Juliette’s hand shook. Venetia’s heart skipped a beat, realizing that Juliette was scared. Perhaps as much as she was. And that frightened her the most. Juliette could shoot her by accident.
“Yes,” Venetia hastened to promise, “Yes, I can give that to you.” She glanced down. “Are…are they dead?”
“Easy enough to coax the louts to toss back some laudanum laced spirits.” Juliette sneered, stepped over one footman, pausing only to spit on his chest. “Laughed at my flirtations but were happy enough to drink the port I brought.” She crossed the threshold, pistol held out. Instinctively, Venetia retreated. Had it been Juliette all along? But Juliette hadn’t the strength to push over the urn or to strangle two powerful men.
Could she knock away the pistol? Did she dare? In her moment of hesitation, Juliette clasped both hands around it. “Move!” she screeched.
A gambler like her father Venetia would never be. “It’s in my trunk,” she admitted. “Under the bed.”
“Get it out and be quick about it.” Juliette closed her door. The lock clicked with finality.
Venetia turned, moving mechanically toward the bed, the trunk. Fear seemed freeze her. Could she get the fireplace poker? She’d have a hole blasted through her back before she could use it.
She dropped to her knees, lifted the fabric that skirted the bed.
“Drag out the trunk and open it.”
Venetia dropped to her knees and pulled the trunk from beneath the bed. Her knee bumped something hard and cool. She glanced down.
The small glass bottle of turps lay on the carpet. It must have fallen out of her trunk before as she’d pulled out her sketchbook. Shielding it with her body, she closed her hand around it. Expecting Juliette to catch her, expecting to get shot.
“Drag that out farther. Where I can see it.”
She obeyed. The bottle of turps weighed heavy in her pocket. Juliette looked in. Checking for weapons, Venetia guessed.
“The book. And be quick—if ye take too long, I swear to
le bon dieu
, I’ll shoot.”
Venetia rose, holding out the leather-bound book. “There.”
And now she was of no use to Juliette. She bit her lip. There would be no reason for Juliette not to shoot her.
But Juliette pointed toward the door and the pistol drooped a bit as the maid’s right hand trembled against the weight. “You’re going to come in very handy, lovey. A ticket to buy me and Tom’s freedom.”
Venetia swallowed hard. A foolish, dangerous question fell from her lips. “Did you shoot at me yesterday?”
She flinched at Juliette’s chuckle. “I wanted yer out of the way. Nosing in and asking questions. You and ’is lordship. Besides, ye wouldn’t be so pretty dead, would ye? My aim’s better at close range, I promise ye. Now move.”
Venetia.
Her name sang through Marcus’ mind. If Tom Polk, the black-haired footman, intended to escape, would he do it without Lydia Harcourt’s book?
Marcus sprinted up the lawns toward the house, through fingers of moonlight and pools of shadow. He’d sent the rest of the men in search of Polk. He had to know Venetia was safe. Questions raced, as fast as his footfall.
How did a footman know about the book? Had he bedded Lydia and she’d confided her grand scheme? Lydia would never do that. Confusion reigned. Was the footman in someone else’s employ?
He couldn’t remember Tom Polk’s appearance, though the servant apparently had dark hair.
The fountain loomed ahead, a stone circle surrounded by trimmed roses. A cherub stood in the center, a ghost in the silver-blue light. He felt the thud of stone through his boot soles as he reached the flagstone path. The house lay ahead. Light gleamed in the windows. He knew which light was Venetia’s and he looked up toward it as he ran.
He gripped one pistol in his hand. Deep in his pocket, the second gun he’d grabbed from Chartrand’s cabinet swung against his legs.
Ahead lay the oldest wing of the house, the gardens, and the clean black edge of the woods. Beyond was the muddy road. He’d carried Venetia on that path, when the rifle ball had exploded just above her head—
A gray-white ghost shimmered against the trees, near the path that led to the gypsies’ camp. Statues on the edge of the wood? Distorted by distance and wind, the whinnying of horses came to his ears.
Lungs burning, Marcus slowed, taking a few strides to think. Were the horses lashed to a tree waiting for Polk’s return? Or was Polk at the reins, preparing to flee?
What if Polk had the book?
What if he’d harmed Vee?
That couldn’t happen. It could not happen. Strange how the brain flung out words in a moment of fear. Min’s words.
And you know that if you lost it, your heart might never mend.
Which path to take? Up, to the house, to find Vee, to know she was safe? Down, to the horses and carriage, on the chance he could capture Polk before he escaped?
His feet turned toward the house.
“I
didn’t touch yer tart, milord,” Tom Polk protested, his hands raised above his head.
