Escape with A Rogue (22 page)

A jolt of pain hit Jack. “Is Simon dead?”

“He survived, but I took him back to the woman who’d given us the clothes. I hoped she’d be good hearted enough to help us again. I found her shot dead on the floor of her home with flies already buzzing around her. But I got a tourniquet on Simon and saved him.”

“You think it was the men who shot at you who killed her?”

Beau nodded. “She must have told them which way Simon and I had ridden off. Then they shot an unarmed, innocent woman who had given them what they wanted.”

A wave of icy fear washed over Jack.
Madeline.
“Can you describe them?”

“No. But they spoke like gentlemen and rode like military men.”

“How in blazes did they find you, Beau? How did a man find us on the Lych Way? We talked in the prison of the route you planned to take, but no one else knew.”

Beau’s eyes slid to the side.

Christ.
“Who did you tell?”

“Simon. I wanted to ensure the lad made it out, so I told him the route. Last night, while we were sleeping in the woods, he ran away. Could that be a sign he felt guilty for having betrayed us? I don’t know. If they were military men who shot at us, why in blazes would they want us dead and not recaptured? They spared you, Simon, and the others from hanging. Why kill anyone now?”

“I can guess why someone in the Crown might want me dead,” Jack said. “As for you and Simon, I have no bloody idea.” If Simon had betrayed them, he should hate the lad for it, but he couldn’t. Simon was a desperate and frightened boy, and he knew well what that felt like.

“Bloody hell,” Beau spat. “They know who my wife is—my first wife. I’ve got to get to her. Your lady’s in danger, too, if the Crown already has her.”

“I know that.” Jack was sick at the thought. “But I also know the Crown wants to keep M—my lady to use as bait for me. They may plan to do the same with your wife.”

“So my wife may be safe as long as there’s no sign I’ve been anywhere near her? How do I do that when I’ve got to see her?” Beau faced him with a stark expression. “Protect your lady, Travers. She’s gone through hell for you.”

Jack nodded. That was what he’d done to Lady M. Plunged her into hell.

* * *

This very day, two years before, she had gone in search of Sarah and Amelia in the maze, determined to haul both girls inside to practice the pianoforte. Determined that, for once, she would
not
get lost in the labyrinth.

Madeline folded her arms over her chest, shivering despite the heat of the afternoon sun.

The maze stood ahead of her. The once neat lines of the hedges had degraded into untamed masses. It was in
there
—on one of the narrow paths—she had found Grace’s body. Panicked, she had tried to find Amelia and Sarah, but found Sarah dead. She had almost heaved up her insides. Sickening, blinding terror had gripped her as she had searched for her sister. Then she’d heard Amelia call Sarah’s name. Relief had made her so dizzy, she had fallen to her knees, and she’d thanked heaven Amelia had been spared . . .

After Jack had been arrested and convicted, Madeline had ordered the maze destroyed. The army of Eversleigh gardeners had hacked with scythes and axes for half a day before Father demanded that they stop. Father had been distraught. He’d wanted to preserve the place—he’d felt it should be kept sacred. Untouched.

The gardeners had burned the hedges they had cut. Watching the plume of smoke, Madeline had felt as if her heart was dissolving into ash. But it hadn’t been just grief over Sarah and Grace that made her feel so empty.

It had been something unforgivable: sorrow over Jack. She had believed he’d been hanged. She’d felt so guilty, knowing she should not mourn the murderer.

Where was he now? Three of Oberon’s men were watching the grounds. One stood at the bend in the road before the drive. That the men were here must mean Jack was still free.

But surely he must have left England. He would not risk his life to come to her. Oberon refused to believe that. Two days ago, the Crown agent had brought her home. He told her family the story she had given him—Jack had found her stranded during his escape.

Her family—Father, Mama, Amelia and Philip—gathered in the blue drawing room, stunned to learn she had not been visiting a friend but had instead gone to Dartmoor War Prison to help Jack. Father’s normally handsome face looked dangerously gray and ill as he took in her disheveled state and dirty dress. Philip frowned in disapproval. Mama stared blankly at her.

