Outrageously Yours (43 page)

Simon made a sound of disgust in his throat. “There is no place for mongrels in any community. And that is all you are: a diseased dog with no honor.”

“Simon!” Ivy stepped out from behind him and faced Sir Alistair head-on. “Tell us what you wish us to do.”

 

“Turn around and face the wall.”

Alistair’s command raised a cold sweat between Simon’s shoulder blades. Was the bastard simply going to stand them side by side and shoot them? Knots of desperation twisted in his gut. They were far from the public portions of the house, and at this time of day there would be no servants in their attic quarters. Who would hear the shots?

As he and Ivy moved to comply, he tried to school his features and not let her see the spiraling panic slamming his heart against his ribs and threatening to render him half mad.

“Alistair, this is between you and me.” Through gritted teeth he spoke to the unpainted wall in front of him. His limbs shook, and the floor beneath his feet seemed about to buckle. “There are endless hidden chambers and catacombs in this house. Take me to any of them and do as you like with me, but leave Ivy and Gwendolyn alone.”

“No, Simon, I’m not leaving you.”

“Be quiet, Ivy.”

“Shut up, both of you.” Alistair’s tread on the floorboards indicated that he had stepped farther into the room.

Struggling to contain his panting breaths, Simon attempted to gauge the size of the man’s shadow against the wall. Was he close enough for Simon to swing around and knock the weapon from his hand? Or merely close enough to ensure that Alistair hit a vital organ—his own or Ivy’s—if the gun discharged?

He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk
her
. Uncertainty held him immobile.

A scraping sounded as Alistair kicked something across the floor. “I kept these here in the event Gwen needed restraining. Happily for her, the laudanum did the trick. Very slowly, Miss Ivy, you may pick them up.”

Ivy stooped, and when she straightened, she held two lengths of rope in her hands. Simon’s gut wrenched again as he guessed that Alistair planned to incapacitate him, leaving the women entirely vulnerable.

“Now, then, my dear,” Alistair said almost amiably, “you will tie Simon’s hands behind his back. I shall be watching, so do not attempt to tie slipknots.”

“I’m sorry,” Ivy whispered as she moved behind Simon and gathered his wrists together.

“Just do as he says.” Paltry advice, but he could conceive of none better. He considered spreading his wrists a fraction to give himself some sliding room, but Alistair would look for that. Instead, as Ivy bound his wrists, he fisted his hands tightly and hoped the flexed muscle would give him some minuscule room with which to work.

“Now sit on the edge of the bed,” Alistair instructed him.

Compliance took every bit of self-discipline he possessed. Gwen stirred as the mattress dipped beneath his weight.
You’ll see home again, Gwennie, I swear.
He didn’t know how. He only knew there could be no other option.

Alistair gestured at Ivy with the revolver. “Now his ankles.”

As she knelt at his feet, he caught her gaze and communicated as best he could that she continue to appease Alistair. Anything—
anything
—as long as she survived.

He raised his chin to Alistair. “How did you persuade Gwen to cooperate?”

The demon had the audacity to laugh, fueling Simon’s growing penchant to engage in mindless violence. “All I had to do was assure her that I loved her.”

“So she stole the stone for you....”

“Oh, no, my friend. She stole the stone for you.” Alistair stepped back and leaned against the doorframe. Simon wasn’t foolish enough to believe the casual stance would hinder his aim. Alistair Granville was an expert shot; he could split a sapling at a hundred paces. “As impulsive as our dear Gwendolyn can be, she was overwrought with guilt at having displeased her brother last winter. She saw the stone as a peace offering.”

“Just as the queen supposed.” Yanking the last knot tight, Ivy pushed to her feet. Regret and fear swam in her dark eyes.

It’ll be all right,
Simon mouthed to her. Aloud he asked Alistair, “Why didn’t she simply give it to me?”

“Because she remembered what an overbearing hot-head you are.”

“That isn’t true!” Ivy burst out.

Alistair ignored the interruption. “She hoped I could help smooth things over and mediate a truce between the two of you. After all, you never did learn the identity of the man with whom she’d gone to tryst. For all you knew, I was nothing more than a concerned friend and relative.”

