All Men Are Rogues (19 page)

“Yet I am here,” she murmured. “At risk.”

“And I cannot deny it: I’m so glad to see you,” he offered, trying to show her with his eyes what he was having difficulty explaining with words. She was the reason for his every action, his raison d’être these days.

“I presume you had no luck with Wheaton.” Arolas waved his gloved hand.

Evelyn looked up, hope flashing in those robin’s egg blue eyes. “And what of Sully?”

“I do know for certain that Sully is alive. Helderby has him at one of the safe houses. I’m working on finding out which one.”

“We are trying the same tack,” Evelyn replied quietly. Straightening her shoulders, she asked, “You said you could help end this mess. Help recover Sully…”

He waved to the white marble steps. “If you would have a seat?”

She eyed him warily, yet let him take her hand. He thanked the heavens for these small measures of trust. He led her to sit on the hard stone steps, never releasing her small hand. The heat of her grasp warmed him on so many different levels that the cold stone on his bottom barely registered.

Arolas negligently flipped open his long cloak and sat on Evelyn’s other side.

Justin began, “I have considered our situation in a thousand different lights. There is only one way to expose Wheaton and ascertain if there is a real threat to the realm or if he has gone rogue.” Justin prayed that he could be as persuasive as he needed to be. “Wheaton claims there is a French plot in the works. We cannot take the chance that he is right.” He swallowed, knowing Evelyn was perceptive enough to grasp the intricacies of the matter. He hoped she would likewise appreciate what he was about to divulge. “Besides administrative matters, the Alien Office handles many sensitive, secretive matters pertaining to France. They are beyond Wheaton’s control.”

Arolas rubbed his chin. “I’d heard rumors, but…”

Evelyn shook her head appreciatively. “Even Father never spoke of it.” She blinked, comprehension dawning in her lovely eyes.

“Few are aware of its clandestine operation. Or of its power. You must contact the Alien Office and offer to trade me for Sully.”

The Spaniard fisted his hands. “We’ve been over this. Before anyone can make sense of this mess, Evelyn will be arrested on the kidnapping charge, and all will be lost.”

Justin played his trump card. “Not if she is immune from prosecution.”

Arolas inhaled a sharp breath. “Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

“Yes.” Justin clenched his fist. “Do you have any issue with that?” He prayed it wasn’t pure folly to fantasize the Barclay bridal gems adorning Evelyn’s lovely neck.

The Spaniard eyed him critically. “Are you sincere?”

“Deadly. I’m willing to bet the rest of my life on Evelyn.”

Arolas blew out a long breath, considering. “In that case, I have no issue.”

The relief on Justin’s tongue tasted sweet. One down, one to go.

Evelyn squeezed his hand. “I’m not following. What are you suggesting?”

He caught her brilliant blue gaze, stating softly, “As my wife no one would dare prosecute you for my kidnapping. You will be protected, and we will have time to get our answers.”

Her whole body stilled. Her hand was dead in his grasp. With his heart pounding, he rushed on, “We will insist that they bring Sully to the exchange, ensuring that he is whole. I will arrange for the appropriate members of the Alien Office to be there at the meeting, and Wheaton will be forced to answer to them for his actions. If there is a French plot threatening our nation as he claims, then we will fight that battle with additional forces. But you will finally know where you stand and be free from this terrible game. It also will make them have to go through the proper channels if they are going to charge Sully.”

“And if, on the slim chance Evelyn knows something to help stop the French conspiracy, she will be able to impart the information without being indicted.” Arolas tilted his head in salute. “The plan has merit.”

“Can’t you just go to this Alien Office and insist that they step in?” Evelyn ventured, pursing her lush lips.

Arolas shook his head. “Politics,
caro.
No one can challenge the master of spies unless he is caught with his hands dirty.”

“I can’t imagine Wheaton betraying His Majesty,” Justin stated quietly. “But what he’s done to you in the name of security…” He pounded his hand on his thigh. “This is the only way to get all our answers. The French plot, Wheaton’s actions, Sully’s charges, the warrant against you—” He reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out the parchment. He was thankful his hand did not shake when he held it out to her.

“What is it?” she asked, eyeing the document warily.

“A special license. We have little time. The colonel says that the French plot is set for next week.” Justin watched Evelyn closely, yet he could not read her, as there was so little emotion in her lovely features. It was as if she’d frozen from the shock of his offer.

