Beware of Virtuous Women (37 page)

He looked into his wineglass, raised it to his lips. "That's what I did. I forgot my father's warning. When you sup with the devil..." he repeated, then downed the contents all at once.

Eleanor was reeling now, as all the pieces slammed into place at one time. Chelfham was only half right. It wasn't Ainsley who had picked a ship, a crew, and then, knowing its course, devised a plan to attack that same ship that carried the woman Raw-ley Maddox coveted enough to want his brother dead. Attacking that ship as it traveled in a well-protected, heavily armed phalanx of ships had been left to Ainsley—that was true enough—but everything had been set into motion by Ainsley's partner, Edmund Beales.

Edmund Beales, who supposedly had been dead these past fifteen years. Edmund Beales, the monster who had destroyed so much, who was responsible for so much pain.

But he wasn't dead. Not if Eleanor could believe what Chelfham was saying—which she did. Her breathing became more rapid, shallow, as she realized she now knew something no one else knew: it had been her mother, her father, who had been the catalysts that had helped to bring such misery to Ainsley Becket, to all of them.

She couldn't wait for Jack and her brothers to respond to the note the earl had sent, demanding the return of the journals. She couldn't sit here and pretend she wasn't in any real danger, that this man who was her real father would live up to his announced plan to turn her safely over to Jack in return for those journals.

No, she no longer had that luxury. Nor could she afford the time necessary to carefully guide Chelfham into revealing more secrets.

There may not be much time left for anything at all.

Because Edmund Beales was here.

When you sup with the devil...

And now the devil had come to London.

Eleanor got to her feet, which brought a frown to Chelfham's face. "Sit down," he told her. "You'll be there, with your tea, and I'll be here, behind the desk. All very civilized as we await the exchange. I said,
sit down."

She ignored his order. She walked over to the desk, put her palms flat against the surface. "That's enough of your self-pitying lies, and enough of me pretending to believe them. Did you tell him? When you discovered that the journals were gone, did you tell him?"

"Tell whom? And why am I even talking to you? Sit down before I forget you're my daughter. You've caused all of this. You and Eastwood."

"Yes, nothing is
your
fault, is it? First my mother, and now Jack and me. Never you. What a pitiful, disgusting creature you are."

"You have no right to—"

Eleanor lifted one hand and brought the side of her fist down hard on the desktop. "Answer me. Edmund Beales. Between the time you discovered the journals gone and now—
did...you...tell him?"

Her air of quiet command, even as she stood there, barefoot, a shawl over her dressing gown, seemed to have impressed on Chelfham that something was very, very wrong. His mouth moved several times before he made any sound. "I...I don't know that name. Was that the name he used, all those years ago? And how would you know that? I only remember the face. That smug, smiling face as he told me how I would introduce him to society, to my friends. Told me how I would be the one to take all the risks, while he took most of the money. I thought I was done with him fifteen years ago... and then he came back."

In this small, closed room, Eleanor suddenly felt overwhelmingly exposed. Dangerously vulnerable. "What name does he use now? No, never mind, there's no time for that now. Please," she said as calmly as possible, "answer the question. Did you tell him someone had taken your journals? And remember this, your life may hang with your answer."

"I...I didn't have to tell him. One of his men was here, last night, waiting in this room when we returned home from the theater." Chelfham drew his hands into fists on the desktop. "He and his men are everywhere, like a bad rash. This one, a damned Frenchie, had come for the journals. They're always doing that, checking on me, making sure I'm not trying to cheat them, I suppose. But the records were gone."

He looked up at Eleanor, fear in his eyes. "I knew who had them. I told the man I'd get them back. He.. .he asked me when I'd last looked at the journals, how long it had been, how long they might have been missing. That's when I remembered showing them to Eastwood, yesterday morning, but I couldn't tell him that. No one is to know about my arrangement with your husband. So I said a day, they might have been gone for a day, no longer, that my idiot brother-in-law must have taken them. He just looked at me as if I was dirt beneath his feet and told me that was too long.
C'est beaucoup trop long, vous dupent.
He said that—called me a fool, as if I don't know the Frenchie tongue—and then he left. But I can get them back, and everything will be all right again. I know I can fix this."

