My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (7 page)

Shock registered in the voices around her. Time stopped as she clung to his forearm and laid her other hand over Simon’s heart, allowing her to feel the organ hammer beneath her fingers. He stood there just as frightened as Gillian was. Their gazes clung as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her.

“You are s-safe now,” she whimpered. “Safe.”

His lips pinched together. He gave his head a slow, disbelieving shake as if to say, “How could you?”

Her mouth fell open. She wanted to speak, but no words would come. A tear escaped her eye. A sense of completion washed over her. She’d done her duty, saved the man she loved. At peace, she closed her eyes and slipped into darkness.

~~~~

Life drained out
of Simon as he held Gillian’s unconscious body close. In abject despair, he
knelt to the ground, taking her with him. No matter what he’d done in his life, his talents had failed him. He hadn’t been able to protect Gillian when she’d needed it most. He stroked her hair, whispering her name over and over again, kissing her tear-stained face.

“Don’t die. Don’t die, my love.”

She didn’t respond. Blood oozed onto his hands where she’d been shot just below the waist. He slapped her cheek then grasped her wrist and checked for her pulse. Had he lost her forever? No! She was alive!

Russell bolted forward, dropping to a knee beside him. “Is she?”

“No,” he said, refusing to accept anything more. He inched Gillian’s arm free from his chest and laid her down on the carpet. “Here,” he said, entrusting Russell with her life, “do what you can. Don’t let her die.”

Russell nodded, understanding his turmoil. “She’s in good hands, my lord.”

“Don’t disappoint me,” he threatened, before turning his attention to the melee exploding in the room. Something had to be done to ensure Holt couldn’t harm any of them again. And he was ready for a fight.

“Go,” Russell prodded him when he hesitated to leave her side. “I need room to examine her wound.”

Simon rose, slowly scrutinizing the way Russell dipped his fingers into Gillian’s lifeblood.
His hands fisted at his sides.
Holt would pay for what he’d done — ushering in deceit and betrayal to the only safe haven they’d ever known. But not until he found out who pulled the vicar’s marionette strings.

He stepped back and turned, approaching the encircling men who watched Garrick punish Holt with his meaty fists. Holt staggered then spit out blood right before he fell to the floor. Pinned beneath the hulking pirate, he received more pummeling blows to his swelling face.

Garrick raised his bloody fists and roared,
“You sniveling bastard!”

Garrick was the real problem now.

Simon needed Holt alive. The vicar was no use to them dead. He ground his teeth together. Lucifer take it, he wanted to kill Holt himself, not watch Garrick do it. But corpses were incapable of divulging secrets.

He motioned to Henry, the only one capable of talking Garrick out of one of his fits. “Control him!”

Henry nodded and moved in behind Garrick, catching his fist mid-air. “Let him go, Garrick. Holt cannot harm anyone now.”

“Devil damn me, he can and he will,” Garrick raged. He wrenched his hand, trying to free it from Henry’s grasp, but the captain held fast. “He’s going to kill us! Don’t you understand?”

Simon ran his hands through his hair. “Keep him alive,” he shouted to Percy. “Employ every method you know to ensure he stays that way.”

The mad as a buck faces of his men belied their easy acceptance of his order. They wanted to kill their betrayer just as much as he did. But some things far outweighed immediate satisfaction.

Percy’s eyes turned lethal as he strode toward Garrick. “Let him go, Captain.”

“No,” Garrick said with an animalistic growl. “He’s in league with the devil.”

Percy widened his stance then released a satisfied sigh. “Then we must discover how deep the baptismal fount goes, eh?”

Garrick blinked then hesitated briefly before loosening his grip on Holt’s hair. The vicar’s head hit the floor with a thud. The man moaned then shied away, crawling on his knees.

What a pathetic excuse of a man
, Simon thought, thankful Nelson had never witnessed Holt’s treachery.
“Prove you are in no hurry,”
Nelson’s words once advised,
“not dictated by fear, no apprehension of the fate of this day.”

“Have several men take him into the tunnel for interrogation,” he ordered.

Percy nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”

Confident he could trust Percy to handle the situation, he returned to Gillian, who still lay unconscious. Rudimentary bandages covered her hips to staunch her blood flow.