Arolas reached for the document. The paper crackled as he opened it and read. After a moment, he said, “It appears in order,
caro
.” He looked up. “But what about the future? Evelyn’s situation?”

Justin squared his shoulders, verbalizing what he dreaded to say. “I know how Evelyn feels about marriage….” He caught her gaze. “After you’re safe, I am prepared to obtain a divorce, if that’s what you want.” It was his most fervent hope that she would not want it.

Crickets chirped in the funereal silence. A rat scurried across the room.

“Divorces are rarely granted,” she stated while looking down and adjusting her black skirts. “They are expensive and publicly humiliating. Everything about you, me, your work in the Foreign Office, will be subject to public scrutiny and scorn. Your reputation and your family’s social standing will be irreparably damaged….”

He squeezed her hand. “It does not matter so long as you are free.”

She turned her head away. He held his breath. If she rejected his offer, he had hit a stone wall from which he feared he just might not recover. He could not stomach the idea of her running for her life as Wheaton and his men hunted her down.

“There are few other options, and we can save Sully.” He was determined to convince her. “It’s the only way.”

Arolas grabbed her free hand. “It is a good plan, Evelyn. You will be protected.”

Evelyn looked down at her hands, one in Angel’s grasp and the other in Justin’s. Two very different but remarkable men who seemed to believe that this was the best course of action. She inhaled a shaky breath.
Theoretically
it was a good plan. It seemed that Justin could be trusted not to surrender her to his government. But could she entrust him with such power over her life, legally, physically, and—the most thorny—emotionally? She did not miss the irony that everything appeared to hinge on accepting the one thing she feared most in the world.

Justin stated softly, “To ‘wed’ literally means to ‘gamble’ or ‘wager.’ I’m hoping you lay your bets on me finding us a way out of this maze.”

She was caught again in the enchantment of those greenish-gray eyes. She felt his magnetism like a lure pulling her into his warmth, to soak in his passionate fires. Remembering how she had melted against him, she prayed her body and her instincts were sound. Recalling the bitter tang of his betrayal, she marveled at how she could even consider trusting her own judgment where he was concerned. What a fine pickle she was in.

She could not help the ironic smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. “Heavens, what Byzantine quandaries we face.” She chuckled. “It’s almost as if someone is setting obstacles in our paths, by design.” She dropped Angel’s hand and rubbed her tired eyes.

Angel commented wryly, “It fits, don’t you think?”

“How so?” she asked.

“As the wedding lore authority, you should know that in the Scottish Highlands, it is the man who faces the trials, as it should be.”

She smiled at her friend. “All for a woman’s kiss.”

“What are you talking about?” Justin asked.

She turned to him. “In the old custom of creeling, the bridegroom must carry a large basket of stones throughout the town searching for his bride. Only if she comes out and kisses him can he drop the weight.”

Angel leaned forward and faced Justin. “How much weight can you carry, my lord?”

Justin straightened, his mouth pressed in a firm line. “As much as it takes.”

It seemed as if an accord had been reached between the three of them without her actually agreeing to anything. Evelyn felt it like a web around her chest spun so tightly that she thought she might not breathe. Dropping Justin’s hand, she stood, needing to move. She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms together; even the leather of her gloves chafed. She licked her desert-dry lips. “Well then. Where do we go from here?”

“We have the special license, we can be married at any time or place of our choosing,” Justin offered. “Fortunate for us, my local vicar is in Town for a family service.”

“How opportune,” she mumbled under her breath. Funeral, most likely.

“A christening, I’m told.” He stood smoothly. “I have him waiting at a small chapel near Charing Cross.”

“You expected me to say yes?” She looked up, surprised. Had she laid bets she would have wagered against a wedding that day.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I had hoped.”

Angel jumped up. “Let’s go.”

“My, you’re in a rush to see me leg-shackled.”

He beamed a wicked smile. “This is a treat I never expected to see—Evelyn, the ultimate naysayer, getting married. I only wish my father were here to witness this. He would not believe it.”

She crossed her arms. “And will you tease me so mercilessly when I am in the midst of an ugly divorce?”

Justin scowled. “No need to make this into a bloody drama. The carriage awaits at the eastern gate.”

