

Patrick woke well before dawn. Smiling without opening his eyes, he stretched, reaching for Ella to bring her warmth close to him. But his questing hand only found empty sheets. Bracing himself on his arm, he looked.

“Oh,” he said, his forehead creasing. “Ella?”

But she did not answer his call, because she was not in the room. And then he remembered. The duel.

“Blast,” he said as he rose. She had probably left him in the night, unable to face the thought of telling him good-bye. Though he could not blame her for avoiding the pain of their parting, he was still disappointed not to see her this morning.

But, he resolved as he splashed water against his face, if she had decided not to favor him with a good-bye, then he'd respect her wishes. He dressed without ringing for his valet, donning a simple pair of buckskin breeches and a white lawn shirt. He did not bother with waistcoat or cravat. After all, he was going to a duel, not some blessed debutante ball.

He left his room a scant few minutes later. Though he paused in front of the closed door to Ella's room, he did not knock or enter. He only pressed his palm against the cold wood for a moment and closed his eyes.

“I will love you forever,” he whispered. “No matter what. Forever.”

His heart heavy, Patrick turned and walked away. He had a mission this morning, and though he longed to damn the lot of them to the devil, he could not abandon his duties. Feeling in his pocket for his watch, Patrick flipped it open.

“Half six,” he murmured. “Not long now.”

As if in answer to his statement, a knock came at the front door. Yardley, as if called up from his bed fully dressed and ready to buttle, answered the door before Patrick could descend the stairs.

“Ah, Sir Iain,” Yardley said with a large smile, “how lovely to see you.”

“Bloody grim business I'm about this morning, Yardley, and no mistake.” Iain clapped the butler on the back briskly, nearly knocking the old man down. “And there he is, the young blighter. Ready to meet your maker?”

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Patrick said grimly as he accepted his greatcoat and hat from Yardley.

Iain glanced up the stairs. “Ella not awake to see you off?”

“No. She is sleeping.” Patrick tightened his jaw as he fastened his coat. “I did not wish to disturb her.”

Iain stepped close, pitching his voice low so Yardley wouldn't hear. “I've made the arrangements that you asked for. If she is to remain here, she will be taken care of. You have my word.”

Clasping his cousin's shoulder, Patrick somehow found the energy to smile. “You have my thanks, Cousin. Now, let's see this beastly business done.”

Iain nodded, and the two left the house just as the first hints of pink were staining the edge of the grim horizon. A fat moon hung low in the sky, as if taunting the rays of the sun. But Patrick paid it no mind as he mounted Argonaut. The image of Ella's face from the night before was cemented in his mind's eye—the expression she'd had as she told him that she loved him.

That was the thought he held on to as they rode through Mayfair, past tradesmen and laborers heading to their day's work. If this was to be his last day, then he'd spend as much of it with Ella's memory as he could.

“We shall arrive a few minutes early,” Iain observed mildly, his stallion snorting and tossing his black mane. “Would you like to ride through the park a moment first?”

“No. Better to be there and get it done.”

“Christ man, I do not understand you. Why are you so eager to meet your end?”

Patrick gripped the reins tighter. He wasn't, not really. But how could he explain that seeing Ella leave him would pain him more than death?

He was spared having to answer when a black-cloaked figure appeared in the distance. A female voice was calling, and the figure waved its arms at them wildly, running headlong toward them.

“What the devil?” Iain stopped his horse. “Is that your Miss Brownstone?”

Patrick pulled Argonaut to a halt, squinting through the dim early light. “I believe it is.” Clucking to Argonaut, he rode to Amelia's side. She was huffing from exertion, leaning over with her hands on her knees.

“Are you all right?” Patrick dismounted and helped Amelia to stand. “What is the matter?”

“Oh God, Patrick,” Amelia wheezed. Her face was glistening with sweat, bright red patches on her cheeks. “I am sorry. I…I am so sorry, he did not know…”

“Wait a moment, and catch your breath.” Patrick gestured to his cousin. “Iain, do you have a flask with you?”

His cousin produced a silver flask of brandy, and Patrick held it while Amelia took a small sip.

“Ugh, that is awful.” Amelia coughed. “Thank you.”

“Now, whatever is the matter? And where is your maid? You should not be out alone at this hour—”

“Can you cease your preaching for a moment? It is your wife, Patrick. Ella.”

Patrick's blood ran cold, and he grabbed Amelia's arm. “What do you mean? Speak now, and quickly.”