Escape with A Rogue (38 page)

What should she do now? She had a motive for Catherine—just as she did for Braxton, Deverell, and Mayberry, who had all been blackmailed by Sarah—but no
proof
Catherine was a murderess.

Sarah had not wanted her father to marry Catherine. If Sarah had learned Catherine was already married to Peregrine Rhodes, the man she loved, Sarah had two reasons to hurt Catherine. Stopping Catherine’s planned marriage to Lindale would have hurt her deeply.

It wasn’t a coincidence that Rhodes had found his wife at Eversleigh. Rhodes had written to her grandfather, who had then suggested that Madeline invite the famed musician to entertain their guests.

Had Catherine killed Sarah to hide her secret and ensure she could marry? It was too horrible to believe.

Could Catherine have strangled Grace, who was the same size and years younger? Had Catherine shot at Madeline—twice?

Catherine could have paid the maid and found her a new position because the maid had read the diary and knew about her secret marriage. It was not proof the woman had murdered Sarah.

Madeline flicked her whip to gain speed on a straight stretch of good road. She prayed another shot would not come out of the woods.

First, she had returned to Lindale Park, but Catherine had gone out. The staff did not know where. She’d even barged into Lindale’s study, but he did not know where his wife was, either. Had Catherine gone to Eversleigh—to find her, to silence her?

“Blast!” Madeline had to slow the horses for a curve in the road. Was this why Catherine had been such a kind “friend” and had looked after her mother so many times? Had Catherine wanted to stay near, fearing that her guilt could be discovered?

Or was Catherine innocent?

The road straightened and Madeline urged the grays into a gallop. Gravel sprayed as she rounded onto the driveway of Eversleigh and raced toward the house.

Footmen rushed out and gaped in shock at her wild arrival. She leapt from the carriage, tossed the reins to a groom, and hurried into the house. A maid waited for her gloves and pelisse, but she ran past the girl. “Is Lady Lindale here?” she shouted at each servant she passed, but each one shook his head.

She rushed to the morning room to compose a letter. She needed to get word at once to the magistrate. She might not have proof, but she must tell him what she knew—

“Oh, my lady!” She turned as Giselle, her lady’s maid, rushed up behind her. “It’s Lady Evershire, my lady. She’s not in her room. I only left her for a few moments. I can’t find her. I was going to go to the master and tell him, but now you are here, my lady. She left this note, addressed to you, my lady.”

Dread made Madeline’s fingers tremble as she grasped the note and unfolded it. The handwriting looked like Mama’s.

I can no longer live with what I’ve done. I remember it all. I had to kill poor Sarah. I had no choice. All because of grasping Grace Highchurch, who would not leave my husband alone. I must pay for my crime. It will be all for the best for everyone. I will take my life. I love you all and I am terribly sorry.

Her blood turned cold, and her heart almost ceased to beat. Could it have been her mother all along? Could Madeline have been wrong about Catherine?

“My lady? This cannot be true, can it?”

Madeline jerked her gaze from the letter. She could not reveal the truth to the maid. “No, Giselle. It is Mama’s confusion. Now, please go away, Giselle. I will find my mother.”

Looking down, she traced the strong letters. The last time her mother had tried to write, it had been a scrawl. How could she have written this now?

Catherine would have received many letters from her mother, written long ago—

“What is wrong?”

At the familiar voice, Madeline lifted her gaze once more, stunned. Catherine, wearing a black cloak over a gown of bronze silk, stood in the doorway of the morning room. “Oh dear heaven,” she gasped. “Has your mother got out? I came to see her. We shall find her at once.”

She could hear the false note in Catherine’s voice, the lying witch.

Catherine knew how panicked she became when her mother vanished. She’d wrongly assumed an attack would be on
her
. But Catherine had known exactly what would make Madeline vulnerable.

Her mother was in danger, and it was all her fault.

Fury rushed through her, so swiftly and so hard, she almost leapt on Catherine. She wanted to strangle the witch. But she couldn’t do it. She would hand Catherine over to the magistrate and let her hang—once Mama was safe.

Her gut twisted in fear. If Catherine had lured her mother away, what had she done? Abandoned her on the grounds?

Bile crawled up her throat. She swallowed hard and clutched the edge of the writing desk. Could Catherine have killed her mother?

