Elizabeth Boyle (28 page)

“Why, when I know perfectly well where she is headed?”

His patience at an end, Giles reached over and caught his best friend by the collar. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“You didn’t ask.” Monty glared back until Giles let go. Leaning back in his seat, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Brace yourself, for I don’t think you are going to like this.”

Giles ground out each word. “Where has she gone?”

“It’s not the where that is the problem,” the duke pointed out. “It’s the who she went with.”

This stopped Giles. What kind of fool danger was she chasing now?

Giles knew the answer to that only too well. Something dangerous.

From the first moment he’d found her in Paris, her only thoughts had been to convince him to leave, to save himself. He still bristled at the idea of being treated like someone’s doddering aunt to be shuffled off to a quiet corner where he’d be safe from harm.

Damn her and her stubborn independence. Didn’t she see she’d never be able to save her parents alone? She needed him. Needed someone to bring order to her dangerous schemes.

And the fact that he needed her was something he still had to come to terms with.

“Who did she leave with?” he asked in a quiet, steady voice.

“Selmar.”

Stunned, Giles didn’t reply at first.

The carriage began picking up the pace, having reached a wider street.

“He’ll kill her, given the chance,” Monty said despondently, clinging to his seat, his rain-soaked wig drooping.

“He won’t have the opportunity if I have anything to do with it,” Giles said. “That privilege belongs to me.”

Nothing was right. Sophia knew that the moment she’d entered Lord Selmar’s house.

Instead of taking her to his study, she found herself in his private armory. She could only wonder what one man needed with such a collection.

Pikes, swords, cutlasses, and shields were mounted in ordered designs around the high walls. One wall, devoted entirely to guns, looked as if he were expecting a simultaneous invasion from both the French and Spanish. There were no paintings, no ornaments, other than those devoted to war. Lacking in any furniture, even a chair, the room resembled a medieval hall, complete with two suits of armor standing guard in opposite corners.

She felt their round, empty gaze on her as if they were living, breathing men ordered to watch her every move.

They certainly weren’t going to point her to where Lord Selmar kept his jewels and money hidden.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that, my dear?” he called out, crossing the room from where he’d been selecting an ancient Spanish sword to show her.

“I was saying, my, what a big collection you have,” she replied, turning from the row of axes.
Though not nearly as big as your colossal arrogance
, she wanted to add. He’d seemed interested enough in the carriage. Once they’d arrived at his house, though, he’d dragged her to this cold, lofty room and made her look at his “children.”

Her information had seemed so clear: He loved danger and thrills. Mysterious women were his forte. He was an accomplished swordsman and rumored to be the deadliest shot in London.

Deadliest bore, she would now add.

Worst of all, he’d refused to share a drink with her, stating it was too late in the night to imbibe. He wanted a clear head to discuss her “repayment.”

“It’s taken years to amass my toys, if you will,” he was saying. “This one is my favorite. Late sixteenth century, an incredible piece of work. I came by it in a rather unorthodox manner.”

His finger passed over the piece with an eerie devotion that sent goose bumps up and down Sophia’s arms.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He smiled. “I had it stolen. The family who owned it refused to sell it to me. So I found other means to obtain my treasure.”

She smiled back in complete understanding. “Did you accomplish the deed yourself?” She moved closer, hoping to use this opening as a way to rekindle his interest.

He sidestepped her approach, his eyes widening in horror. “Of course not! I hired the work done by those more suited to such a despicable task.”

Hypocrite. He loved the idea of possessing the stolen sword, not the thrill of the heist. He wasn’t just a hypocrite, he was a coward as well. One in need of a lesson.

“Examine the inlay, the gems encrusted in the hilt,” he said, pulling her toward the fireplace. “You won’t see a finer work of art anywhere.”

Sophia’s breathing stilled at the sight of the large emeralds and fat pearls. Now, this was something she understood. Why, the gems alone were worth a fortune, not to mention what the silver and gold work would bring.

He held it out to her. “Try it.”

