Andrea Kane (37 page)

“I could see that.” Pierce cast a brief sidelong glance at his wife. “I have the feeling your commitment to Sarah involves more than just sympathy for her plight.”

“It does. It will for you as well.” Daphne studied her husband’s hard profile. “Sarah and I have met before. I didn’t realize it at first, not until I burst into her chamber.” Seeing Pierce’s brows draw in question, she explained. “When I left you at the ball, I stumbled upon an ugly scene between Sarah and Lady Benchley, a scene that resulted in Sarah’s dismissal. My heart went out to her.”

“So you followed her to offer comfort,” Pierce supplied tenderly.

“Yes. Then when I saw her at close range—those eyes—” Daphne swallowed. “Pierce, she was the girl I described to you, the one I saw clutching the tattered doll when I was eight and my father dragged me to the workhouse.”

Pierce’s head jerked around, brittle realization erupting in his mind. “You’re telling me Sarah grew up in the House of Perpetual Hope?”

“Yes. Her mother abandoned her there, then took her own life. Sarah has never had anyone to rely upon. This was my chance. Yours and my chance.”

“Without a doubt. You did the right thing.”

“I wanted to invite her as our guest. But she’s far too proud to accept charity. So I thought, since she taught herself proper English, she could do the same for the children at Markham. Think of the example she’ll set, the hope she’ll offer.”

Pierce brushed his lips across Daphne’s head. “My beautiful, compassionate snow flame.”

“I intended to divulge all this to you at dawn, directly after we’d finished planning tonight’s robbery, but—” She blushed.

“But we forgot everything except each other,” he concluded in a husky tone of remembered intimacy.

“Yes.” Daphne fiddled with her mask. “Pierce, I told Sarah about you; about The House of Perpetual Hope. Given the circumstances, it eased her despair. Are you angry?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never made a secret of my background. The only person I’ve chosen not to discuss the details with, for reasons you already know, is your father.”

With a quick nod, Daphne plunged on. “There’s one other thing you should be aware of. Sarah is with child.”

A heartbeat of silence.

“I see. Has she told the father?”

“Evidently, he wants no part of either her or their babe.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Pierce muttered, bitter memories scorching his throat.

“But, as was the case with your mother, Sarah
does
want her child. Very much. She’s determined to offer it all the constancy and devotion she herself was denied.”

“And so she shall.” Pierce urged the horses around the bend leading to Benchley. “We’ll do everything we can to help her.”

“I knew you’d say that.” With a sigh of relief, Daphne lay her head against Pierce’s shoulder. She felt the almost imperceptible tensing of his body. “We’re here,” she realized aloud, a statement not a question.

“Yes.” Pierce maneuvered the carriage into a small, concealed grove of trees. That done, he turned to Daphne. “Snow flame, are you absolutely certain you want to do this? You can still change your mind.”

“I’m very certain.” She brushed her lips across his chin. “Moreover, the Tin Cup Bandit cannot strike without me, not tonight.” She patted her pocket. “I have the emerald, remember? So you see, changing my mind is not an option. Not for me or for you. Now, shall we make quick work of Benchley’s impenetrable abode?”

Admiration flickered in Pierce’s eyes. “Very well, Madam Bandit.” Slipping on black gloves, he tugged his masked hood over his head, adjusting it to allow him to see. He took Daphne’s mask, waiting only until her gloves were on and she’d twisted her hair atop her head, before he pulled the hood on her, helped her conform it to her face. He then billowed the black cape about her until all her feminine curves were eclipsed from view.

Objectively, Pierce scrutinized her, making certain not a shred of evidence was visible that could identify the dark-clad figure as his wife.

“Will I do?” Daphne murmured, intentionally dropping her voice to an unrecognizable drone.

Beneath his mask, Pierce smiled. “Better than even I expected.” Lightly, he jumped to the ground, gripping Daphne’s waist and lowering her beside him. “Let’s go.”

They made their way through the trees, careful not to walk on the path leading to the gates, lest their shoes make even the slightest crunch on the roadway.

Two powerfully built guards leaned against the silver gates. Pierce stopped, gesturing to Daphne to stay behind him. Then, he took up a good-sized rock and flung it with all his might.

It hit the dirt on the far side of the gates.

