If He's Wild (12 page)

“Damn, and Leo paid them,” said Hartley.

“I told him he should just shoot the pair, but Leo said that would be too much trouble and too much noise.”

Alethea grinned. “Sounds like Cousin Leo. The note said you tried to run from the men.”

Germaine nodded. “I did not know who they were, did I? They grabbed Bayard quickly, but I thought I could slip back later and set him free. Leo told me that was a foolish idea when he found me. His man Bened had tracked me down like a hound running down a bleeding rabbit. I do not know how he did that. I have become very good at leaving no trail.”

“Yes, I suspect you have, but Bened is an exceptionally good tracker.”

It was nearly time for dinner before they left the parlor. Alethea was not sure how the siblings could even think to eat any more, but they had hurried up to their bedchambers to clean up for the meal. Hartley had rushed to his office to write a few letters concerning the return of his sister’s children and whatever other plots he had going. Left by herself at long last, Alethea wandered out into the gardens. She needed time away from all the heightened emotions, time to consider how the presence of Germaine and Bayard might affect her marriage and her husband.

She was sitting on a stone bench watching a spider weave his web between two branches of a rosebush when Germaine strode up and sat down beside her. The girl was still dressed as a lad, but the clothes were of a nicer cut and style, and clean, as was she. Her fair hair gleamed and formed a riot of curls around her face. Alethea thought she looked very young and innocent until she looked into those incredibly blue eyes. In those eyes was far more knowledge of the ugliness of the world than any young girl should have.

“Germaine, did Moyne…” Alethea began.

“He tried to touch me once, but he drank too much. He could no longer do what most men seem to want to do.” Germaine blushed. “Never gave me a dress, either, but soon even a lad’s clothes could not hide what I was. I did fear for a time that he might try to make some money by selling my body to those who eyed me in that nasty way, but he did not do it. He never did. I am not sure why, but I doubt most sincerely that it was for any honorable reason.”

Alethea sighed and patted the girl’s clenched hands. “Men can be utter swine. But I pray that you do not now think that all men are that way.”

“No. I never did. It did make me see how hard life is for a woman not of our class or with no man to protect her. ’Tis not right. Just because a woman has no money, no husband, or no title, she is not some bawd free for the taking.”

“No, but you cannot change the whole world and its mind all by yourself. You can, however, change small pieces of it. Mayhap when you are settled in, you could look into the matter.”

“I will. Did you truly marry Hartley because you want him?”

“Of course I did. I have land, a manor, and a portion that pays my bills. I had no need for a man. I am also a child of the countryside and have no real affection for the city and society.”

“But you were not rich and you were not a marchioness.”

“And thank God for that. Rich would have meant all the fortune hunters in England would have been after me, and a marchioness? Well, I mean no offense to your family, but who would wish more work to do and more nights spent trudging from event to event, listening to gossip, complaints, and bad music? No, I saw only one true benefit to marrying Hartley, and that was Hartley himself.”

“So it was a love match.”

Alethea could not completely stop her wince. “No, not truly. Hartley did not speak of love. Howbeit, he spoke of trust, fidelity, and companionship.” She shrugged. “’Tis far more than many wives get, and I wanted him, none other. I also crave children, and one should have a husband for that, if only for the childrens’ sake.”

“Well, if I ever do something as foolish as marry a man, I will insist that he love me.”

Alethea looked at the girl and then laughed at the impish look on her face. Germaine had not lost all of her love of life. The Moynes may have treated her and Bayard as no better than slaves, but there were so many worse things that could have happened to them. Alethea thought, for the first time since she had heard Hartley’s sister’s children were coming home, that there was some hope for a future for all of them, that they may have accepted her as they had accepted Hartley. After that first confrontation, all signs pointed to it. She doubted they would ever forget what had happened to them, but the scars of their travail did not appear to run too deep.

“I was sent out here to bring you in to dinner,” Germaine said and stood up. “’Tis best if you eat and rest well tonight, for my uncle has already arranged for a dressmaker to come here on the morrow.”

There was no holding back the groan rising in her throat at that prospect. Alethea stood up, brushed off her skirts, and then tensed. A tickle of alertness raced through her, and she recognized it as the warning of danger she sometimes got. She looked all around but saw nothing. That tense alertness that came from a sense of approaching danger did not ease, however. There was something close at hand that she was supposed to see as a threat, but the evening’s shadows were hiding whatever that was.

“Germaine, get into the house now,” she ordered.

“Why? What have you seen?” Germaine stepped up next to Alethea and looked around.

“I have not seen anything yet. I but feel that it is necessary for you to get into the house right now.”