Eleanor looked over her shoulder, at the mantel clock. If Jack and Chance decided to play by the rules set down by Chelfham, Jack would be knocking on the front door in less than ten minutes, with Chance nearby, ready to help. She couldn't let that happen, couldn't let them be seen by whoever might be watching.

Because Edmund Beales might be watching. Edmund Beales, who might even recognize Chance. Fifteen years of hiding, of rebuilding, of rebirth—all of it could be gone in an instant.

"The man was right, you are a fool. And we have to go," she told Chelfham, her decision made. "Rouse your wife, everyone. We have to get out of here."

"Leave here? No. I told you, I've taken steps. I've got everything under control," Chelfham said, picking up the pistols, getting to his feet—and at last showing her she'd been right to fear him, woefully wrong to believe he possessed a single redeeming quality. "You surprised me, Julianna. I didn't think you knew. You took me off my guard for a few minutes, I'll grant you that, but I'm thinking clearly again now. I'm in charge here. I said I'd get the journals back, and I will. He'll be fine with that, he'll understand when I tell him who you are, how this all happened. After all, he's at fault, too—he let you live. He'll understand, I tell you, especially when you and Eastwood are both dead. He'll be pleased that I killed you. He doesn't like loose ends, you understand."

"You said...you said you didn't want to kill me," Eleanor reminded him, slowly backing away from the desk.

Chelfham smiled. "I say a lot of things. Ask my dear brother-in-law. No, wait, you can't do that, can you, Julianna?"

"Don't call me that. My name is Eleanor now."

"I'm sure that's the name they'll put on your headstone. Now, go back where you were. Sit down, have some more tea, my dear," he told her, motioning with one of the pistols before he took up his place behind the desk once more, the pistols hidden on his lap. "As I said before your hysterical outburst, we need to appear very civilized when your husband arrives."

Eleanor stood her ground. "No, we can't do that. You're deluding yourself. You're
not
in control here, Chelfham, for all your lies and bravado. Don't you understand? What
you
are is a loose end. Jack and I aren't the enemy any longer, not with Beales here. We may be your only hope. Please, summon Gerald, have him wake everyone. The servants, too. Everyone has to get out, now. Or do you really want your wife and unborn child to be here when Edmund Beales sends someone back to snip any remaining loose threads?"

"He wouldn't dare," Chelfham said, but his complexion had gone quite white.

"Please don't make me waste time reminding you that he knew my mother and I were on that ship. Women, children, even unborn babes. You said it— he's the devil.
He doesn't care."

At last, Eleanor seemed to get through to the man. A pistol in each hand, Chelfham ran toward the closed door, already calling for Gerald. But when he opened it, Jack was standing there, more than happy to relieve the earl of his pistols while Chance held another one pressed against Gerald's back.

"Well, thank you, Chelfham," Jack said sarcastically. "I was wondering how we'd disarm you."

"Jack! Oh, thank God you aren't civilized!" Eleanor called out as Chelfham backed up into the room, his hands now raised in the air. Then she saw her brother. "Chance! It's Edmund Beales. He's the real head of the Red Men Gang. Edmund Beales, Chance! He's here in London. He's
alive."

Chance shot a quick look at Chelfham and Jack before saying, "You're certain? It's really him?"

Eleanor nodded her head emphatically. Chance didn't seem overly surprised at her news, but she'd think about that later. There was no time for anything else now but getting themselves out of here. She'd heard the stories. She knew the danger. "It has to be him. And he knows the journals are gone, he's known for hours and hours. You know what he's like, what he's capable of doing. We have to get everyone away from here,
now."

But Chance wasn't listening to her anymore. She should have known as much. Yes, she'd heard about the island, what had happened there, but she hadn't seen it, seen the carnage. She'd been a child left behind onboard the
Black Ghost,
unconscious, her ankle mangled. She hadn't seen what Chance had seen. She'd never laughed, and drunk, and broken bread with a fiend like Edmund Beales.

Chance let go of Gerald, who immediately turned on his heels and fled, already yelling for everyone in the house to wake up, get out. "An obedient sort, isn't he? I suppose you've been working your magic again, Elly," Chance said, then advanced on the earl of Chelfham. "Now it's your turn. Where is he? Where does he live? What does he call himself?" He leveled his pistol at the earl.
"Answer me."