The woman grasped her arm, still playing her role. “We may not be too late, Madeline,” she whispered, “if we hurry.”

* * *

Blenchley was no longer working for the Crown.

Jack had realized that as Blenchley had shoved the pistol in his back and forced him to walk further into the woods, away from the house. His shoulder sent ripples of agony through him with each step. Blood had soaked his shirt and coat. The loss of blood made his skin feel like ice, his muscles feel disconnected.

Still, he couldn’t reveal he was weakening. He needed information. “Not handing me over to the law?” he asked insouciantly. “There’d be a reward in it for you.”

“Not as much as I’ll be getting this way,” Blenchley grunted.

“Who’s paying you to kill me?” Jack kept his tone casual, but he could guess. Livingston’s words came back to him.
He’s bribed other Crown men to help him, and it’s time to root out the rot.
Some men of the Crown were working with the traitors—with Stephen and his co-conspirators. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned traitor to king and country?” he asked lightly.

No answer, but a dull red flush passed over the man’s neck. “I’m not going to kill you now. All I’m to do, Travers, is capture you and turn you over to him. Then you’ll end up shot, and that would be doing the world a favor. You’re a bloody thieving scum. And you’re the traitor.”

“I’m not, Blenchley. I never was. My business partner set me up to look like one. I love my country exactly the way it is.”

“Not true,” the guard snarled. “A Crown agent approached me at Dartmoor and told me traitors in the government have ensured you stayed alive. The man I’m working for is determined to stop the reformists and make you pay for what you’ve done.”

“Indeed. What’s his name?” Despite his aching shoulder and throbbing head, Jack spoke cheerfully. His light-hearted tone brought a scarlet flush of anger to Blenchley’s face. The man who had approached Blenchley had to be the one who had tried to ensure Jack was killed, not recaptured. “Livingston?” he fished. “Oberon?”

Blenchley didn’t answer. The very fact he was speechless except for some grunts told Jack he had to be close.

“I believe one of them is working with a man I know is a traitor,” Jack continued. “If he wants you to hand me over to him personally, what in blazes do you think that means?”

Again Blenchley said nothing, but prodded Jack’s back with the pistol to force him to keep walking.

“Blenchley, you’re an idiot. You’ll be shot for treason when you’re caught.”

The former guard snickered at the threat.

Jack groaned. There was nothing worse than a gullible soldier. Blenchley would do exactly what he was told, without question.

He now knew Blenchley would hesitate before shooting him. Where was the soldier marching him? He couldn’t stay with the guard long enough to find out. Jack marched faster and faster. Breathing harder, Blenchley kept up with him. “Slow down,” the guard growled.

Jack sprawled deliberately on the ground. As he’d gambled, Blenchley roared, “Get up!” But the pistol didn’t fire. Jack lay still. He heard the guard’s labored breath.

“I will shoot you, Travers, and say I had to do it because you tried to escape.” Twigs crunched. Blenchley walked around him, toward his head.

His wound was making him weak, but the thought that he would not be in time to warn Madeline gave him a burst of strength.

Jack jumped up and grabbed Blenchley’s right arm, shoving it back so the guard couldn’t fire on him. Using his momentum, he carried the guard to the ground, landing heavily on top of Blenchley. The pistol fell free of Blenchley’s hand and bounced away into the shadowy underbrush.

Blenchley’s free hand went to his scabbard, but Jack grabbed it first and yanked out Blenchley’s sword. Leaping to his feet, he pressed the point of the weapon to Blenchley’s chest. “Tell me what this agent of the Crown looks like.” What he needed was proof against Oberon or Livingston. “I won’t slice you open if you tell me everything about the man who’s paying you.”

Blenchley sputtered in rage and frustration. “Kill me and you’ll swing for it.”

“I’m going to die anyway. Having a traitor’s name is the only chance I’ve got to bribe my way out of a noose.”

Blenchley lay on his back like a turtle, his hands pointing palms out at Jack. Rain poured on them both, falling faster until it became an impenetrable curtain. Jack sensed, rather than saw, Blenchley tense, but he still reacted too late.

He jerked to the right, realizing the attack would come from Blenchley’s left—the second weapon would be opposite his scabbard. Cool metal sliced his skin, and the wound burned hot at once. He jammed the sword’s tip to the guard’s windpipe and wrenched the dagger from his left hand. Blood trickled from the bite of steel into Blenchley’s flesh.

