Too Wicked to Wed (26 page)
Helen had thought to leave a lantern lit. Turning up its wick, she angled the light to show the way through the crates and cabinets. “The first stairwell leads up to a small anteroom to the rear of the main parlor. It’s used to keep extra brandy and champagne close at hand. The porters are rarely called on to pay it a visit, especially at this time of night, but we must go very quietly.
A rat scrabbled away from the beam.
“From there, we must cross the back foyer to gain entrance to one of the hidden stairways.” As she started forward, she touched his shoulder. “Have no fear, sir. I promise this will go exactly as planned.”
Connor found his throat too tight for words. His fingers covered hers, and squeezed a quick embrace.
At the top of the landing, Helen turned and pressed close to mouth a whisper. “Wait here, while I go upstairs and make sure that it is safe to proceed.”
The zephyr of breath stirred a sudden sense of foreboding. He caught at her cloak. “I think I ought to go on alone.”
“No—that would be a grave mistake. If I am spotted by one of their guards, I can talk my way out of trouble, while your appearance might force their hand with your wife.”
The earl let her shrug off his hold, though he still could not quite let go of the feeling that something was wrong. His instincts did not usually betray him, but of late they seemed to have gone astray.
Helen appeared to hesitate. “Your weapon—perhaps I should take it. Just as a precaution.”
He handed it over without question.
“I shall be back as soon as I can. Be prepared to move quickly when you see my signal.”
Alexa finished her inspection of the door. It was as she had suspected—the inside key would no doubt release the lock, but a tiny gap in the molding revealed two bolts on the outside, which held the paneled oak firmly in place. No amount of nudging with a hairpin was going to budge them, so she was still a prisoner.
A circling of her cell showed there was no other route of escape. The large leaded window was unlocked, but a quick glance showed her location to be on the top floor of the building. Knotting the bedsheets into a rope—another scene from the horrid novel—would still leave her with a drop of over thirty feet down to a cobbled courtyard.
Alexa closed the casement and turned to the opposite wall. Undistorted by the ceiling mirror, the array of racked implements appeared even more menacing. With a choke of revulsion, she quickly looked away. Bare plaster met her gaze, a stark reminder of how few options were within her grasp.
Swallowing her scruples, she approached the rack and hefted one of the rods, a wicked-looking length of ash crowned with a studded steel ball. It swung through the air with much the same feel as a scythe or pitchfork.
After several more swooshes, she set it aside on the bed and took up the whip. On occasion, she had been forced to take a crack at a recalcitrant bull, so it, too, felt more at home in her hand than the delicate fans or jeweled quizzing glasses favored by ladies of the
ton
. As the braided lash snapped through the air, the end curling around the top of the bedpost, Alexa smiled.
For all her boasting bravado Helen Snow had been wrong to claim she had thought of everything—she had not reckoned with the earl’s wife being a rough and tumble country lass.
Alexa recoiled the length of leather and placed it on the edge of the bed. According to her brother, a decorated war hero, the element of surprise could be nearly as powerful a weapon as bullets or blades in a fight.
When the time came, she meant to use it to her full advantage.
Forty-one, forty-two
…The seconds seemed to be passing with excruciating slowness.
Connor made up his mind. If Helen did not return by the count of sixty, he would make his move.
A moment later, the faint rasp of hinges cut off his mental calculations. “Come along, sir,” whispered Helen.
As he rose from a crouch, the thud of steps rose up from below.
“Connor, stop!” called Cameron. “It’s
her
!”
No.
His friend must be mistaken.
“Hurry!” urged Helen, beckoning to him from the darkened stairwell. “They are coming for Lady Killingworth.”
He broke into a run, hand outstretched for the half-open door. As Helen shoved it wider, a breeze stirred her hair.
Attar of roses.
He dove to one side, just as a searing flash exploded from the pistol in her hand.
F
rom behind him came a crashing thud, followed by a grunt of pain from Cameron. But as Connor hit the floor and scrambled to regain his footing, he dared not look away from the contorted mask of fury framed in the doorway.
Her second weapon misfired.