Angel headed to the door. “Just so long as it is you and not me in that chapel,
caro
.”

She swallowed hard and followed him out the door into the gloomy night, toward the dreaded parson’s mousetrap.

E
velyn alighted from Justin’s carriage, thankful to be out of the stifling enclosure. While Justin and Angel had seemed perfectly at ease discussing strategies and options as the coach had rolled its way toward the chapel, she had barely been able to breathe in the airless cabin. Her stomach had lurched with each rut in the road, and she’d felt as if those Scottish creeling stones had been bearing down on her shoulders with their odious matrimonial burden.

Inhaling deeply, she relished the crisp night air. Cedar trees lined the external gate of the little house of worship, guarding it like sentinels. Tilting her head back, she stared up at the ancient chapel. Even in her apprehensive state, she had to admire the simplicity of its design—a single spire poking up at the moonless night as shadowed clouds grazed by. In one of the tall windows a whisper of lamplight shimmered through the skeletal outline of the diamond-shaped glass.

Justin opened the gate, which squeaked with protest at being disturbed. Evelyn swallowed and strode through. Gently grasping her elbow, Justin led her toward the tall wooden doors.

Inside, the dusty air smelled of mold, timber, and beeswax. Two small rows of wooden benches lined the sanctuary, with a short aisle leading up to the pulpit. In the corner by the altar sat a frumpy, heavyset man in a long brown cloak with a lamp lit at his feet. He was nearly bald, with a crown of white cresting large ears. He pushed his glasses up his bulbous nose and stood. Peering into the darkness, he shifted from foot to foot nervously. “My lord?”

Justin propelled Evelyn forward, down the short aisle, up to the platform. Her mouth went dry, and her heart began to pound so loudly she thought the spired rooftop might quake. “Vicar Rece. Thank you so much for waiting on our arrival.” Justin said it as if he had feared the man would not appear.

The cleric peered at Evelyn, his brown eyes squinting tightly. “Black? I’ve never officiated at a wedding where the bride was in mourning.” His shifting intensified. “Highly improper, indeed.”

“As I explained in my missive, these are unusual circumstances.” Justin drew the license from his pocket and handed it to the minister. “Everything is in order. We can proceed with the wedding ceremony.”

Her nervous stomach flipped over.

The cleric sniffed and leaned forward, holding the document to the lamp on the floor. His lips moved silently as he read. “You’re certain she’s of age?”

A nervous laugh burst from her mouth and she coughed into her gloved hand. At the moment she felt as old as the ark.

“Yes, Vicar Rece.” Justin’s voice was growing thin with impatience. “Everything is in order.”

The cleric straightened and scratched one of his chins. “Black.”

“In Spain a bride always wears black at her wedding,” Justin countered irritably.

She turned to him, surprised. “How did you know that?”

“You told me when we first met. I recall everything you’ve ever said to me, Evelyn. Even when you told me you had no wish to marry.”

The vicar looked up from the license. “What’s that you say? She does consent, doesn’t she?”

Justin turned her to face him and asked solemnly, “Do you, Evelyn?”

It was as if a pit had yawned open underneath her feet and she hovered on the brink, barreling down into nothingness. She licked her parched lips and wondered if she could excuse herself to find a cup of water, or perhaps a glass of wine, or some of that fiery brandy of Angel’s. She frowned. “Where’s Angel?”

“We do need our witnesses, my lord,” Vicar Rece intoned judiciously.

She stepped out of Justin’s grasp and strode to the door.

“Wait!” Justin charged in a harsh whisper.

“I’m just going to call—” The heavy wooden door was yanked out of her hand with a loud squeak.

A hulking brute shrouded in darkness grabbed her arm and jerked her outside into the chilly night air. His sickly-sweet unclean smell pierced her nostrils, and it was the final straw. Her nervous stomach lurched. She gagged, and her last meal from the cheap inn gushed from her mouth all over the thug’s black coat.

“Ugh! You bitch!”

His steely grip on her arm loosened, and Justin plowed into the man’s chest. She spun out of the conflict, landing hard on her knees in the soft earth by the chapel steps.

Shadowed men encircled them, the dark outlines of their figures offset by the lamps they held. Squinting up, she raised her hand to ward off the bright lights, when a heavyset man moved close enough for her to discern in the glow. She blinked. Father Christmas stood before her, holding out his white-gloved hand. He wore formal attire, down to his black buckled shoes.

