The Diamond Key (20 page)

Oh, where was her rescuer now? Please— No, she could not count on any kind of divine intervention again. This time she had to save herself. She collapsed, pretending to faint. The villain could not bend down. She could roll behind a lilac bush, then run like— but he skewered her gown to the grass with his sword.

“No more tricks, my lady. You are worth more to me alive than dead, but a few nicks and cuts won’t make you less valuable. Now stand, slowly, and start walking again.”

Well, at least she still had her hairpin, and now a handful of dirt in the other hand. If she could throw the dirt through those narrow eye holes, then she could pierce his bare hand with her hairpin. If he were injured, he’d drop the sword. If she picked up the weapon, she could . . ,

Torrie doubted she’d be able to stab the man with his own blade, no matter how black his heart may be. Hitting him over the helmet would only give him a headache. So, she plotted, she would have to pick up the sword and run away with it, to keep it from him. Surely she could outrun a man weighted down with armor.

Thank goodness she did not have: to rely on her chancy plan, for a tall, thin man was standing near an ornamental fountain. His mask identified him as another party-goer, for which Torrie thanked her lucky stars as she ran toward him.

“Help me!” she called out. “This dastard is threatening me at knifepoint! Thank heaven you are here.”

The man reached out for her, and latched onto her arm. “Got her, gov. Just like we planned.”

There were two of them? And Torrie had just begged the second baseborn churl to save her? Life could not be that unfair. And she could not be such an easy victim! Well, this second slug-spit was not wearing any armor, by Harry.

Just as he reached for a sack to put over her head, Torrie tossed the dirt at his face. Then she stuck his hand with her pin, as hard as she could. In her rage, that was hard indeed. He howled and cursed, but let go of her arm and the sack. Torrie grabbed the sack and threw it at the knight’s head, blinding him. He shouted too, then raised the sword and swung it around in a wild arc. Torrie ducked, but the flat side of the blade struck his partner, who fell, lurching forward to crash into the knight’s knees. The dastard went down on top, sounding like an avalanche of silver teapots.

Torrie ran.

Then she turned around and ran in the right direction, back to the lights of the house.

Then she ran into a wall: the hard, well-muscled wall of Wynn Ingram’s chest. She was safe.

“What, did your lover disappoint you?”

“My lover? You think that I ... Oh, you oaf!” Torrie stepped back from Wynn’s steadying arms and slapped him. “My lover, as you call him, abducted me at the point of his sword. He and his friend were going to stuff me in a sack!”

Before she could finish, Wynn’s dagger was unsheathed and he was starting down the path. She called him back. “Don’t bother. I heard them scrambling under the hedges at the rear of the garden as I ran. They must have had horses or a carriage waiting on the other side. They will be long gone by the time you get there.”

“Hell and damnation. Are you all right?” Now that he was closer, he could see that her gown was stained and her hair was falling down her back and one wing was crumpled. He cursed again. Someone had dared to lay a hand on his goddess. Whoever he was, he was a dead man. “Did they hurt you?”

“No. Nothing to speak of anyway.”‘ Torrie knew she would have black-and-blue bruises by morning, but compared to what could have happened, she was fine. Or as fine as one could be, having been kidnapped, attacked, and then accused of meeting a lover.

“Was it Boyce?”

“I do not know. He was dressed as a knight in armor. It could have been, but I never thought Boyce meant to hurt me. The other man was too tall to be him.”

“I’ll find them. I swear it,” Then he brushed the hair from her cheeks and cupped her face in his hands. “You are sure you are not injured?”

The tenderness evaporated her anger. All she had left was a trembling aftermath of emotions. She shook her head, no. “I was just so frightened, though.”

He could feel her shaking, so enfolded her in his arms against his chest again. “Lud, I am a brute for thinking ill of you. And doubly so for letting my stupid suspicions keep me from going after you in time.”

“But you were coming? That’s why you were so far away from the house and the terrace?”

He pressed her closer even, so he could feel her heart beating beneath the thin fabric of her gown. “I was coming.”

She sighed and stopped shivering, comforted as much by his words as by the warmth of his embrace.