“Jack acted only to protect me,” she breathed when Oberon came to the end of the tale: the desperate chase outside the farmer’s cottage. “When Jack found me outside the prison, another man came upon us. He tried to shoot Jack, so we had no choice but to run.”

“Good God, Madeline,” her father gasped. Father, who had always warned her she must never cause scandal, must never draw attention to herself. She couldn’t forget he had let her live under his roof and raised her as his daughter, when he could have turned her away.

“Jack was innocent, Father.”

“But to go to a prison? To let yourself be caught by a desperate convict?”

She was about to point out that she hadn’t been
caught
but instead rescued when Oberon interrupted. “I believe Travers may return to this house. Some of my agents will remain on the estate and in the village. Travers may be innocent of the two murders, but when he lived in London, he was involved with reformists.”

“Reformists?” Philip echoed.

Madeline blinked. Was this the secret Jack had been determined to keep from her?

“Men like the Spencean Philanthropists—radicals who advocate revolution,” Oberon continued. “Travers was in possession of information about a radical group. He offered it to us of his own volition. This was why he was not hanged. But during the two years he has been in prison, he has not given us the names he promised. His gaming hells funded men who are gathering weapons to overthrow the king and the Regent. Jack Travers is a violent and dangerous man. You must summon me at once if you see him.”

All around her, her family gasped and muttered in shock and fear.

“He truly offered this information to you?”
Treason.
She could not believe it. But then Jack had told her he was not what she’d thought he was.

“He made the promise,” Oberon said. “He has not given us what we wanted.”

“Even though you brutally whipped him,” she snapped.

“Madeline—” Philip’s voice rose in astonishment.

“What man would not admit to anything to avoid such torture?”

“Jack Travers admitted to nothing, my lady, even when lashed. But he wishes to destroy the foundation of our country. He is a criminal, and he must be stopped.”

With that, Oberon had bowed and left. She had been sent to her room to bathe and change. Oberon had successfully terrified her family. They would turn Jack over the moment he appeared on the estate, if he returned. But was any of it true?

Out on the road, wheels rumbled and clattered, drawing her back to the present. Madeline turned and shaded her eyes—she’d forgotten both parasol and bonnet. A gleaming black carriage was hurtling along the road. The Marquis of Deverell, her first suspect, was about to arrive.

* * *

The Marquis of Deverell leapt down from his carriage and pushed past the bevy of servants dealing with his trunks. “Madeline! My God, it’s good to know you’re safe, my dear.”

She had known Lord Deverell for years. Handsome, with coal-black hair, dramatic sky-blue eyes surrounded by black lashes, and a rakish demeanor, he had been Philip’s friend since Eton. Deverell was always the one who had hastened safely to his carriage while Bow Street officers on a raid would discover her brother in a brothel’s bedroom.

Madeline managed to paste a demure smile on her face as he bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips. But it was no chaste brush of lips. No, he turned her hand over and gave a lingering kiss to her palm.

Jack’s kisses to her hand had set her on fire. The touch of Deverell’s damp lips to her gloved palm made her shoulders go rigid.

She dragged her hand back. Since Deverell’s estate was only five hours away, she’d sent a message yesterday to advise him she had returned. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

 “I’ve been worried ever since I received your letter last month about Jack Travers being innocent. Philip wrote to tell me someone had shot at you.”

“I need you to help me catch a murderer.” She gazed steadily into Deverell’s eyes—she wanted him to
think
she trusted him, even as her stomach clenched with nerves.

“Good Lord, Madeline.” He frowned at her. “Let us speak of this later, in private.”

Was his abrupt manner a sign of guilt or simply masculine disapproval? She could not tell as they walked toward the front steps. “I was sorry to hear of your grandfather’s death, my dear. I believe you were his sole heiress?”

He tried to sound casual, but she heard the anticipation. It intensified the unsettled feeling in her stomach, but what had she expected? She had used the news of her now-immense income to tempt the men to return. “Yes. He knew I would look after the family.”

“You may turn to me for decisions on the management of your fortune,” Deverell said, sounding far more paternal than Father had ever done. “Finance is not the strength of Evershire or your brother, I’m afraid.”