“Then why did she leave an unfinished note to me on Ben’s bookshelf?” The truth suddenly struck him. “She didn’t. It was you, the day you went to see Ben to discuss the consortium.”

“I needed to be certain you’d attend the consortium. Gwen must have started and discarded a dozen notes to you before the laudanum, alas, rendered her unable to hold a quill.”

“All this time, you’ve kept her drugged....” He paused to take in his sister’s shrunken form and gaunt features. Good God, his beautiful, youthful, vivacious sister, reduced to a shadow of her former self. The sight of her filled him with dread. “For pity’s sake, Alistair, she’s barely more than a child.”

“On the contrary, she’s quite the woman, your sister—”

Inside Simon’s skull, black fury exploded. He became mobile, propelled off the pallet, his head aimed for Alistair’s gut. No intention formed within the molten rage except to inflict damage any way he could.

Ivy’s scream filled his ears. He felt himself falling short of his mark, going down and uselessly hitting the floor. His chin cracked against a floorboard. Pain erupted on his right side, his ribs shrieking as Alistair’s boot struck again and again. Ivy’s half Wellingtons flashed across his line of sight.

There were frantic scuffling sounds, then a body hitting the back wall with a light thud. A delicate thud.
Ivy.

Cursing his damned, reckless stupidity, Simon turned half on his side, only to glimpse the toe of a polished black boot swinging viciously toward his head. Agony shot through him, and then he floated in nothingness.

 

Ivy hit the wall with bone-jarring force, her head, shoulder, and right hip taking the brunt of the blow. While part of her acknowledged the pain, the rest of her didn’t care.

Simon was down and Sir Alistair . . . Sir Alistair had lost the remaining shreds of his sanity. Blinking away the spots dancing before her eyes, she pushed away from the wall and threw herself down across Simon’s torso. One coherent thought drove her:
Shield him from the blows.

Mercifully, her strategy succeeded. The monster stopped kicking, but when she lifted her head from Simon’s shoulder, she saw the blood trickling from a wound above his temple. His eyes were closed, his face and lips bloodless.

“Oh, God, you’ve killed him. You horror of a man, you—”

Sir Alistair seized her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. “He’s not dead, not yet. In truth, I have no intention of killing him. Now that your absurd plan to catch the
real killer
has failed”—his tone dripped with mockery—“Simon is once again Inspector Scott’s prime suspect. There is no need for me to dispatch him. The law will prove most obliging in that regard.”

“Then you’ll have to kill me, for I shall tell the authorities everything.”

He gave her arm a vicious twist that wrenched a cry from her lips. “Who will listen to a woman who disguises herself as a man and keeps company with other men? Not to mention that you, my dear, will be implicated as Simon’s accomplice.”

“My brother-in-law will listen.”

“I think not. I know his type. He is an aristocrat, full of arrogance and pride. He came here to drag you home and salvage your reputation, no? But after your many deplorable offenses he is sure to disown you. He’ll be only too happy to wash his hands of you.”

A contradiction sprang to Ivy’s tongue. No matter what she had done or ever could do, Aidan would never abandon her. He was a man of honor and compassion, two qualities of which Alistair Granville knew nothing.

She held her tongue, realizing that the fiend had just provided her with a weapon. A dubious weapon, perhaps, but the only one presently at her disposal. The only hope, perhaps, for Simon and his sister. Letting her head droop, she watched from under her lashes as he took the bait and sneered.

“You see that I am right. You are now quite alone. Believe it or not, at this juncture, my dear, I am your only friend.”

Revulsion made her try to jerk her arm from his hold, but he tightened his fingers like a vise and raised his revolver until it stared like a lifeless black eye into her own. “If you cooperate, I will speak up for you. I will tell them you helped me subdue Simon. That way you may avoid the gallows.”

Slowly she raised her head. “What would you have me do?”

He released her arm and gestured with the pistol at Simon. “First, rip a piece of the bedsheet and wrap his head in it. Then take the blanket from the bed and roll him onto it. You’re going to drag him down the corridor.” When she questioned him with a look, he calmly explained, “I cannot have him found with his sister. We’ll leave him near a back stairwell.”

“But I don’t think I can move him—”

“You will find a way if you wish to live.”