“Miss Evelyn Amherst. So glad finally to make your acquaintance.”

Justin stepped between them, huffing hoarsely, “She’s done nothing wrong, Colonel.”

“And I’m a witch’s toad.” He frowned, and the snowy tufts of his brows bowed low over his steely blue eyes. A chill crawled down Evelyn’s spine. This was not the jovial legend of her childhood; this was a man to be feared.

She spit the sharp taste of vomit from her mouth and slowly rose. She eyed the men warily, spying a glimpse of Angel struggling between two burly oafs. He caught her eye, and her heart burned with indignation. She turned on Justin. “You bloody bastard,” she hissed and slammed her fist into his torso so hard her knuckles throbbed.

Grabbing her arm, he cried, “You don’t believe I knew about this?”

Her voice had thinned to ice. “Didn’t you?”

“If you would join me in the carriage, Miss Amherst.” The colonel waved toward the front gate, where a line of coaches waited. They were surrounded; there was no way out other than to follow the bastard’s lead and wait for an opportunity.

She lifted her skirts and stalked to the entry, her chin lifted high, her gaze staring forward.

“Evelyn!” Justin raced by her side. “I didn’t arrange this.”

His superior held him back with a firm hand on his arm. “Your job is finished here, Barclay. We have everything we need, thanks to you and your very cooperative vicar. You can find your own way home, I’m sure.”

“Don’t do this, Colonel,” he pleaded. Then a harsh edge infused his cultured voice. “There’ll be hell to pay if so much as a hair on her head is harmed.”

“I’m on my way to meet the piper now,” the old man intoned as he followed behind Evelyn.

She stopped and turned. “Angel Arolas has done nothing wrong.”

The colonel smiled a grandfatherly smile, and Evelyn barely held back her cringe. She would not show this bastard her fear.

“Aiding a wanted criminal is a triable offense. Let’s see how well you cooperate, and perhaps he’ll make it to the magistrate.” He tsked. “Terrible how men keep getting lost on the way to court these days.”

She clenched her hands and willed her armor to fall into place. Instead of the familiar clank inside her head, all she heard were the rattling of chains as the vicar locked the chapel doors.

After a nail-biting carriage ride, Evelyn contained her surprise when, instead of a grisly dungeon, she was led into a spacious drawing room where a raging fire flamed in the hearth. The heady scent of spices drifted up from the flames—the same aroma Justin had burned in the grate at his brother’s place. Her teeth clenched, her anger was so raw. She mentally shook herself. She needed to be thinking about escape, not lamenting her mistakes.

“Brandy?” Wheaton waved to the bar.

She nodded curtly. She needed something to expunge the stale taste of bile from her mouth, and she did not mind taking from the despicable bastard; given half a chance she’d take him for everything he had. She stepped over to the hearth, feeling no warmth from the billowing flames.

“Here.” He held the glass of brownish liquid out to her. She glared at him and did not move. There was only so much contact she was willing to subject herself to. Shrugging, he set the glass on the side table. She stepped over and raised it to her cracked lips. The fiery liquid slithered down her throat into her hollow belly. It brought minimal relief from the anger, couched in fear, that roiled in her stomach.

Looking up, she examined the rapacious faces of the porcelain ghouls hovering on the mantel. She shuddered; only a sick person would keep such vile curios.

Wheaton dropped his heavy bulk into the deep armchair by the fire and motioned for her to sit across from him. She did not pay heed.

“Where’s Sully?”

“Sullivan is in my care. In fact, I had to call a doctor to monitor his progress.”

“Progress from what?”

He scratched a snowy sideburn. “Seems Sullivan came face-to-face with a hard object.”

The only hard object sat in the armchair before her. “What do you want?”

“Justice.”

“You are not exactly a good judge of it, given you are imprisoning two innocent men without allowing them the benefit of due process.”

“I am detaining you as well.”

She let out the breath she had been holding. So they didn’t have Ismet or Shah. She’d suspected as much when she could not glimpse Ismet anywhere near the chapel. That also meant her last hope against hope that Justin was not in league with this bastard melted away, since Justin was not arrested either. Well, she had wanted to know what side he played on. Now she knew. She pushed away the hurt; she had no time for it now. Anger was all she could afford.