“What the hell was that?” one guard muttered, reaching into his pocket for a pistol.

“We’d better look.”

Pierce called upon his incomparable timing, waiting until just the right moment, when the guards had walked far enough from their posts to be out of viewing range, but not so far that they’d halt, thus eliminating their receding, but revealing, footsteps. Then, he acted, beckoning to Daphne, edging swiftly to the gate.

His fine-tuned hearing told him his wife was right behind him. To be certain he waited, carefully easing her between the iron posts before he followed suit.

The vast grounds of the estate loomed before them, illuminated by a full, glittering moon.

Choosing the most thickly treed areas, Pierce led Daphne toward the house, urging her to the ground when the trees ebbed into gardens. Crouched low, they crept through the paths between flower beds, pausing now and again to listen for the steps of the vigilant sentries.

Experience had taught Pierce to surge forward a scant moment after any guards had passed by, as that was when they were most confident, and most careless of the region they’d so recently perused. Armed with that knowledge, he timed each advance perfectly, inching closer and closer to the sleeping manor.

At last their destination was upon them, dark and silent.

Pierce squeezed Daphne’s gloved hand and pointed toward the conservatory. Then, he moved stealthily toward it.

Taut with anticipation, Daphne followed.

As Pierce had predicted, the conservatory windows were broad, each fastened by a catch on either side. Pausing only to reassure himself no one was about, Pierce whipped out his knife and, in less than ten seconds, had cut a pane of glass just large enough to admit his hand. He reached around, forced back both catches and, an instant later, leaped lightly to his feet on the conservatory floor.

Turning, he eased Daphne in beside him.

In silent unison they removed their shoes, pausing to listen intently for any sound that would indicate their entry had been detected.

Nothing.

They lit a single taper and made their way to the pantry.

Gleaming silver beckoned them, and Pierce nodded with great satisfaction, pointing to those pieces small enough and valuable enough to pilfer.

Next they tiptoed to the library. Daphne slid open the desk drawer, removed the strongbox, and was about to slide it closed again when Pierce gripped her wrist to stop her. In rapt fascination, she watched as he reached behind to unlatch the desk’s hidden compartment, removing a thick stack of notes and a bejeweled snuffbox, all of which he shoved into his sack before abandoning the room.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the chimes of the grandfather clock tolling the hour.

Pierce positioned Daphne in the shadowed alcove at the foot of the stairs. Meaningfully, he gripped her shoulders, reminding her to stay put. Daphne gave a terse nod, reaching into her pocket to extract the emerald.

Clutching the gem, Pierce turned and prowled slowly up the staircase, close to its side to avoid making even the slightest creak. His lithe movements reminded Daphne yet again of a potent, stalking panther.

Five minutes later, he was back. Lightly, he tapped the jewel case in his sack, showing Daphne the job was done.

With a quizzical tilt of her head, Daphne gestured toward the guest wing. Pierce nodded.

Outside each bedchamber, Pierce cocked his head, concentrating on the sounds emanating from within. They invaded only those rooms whose occupants’ even breathing assured him that they were deeply asleep, and whose doors were either unlocked or could be made so with one quick flick of his knife.

By the time Daphne and Pierce left the guest quarters, their pouch was bulging with jewel cases, silver pieces, and pound notes.

They were just retracing their steps, when Daphne spied what appeared to be a small drawing room tucked away in a tiny nook alongside the conservatory. She grasped Pierce’s arm, indicating, not the room’s existence, but the ornate lock enhancing its wooded door.

Pierce drew near, frowning beneath his mask. He’d never seen anything quite like it: the lock was of a heavy plate, covering a wide portion of the doorway. Its entire surface was dominated by the figure of a man, fully clad from boots to hat, a weapon clasped in his hands. Nowhere, either near or on the figure, could Pierce detect evidence of a keyhole.

Leaning up on tiptoes, Daphne spoke for the first time, whispering close to her husband’s ear. “Such a complex lock. What could it protect?”

Intrigued and frustrated, Pierce nodded, then leaned closer, peering at the man himself. Somewhere beneath the figure was the only logical place for a keyhole to be hidden. But where? Tentatively, he probed at the plating, searching for an answer.