Then she saw the man. He stepped out of the shadows near the garden wall. It was the same man that had beaten her on Claudette’s command. This time he held a pistol. His smile as he raised the pistol chilled her blood. To see that this man could kill a person while smiling made it all the more frightening.

For a brief moment she thought he was going to kill her. Claudette must have heard of her marriage to Hartley by now and wanted her dead. Alethea thought of all the things she had wanted to say to Hartley and wished she had not been such a coward. She would go to her grave never having let him know that he had been loved, and that grieved her.

Then, as she braced for the punch of the bullet, knowing that she could never get out of the way in time, not if she was going to protect Germaine, she saw that he was not aiming at her. He was aiming at Germaine, who stood by her side. The girl obviously thought to help her, protect her, when it was Germaine herself who was about to die. Alethea wondered how Claudette could have gotten the news of Germaine’s survival so quickly. Had the cursed woman been down at the docks greeting each ship in case someone interesting arrived? she thought crossly as she ever so slowly moved her arm in front of Germaine. The girl’s cold blue gaze was fixed on the man, his on hers, and Alethea prayed that would give her the time to push Germaine out of harm’s way.

“You are one of Claudette’s faithful dogs,
oui?
” said Germaine, the sneer in her voice so thick even Alethea winced at the sound of it.

Either the girl did not see the danger she was in or her rage rose so hot in her when anything to do with Claudette was near or spoken of, she was blind to everything around her. Her words made the man’s finger tighten on the trigger of his gun, and he glared at the girl. He was a cold-blooded killer, but he obviously had his manly pride, and Germaine had just bruised it badly.

“’Tis a shame I must kill you quick,” the man said, his eyes narrowing on Germaine. “I know many ways to make you regret those words, you little bitch.”

A faint tensing of his arm and jaw warned Alethea. She shoved Germaine aside as the man fired his pistol. A heartbeat later something slammed into her shoulder so hard she stumbled back. Excruciating pain followed a moment later. Despite that, she flung herself on top of Germaine and pushed the girl onto the ground. On her hands and knees she urged the girl to crawl fast into the shelter of the many bushes and statues dotting the garden, even as she screamed as loud as she could, again and again.

“Move,” she ordered Germaine.

“You are shot!”

“I believe I noticed that. We can deal with it later. I said move!”

Germaine tried to turn toward her, but Alethea just tugged her up into a crouch and pushed her toward the house. The sound of running footsteps and men shouting told Alethea that someone was coming, but she did not look for them or look back to see if the man who had shot her was still there. The only thought fixed clearly in her pain-fogged mind was that she needed to get the girl into the shelter of the house.

They stumbled through the open garden doors. It took Alethea a moment to realize the doors were open because all the men were out in the garden trying to find out what had happened. She prayed they found the man but sincerely doubted her prayers would be answered. The time that had passed between when the man had shot her, her screams, and the men racing out of the house had been long enough for a skilled assassin to escape. Since she was not sure any of the men had seen her or Germaine, she would need to find a way to tell them she and the girl were all right.

“M’lady! What has happened to you?”

Alethea looked at Alfred, and had to blink several times to steady her vision. “Man in the garden. Shot me.” She stumbled and grabbed hold of Alfred’s arm to steady herself. “Can you tell the men Germaine and I reached the house safely? I am not sure they saw us do so.”

“I can hold her steady,” said Germaine as she wrapped her arm around Alethea’s waist and held her close to her body. “I think this is a particularly drastic way to get out of having to deal with my dressmaker,” Germaine said as she started to inch Alethea toward a settee.

“It was all I could come up with on such short notice.” Alethea smiled and then winced as Germaine jostled her wound when she tried to get a firmer grip on her.

Alfred barely reached the garden doors when the men and Bayard returned. Hartley looked at Germaine, obviously checking her for wounds. Alethea wondered what had happened to the man who had shot her. It was obvious that he had not been caught. She had heard no other shots, and the men had no prisoner with them. She dizzily wondered if it made her a bad person to hope that her assailant had been killed.

“I was not the one shot, Uncle,” Germaine said and nodded at Alethea.

Hartley looked at Alethea, saw her blood-soaked gown, and swore, viciously and profanely. Aldus, Gifford, Bayard, and Iago all rushed to her side. Hartley ordered Alfred to send for a doctor even as he stepped up and ripped the shoulder of her gown away to look at her wound. The bullet had gone in but had not come out, which meant it would have to be dug out. The mere thought of the agony she would suffer made him ache to find the man who had shot her and make him suffer, too.

“Oh damn,” said Iago. “We will soon have far more help then we may need or want.”

Not sure what the man meant, Hartley ignored him as he pressed his handkerchief against the wound in a vain effort to stop the bleeding. “Did you see who did this?” he asked.