“How is she?” he asked, overanalyzing her injury, studying the crimson liquid leeching into her silver gown, darkening and discoloring it.

“The bullet went into her hip, my lord. I’m afraid it’s still lodged there. It will have to come out.”

Melville strode forward, holding a handkerchief up to his nose. “La, she’s bleeding everywhere. We must get her upstairs before we’re questioned by anyone who heard that gunshot.”

“Goodayle will handle any inquiries,” Simon said with a glance at the door where Goodayle stood, almost as white as the sheets on a newly turned out ship.

Melville wasn’t easily dismissed. “I cannot be seen here.” He had only been present to deliver information on their financial status and explain how Nelson’s death affected the Admiralty Board’s support. He shuddered visibly. “Is the baroness going to make it?”

Russell peered sideways at Simon, his expression serious.

Simon answered, “Yes.”

Garrick shoved his way through the group. “Don’t let her die.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Melville replied, stopping Garrick in his tracks. “Russell is highly esteemed, more methodical than his father ever was.” He handed Garrick the eye patch he’d retrieved from the floor. “You, of all people, should know that, Seaton.”

Garrick grabbed the black fabric Melville handed him and yanked it into place. He nodded to Russell and Melville. “I—”

“Have nothing to be ashamed of,” Simon assured him. “Escort Melville and Douglas through the tunnels. Given the tide of recent events, the Admiralty might have him under close surveillance. Either way, we cannot take the chance he’ll be seen leaving here.”

Garrick didn’t dispute the facts. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve then balanced his weary body on his cane, nodding for Melville to pass by and make his way to the study.

“Inform me as soon as you have any word about the baroness’ condition,” Melville said. He aimed a finger at his account books and Douglas quickly gathered them up to follow him.

“Of course,” Simon said, allowing his gaze to trail back to Gillian.

Lucifer take it!
He’d failed to protect Gillian. After Melville, Douglas, Garrick and his men followed Goodayle to the study, Simon knelt down and lifted Gillian into his arms, cradling her head against his chest.

“Quickly,” Russell commanded, “we must get her upstairs as fast as we can.”

He nodded. Gillian was his everything, his moon and stars, the one light that had guided him through the past nine years of his life when shadows threatened everything he held dear. She was his siren — home. Never before had she looked so delicate or felt so fragile in his arms.

“Let’s go,” Russell demanded.

Simon fell into step behind Russell. He carried Gillian up two flights of stairs to her bedchamber, barely cognizant he was being followed.

Russell opened the door and held it open. Simon moved swiftly past him into the room and laid her gently on the bed. Blood soaked through his linen shirt, hot, sticky, and wet, as it seeped from her body. Once she was on the bed, the counterpane quickly stained crimson. His stomach recoiled as this sanctuary where their bodies had been intertwined in bliss became baptized in Gillian’s blood.

They’d had little enough time together. Would they ever again experience love like they’d recently shared?

“Step aside, my lord,” Russell ordered when he stood motionlessly staring at the scene before him.

He clicked his tongue. “I will not leave her.”

Sunlight beamed through the open shutters, illuminating Gillian’s increasing deathly pallor. His heart, normally warmed by sunlight, hardened into ice.

“We know you love her.” Percy laid a hand his shoulder and pulled him aside. “Let Russell do what he does best.”

Simon
regarded Percy coldly until the duke’s hand fell away.

“Simon,” he said quietly but
steadfast, breaking through the haze.

“I’ll kill the next man who suggests I should leave.” Deadly calm settled over him as he looked Percy in the eye.

Russell nodded, albeit slowly, and moved around the other side of the bed to take care of Gillian. Percy and Henry exchanged wary glances.

Gillian’s maids, Cora and Daisy, rushed in, clattering with confusion and worry. Daisy took one look at Gillian and clutched her apron to her mouth. She cried out, “What can we do for her?” Tears moistened her eyes as she moved slowly toward the bed. “Tell me what to do.”

“I need hot water and bandages. Quickly,” Russell instructed.

Simon closed out the chaos: Russell tearing Gillian’s gown, ripping it away from her wound, and calling out for another hand. Percy stepped forward. Henry offered his services. In his mind, the entire assassination scene unfolded. The uncommon quarrels and accusations. How long had Holt been working against them? Cavendish. Walden. Gone. Their deaths unexplained. Had they been murdered by degree?