"B-B-Beatty," Chelfham mumbled almost inaudi-bly. "He calls himself Nathaniel Beatty, and...and he keeps a town house in Grosvenor Street. Number... number forty-five. Is it true? What she says—is it true? Would he really kill us all? My wife. She carries my heir. I have to get her out of here!"

At last Jack spoke, his head still pounding, his knees still weak. Hell, they'd been delayed in arriving at Chelfham's town house because he'd had to stop twice, lean out of the town carriage to throw up in the gutter. "His heir, but not his only child. Bastard. I have an idea, Chance. I say we let him find out what this Beales is capable of. Get everyone else out of the house, and leave him here, tied up with a bow."

Eleanor should have agreed. The man might be her father, but he was evil, and even wanted her dead. But he
was
her father. "No, Jack," she said, stepping toward him. "We agreed. We turn him over to the Crown."

But she'd gotten too close. Over their heads, behind them in the hallways, the sounds of a rudely awakened household filtered down to them, the sound of running feet may even have distracted them. Whatever the reason, Chelfham was quick to take advantage of it, grabbing one of the pair of pistols out of Jack's hand at the same time he roughly threw his other arm around Eleanor's neck, dragged her backward with him, the pistol pressed into her side.

"Son of a bitch," Jack bit out, taking a single step forward before getting himself back under control. "Chelf-ham, don't be an ass. Let her go. I don't know this Edmund Beales, but I've heard enough to believe it's time we were all shed of this place. We'll settle our own arguments later."

Rian Becket appeared in the doorway, his young face flushed with anger. 'There's an idiot woman upstairs who refuses to budge until I fetch a servant to pack her clothes and jewels. What do I do with her, Chance?"

"A good question, Rian. Chelfham? Would that be your wife?"

Jack watched as the earl backed up another two steps, Eleanor nearly falling as she tried to maintain her balance with the man's forearm pressed hard across the front of her throat. "Carrying your heir, you said? Shall we just leave her to your partner's tender mercies?"

"You're all just trying to confuse me," Chelfham shouted, drawing his forearm tighter, so that Eleanor couldn't hold back a painful wince. "He'll understand. Once I have the journals. Once I explain to him. He's a reasonable man."

Jack and Chance still held their pistols pointed at the earl. "What do you say, Chance?" Jack asked, his eyes intent on Chelfham. "Do we all wait here, to find out if he's right?"

Chance shook his head. "Not me, thank you. If I thought he'd show up personally, then yes, I'd stay. But I won't knowingly remain here to meet with his hired assassins. We're none of us prepared for that sort of battle. Rian, is everyone else out of the house?"

"We sent them out through the kitchens. Treacle and that Gerald fellow. They're probably scattered over half of London by now. There's only the woman left. Is Elly going to be all right? I know I'm not in charge, but don't you two think it's time you did something about that, rather than just standing here? There's three of us and only one of him, you know. Or don't you think he's figured that out yet?"

"Rian," Chance said without a trace of emotion in his voice, "shut up."

Jack didn't know what Chance was thinking, or what Eleanor feared, but his imagination was running wild. A band of armed men. A fire. A cask of gunpowder hurled through the window, carrying a lit fuse. It would be hours before anyone except servants and a few delivery wagons were awake and about in the fashionable Square. They were isolated here, as if they were in a house in the middle of a sleeping woods. Here, in the midst of Mayfair, in the center of supposed civilization, it would appear that they all could soon be under attack, with no one to see, no one to notice until it was too late.

"Order the woman at gunpoint if necessary, Rian," Jack instructed the younger man, never taking his eyes from the pistol now aimed at Eleanor's head. "Get her out, hide her in Chelfham's stables, then send Treacle to the closest watchouse for help."

"No!" Chelfham shouted as Rian turned to leave the room. "Nobody moves. Leave my wife where she is. Nobody goes anywhere. This is all a hum meant to confuse me. Where are the journals? Bring me the journals or she dies. That's what he wants, and that's what I demand."

"Amateurs, you can't reason with them. We need an end to this, Jack," Chance said quietly. Then, to Chelfham, he said, making a great business out of lowering his pistol, "My lord, I have the journals at my house in Upper Brook Street. If I promise to turn them over to you, will you agree to adjourn there now? You have my word that nothing will happen to you."