“That is true.”

“Your grandfather would have wanted a strong hand at the reins.”

That was why he left me in charge of the income.

He paused before the steps, away from the servants. “We’d make a good match, my dear.” He smiled confidently. “Why not get that business out of the way? You are well dowered, and I’m the heir to a dukedom. You need a gentleman to take care of you.”

Good heavens, she’d not expected this. This was courtship for him? He lifted her hand again, but she pulled it back. “I want to talk to you about the murders.”

His rakish smirk turned cold. “That is the magistrate’s concern. My dear, you have no need to trouble yourself with such fears—not with me here.”

Was he worried she would discover he was guilty, or was he merely ordering her about?

Could Deverell have strangled Grace with Jack’s kerchief, and then murdered Sarah just to save his own neck? He was a typical gentleman of the ton—so arrogant he would believe he had the right to get away with anything.

“I have been trying to think back to where you were on that afternoon,” she mused, as innocently as she could. “I thought you might have seen something.”

“If I had seen what happened, I would have spoken of it.” Ice coated Deverell’s words.

She could not push too hard. “Of course. But we all believed Jack Travers had done it. There could have been something you saw that you didn’t pay heed to at the time. Perhaps you saw someone else going into the maze?”

He shook his head, appearing at ease and no longer insulted. “I wasn’t near the maze. I went for a gallop near the village. Perhaps one of the village men or one of your servants is responsible for the crime. What on earth led you to believe Travers was innocent?”

“Evidence,” she said crisply. The evidence she had not revealed to Jack. “Miss Highchurch was seen alive after Jack Travers left the maze. Do you remember her?”

He shrugged. “She was the governess or companion, wasn’t she? I’ve had a long and dusty journey. I insist we talk about this later.” It was not a request. It was a command.

“Well, perhaps you can help me determine where the shot came from that almost hit me.”

“My God, Madeline, you should not be delving into such things. But if you tell me where you were when the shot was fired, I should be able to help you.”

Deliberately, she hadn’t mentioned where she’d been when she’d almost been shot. She’d wanted to see whether Deverell would reveal he
knew
where it had happened. But he hadn’t. He was either too clever, or he hadn’t been the one to shoot at her. “Let us go into the house,” she said.

All she had done was prove the truth of what she’d told Jack. She could not tell whether Deverell was innocent or guilty. She’d hoped she would be able to, once she had the men back in the house. She’d hoped, foolishly, for some kind of sign—nervousness, a desire to be too friendly, or flat-out, angry denial. After all, she knew what it was like to keep a destructive secret.

But Deverell had gone to none of those extremes.

Her problem was not that she could not trust her instincts. It was that, where men were concerned, she had no instincts at all.

* * *

With the arrival of Deverell, she had two suspects in her house. Viscount Braxton had arrived in the morning and had spent the day with Philip. Madeline rubbed her temple. She hadn’t been able to speak to Braxton yet. And she had needed to review the household accounts.

While she was away, Father had tried to take charge of his estates. He’d managed to spend several thousand pounds. In just two weeks. Most of the money had gone to spurious investments and risky ventures. At least she could replace it with income from her trust.

Sweat trickled down her back. There was no longer any respite from the August heat inside the house, even though the curtains were diligently drawn against the sun. All she needed was brimstone to make the place feel completely like hell—

“Madeline! What exactly happened to you on the moors, my dear?”

Catherine, Lady Lindale, hurried into the morning room, elegant in a silk pelisse and a gown of leaf green, with her titian hair piled in perfect curls. “I’ve heard you were brought home by two agents of the Crown and you looked as though you’d been tramping across Dartmoor in a farmwife’s clothes.” Her brow arched in disapproval.

Catherine was a good friend, but Madeline was growing tired of seeing condemnation in everyone’s eyes. “I had my carriage stolen while on the road, became lost, and did have a near disastrous encounter with a bog.”

“Indeed? I heard Jack Travers escaped and that he took you hostage. There are men guarding your house and I heard they are on the lookout for Travers, in case he returns here.”
 Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t hurt you in any way?”