Marcus rested his gloved finger on the pistol’s trigger, its barrel aimed directly at Polk’s heart. He fought panic—panic that roared in his brain and gripped his heart.
Vee wasn’t in her room. Vee was gone. Vee…
He had to keep his head, it was the only way to save her. The gentlemen were scattered around—anyone could have Vee. The quickest link was the blackguard standing before him. Black clouds had swallowed up the moon, and in the dark, he could barely see the man. “Then who are you working for?”
“Yer won’t shoot me, milord. You’ll never find your little tart if you do, will ye?” A sudden cocky grin lit up Tom’s face. Shadow hid the bruises, but the bastard’s words were thick, muffled, as though spoken through swollen lips.
Marcus couldn’t judge if Polk knew where Vee was or if he was bluffing. But he had to gamble to keep the upper hand. “And if you won’t talk, Polk,” he bluffed in return, “You’re no use to me, and I’d enjoy watching you bleed out.”
Polk’s lips split in a wider grin. His teeth showed in the dark. “Here’s your little bit of muslin, now, milord.”
Shocked to his soul, Marcus swung around. Who—?
He saw nothing but movement, then moonlight fell again, bathing two black shapes stealing down the last rise. One was slightly in front, taking careful steps. A shaft of light glinted along a silver pistol barrel held by the second figure. The one in front pushed back her hood, exposing fiery hair and her pale oval face. Venetia.
“You don’t move unless I tell you. Keep walking.” A woman’s voice. Rough, sharp and vicious.
Venetia stopped a few feet from them, her lovely face showing horror, frustration, and embarrassment all at once. The wind caught the unknown woman’s hood and threw it back. Lydia Harcourt’s hatchet-faced maid, Juliette. Her phony French accent was forgotten. The woman took a step forward and pushed the pistol against Vee’s heart. She sneered. “Give Tom your pistol, milord.”
“You have only one shot,” Marcus said, forcing arrogant ice into his voice.
“Enough to kill her,” the maid snapped.
For a frozen moment, Marcus held onto the pistol. Any move, no matter how fast, and he might sacrifice Vee. No, he couldn’t risk it. He tossed the pistol in front of him and it thudded into the shadows. “It’s yours for the taking.”
“Pick it up, Tom,” the maid ordered.
He had a moment’s advantage, while Polk bent into the shadows, but Juliette’s narrow eyes fixed on him. Her finger slid back and forth across the trigger. His throat dried. The bloody thing could fire by accident.
Marcus saw the shock in Vee’s eyes, the hollowness of despair. He smiled at her, a soft, gentle uptilt of his lips. Promising hope. She smiled back, faith shining in the shadowed hazel-green of her eyes.
“Let her go,” he commanded the maid. “You have me.”
“Having her gives us both of you,” Juliette threw back and victory radiated from her small, black eyes, her sallow face.
Polk jumped to his feet. The footman held the pistol loosely in his hand, cockily pointing it at Marcus’ heart, as though goading an attempt to grab it. “Turn around and run, milord.” Polk laughed, mocking, triumphant. “You toffs are cowards at heart.”
Marcus felt the weight of the second pistol against his hip. Resting in his pocket. To draw it out now would be a mistake, but he wanted nothing more than to send the ball into Polk’s open mouth. Time. He needed time. And he knew men like Polk. Men who liked to grind a bootheel into a dying man’s heart. Polk would want to talk.
“You can shoot me if you like, but I’m not leaving while you hold her.” He turned to Juliette. “At least draw the pistol back. Allow her to breathe.”
The woman looked like a toad. She grinned. “But this way just a flick of my finger—just one jerk—and she’s dead. And that is keeping you where you are, not moving a muscle, isn’t it, milord?”
Juliette was growing more calm, more confident, while Polk was beginning to twitch. Marcus put his attention there, drilling the man with an autocratic glare. “You’ve been a cunning man, Polk,” he allowed to buoy up the bastard’s ego. “But what was it all for? Why did you kill Lydia Harcourt?”
“I’m not admitting to that, milord.” Polk sneered. “I wanted her book, true enough—”
“You’re Lydia’s brother—” Vee cried and then Juliette yanked on her hair, forcing her head back. Exposing her delicate throat. The cloak-draped arm shoved the pistol harder into Vee’s ribs.
“Shut it, bitch,” Juliette snarled.
“I painted sketches—Lydia and Polk have the same features—” Vee stopped as Juliette’s hand struck her cheek.
Marcus wanted to break Juliette’s hand off her wrist.