“Give us an order. Anything. What would you have us do?” Henry asked.

“Holt cannot escape until we discover who sent him or if he was working alone,” he offered. Betrayal was the one attribute none of them allowed. Their lives would be forfeit if their secrets were divulged.

“
This
is going to be messy.”

Percy’s words left a sour taste in Simon’s mouth. Holt was a priest. Would doing what he planned to do to Holt damn his soul to eternity?

“He betrayed us. That’s what matters now,” he said, accepting terminal acts weren’t committed without reason.

Gillian moaned low in the back of her throat, snapping any composure Simon had left.

Russell leaned close to monitor her breathing. “Simon, if I don’t get this bullet out of her now, she runs the risk of lead poisoning, not to mention bleeding to death.”

“Someone wants me dead. And if Gillian doesn’t survive, they’ll wish they had succeeded.”

“Out!” Russell shouted. “Go somewhere else to plot and scheme. The baroness depends on me, and I’ve got to be able to concentrate.”

Simon squeezed Gillian’s hand then set it down gently.

Percy flashed a wicked smile. “You are compromised, Simon. Allow me to interrogate Holt,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “My sins are weightier than yours, and frankly, I’d quite enjoy it. Right now, the best thing for you to do is to focus on what’s important.”

Only one thing mattered to Simon now — Gillian.

See Love and Truth, all woe begone;

And beauty, drooping in the crowd—

Their thoughts intent on him alone

Who sleeps forever in his shroud!

~The Muffled Drum, John Mayne, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV July 1805

Several grueling hours
later, Simon stared down at Gillian’s chest, monitoring her shallow breaths. Sweat rolled off his forehead, reminding him time had not passed without testing his limits. His heart heavy, anger roiled inside him at what Holt had done to Gillian, to him, to cut Nelson’s Tea off at the knees. Gillian didn’t deserve
this
. She was the heart of Nelson’s Tea. She anchored
him
to logic, hope, to the theory there was more to life than duty. Now, lying helpless before him, she appeared fragile as porcelain, completely contrary to the woman who’d directed him heart and soul through myriad trials and tribulations.

Her dark hair, normally worn pulled back from her face, appeared too tight against her pale, dull skin. Those all-seeing eyes were eclipsed by coal-black lashes, feather-light guardians keeping him from gaining access to her spirited eyes. Occasionally she grimaced, emitting the kind of pain-induced moan that shook him to his foundation.

Russell moved, the sound reminding Simon he and Gillian were not alone. “She’ll rest easier now, my lord.”

“For how long?” He stroked Gillian’s clammy forehead.

“That depends on the baroness.” After a lengthy pause, Russell asked, “My lord, why do you think Holt tried to kill you?”

Simon honestly didn’t know. Holt had encouraged his men to quit Nelson’s Tea when the admiral — God rest his soul — was no longer able to lead them or convince them otherwise. He’d suspected a few in the group would lose faith in their ultimate goal — keeping England safe — but not Holt.

Why had the man betrayed them? “I don’t know, but I
will
find out.”

One gut-wrenching fact remained. Nothing he could do, nothing he learned from Holt, not even Holt’s death would make a difference to Gillian now.

Russell, his hands still stained with Gillian’s blood, tossed bloody cloths to Cora stationed at the end of the bed. “Clean these well and return with fresh linens for the baroness.”

“Yes, sir.” Cora curtseyed then left the room in haste.

Russell motioned for Simon to rise then reached past him to straighten the fresh counterpane, tucking it in around Gillian’s legs.

Simon felt useless, helpless, set adrift by events he couldn’t control.

“She’s a strong woman. We’ve all seen it. Do you recall—”

“This is not the time for nostalgia,” he said, losing patience.

“Of course, my lord. I simply wanted to point out the baroness has been through worse. You’ve seen it yourself. She will overcome her injuries. Her heart is strong and,” he said, lowering his voice, “she has much to live for.” Russell reached out to touch his arm with bloody fingers.

Simon looked down at Russell’s hands and took a shaky step back before gazing at his own. They, too, were covered in Gillian’s blood.

“She. Will. Live.”