“Same man who beat me.” Alethea was not surprised that her words came out as little gasps, for the way he pressed the cloth against her wound made the pain worse.

“Pierre Leon.”

“Ah, so you have a name.”

“Yes. Did he say why he shot you?”

“No. I thought Claudette had heard of our marriage. Thought this was her striking out at me.”

“It was not that?” He started to turn to get some brandy to wash the wound.

“Hartley, catch me,” Alethea whispered as blackness flowed over her.

He leapt forward as she slumped, and Germaine staggered, nearly dropping her. Everyone rushed to his side, but all of his attention was fixed upon Alethea. Blood soaked the front of her gown, her breathing was rapid and uneven, and she looked so pale, too pale. He wanted to bellow out his rage. If Alethea did not recover from this, Claudette and her allies would discover that he knew how to hunt and kill as well, if not better, than they did. He would make every one of them pay and pay dearly.

Hartley paced his drawing room, ignoring the other three men who waited there with him. Germaine and Bayard sat close together on the settee, pale and silent. He had not even talked to Germaine about what had happened yet, although she had tried to catch his attention several times. He knew he should be over there trying to reassure them, but he was incapable of doing so. His every thought, every emotion, was fixed on what was happening to Alethea.

The doctor and Mrs. Huxley were taking too long, he decided, but fought the urge to race up to his bedchamber where Alethea had been taken. He had been firmly ushered out once already. The scream that had escaped Alethea when the doctor had begun to dig the bullet out of her had maddened him, and he had tried to force the man to stop. Foolish but understandable, but the doctor had not seen it that way. His promise of better behavior had not been enough to get the doctor to allow him to stay, however. The man had refused to continue unless Hartley left. His only revenge for that had been to leave Kate there, watching the doctor’s every move and making her opinions of his skill or lack thereof very well known. Afraid he might yet give in to the impulse to go back up there, he fixed his gaze upon a pale Iago and hoped the diversion of talking to the man would calm him. He suddenly recalled something Iago had said when he had looked down at the bloody form Germaine had been holding up.

“What did you mean when you said we would soon have help whether we wanted it or not?” Hartley asked.

Iago grimaced and combed his fingers through his hair, which had come loose of its tidy queue long ago. “When you consider who and what we are, Hartley, it should come as no surprise that the Vaughns, and to some extent the Wherlockes, are closely bonded. In many ways. Alethea is in pain, and she is in grave danger. That will draw at least some of our kinsmen here.”

“There are others in your family who have visions?” asked Aldus.

“Some, but mostly it is a bonding we share.” Iago shrugged, his face revealing his difficulty in trying to find the right words to explain himself. “The moment Alethea was shot, I promise you, several members of our family knew it. How many will come to London or come here from their homes in the city will depend upon who is close at hand when those who do sense something is wrong make their way here. Modred, the Duke of Elderwood, will definitely know, but I do not believe he will come. He will send someone in his place. He finds such crowded places a torment.”

“He is
that
uncomfortable around other people?” asked Hartley.

“It can be a sheer hell for him to be amongst so many people, with all their emotions tearing at him and thoughts like discordant, unconnected shouts in his head,” replied Iago. “There were times when we feared he would go mad. He has learned how to shut himself away from the cacophony, that constant barrage of others’ emotions and thoughts, but it is difficult. It requires constant control, constant concentration. We have others in the family who are very empathic, but not in the way Modred is.”

“He can actually
hear
what people think?” Hartley noticed that his niece and nephew looked intrigued and wondered what Alethea had told them.

“Some. Mostly he just catches pieces of a thought, but at times there is much more. He can be at ease around most of our family. We think that is because we are all so tightly bound together, by blood and our varied gifts. It could even be that our gifts are the reason we have these, well, shields against such an intrusion. There are also some people who are naturally shielded. Modred has several servants who are. In such cases he can sense their feelings only when the emotion is fierce, strong enough to break through those inner shields.”

“And he is close to Alethea?”

“He was, but they saw little of each other after she married. Her husband found Modred unsettling, he said, although I never saw that. I do not think Modred was fond of the man, either. Probably knew that the man was lacking in emotion, but I do not think he ever told Alethea so. Alethea and Modred have kept up a regular correspondence, however. Forced into seclusion as he is, Modred is very fond of letters.” He grimaced. “The two of them have always shared a special bond. You see, his mother was as terrified of him as Alethea’s mother was of her. She fled, just as Alethea’s mother did. Our aunt Dob has had most of the raising of Modred, and the pair of them often visited with Alethea and her brothers.”

“What is your aunt’s gift?”