“Half brother.” Polk grinned, waving with the pistol. “So I thought I’d get her book and get what I deserved. I asked Lyd for some blunt to get me out of England. She owed me, the bitch. I smashed our da’s skull with a shovel to save ’er life. Almost killed ’im. She’d bitten his privy parts when he forced them in ’er mouth. But after what I did for ’er, she decides not to give me the money.”
“Tom! What in blazes are ye doing, ye damned fool.” Shut yer yap!” The maid’s screech silenced Polk, who glowered at her.
“Shut it yerself, ye shrivelled hag,” he returned. “Ye’re the stupid cow who couldn’t even find her bloody book. I won’t be dangling from a rope at Newgate, I promise ye. No offense, guv, but you lot ’ave your ’eads up your arses.”
Marcus gave a cynical shrug. “If it is money you want, you stand in the perfect position to get it now, don’t you? You have me. Release the woman and you can name your price.”
“I’m thinking I can have both,” Polk said. “What would you pay to save your bloody hide, milord?” Polk paced back and forth, jabbing in his direction with the pistol as though hoping to make him flinch. “You bloody toffs. I got sharped at cards by a bloody viscount who dealt from the bottom o’ the deck. And the bloody cheating toff sent a thug to knife me when I couldn’t pay up—”
“Tom, would ye shut your mouth—”
“You shut yours, woman,” Polk barked. “Chartrand squealed like a stuck sow when I sliced his windpipe. He saw my knife and promised me a king’s ransom to spare him. As ye can see, that weren’t enough.”
Marcus gritted his teeth against Polk’s laughter but the footman leered at Vee. “As for your lightskirt, milord, I think I’ll keep ’er with me for a while. I’d like to get a squeeze of ’er pretty tits.”
“You touch her and I’ll—”
“What’ll you do, Trent? I’ve got the weapon. I’m glad she didn’t get flattened by the urn. A waste of a nice, slick cunny, that would’ve been. I saw her pretty arse when she had ye tied to the bed. What a luscious tart, she is. I’ll definitely stretch her wide before slitting her throat—”
“Enough, Tom!” Juliette cried. “God almighty, stop thinking with your prick!”
Venetia shuddered in horror at Tom Polk’s threat. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat. Helplessly, she watched Marcus. Coiled and ready to spring, he didn’t dare move. Fury and tension rolled off him in powerful waves. Moonlight reflected on his eyes, blending vivid blue-green with silver moonbeams.
“But he’s enjoying himself, Juliette, enjoying himself by tormenting me.” Marcus’ deep, calm voice was mesmerizing in the dark. “He wants my lovely Vixen, and who can blame him?”
Venetia bit back a cry as Juliette prodded her ribs with the pistol.
“This tart?” Juliette snapped. “You could buy a dozen of the likes of her for a guinea. Now, my lord, I have a good idea what Mrs. Harcourt’s book is worth. Shall we say fifty thousand pounds? For your life?”
Venetia prayed neither Polk or Juliette would notice her hand was buried in the pocket of her skirt. Juliette had been oblivious while they’d crossed the grass in the dark. Her fingers fumbled with the turps bottle that rested deep in her pocket. With one hand it was almost impossible to work out the stopper.
No, not impossible. I will succeed!
“For hers,” Marcus said.
Venetia almost lost her grip on the stopper. He would pay fifty thousand for her! It was an unthinkable amount of money.
“You’re stalling,” Juliette snapped. “We need to get moving, Tom. Get ’er up in the bloody coach.”
In her head, Venetia screamed in frustration. She needed time. Just a bit more. Would she die? Would she lose Marcus forever? Blast, don’t think of disaster! Think of escape. Her fingers felt numb on the cork stopper.
The blasted thing would wiggle but it wouldn’t move up!
“You’ll never make it to the end of the road,” Marcus said, “There are armed men waiting.”
“And we’ve got her,” Tom crowed. “They won’t touch us.”
“Let her go.” Authority resonated in Marcus’ deep voice. “Use me instead. I can be your way out. There’s no need to hurt her. No one would shoot you if you have a pistol at an earl’s head.”
Venetia’s heart stuttered. Again, Marcus had offered his life in place of hers. It was so noble, so wonderfully brave…but no, no, she just needed time.
She shook her head at Marcus. Rolled her eyes down toward her skirts. How to signal without giving herself away? Her gaze met his and she tried to will her thoughts to him.
Marcus, please, I have a plan.
“No, milord. I’m not about to let her go.”
Rage flashed across Marcus’ face.
No, Marcus, patience.
His turquoise eyes met hers and she saw deep pain, fury, and guilt.