A more copious amount leaked from Jack’s second wound, which hurt like the blazes, but he kept his voice steady. Unconcerned. “Try anything like that again, and I’ll kill you. Now talk.”

“He gave his name as Oberon,” Blenchley admitted grudgingly.

“Why does he want me dead?”

“Because you’re a traitor—”

“Ballocks,” Jack snarled.

“He said he’d infiltrated a group of reformists and knew you were one of them.”

That was a lie. Stephen Bells had framed him. If Oberon had infiltrated the gang, he’d know Jack had nothing to do with them. Jack knew he must be right: Oberon feared Jack knew about him and he had to be afraid Jack was going to reveal his name.

He had to get to Madeline, but he couldn’t kill Blenchley. The man was unarmed and not an active threat. “Rope,” he barked. “I assume you brought some to tie me up and make me easier to transport.”

The guard didn’t answer. Keeping the weapon pressed to Blenchley’s neck, Jack searched his pockets. He yanked out length of rope.

“Jack dropped it to the ground, then quickly shoved the guard onto his stomach. He had to put down the sword, but he had his prisoner’s hands jerked behind his back in a mere moment. Quickly, he laced the rope around Blenchley’s wrists, securing him. It might not hold him, but it would give Jack time to get to Madeline.

Once he had the guard’s hand trussed, Jack grabbed the two weapons, turned on his heel, and raced back through the woods toward Eversleigh.

The sword was a damned nuisance since he needed to press his hands to his wounds, so he tossed it into the bushes. He put the knife in the waistband of his trousers. Blood loss was making his steps slow as he weaved around trees. He could see the lights of the house ahead, but they were blurring. Due to the rain or to the amount of his life fluid flowing out?

He forced his weak legs to pound faster. If he was too late to protect Madeline . . . hell, he could never live with that.

Chapter Twenty-two

“What are you doing? What could you possibly want from your grandfather’s study?”

As coolly as she could, Madeline unlocked the bottom drawer of Grandfather’s desk, drew out a wooden box, and set it on the blotter on top. “There is something I need before we go.”

Catherine stood in the middle of the study and gaped at her as she calmly lifted out one of the set of dueling pistols. Madeline tapped powder on the pan and loaded it quickly, fighting the desire to shake. She’d faced Dartmoor prison, assassins, gunshots, and the moors. She was not going to lose now to Catherine.

That lady backed toward the door. “What on earth do you need a weapon for? Your mother could be at the pond—she could be drowning as we speak!”

With a straight arm, Madeline lifted the pistol and leveled it at Catherine, right between her beautiful teal eyes. She doubted she could shoot—just the very act of aiming a pistol at a person’s head filled her with horror. But she prayed Catherine didn’t know that. “You lured her away. You wrote that note. What have you done to my mother?”

Her friend—her mother’s dear friend—remained startled for only one moment. “You are mad, my dear. Why would I hurt Leonora? But if we do not search for her, she will be dead and it will be your fault.”

The threat was clear.

This was the hell Jack had lived through. The fear, the guilt, the heartbreaking pain of thinking you would be too late. “Tell me where my mother is, or I will turn you over to the magistrate for the murders of Sarah and Grace. Do you want to hang, Catherine?”

“You won’t shoot me, Madeline. You’ve always been a frightened girl underneath your cool exterior. Always afraid you would be thrown out of your house.”

Catherine had known. Mama must have confided in her. “I will shoot you now if you don’t tell me where she is.” Madeline put her forefinger to the trigger. “You know I’m an excellent shot.”

Though she’d missed on the moors when she’d shot at the man she’d feared would kill Jack. And Catherine must know she would not pull the trigger until she knew where Mama was.

Catherine waved her hands. “If I tell you, you will shoot me or have me arrested. I am no fool, Madeline. I will
take
you to her. If you warn anyone in the house or ask anyone to come with us, I won’t tell you where she is.” The eyes narrowed, and Catherine’s beautiful face became gloating and cruel. “I didn’t kill her. I thought she might be of more use to me alive. If I don’t tell you where she is, you’ll never find her. Not until it is too late. I may hang, but you won’t save your mother.”