Looking like Medusa with her ebony hair snaking in wild waves around her face, Helen spat out a venomous oath. “After him, you ox,” she hissed, shoving at the hulking brute by her side. “Show your cursed skill with a blade, and quickly, while Dirk and I see to the Wolfhound’s bitch.”
Ducking to avoid the now-useless pistol she hurled at his head, Connor caught the gleam of lethal steel, bright against the flutter of dark skirts that were fast disappearing up the stairs. He forced himself to slow his pursuit. The man coming at him was brandishing a butcher’s knife, while he was armed with naught but a fierce desperation.
A sneering grin bared yellowed teeth, narrow and jagged as those of a wharf rat. “It will be a pleasure te gut a stinking English lord.” The razored edge cut several quick slashes in the air. “Like a pig.”
There was no time to fall back and formulate a strategy. Yanking off his cravat, Connor wound the linen around his left hand and darted forward.
The move took his adversary by surprise. The man hesitated, just long enough for Connor to slip in under the outstretched knife and lash a hard kick to the knee. It staggered him, but he managed to stay upright. His smile, however, sunk into a murderous grimace as he countered with a jabbing counterattack.
Sliding sideways, Connor dodged the flashing steel. “Beware—a wolf always seeks to hamstring his prey.”
“Ain’t me being hunted,” snarled the man. “Yer the one wot’s defenseless, and about te be slaughtered.”
And yet, another of his thrusts hit naught but air.
“You are making a pitiful show of slicing me into gammon,” said the earl. “Afraid of an unarmed man?”
Just as he had hoped, the taunt goaded the other man into lunging out with a flurry of wild stabs. Parrying them with his wrapped fist, Connor ignored the bite of the blade, waiting for just the right moment to smash his other hand down on the man’s wrist.
The crunch of bone was drowned out by a harsh howl and the clatter of metal as the weapon slipped from his adversary’s grip. The man doubled over, groping to regain his advantage, but Connor grabbed his coat collar and rammed him headfirst into the wall.
Blood spurted from the broken nose. The next driving blow sent several broken teeth skittering across the floor. A weak whimper was the only sound now coming from the split lips.
“Enough, Wolf, enough. Leave him alive for the authorities.” Lowering his pistol, Gryff pried the earl away, allowing the man to collapse in a heap. “Damn it, I didn’t dare risk pulling the trigger.” He looked down at Connor’s bleeding fingers. “Hell, you should have waited for reinforcements rather than charge into battle barehanded.”
“No time for that.” Blinking away the momentary haze of bloodlust, Connor flung the shredded remains of his cravat aside. “Lend me your weapon—then hurry and take care of—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Cam.” Gryff quickly passed over his pistol. “Godspeed—you go save Alexa!”
Spinning around for the stairs, Connor took them two at a time.
The shot warned Alexa that all hell had broken loose. A frisson of fear spiraled through her, but she shook it off, determined not to surrender without a fight. Grabbing up the rod and whip, she took up a position by the door. Its inward swing would cover her for a second or two. Just long enough to seize the advantage.
But she would have to strike quickly.
Footsteps raced down the hallway. The first bolt slammed back with a jarring jolt.
Tucking the heavy coil of leather into her sash, Alexa gripped the rod with both hands and raised it over her head.
Another shudder of iron and the door gave way to a shouldered shove.
“I’ve got her.” Though his back was to her, Alexa recognized Dirk’s voice. He came on in a rush, but skidded to an uncertain halt at the sight of the empty bed.
Alexa betrayed no such hesitation. Taking dead aim at the Dutchman’s skull, she swung with all the might she could muster.
The studded ball connected with a sickening thud, knocking the rod from her hold. Dirk lurched around, swiping a grab in her direction. She screamed, but after a wavering step, he dropped like a sack of stones.
“You sodding whoreson, this is no time to be wielding your rod!” Helen ducked into the room and delivered a swift kick to her cohort’s splayed legs. “Get off of her! Now!”
“Dirk isn’t taking any pleasure from his current position,” said Alexa.
Framed in an aureole of black, Helen’s face appeared white with shock. Then a rush of molten fury turned her flesh to fire. “You are a dogged little bitch, aren’t you?”
Alexa watched her draw her poniard.
