Master of Love (19 page)

“Yes, do calm down,” said Garforth, dropping heavily into a chair by the side table. “All we did was chat a bit. I've quite enjoyed her company.”

“You got her inebriated, with ill intent!”

“Well, I didn't have time to get to that part, but now that you're here, the plot can thicken.” He leaned back in his chair, laughing at his own wit.

She spun away from the odious man. “Billy, take Daphne away! Get her into the cab outside and go to Lady Beatrice at DeBray Hall in Mayfair, where Mr. Garforth”—she cast him a look of pure loathing—“claimed to be taking her in the first place!”

“You
are
a lively one!” He waved his gin glass at her in salute. “I'll make you a deal—I'll let the boy leave with your sister if you stay.” His voice lost its jovial tone and he slammed down his glass, making the flintlock rattle dangerously. “You and I have some business to discuss.”

“Deal,” she replied immediately. She and Billy had agreed rescuing Daphne was their top priority, although the lad hadn't liked her insistence that she could handle Garforth.

Predictably, Billy spoke up at once. “I can't leave ye here, Miss H.—not alone with him!”

“Billy, we talked about this. Now, swear to me you'll see Daphne to safety! I can manage.”

Billy set his mouth mutinously but promised, “I'll get Miss Daphne to safety.”

She thrust her last coins at him for the cab and helped him lift Daphne to her feet. “Daphne, sweetling, can you walk? You're leaving now.”

Her sister's eyelids fluttered and she mumbled indistinctly, but she sank down again when her knees wouldn't hold her weight.

Billy stepped back. “We're goin' to have to get Mr. Garforth to carry her out, Miss H.—she's too heavy for either of us and she can't walk on her own.”

Callista turned to him in surprise. “I don't want that man anywhere near my sister!” she exclaimed. If the boy could haul heavy water buckets up three flights of stairs, surely he could help her get Daphne down the hall.

Billy gave her a steady look and shook his head slightly.

Garforth heaved to his feet. “Oh yes, I insist—it will be my pleasure to carry the little miss,” he chortled foully. “What an armful she'll make!” The land agent made a great show of arranging Daphne's limbs and skirts to better advantage before picking her up.

Callista realized the man was aiming to provoke her but still couldn't keep from shuddering at the sight of him laying hands on her sister. She couldn't fathom what Billy was about, to allow Garforth to take such liberties.

With Callista slapping at Garforth's hands and he pausing deliberately to shift Daphne's weight, he carried the girl from the house. At the hansom door, he blocked Callista's way with his bulk, taking his time to lay Daphne down on the squabs as Callista pulled at his coattails from the street. “Just tucking her in with the rug, making sure she won't tumble to the floor,” he said, sniggering.

“Billy, where are you?” Callista called angrily.

Billy came down the steps just as Garforth pulled his head out of the carriage door. The land agent locked his meaty hand around Callista's arm in an iron grip and waved the footboy into the cab. “The girl's all settled, safe and sound, so now we'll attend to our business.”

“Remember, Billy, to Lady Beatrice's, and keep Daphne safe!” Callista yelled over her shoulder as Garforth dragged her back inside and the hansom took off.

“You enjoyed that, didn't you?” she spat at him. “What an immoral beast you are, to abuse a young girl so.”

“You'll see what a beast one becomes when there's nothing left to lose.” He pulled her back down the hall to the sitting room and tossed her into a chair opposite his, moving his pistol and picking up his glass.

Callista used the moment to take a deep breath. She couldn't allow him to let her lose focus. Now that Daphne was safe, such relief coursed through her that she had to forcibly remind herself she sat opposite a depraved man with a loaded pistol. She had a sense, which she
hoped
was correct, that the more Garforth drank, the more careless he'd become and the easier she could fight him off, if it came to that. She held her reticule on her lap and fingered the leather case of her page cutter through the bag's tapestry cloth. She kept the cutter's edges sharp for slitting open the pages of books, many of which came from the binder still uncut. It made a fine stiletto knife, really.

“Let's discuss this situation like rational people,” she proposed coolly. “Perhaps you're correct that you and I can reach an . . . arrangement beneficial to us both.” She walked over to the sideboard—holding up her hands, palms outward, when he reached for the pistol—and picked up the gin bottle. “May I pour for you, and join you in a glass? I find I'm ready for that drink now.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “By all means.”

She poured generously for him. Suppressing a grimace at the dirty sheen on the remaining glasses, she measured out a smaller portion for herself and sipped primly. Perhaps a little Dutch courage would not be amiss, given the situation. “Now please, Mr. Garforth, tell me about this debtors' eviction and bawdy-house charge against me. And what do you mean by ‘nothing left to lose'? Are you no longer in the Duke of Bedford's employ?”

He launched into a long rant against her and the duke, which she encouraged with
tsk
s and a liberal hand with the gin. “You got me fired, you whore, you and that posh toff you work for!”

She refused to take offense at the insults of one as lowly as he but did frown when he got to this point. “You think Lord Rexton had something to do with your firing?”

“Bedford told me Rexton came to him with complaints, that I'd made threats against your precious sister!” he sneered. “Don't pretend you don't know about it, missy—it's all your fault! The money you paid for the rent must have come from Rexton, that fool, so you're clearly whoring for him. You ran to him, and then he got the ear of Bedford.”

She knew Garforth was only half right but didn't bother to set him straight. Billy was the one she needed to talk to, if ever she got out of this mess. With the boy's confession that he'd eavesdropped at the office door, it wasn't hard to piece together that his next move had been to involve Dominick. Neither of them had foreseen how it would backfire, with Bedford firing Garforth and the land agent seeking such revenge.