She leaned over Wheaton in the chair, a burst of self-confidence coming from some unknown source. “How dare you speak of justice when you are the epitome of engorged arrogance?”

His white cheeks reddened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You toy with others without regard for the faith entrusted to you by your country.” She edged closer, wanting him to feel her wrath. “Does His Majesty know how you trample on the rights of your fellow Englishmen to feather your own nest?”

“I am claiming what is rightfully mine, earned, by the way, in service to my country!” Spittle flew from his lips, and she felt a small sense of satisfaction that she was able to rouse him so easily. Perhaps he was not the impervious archfiend he appeared.

“What utter nonsense. You are a travesty of an Englishman,” she retorted, her voice laced with scorn.

His face turned a fascinating shade of purple, and he seemed to shake from head to toe, his fat lips quivering. He raised his fisted hand to her, but the menace was lost as it shook wildly. Swallowing hard, he blew out a long breath. Seeming to get a hold on his emotions, he shook his head, suddenly smiling. “I did not realize how disquieting it would be to speak with you face-to-face. I must admit, you have more mettle to you than I expected from Diedra’s daughter.”

He knew her mother? She turned and stepped away from the mantel, trying to hide her shock.

“Oh, yes, your mother and I were quite close growing up.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white linen square. He patted it across his beaded brow. “In Bloomsbury our houses stacked up side by side. We could not have been
closer
.”

She did not like the insinuation in his tone. “What does that have to do with why you are abusing your office?”

He leaned forward angrily. “I am not abusing anything, you randy-faced chit! I am doing what should have been done years ago. If only your bloody father had not been knighted.” Crazed violence shone in his steely eyes. “If only the dratted bastard had never been born!” His hatred was palpable; it rippled off him in waves.

She realized that she had unconsciously edged backwards into the flanking bookcase. She forced herself to step forward and attempted to regain that swell of confidence. “If he had never been born, then this country, no, the world would have been a much poorer place. He was a peacemaker,” she declared proudly.

“He was a thief!”

“He would not have stolen to save his own skin!”

“He pilfered my life!” He shoved his big bulk up on shaky legs and stomped to the mantel, leaning hard against the marble. “He stole my wife. My knighthood. My treasure.” He wiped his hand across his eyes. “My Diedra.” He blew out a shuddering breath. “You look so much like her, it’s uncanny.”

Silence enveloped the eerie chamber.

She peeked toward the entry, wondering how hard it would be to make it out the back door. The colonel seemed too ungainly to follow a twenty-two-year-old racing for her life.

“But you are Amherst’s bloody babe, and whether you know it or not, you have what’s mine.” He turned, hatred glittering brightly in his eyes as he stepped menacingly toward her. “I had hoped throwing the truth in his face would have brought me some redress. But the only satisfaction I got was from putting a bullet in his gut. I trust you won’t push me so far.”

Shock pierced her heart at his cold-blooded confession.

“Step away from Evelyn, Colonel!” Justin stood in the threshold, the pistol pointed at Wheaton unwavering in his grip. Relief and distrust warred inside her. He was her adversary, yet there he stood, acting as if he were her champion.

“So the boy finally grows to be a man.” Wheaton held up his meaty hands in surrender. Still, he sidestepped closer to her.

“Don’t make me shoot, Colonel!” With Justin’s eyes trained on his former superior, he called over his shoulder, “In the drawing room, Mr. Clontz!”

Evelyn slid along the bookcase, away from Wheaton, and stood by Justin’s side.

“Did he hurt you, Evelyn?”

She shook her head, relieved but uncertain. “Angel? Sully?” It was too much to hope.

“I wanted to find you first.” His mouth was pressed into a firm line.

“I hate to disappoint, but I cannot stay to blow the gab.” The colonel stepped toward the bookcase.

“Sit down in the seat by the fire, Wheaton,” Justin ordered.

Wheaton jumped in the opposite direction, grabbing one of the volumes from its shelf. A section of the bookcase slid open with a hiss. The colonel stepped through, amazingly fast for a man of his age and stature.

A boom exploded near Evelyn’s ear. She opened her eyes, and smoke wove through the chamber. Her ears were ringing from the report, and the sharp scent of gunpowder filled her nostrils.