Sophia didn’t need any urging. She slipped her hand into the hilt. To her surprise she found it fit. Balanced and deceptively lightweight, the blade molded to her grip as if it had been made for her. She twisted her arm back and forth, the sword moving gracefully like an extension of her arm.

Selmar grinned. “I thought you would find that amusing. It was made for a lady. A pirate of some note.”

“A pirate’s blade,” Sophia repeated. She knew the rumors well enough to know better than to provoke Selmar, but she didn’t have all night to view his collections. She had business to finish.

“Is it sharp?” she asked, eyeing the edge.

“Very,” he cautioned. “I keep all the blades in my collection well-honed. Best you hand it back to me.”

“Not just yet.” She stepped back, pointing the deadly weapon at his chest. “Now, Lord Selmar, you say you love a game of chance. What say you to raising the stakes on the matter of my debts?”

When Monty’s carriage pulled to a quick stop in front of Lord Selmar’s Mayfair house, the place was ablaze with light and activity. Servants dashed about.

“What do you think happened?” Monty asked as he followed Giles out of the carriage.

“Something has gone wrong.”

Just then another carriage wheeled up. A somberly dressed man climbed out, a black bag in hand.

An older servant, probably the butler, came bustling down the stairs. “Doctor Riverton, if you please, follow me,” the stern fellow asked. “Your patient is in grave need of your services.”

The two men hurried up the front steps.

At the doorway the butler turned around, his brows arching at Giles’s uninvited approach.

“Is this man with you, Doctor?”

The physician looked up from checking his bag. “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

The servant eyed Giles warily. “Who are you?”

“I am the Marquess of Trahern, and this,” he said, turning to Monty, “is the Duke of Stanton. We have business with His Lordship. Take us to him immediately.” Giles tried to push past the man, only to find his way blocked not only by the butler, but by the two other younger, much bigger footmen.

“I will do no such thing. His Lordship is quite busy right now. The doctor is needed to see to the situation.”

The door started closing again in his face. Giles shoved his boot into the crack. “Listen well,” he said. Reaching into the space in the doorway afforded by his boot, he grabbed the annoying man by his throat. “Let us in, or you’re the one who is going to need more than a doctor to put you back together.”

Monty squeaked something behind him. Giles didn’t care. He’d left his careful, cautious ways back in the carriage. If Piper was inside this house, if she was hurt . . . he’d be damned if he’d let anyone stand in his way.

“L-l-let me go,” the man begged.

“When you let me in,” Giles said, each word full of venom and promise.

The butler waved off the footmen, his arms flailing about, his face turning a bright shade of purple.

Giles released him, pushed the door open wide, and marched in as if he owned the place.

“Where has the doctor gone?” he barked.

The servants stood silently at their posts.

Pulling out a pistol from his jacket, he cocked it. “Where is the doctor?” he asked the youngest footman.

“This way,” the boy stuttered, leading them up the staircase.

Monty brought up the rear. “Is this a good idea?” he asked. “Terrorizing Selmar’s staff?”

Giles shot him a black look.

“What has gotten into you?” Monty persisted, trotting along to keep up. “Are you out of your mind? I’ve known you since we were children, and I’ve never seen you act like this. What is going on?”

“If he’s harmed her, I’ll kill him.”

Monty grinned. “Have you considered that it might be Selmar who is being attended by the doctor?”

Just then Monty got his answer, as the footman led them into Lord Selmar’s bedchamber. The man lay on his bed, wailing and carrying on as if he were mortally wounded.

The doctor pulled out a bottle and a compress from his bag.

Even from the door they could see that Selmar’s wound was nothing more than a nick, though by his thrashing and complaints it was hard to even see it. One thing neither Giles nor Monty missed was the pistol in the wounded man’s hand.

“Now, you’ll have to put that down,” the doctor said, attempting to take the weapon from his patient. “You’ve done enough damage for tonight.”

Giles backed out of the doorway pulling Monty and the young footman with him.

“What the devil happened?”

The young man looked glad to have someone to tell. “His Lordship brought home a lady. Haven’t seen one around here for years. Most of us kinda thought he’d forgotten how.” The boy grinned.