She poured Garforth more gin, encouraging him to keep talking and hoping he'd simply pass out. He sat with the pistol on his lap and laid out the whole sorry story, including how he'd sworn out the complaint against her on trumped-up charges and false grounds, as he was no longer working for Bedford. The clerks, curse their officious little souls, did have her payment duly recorded and entered in the books of accounts. The charges wouldn't stand up but were enough to launch his plot.

Eventually, he wound down and pushed unsteadily to his feet, waving the pistol at her. “So here's what you're goin' t'do to fix things,” he slurred. “I'll stay away from your sister—if you admit to the duke it was all a lie on your part to Rexton, that you were just tryin' to get your rent reset accordin' to the old lease agreement.” He staggered across the room to a desk. “Even got a confession here, all written up for you t'sign.”

“I'll sign no such document,” she retorted stoutly. The lout was so pitiful that she edged toward the door, ready to chance a run for it.

But he seemed to anticipate her move and raised the gun, pointing it straight at her heart with a surprisingly steady hand. “Get over here,” he snarled. “First, you'll sign. Then, you'll take off your clothin'. I've a mind t'sample the viscount's leavin's.”

For a moment, she considered letting him shoot.

She was so tired of being pushed around by men and impossible circumstances. So very, very tired. It would be a relief to no longer worry and fight, to simply let it all be over.

But then her family would be alone.

She closed her eyes on a deep sigh.

And walked over to sign. She didn't even read the pages, past caring whether her confession of fraud condemned her to a lifetime in prison.

But she did slip her page cutter out of its leather case in her reticule as she bent over the table.

“Good girl.” He waved the pistol down her form, lurching as he did so. “Now take off that gown. I'll have you for my troubles, or I'll go back for your sister. Which do you want it to be?”

His threat to her sister pushed her too far. She lifted her arm, brandishing the page cutter. “If you try to touch my sister again, I swear to God you'll die for it.”

His face flushed with a red glower of rage and he aimed the gun at her chest. “You're in no position to threaten me! You've ruined my life! You're the one who should die! Now get over here or I'll shoot you down like the useless bitch you are!”

She was not giving in to this despicable excuse for a man without a fight. She feinted to the side and lunged at him with her makeshift stiletto.

He tracked her with the pistol and pulled the trigger.

As if in slow motion, she saw the flintlock release and strike its spark. She dove to the ground and heard the click as the flint hit the flash pan lid.

But nothing happened: no ignition of gunpowder, no ball shooting out. The look of consternation on Garforth's face was almost comical. “I primed the damn thing myself!” He held up the pistol. “What, how—the powder's gone from the pan! That blasted footboy of yours must have shook it out and closed back up the frizzen!”

She'd apologize to Billy later. Right now, she had to get out of here.

She pushed to her feet from the floor and made a dash for it. She was vaguely aware of pounding from afar and wondered if it was her own hammering heart.

But Garforth reversed his grip on the gun and blocked the door with the stock lifted as a cudgel. “I'm not done with you yet!” he roared.

She lunged, knife at the ready, as he reached for her.

She twisted sideways, but not before she felt the gun stock smash down on her left shoulder. With the cutter in her right hand, she slashed wildly at him and made some sort of contact. At the sickening glide of blade into soft flesh, she jerked away. She raced down the hall, hugging her numbed arm to her side.

And ran straight into the solid bulk of Dominick. He burst through the front door, followed by Billy and two stalwart English bobbies.

She choked on a sob and buried her face in Dominick's shirtfront, just as his arms came up to wrap hard around her.

Dom led Callista into the small parlor off the foyer as soon as they arrived back at Rexton House.

Christ, he didn't ever want to live through an experience like that again.

When Billy had arrived on his doorstep with an unconscious Daphne and a story to turn Dom gray, he'd grabbed his pistols. With orders to Graves to send constables on his heels, he'd raced back in the hansom. Luckily, his mother had just returned from France and had been paying a call at Rexton House with his uncle. Lady Rexton happily took charge of Daphne, and Sir George, looking fit to kill, barreled off to Caldwell's sponge house to see to Lady Mildred.

“Graves,” Dom called over his shoulder to the normally unflappable butler, who was wringing his hands, “get word to Sir George and inform my mother that Miss Higginbotham is safe with me. I've sent a constable over to Caldwell's with Billy to withdraw the false accusations against the Higginbotham family.”

“Right away, my lord,” the butler replied, bowing. “The physician has been by to examine Miss Daphne and left his assurances she'll be fine by morning, except perhaps for suffering a headache. He expects she'll recall very little of the events. Lady Rexton is sitting with her now.”

“Excellent. We'll be up shortly.”

With another bow, Graves withdrew, shutting the doors gently. At the sight of Callista pacing the room, arms wrapped tight around her middle, Dom went to the sideboard and poured her a brandy.

“Here, drink this. It'll help steady your nerves.”

She took it from him with ice-cold hands, and he swore at the wild, unfocused look in her eyes.

He held the glass to her mouth to help her take a sip and then set it down to rub his hands carefully along her arms. “Does it hurt where he clubbed you? We should get the physician back to take a look.”

She just shook her head.

He'd examined her arm carefully in the cab on the way home and determined nothing was broken. Save for a bruise on the morrow, she too should be fine. On the outside. He wrapped her close. “It's over, Callista. He can't hurt you again.”

“It's Daphne he could have hurt! Oh, God, Dominick”—she sank against him—“he was going to hurt her . . . How could she have gone on?”

“But he didn't and he won't—you stopped him. You were an idiot to try to do it by yourself. I should wring your neck for risking it. But you succeeded.” He held her at arm's length, still terrified for her. He was angry and hurt she hadn't trusted him for aid. For her sake, he tried to push all that aside. He bent his head to force her to meet his gaze. “You
saved
Daphne.”