When Wynn felt she had recovered somewhat, he asked her to tell him what had happened, if she felt up to it. Torrie nodded and told him about the clumsy knight and his lance, and how she could not cry out because of the noise inside.

“Wellington arrived,” was all he said, thinking that she did not need to know about Troy and Bette at this moment.

“Mrs. Reese must have been in alt.”

“She was. But go on. Where was the other man, and how did you manage to get free?”

She told him about the dirt and the hairpin and the sack, and he told her what a brave and brilliant woman she was.

The retelling, though, brought all the horror of the abduction back to her. Torrie could not help herself; she started weeping. “I was not brave at all,” she said through her quivering lips, trying to hold back a sob. “I was terrified.”

Wynn rubbed her back and let her cry, even though his opened shirt collar was no protection from the dampness. Hell, half the women in London seemed to cry on him. “That is even braver, sweetheart,” he told her, “to act when fear makes you want to crawl into a little ball like a hedgehog, hoping that if no one sees you the terror will go away.” He tried to straighten out the crumpled wing. “You did not give up, but you fought back despite the fear. You won, Torrie. You won.”

She hiccupped and sniffled, and tried to smile at him. “I did, didn’t I? I got away from two awful men with nothing but my wits to aid me.”

“Two armed and dangerous men,” he agreed. “Too bad you did not get to meet Wellington. He could have used you on his staff.”

She gave a watery laugh. Wynn gave her his handkerchief so she could blow her nose and said, “But know this: if you had not escaped, if their strength was simply too great for even your ingenuity, I would have found you.”

“You would?”

He nodded his head. “No matter where they took you or why. I did not save your life the first time to have some bounders steal you away.”

“Oh, Wynn.”

The sound of his name was both a sigh and an invitation. He took it. He took her lips and her doubts and her fears, and gave back strength and security and his own soul.

Torrie melted. There was no other word for how she felt. She softened and flowed and melded with Wynn, their lips, their breaths, their very beings. She forgot the horror, feeling only the magic of his kiss, the joy of their oneness.

But.

But they were not one, and she could not give herself to a man who was not her husband, and who also kissed any woman he could.

But they were at Mrs. Reese’s costume party, not the Cyprians’ Ball.

And he thought she took lovers.

So she slapped him again.

“Deuce take it, woman,” he said as his head snapped back. “What was that for? You were kissing me, too, and enjoying it.”

That was one of the reasons she’d ended the kiss: because she wanted it never to end, and she could not bear it if he were merely trifling with her affections. She could say none of that, though, not even to herself, so she said, “That was for not being there when I needed you.” Then she saw the red mark she’d made on his face and started weeping again, ashamed and sorry and wanting to kiss the hurt away. “Oh, Wynn, I am so confused!”

Wynn rubbed his cheek. If Torrie thought
she
was confused ...

* * * *

Peculiarly enough, the footman asked Wynn if he was certain a surgeon was not required, after Wynn asked to have the Duchamp carriage brought ‘round. The footman had not caught so much as a glimpse of Torrie, standing behind a column at the front of Mrs. Reese’s house, and could know nothing of her
deshabille.
They had walked around the building through the side gardens, rather than face the ballroom and the pandemonium that would have ensued.

When Wynn sent another footman for Torrie’s aunt and her cape, that servant looked him over carefully, as if for bruises, before setting off on his errands. London parties were obviously not the dull affairs they used to be.

As soon as Torrie was wrapped and bundled into the coach, her aunt at her side, Wynn went searching for her father.

Lord Duchamp was in the card room playing a desultory game of whist with three old friends who, like him, were only waiting for their womenfolk to decide they had had enough merriment. The earl looked up when he saw the viscount, nodded at Wynn, then went back to studying his cards.

One of the other gentlemen at the table said, “Remarkable evening, what, Wellington bringing your friend back from the grave, eh?”

“Remarkable, indeed,” Wynn agreed politely, then addressed Lord Duchamp: “I need a word with you, sir, concerning your daughter.”

“My—” A grin broke over the earl’s face. He took Wynn’s hand and began pumping it up and down. “I was beginning to doubt she’d go through with it, what with the evening growing so late. And you’re the one after all! I could not be happier, Ingall, let me assure you. Why, I told the silly puss she would never find one better!”