“Then what?” Giles growled, his tone wiping the smile from the boy’s face.

“Well, see, I don’t rightly know. They was in the armory, alone, and then he started yelping that he was dying. We all came running. Before we got to the room all hell broke loose. His Lordship firing his pistol like the French was invadin’. Well, none of us was going in that room ‘til he stopped his firing. When we finally went in, the lady was gone and the room was all shot up.”

“The lady, what of her?”

“No one seen her leave. I imagine she lit out of here right about the time his nibs there started firing at her.”

Giles felt sick. “Where’s this armory?”

“This way, Your Lordship, Your Grace.”

The boy showed them to the vast room. Giles set to work immediately, looking for clues.

The footman, now having warmed up to his story and the prestige of telling it, showed them all around. “I think she went out the back,” he offered, showing them a side entrance.

Giles asked her for a light, and the boy fetched a candle. Holding it up to illuminate the dark passageway, he saw the one piece of evidence that he’d dreaded.

Bright red blood stained the wall at different intervals as far as the light afforded.

It sickened him. Terrible images rushed forth of Piper— injured, helpless, and dying.

Why hadn’t she just come to him in the first place? Believed him when he’d promised to help her find her parents?

Monty pushed forward, gasping at the terrible sight, his usually florid face turning pale.

“Was His Lordship brought this way?” Giles asked, though he doubted the slight wound he’d seen on Selmar could have caused this mess.

“No, we took him up the front stairs. Do you think he actually could have hit her? He’s such a terrible shot.” The boy gulped, realizing he’d confided too much.

Giles looked at the boy. “What are you saying?”

“Well, I’ll deny it if you say I said it—His Lordship can’t shoot. He can’t see more than a few feet in front of his face. If he hit her it was blind luck.”

Looking at the fresh bloodstains, Giles realized whatever it was, luck hadn’t been on the side of the Brazen Angel.

F
or the next week, Giles’s search for Piper or any clue of the Brazen Angel turned up nothing. Worst of all, he feared she might have raised enough money to finance a return trip to Paris, but Selmar claimed she’d taken nothing.

Not that he believed the arrogant man.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this—he was a trained and experienced agent, and yet a mere slip of a girl had outwitted him, as if she knew his every move.

To add to his woes, Lady Dearsley kept sending around notes insisting he go visit his betrothed at Lady Larkhall’s estate in Bath. He’d politely declined with every conceivable excuse he could muster, but knew he couldn’t avoid Lady Sophia or her aunts forever.

Stepping out of his carriage, Giles entered the small bookstore in Covent Garden. It was an odd place for a bookseller, stashed between two theaters, but the owner had a reputation for being both an eclectic collector of French texts and a devoted fan of the ladies of the stage.

He opened the door, making his way into the dark recesses of the shop. In the far corner a hunchbacked man bent over a candle and a large tome.

Giles stood for a moment, waiting for the man to assist him. The old man did nothing to acknowledge his new customer.

“I beg your pardon,” Giles said, coughing, more from the dust than as a polite distraction. “I was told you collect old French texts.”

“Eh?” the man muttered, finally looking up from his book. “What’s that?”

“I said I’m looking for a specific French text.”

The man climbed down from his stool and hobbled over, using a knarled wood cane to support his crooked steps. “French, eh? What kind of text?”

Giles reached into his pocket and pulled out two objects, laying them on the counter.

A gold signet ring and a piece of silver and white brocade. Each emblazoned with a swan and a
fleur-de-lis
.

The man hopped the last few steps up to the front counter, his nearsighted eyes blinking at the objects. “May I?” he indicated, his hand poised over the ring.

Giles nodded.

The man snatched up the ring, poring over the design. His flitting gaze didn’t seem to miss a thing, for a second later he tipped the ring toward the candle and peered inside the band to read the words inscribed.

“
Nihil amanti durum
,” he muttered. He leaned back and examined Giles. “Don’t suppose you need this translated?”

“No, I know what it says.”