The three words he’d craved to hear leapt from Russell’s mouth in a rush. Russell’s prognosis, however, didn’t assuage Simon’s anxiety. No one could do that except Gillian, and she couldn’t speak — yet. Why hadn’t he taken her out of the dining room when he’d had the chance?

“Why do I get the impression there’s more? Something you aren’t telling me.” He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and suppressed an intuitive shudder.

Russell turned to wash his hands in a floral basin setting on a washstand in the corner. He took a deep breath then spoke over his shoulder. “Exactly how close are you and the baroness?”

Anger boiled inside of him. Why was their relationship so important? The damn man already knew he loved her. “No more than you suspect.”

Water sloshed in the porcelain bowl as Russell took time to scrub his fingers. Simon was close to losing his mind as he watched Russell pick up a towel and dry his hands.

“The bullet narrowly missed a major artery in her pelvis.”

Simon breathed a sigh of relief for Gillian’s good fortune. But Russell wasn’t done — the tell was in his eyes — making Simon want to bargain, steal, do anything to keep from hearing what the doctor said next.

He asked the question blasting between his ears. “Was there any other significant damage?”

Russell didn’t play games or gamble human frailty. His line of work involved precision, commitment, especially with agent’s lives on the line.

The doctor cleared his throat rather forcefully. “Gillian will likely never be able to conceive a child.”

No children? A hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach. His voice caught in his throat. “C-Could you be wrong?”

“Mistakes are possible in my line of work, my lord. But I can offer no guarantees.”

Simon leaned into the footboard for support. Russell’s prognosis filled him with unease. This news would devastate Gillian. She’d recently revealed how she envied Percy and Constance’s happy family.

He tried to process what this news would do to her. “Miracles do happen. We’ve witnessed them before.”

“You and I are realists, my lord,” Russell said, folding the towel neatly then placing it on the sideboard. “What would you have me do? Lie to her?”

“No,” he said softly. A lie often proved worse than the secret it concealed. “Not about something like this.”

Russell’s medical diagnosis turned his life inside out. It didn’t alter his love for Gillian in any way. His previous marriage had been based on producing a child that never came. What concerned him? How would Gillian take the news? Would she hold his father’s insistence on an heir over his head? Would she refuse to spend the rest of her life with him out of fear he’d hate her for not being able to give him a child? Anchors moored his shoulders. He had no idea what Gillian would do once she learned the truth. And it was this reaction he feared more than anything he’d ever dreaded in his life.

He fisted his hands, imagining himself squeezing Holt’s neck within them, then stared at his crimson-lined fingers. It was Gillian’s blood on his hands. A stain he would never be able to remove. “This is Holt’s fault.”

“Yes.” Russell stepped toward a chair and lifted his coat from the spindly wooden backrest. He whipped the fabric around his shoulders and began thrusting his right arm through a sleeve. “What do you plan to do?”

“Find out what is going on and who put him up to this.”

“Afterward?”

“Kill him,” he said with lethal finality.

“Do you think that wise?”

“No!” Gillian cried out, thrashing violently as if struggling to speak had cost her everything.

They rushed to her side. Sweat beaded on her brow as another feverish wave crept over her.

Russell, his coat half-on and hanging half-off, nearly knocked the basin over in his attempt to reach Gillian and hold her still. “She mustn’t move. We have to keep her as calm and immobile as possible.”

Simon reached across the bed to wipe her forehead with a cool compress, whispering, “Shhh, my love. You are safe. Russell is here. He will watch over you. Everything is going to be fine.”

He cooed to Gillian, shushing her until she drifted back into peaceful oblivion, promising not to jeopardize his safety, feeling as if nothing would ever be the same. When she finally drifted back to sleep, Russell readjusted her counterpane.

“How is it possible she still wants us to save Holt?”

“It’s not Holt she wants to save, Russell. It’s me.”

Simon looked down at the woman he loved with a mixture of satisfaction and conflicted fury, feeling the pull to interrogate Holt as much as the tug to stay.

Russell avoided eye contact as he shrugged out of his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “With respect, I am not blind and neither is anyone else. She loves you, my lord. That has been clear to me from the first time we met. Do what you must. Find out why Holt did this to the baroness. I won’t leave her side. You have
my
word.”