Daphne watched eagerly, squinting as she contemplated the possibilities. Acting on impulse, she reached past Pierce, pressing first the man’s arm, then his weapon, and at last his foot.

She felt something give.

Firmly, she pressed the boot again.

A spring released, and the man’s foot thrust upward, revealing the dark recess of a keyhole.

Pierce’s head jerked about, and Daphne nearly laughed aloud at the surprise she saw reflected in his eyes.

Recovering himself, he whisked out his knife, inserted it in the keyhole, and clicked open the lock.

Daphne handed Pierce the taper, allowing him to precede her into the dark, musty room. The furnishings were unimpressive—two settees, an armed chair, a tea table, and a sideboard—an average drawing room.

Puzzled, Pierce approached the tea table, running his gloved hands over its surface, feeling about for a hidden catch. He straightened, shaking his head. Bypassing the other furnishings, he went to the sideboard, repeating the same process.

A concealed drawer swung open, and Daphne bit her lip to keep from exclaiming aloud.

Blinking up at them was a bejeweled chest the size of a small tome, set in a myriad of multicolored gemstones, each one larger than the last. Its value was incomprehensible.

Triumphantly, Pierce lifted the treasure from its home, carefully sliding the drawer closed before stashing the chest in his coat and urging Daphne toward the door.

The man’s boot eased back, but the lock refused to slip into place.

Thoroughly perplexed, Pierce tried pushing the boot in the opposite direction. Then, when that was unsuccessful, he shoved at the other boot. Still, the door remained unbolted.

A sudden feeling came over Daphne, an ominous premonition of danger. Fearfully, she looked about, seeing nothing but darkness, hearing nothing but silence.

Still, the anxiety persisted.

“Let’s go,” she breathed, tugging at Pierce.

He nodded, simultaneously feeling his way along the man’s hat.

The second spring gave, lowering the hat over the man’s eyes and sliding the bolt back into place.

A menacing growl sounded.

“The dog.” Even as Daphne said the words, she remembered the venomous beast she’d seen tearing at Sarah’s gown the night before.

“Come. Now.” Pierce’s fingers bit into Daphne’s arm as he dragged her toward the conservatory.

Violent barking erupted, the sound of racing paws closing in at a rapid pace.

“Dover? What is it?” Viscount Benchley’s sleepy voice emanated from the second-floor landing.

“Hurry,” Pierce commanded as they reached their destination.

“Who’s there?” Benchley evidently heard their running footsteps, for his own approached at an alarming rate.

“Run,” Pierce hissed, scooping up their shoes and boosting Daphne out the window all at once. “Wait for me by the road.”

“No.” Vehemently, she shook her head, understanding instantly that Pierce meant to sacrifice himself to spare her. “I won’t go without you.”

“I’ll be right behind you. Now go.”

A heartbeat later, Daphne felt the cold night air against her skin, the ground beneath her feet.

“Run, damn it,” Pierce ordered through clenched teeth, already hoisting himself through the open window.

He was standing beside her when the shot rang out.

Pierce’s hand flew to his shoulder, a muffled groan escaping his lips.

“Where are you, you bloody bastard?” Benchley bellowed, leaning out to scan the grounds. “You won’t escape. Not this time.”

With all her strength, Daphne flattened both Pierce and herself against the manor wall, holding her breath as she waited.

The moment Benchley’s head disappeared from view, she reached for her husband’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“We’ve got to get off the grounds,” Pierce managed, blood seeping through his fingers. “Before Benchley has time to alert his guards.”

“But you’re—”

“There isn’t time.” Even as he spoke, the house came to life, voices and lamplight splitting the peace of night. “Let’s go.” Fighting the stinging pain in his shoulder, Pierce took Daphne’s hand, keeping her flush to the manor as they sidestepped their way to the building’s edge.

Acres of sprawling land stretched between them and safety.

“We’ll never get past all those men,” Daphne panted, her terrified gaze taking in the immense stretch of gardens, utterly exposed by the moon’s brilliant glow.

“What you suggested earlier,” Pierce muttered unsteadily. “I have an idea.” In one motion he yanked off his mask, reaching over to remove Daphne’s as well. Swiftly, he shoved them inside his coat, then unbound Daphne’s tawny tresses, letting them tumble free to her shoulders.