Her gaze lit on the pathetic form of Lady Gwendolyn. “And her?”

“Don’t worry. I fully intend marrying her and claiming her dowry. In a few days I’ll begin weaning her off the laudanum. I shall tell her she’s been ill with a ravaging fever, on the verge of death. She’ll never know otherwise, and I will be there to comfort her over her brother’s ignominious downfall.”

The simplicity of his plan and his utter lack of conscience left Ivy numb with fear and ill with loathing. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“The true sign of brilliance, no?” He backed up until he stood framed in the doorway. “Now take hold of him and let us be off.”

“H
arrow ... Harrow, wake up.”

The summons came from far away, muffled as if he were underwater. Unable to fill his lungs with air, Simon felt as though he were drowning. An insufferable pressure formed an iron band around his skull, and he felt in imminent danger of retching.

“Harrow! I need you awake. Now. There is no time for lying about.”

A nudge at his shoulder brought on waves of nausea. He shifted and nearly cried out from the pain. Someone, apparently, had stuck a dagger in his side, another into his skull.

“Harrow! Damn it, man, listen to me. He has Ivy. I believe he’s taking her down to the ballroom and I need your help.”

“Ivy . . .”

“Yes. Granville has her.”

Danger. Madness. Murder. Recollection came crashing through the painful haze. Simon forced his eyes open. The lamp had gone out, and he could barely discern the outlines of the Earl of Barensforth, leaning over him and gripping his shoulders. Simon remembered that Alistair had forced Ivy to bind his wrists and ankles, but apparently Barensforth had untied the ropes. He raised a hand to his throbbing temple.

“It’s Alistair,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “He’s the . . . murderer.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve figured that out for myself. Can you sit up?”

“You figured . . . How? Where is Ivy . . . ?” Simon accepted the other man’s help, ignoring the shooting pains as he craned his neck to look about him. “Gwen?” But his sister and the pallet had vanished. Had he only dreamed he’d found her? “My sister . . . where is she?”

“Do you mean Lady Gwendolyn, who stole the queen’s stone?”

“I . . . only have one sister.” He massaged the aching curve of his neck. A sense of urgency swam up through his confusion. He attempted to gain his feet, but halfway up, the floor buckled and the walls started spinning.

Barensforth thrust an arm across his shoulders to steady him. “Look, I understand the bastard knocked you about. But you need to concentrate. When our plan failed, I came searching for you, fully intending to apprehend you—”

“Alistair predicted as much.”

“Listen. After stumbling around these dark corridors for what seemed an eternity, I heard voices. Ivy and Granville had just deposited you here. He had a pistol to her ribs—”

“A revolver.”

“Damn it, man,
focus
.” Still supporting Simon’s weight, Barensforth half walked, half hauled him down the corridor. “The point is that I didn’t dare make a move against him or he might have shot Ivy then and there. He said something about the ballroom and a way down no one else knows about. Not even his servants.”

Pain and queasiness had forced Simon’s chin to his chest. Now his head came up, and somehow he found the strength to smile grimly. “I know the way,” he said.

 

The stairwell’s jagged stone walls tore at the elbows of Ivy’s coat as she picked her way down. Despite Sir Alistair’s lantern, darkness closed around her, as cold and forbidding as a tomb. However modernized the main parts of the house might be, these narrow, spiraling steps must have been original to the ancient monastery.

Whenever she hesitated, Sir Alistair prodded with his gun at her shoulder, her spine, the nape of her neck. The weight of the box in her hands hindered her steps, while the strange energy emanating into her palms traveled up her arms until they trembled.

Though she had yet to set her eyes upon it, she had at long last found Victoria’s stone. Not the decoy hunk of rock Sir Alistair had used to murder Spencer and Preston and very nearly Jasper, but the real stone Lady Gwendolyn had taken from Buckingham Palace.

Her arms were weakening, her knees shaking from the exertion of the descent. Finally they reached a cramped landing. The uneven stone flooring bit into the soles of her boots, while the granite chill penetrated her clothing and made her shiver. Sir Alistair ordered her to stand to one side while he pressed his ear to a wooden door. He never took his eyes off her, nor did he avert his gun from the level of her chest.