The nod to Russell’s trustworthiness gripped him hard. The man had sworn not to take life, but protect it, which made him suitable for Nelson’s Tea. His vocation permitted access into stately homes, hospitals, and prisons. Unlike Holt, who’d sworn falsely to minister to the lives of his flock and uphold Nelson’s Tea’s code, Russell’s oath of do no harm could be counted on. He felt the truth of this deep in his marrow.

Determined to finish what they started below stairs, Simon reached out to touch Gillian’s cheek before pulling back his hand. He wasn’t worthy of her love. He hadn’t prevented her from getting shot. He most certainly couldn’t forget that his inability to protect her had taken away her ability to do the one thing she’d waited years to give him — a child. He stared down at her for a few more precious moments then turned and walked around the bed, summoning all of his strength to leave the room without looking back.

“I’m counting on you, Russell,” he voiced over his shoulder.

“As I am you, my lord.”

He grabbed the door handle without looking back and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Now, finally given a moment of privacy, he laid his forehead against the cool wooden frame. Hours of listening to Gillian cry out as Russell dug into her flesh were ingrained into his mind. He could still hear the ball Russell had retrieved from her hip plunk into a steel dish. More importantly, he’d never forget the panic in her eyes, the way she clung to his hand as the expedient surgeon probed to make sure there weren’t any fibers left inside her.

Infection was their greatest enemy now.

Simon splayed his fingers on the door, once more directing his gaze to his discolored skin. Enough!

He turned, rounded the balustrade, and descended the stairs, each creak in the floorboards a nail pounding into Holt’s coffin. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat as he swallowed back emotions threatening to override his good sense. How was he to balance the scales without giving away his hand to the enemy?

The townhouse was eerily quiet as he finally stepped onto the first floor and moved through the house until he neared the dining room. Light beamed onto the wall adjacent to the doorway, assuring him the curtains had been drawn to allow in the afternoon sun. Curious, he pressed forward.

A quick survey of the room proved it was empty and had been put back to rights. While he’d been gone, broken furniture had been carried off and replaced. Shattered dishes and pieces of glass littering the dining table and the Turkish carpet had been meticulously retrieved and disposed of. Scorched fibers on the woven rug were the only proof of what had transpired hours earlier. As he made a circuit of the room, he passed righted framed portraits and the gilded mirror hanging prominently straight above the fireplace where a surrogate ormolu clock perfectly ticked away time. Even Gillian’s blood had been scrubbed clean from the floor.

Simon scowled, remembering all too clearly the moment Gillian had been shot. Wrestling with his thoughts, he regarded the scene outside the bow window, carriages passing, people taking their daily walks, until he sensed he wasn’t alone.

“Goodayle,” he said, turning to prove his instincts correct. “I see you’ve been busy.”

Goodayle dipped his head. “The servants had nothing to do.”

“Of course.” Simon nodded. “Ingenious.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And the
vicar
?”

“Below, my lord.”

Goodayle would never openly challenge him, but his narrowed eyes revealed intense hatred for any mention of Albert Holt, the once stately vicar who had blessed the four walls at Number Eleven. Goodayle’s reaction corroborated Simon’s logic in keeping Holt alive.

“It’s only a matter of time,” he said, hinting satisfaction would come.

Goodayle simply stood at attention, continuing the charade he’d perfected.

Simon took no offense at Goodayle’s silence. Though servants never mingled with their betters, Goodayle, otherwise known as Lord Sidney Wittingham, hadn’t been born into that societal mold. His good friend had walked away from an earldom to serve at Simon’s side after Simon had been wounded aboard the Agamemnon and forced to retire. The eyes and ears of Nelson’s Tea, Goodayle was his chief of security, responsible for turning the townhouse into what it was today, a safe haven. No longer. Failure to predict this outcome was a stake through Goodayle’s heart.

“Come,” Simon said, moving through the room and out into the hallway. “I do not blame you for what happened. The fault is mine, not yours.”

Goodayle fell into step behind him. His voice broke uncharacteristically, “But if I had been more diligent—”

“We can presume many things, you and I, but doubting ourselves will not turn back time.” Simon progressed down the hall until he stopped before the study doors. He spun around to face Goodayle, placing his hand on the loyal man’s shoulder. “Nothing prepared us for
this —
Nelson or Holt.” He gave the man a pat and stepped back, stowing away his emotions, resuming command. “Did Garrick get Melville and Douglas safely back to their offices?”