Understand me, please. Just be ready. I’ve a plan. Be ready.
Had Marcus’ brow lifted? It couldn’t be, he couldn’t possibly hear her thoughts. She didn’t dare wink! But she believed he saw, he understood.
“We should take them both,” Juliette snapped at Polk.
He caressed the barrel of the pistol. “Don’t need ’em both,” Polk argued, “He’s what we want. Though I’d like a go at her.”
The stopper moved up a hair’s breadth. Venetia’s heart swelled with hope. She desperately smothered her little gasp of exhilaration. Rocking her fingers back and forth, she forced it out a little more.
And then, as the narrow end of the stopper slid up, it moved easily—
Venetia’s heart beat in a steady, loud rhythm. She counted to it. One…she eased the turps bottle up. Turpentine splashed on her hand, cool, wet, stinging. She prayed she wouldn’t blind Juliette. Two…she drew the bottle from her pocket.
Three.
Arcing her arm, she threw the bottle’s contents into Juliette’s face and grabbed for the pistol. She pushed down the maid’s rigid arm as the woman shrieked.
The pistol went off, the roar deafening, the smell choking, and the shock forced her back. She released Juliette.
A second explosion filled her head. She jerked around. Marcus!
Marcus stood, straight, resolute, bathed in moonlight. His arm outstretched, a silver-barreled gun held in his hand. Polk’s face was like a waxwork’s, and he toppled like one, arcing forward, his face slamming hard into the ground.
“Vee!” Marcus lunged forward.
She saw a flash as Juliette slashed up with a knife from her skirts. Venetia screamed but Marcus reacted before the cry left her throat. He grabbed Juliette’s wrist, and twisted it back until the knife tumbled from her hand. It fell, silver blade pointing down, and the earth swallowed it up.
Marcus wrenched Juliette’s arms behind her back and held her there, pinned. “Vee, love, are you all right?”
She nodded, the acrid taste of gunpowder burning her throat, and hurried forward, stumbling on her cloak. She dropped to the ground and yanked the knife from the damp soil. The pistol had fallen from Tom’s hand. It lay beside him. The ground must be soaked with his blood.
She heard Marcus threaten Juliette with the gallows. Juliette screamed curses, then fell silent.
“Vee—” Her name spoken in Marcus’ soft aching voice caught her attention. “What are you doing?”
Hand shaking, Venetia clasped the pistol. She realized what she was doing. Tidying up. But she couldn’t just leave weapons lying about. And Marcus needed a pistol to hold on Juliette.
He was trussing Juliette’s arms with cord. Binding them tight. Juliette hung her head and tears streaked her cheeks. “Tom…Tom…Tom…”
Venetia handed the weapon to Marcus, warily watching Juliette, who swayed in the wind. Finally, Juliette’s knees seemed to give out and she dropped to the ground, sobbing as though her heart was breaking.
Venetia felt Marcus’ gloved fingers slide over hers, easing the pistol from her spring-tight grasp. His turquoise eyes shone into hers. Admiration—she saw admiration there.
“Vee, what in blazes did you throw at her?”
“Turpentine. I—I brought my paints, you see.”
Now, at the end, there could be no more secrets. Venetia touched her cheek as she entered the library, her hand on Marcus’ arm. Beneath her bonnet, her face was bare.
Lord Aspers, the portly, white-haired magistrate, was alone in the room. Early morning sunlight flooded in behind him. Venetia felt tears well, in relief and sorrow at the irony of a beautiful day.
Lord Aspers conducted the interview with tact and care. Venetia paused only when he asked for her real name.
Marcus laid his hand over hers. “You must give it.”
Trusting in Marcus, she replied, “Venetia Hamilton.” And she continued with the rest of her story smoothly, until she had to explain her sketches. “Portraits,” she lied, face tingling with warmth, “And it was in those that I saw the resemblance between Lydia Harcourt and Tom Polk.”
Aspers leaned back. “It appears that you were both forced to act in self defense. I see no reason for Miss Hamilton’s identity to be revealed, or any need for her testimony. As for Lydia Harcourt’s book and manuscript—we have Polk’s confession as made to you, Trent. We know he murdered Lydia Harcourt and Lord Chartrand.”
“So no reason for anyone’s secrets to be revealed,” Marcus said.
“No need at all,” Aspers echoed. He picked up the red, leather-bound journal, the manuscript tied with the scarlet ribbon, and strode over to the fireplace. Hand on the mantel, Aspers fed both to the flames. “Though Lord Brude has spoken of assisting in the financial situation of the family of his late secretary. The man was a very talented poet, I believe.”