How odd that the slim little fingers and needled steel could look so dainty.
And so deadly.
“But you have outlived your usefulness. Killingworth is dead. I no longer need you as bait.”
Helen started forward.
“Not so fast.” Alexa lashed out a flick of leather, forcing a quick retreat.
A laugh, low and nasty. “It takes a good deal of experience to master the art of the whip.” Feinting another approach, Helen suddenly whirled and darted toward the bed.
Connor dead?
Distracted, Alexa did not react quickly enough to prevent her from reaching the dropped rod. Clenching the whip, she backed away.
Was it a bluff? Or the brutal truth?
There was no way of knowing, so she determined to play her hand to the final card.
“Go ahead, try putting some real snap to it.” The new weapon added an extra edge to Helen’s malice. She circled around to the window, making Alexa turn with her. “Ha, you will end up with its length wrapped around your throat.”
Deciding things had gone far enough, Alexa let fly with a mighty crack.
The glass panes shattered, sending up a shower of slivers. Clutching her weapons, Helen fell back to one side of the casement, a thin beading of red welling up on her cheek.
“On the contrary. It is
your
neck that will be in danger on the next throw,” warned Alexa. She quickly recoiled the lash. “Give it up. The game is over, Helen Snow.”
Behind her, the Dutchman was showing signs of life. Alexa ventured no more than a sidelong glance but the slight movement gave Helen just enough of an opening to pounce.
But just as the rod came swinging at her head, a yank on her skirts tripped Alexa off balance. She fell, the studded steel missing her by scant inches.
Dirk struggled to his feet. “Let me bash her brains out.”
“Get out of my way!” cried Helen as his broad bulk suddenly blocked a blow that would have caught Alexa lying helpless on the floor.
With a roar of rage, the Dutchman wrenched the rod from her grasp. Muscles bulging, he turned to deliver the coup de grâce.
Alexa opened her mouth to scream.
So, too, did Dirk as sparks exploded and a spurt of crimson shot up from his chest.
The impact of the bullet knocked him back into Helen. Buckled by the dead weight of his body, she lost her footing on the slippery shards and toppled toward the open window. Amid the cacophony of cracking metal and flailing curses, Helen hit the low sill. Her fingers clutched at a remnant of the leaded frame but it snapped like a matchstick.
A moment later, the momentum carried both bodies out into the yawing darkness.
When at last Alexa managed a sound, it was more of a whisper than a cry. “Oh, Connor. Against all odds, you came for me.”
Lifting her ever so gently, her husband traced the curve of her cheek with his palm, leaving a smudge of red. “I have taken a great many gambles in my life, but I would never risk losing you,” he murmured, before enfolding her in his arms.
Shards of glass crunched beneath his boots as Bolt picked his way across the room and peered out through the broken casement. The magistrate had listened to the lengthy story in silence, save for the faint scratch of his pencil. Tapping the tip to his chin, he jotted down a few more lines before finally closing his notebook and tucking it carefully in his pocket.
“There is an old adage about cats having nine lives.” His basilisk stare turned on the earl. “Does it apply to canines as well, my lord? For it seems to me you have used up a good number of them here tonight. Both for yourself and your friends.”
Connor found himself recalling DeWinter’s first slurring taunt. “I believe the saying goes that every dog has his day.”
“Hmmph. I had not heard that one before. I shall have to keep it in mind.” Bolt actually cracked a smile. “Perhaps in this case, it ought to replace the one that says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
Connor drew Alexa closer into the crook of his arm. “Yes, let us hope that particular adage has been proven false and may be tossed out the window.”
“I should say it has, milord. On more than one account.” Bolt leaned down to pick up the snaking length of leather. “It was lucky that your lady proved such a dab hand at cracking the whip.”
“I told you I was a country girl,” replied Alexa. “There are some benefits to being more at home in a barnyard than a ballroom.”
“A great many,” said the earl softly. His hand feathered along the shell of her ear as he tucked back a wisp of hair. “But we shall leave that to discuss in greater detail when we are in private.” The intimacy was fleeting, yet fire flared in his fingertips. He cleared his throat. “If you don’t have any pressing questions, Bolt, I should like to see to my friend’s injury and then take my wife away from this place.”