“My lord, I don’t think you—”

“Of course, I cannot like this rumgumption of giving away half your assets, lad, but we’ll let the lawyers handle the details, eh? And it is not as if you could donate the Ingall holdings to charity or sell off your estates to repay a debt of honor, anyway. Entailed on your son, of course.” He beamed at the other cardplayers. “My grandson.”

The gentlemen at the table had been pretending not to listen, but they were all smiling now, too. Before Lord Elston could call for a toast, Wynn interrupted. “No, sir, you mistake the matter. Lady Victoria is not feeling well and wishes to go home.”

Duchamp knocked his chair over in his haste. “Leave a ball early? That is not like my girl. Why, I haven’t had any lobster patties yet. Waiting for the crowds to thin, don’t you know.” He threw his cards on the table. “Gentlemen, forgive me. And forget anything I may have spoken out of turn.”

Once they were away from the others, Lord Duchamp said, “Now, tell me. You are looking like the devil himself. Is my girl all right?”

After hearing Wynn’s account, Duchamp was all for calling out the Watch, the Runners, the army. Wellington was still at the ball, wasn’t he?

“I think your daughter would prefer that no one knows about the altercation. If the gossips find out she left the ball with a gentleman, and returned with her hair down and her gown mussed, they will make much of it. I know what a bumblebroth they can create out of air bubbles. This way no one has to know anything but that she went home ill, under her aunt’s protection.”

The earl huffed, and not just because of the pace Wynn was setting down Mrs. Reese’s corridors. “I suppose you are right. Can’t simply let the dastardly deed go unpunished, though. Then the scum will think they can steal young girls away at will. Do you think they were going to hold her for ransom?”

Wynn did not want to mention white slavers. “I have no way of knowing yet. I want to go look around the property, interview the stable hands and the groundskeepers, to find out if they saw anyone acting strangely. Or stranger than masquerade guests usually behave. A knight in mismatched armor would have been distinctive enough that someone should be able to identify the bastard. Perhaps the butler recalls taking his invitation. I’ll check.”

“I’ll help.”

“I think you would be of more assistance to Lady Victoria at home, sir. She was badly frightened.”

“Quite right. Deuce take it, I cannot think.”

“Do not worry. I will make a thorough investigation. Just go home to your daughter. I’m afraid I sent her off in your coach, but I took the liberty of asking for the loan of one of Mrs. Reese’s.”

“What, did she charge you a new roof for some foundling home?”

Wynn smiled. “No, that goes on your bill.”

Before stepping into the borrowed carriage, Duchamp asked, “Do you think it was that chaw-bacon Boyce? I thought he wanted to marry the gal, not scare her half to death.”

“Would you have given permission?”

“Not on your life.”

“There is your answer. I will look into it.”

Lord Duchamp took his hand. “According to Wellington, you are the right man for the job. But this time, lad, let the law handle the muckworm. Or me. We cannot afford to lose you for another six years.”

Wynn made no promises.

Wynn made no discoveries, either. The fallen lance told him nothing, nor the break in the hedges. No servants had seen anything out of the ordinary, except in the number of guests needing to be carried out of the ballroom. Mrs. Reese did not recall greeting such a knight’s arrival, nor did Marissa, who as usual had made note of everyone at the ball, their pedigrees, predilections, and dance partners.

By mid-morning of the following day, though, Barrogi had the nickname of a petty criminal who fit Lady Torrie’s description. “A tall broom of a
bandito,
they say, with straw-colored hair, who does not mind getting his hands dirty. Speaking of hands,
padrone,
someone said he was wearing a bandage on one of his mitts last night that was as big as a turnspit.”

Wynn looked over at the dog sleeping by the fire. “As big as a turnip?”

“And he’s been talking about the brass he’ll be spending at Sukey Johnstone’s bordello. Me, I think he has been cooking his chickens before they hatch.”

“That’s how you make eggs, dash it. What is his name?”

Barrogi shrugged. “They call him the Scarecrow, and no one could tell me, no matter how much of your money I spent on blue ruin,
padrone,
where he slept. I know where he drinks, though.” He finished cleaning his fingernails with his knife and slid it back up his sleeve. “This man, I think, has to disappear, no?”