“I am sure a few will come to mind, milord, but they can wait until the morrow. For now, I shall tie up loose ends here.” The last bit of lash looped in the magistrate’s hand. “Though there is one niggling little matter I can’t help but wonder about…the wounded gentleman downstairs looks awfully familiar. I could swear I have seen him before.”
“I cannot imagine where.” Connor kept a straight face. “What with the dim light and play of shadows, it is more than likely that you are mistaken.”
“Perhaps that explains it.” The magistrate’s mouth quirked ever so slightly. “I have, on occasion, been wrong.” He stepped aside, allowing Connor and Alexa to pass.
Hurrying down to the foot of the stairs, they found Gryff, stripped of his coat and cravat, doing what he could to make Cameron comfortable. Looking up from looping the linen around the wounded leg, he pursed his lips. “It could be worse.”
“Easy for you to say,” sniffed Cameron as he raised his head slightly from the pillow of wool.
Gryff helped him to a swallow of brandy. “The bullet doesn’t appear to have broken the bone and the bleeding is staunched. At Cam’s request I’ve dispatched a hackney to fetch a surgeon who is experienced in treating this sort of thing.”
“Good work, Gryff.” Connor crouched down to make his own examination of the wound. “You’ll live,” he murmured to Cameron.
“You would think the slut could have had the grace to aim a little more to the left.” Cameron grimaced. “I fear the damn scar is going to mar the symmetry of my manly thighs.”
Alexa, too, had dropped to her knees and began blotting the beads of sweat from his forehead. “My dear Mr. Daggett, no amount of nicks or scrapes could damage your unique charms. You are, to my eye, quite perfect.”
Cameron managed a ghost of his usual sardonic smile. “No doubt because your gaze is so firmly focused on another man.” His attempt at humor paled as Connor added another turn to the makeshift bandage. “Tell that sawbones Thurlowe that I shall slice off his fingers at the knuckles if he doesn’t set a neat, regular stitch,” he muttered before lapsing into a faint.
“I’ll see Cam safely to his door,” assured Gryff.
“We shall have to arrange for proper care—” began Connor.
“Actually we don’t,” said Gryff. “He’s already assured me that he will be convalescing in a warmer clime. More than that, he wouldn’t say, but you know Cam.” He touched his friend’s injured leg. “Never fear, I’ll make sure Thurlowe agrees he is fit to travel. Otherwise, I shall see that he goes nowhere, even if I have to chain him to his bed.”
“Excellent.” Connor blew out a breath. “Though I had been hoping he could keep an eye on the Lair for the next little while.”
“Leave that to me. I promise you that this time around it will be in safe hands.”
He hesitated. “Leave it to you?”
“Yes, me. Go ahead and take Lady Killingworh home,” urged Gryff. “Trust me, I’ve sworn off any future forays into trouble.”
Connor made a wry face. “You and Trouble have been bedfellows for so long, it’s had to imagine one without the other. However…”
Home.
The word had a compelling ring to it.
“…I’ll take your word that you’re ready to turn over a new leaf.” He slipped his arm around Alexa’s waist. “Ready to go?”
Their residence was only a short carriage ride away. A simple trip. But only a waystop on the real journey home. In the past, he had not cared where he had strayed. The path had always appeared too dark and twisted to retrace his steps.
And now?
He had grown weary of his wanderings, a lone wolf at odds with his surroundings. Ahead was a ray of light, and the prospect of coming full circle.
Still, he was not quite there.
Though it was nearly dawn, Alexa scrubbed herself clean of The Soiled Dove and changed into a fresh gown. Connor had insisted on arranging for tea and some sustenance before retiring. Despite a fatigue that weighed heavy on body and spirit, she had been grateful for the suggestion. In truth she was loath to shut her eyes and see darkness rather than the austere angle of his face.
As she waited for him to return from rousing the servants, she fingered the shawl he had settled over her shoulders. A strange pang—something quite apart from the bruises and scrapes she had suffered—squeezed in her chest on looking around the unfamiliar room. Despite comforts of the place, she found it hard to feel truly at home.