“Knowledge.” Iago smiled faintly at the brief looks of confusion Hartley and the others gave him. “Aunt Dob has a true understanding of it all, some natural insight. She knows ways to help one control the gift, to harness it in some ways. Her empathy is boundless, as is her patience. I truly believe she is the reason poor Modred has not gone the way his father did. The man came home from a local gentlemen’s gathering one night, walked into his library, and shot himself. He left a note saying he could no longer abide the noise.”

“It does not sound like much of a gift, does it?” said Germaine.

“No,” Iago replied. “The whole family holds its breath each time a child is born, fearing the babe will have the gift poor Modred is cursed with. As I said, there are a number of us who are empathic, but it is not the crippling gift that it can be for Modred.” He grimaced at the sound of voices arguing in the hall, the sound drawing ever closer to the drawing room. “I believe at least one of the family was in the city and very close to hand.”

Hartley frowned when a small, dark-haired woman marched into the room. On her heels were a tall, dark-haired man he faintly recognized and a young, fair-haired boy. Neither the males with her or his softly protesting butler, Cobb, did anything to halt or slow the intrusion. Hartley wondered if that was because the woman was very, very pregnant as his friends, nephew, and Iago scrambled to their feet.

“Ah, so ’tis not you who was hurt,” said the woman as she stopped in front of Iago.

“No, Chloe, not me,” replied Iago and kissed her cheek. “Before I explain, allow me to introduce you, Argus, and Anthony.”

The moment Hartley heard the name Kenwood, he knew whom he was politely welcoming into his home. The scandal of the Marquis of Colinsmoor’s wife and uncle trying to kill him and his son had rocked the ton three years ago. Even in his fear and worry over his niece and nephew, he had heard all the sordid details. He had occasionally wondered if that was why one rarely saw the marquis and his new wife. Looking into Chloe Wherlocke Kenwood’s inky blue eyes, he changed his mind. The marquis obviously had all he needed in his wife and growing family.

Sir Argus Wherlocke’s name was also familiar. Hartley was not quite sure what the man did for the government, but his name was often whispered through the ranks of one of the groups Hartley had been briefly connected with. Those whispers had held a note of awe. Hartley was beginning to think that the Wherlockes and Vaughns were already proving their worth to the government. He was surprised that Aldus had not known of the man and then realized it could be just a matter of Aldus not mentioning what he knew. Aldus did not freely share all of his knowledge.

“Julian will not be pleased about your rushing over here,” said Iago as they all sat down again and Alfred and Cobb hastily brought in trays of food and drink.

“I will deal with my husband,” Chloe said. “He will understand. Eventually. Tell me what has happened, Iago.”

Iago succinctly explained, and Chloe looked at Germaine and Bayard. Germaine and Bayard met her unwavering gaze with a calm that surprised Hartley. There was a lot he had to learn about his niece and nephew. He was distracted from that thought when every hair on his body suddenly began to stand on end. He looked at Iago, only to find him and Chloe glaring at Argus.

“Calm yourself, Argus,” said Chloe. “Alethea will be fine.”

“Are you certain?” asked Argus.

Chloe closed her eyes for a moment and then looked at Argus and nodded. “Very certain.”

When the hair on his body went flat again, Hartley fought against the urge to ask Sir Argus exactly what his gift was. He saw Germaine look from Sir Argus, to her arm, and then back at Sir Argus again. When she opened her mouth, he made a quick slashing gesture with his hand that caught her attention, and then he shook his head. She closed her mouth and, for just a moment, looked like a disgruntled young girl. His heart ached for her when the hard, seasoned-warrior expression returned to her delicate features.

“What are you doing to catch the woman who ordered this done?” Chloe asked, looking from Iago to Hartley and back again.

Hartley took over the explanations and answered her. As he did so, he found himself wishing there was more—more direct action, more proof, more chance of an immediate retribution. He was startled when Chloe stepped over to him and patted one of his tightly clenched fists. She looked at the small boy while continuing to pat his arm, and cocked her head toward Germaine and Bayard. Kenwood’s young heir hurried over to the siblings and began to talk about how he had once had pretty hair but his father had cut it. Hartley briefly wondered if there was a touch of madness in the Wherlocke-Vaughn bloodline, and then recalled that Kenwood’s heir had none of that magical blood in his veins. He met the laughing gaze of Chloe.

“Anthony is still sulking over losing the last of his baby curls,” she said and grinned, but she quickly turned serious again. “That woman will fall soon, but you must be especially vigilant in the days to come.”

“Why?”

Chloe shrugged. “She is coiled to strike.” She looked at Iago. “Modred comes.”

“To London?” Iago asked, shock roughening his voice.

“Yes,” Chloe replied. “He and Olympia. She was visiting him, so he knew immediately when Alethea was hurt, although I suspect he would have anyway. Someone would have immediately dispatched a message if naught else. He is the great gatherer of news concerning the many members of our clan. Use him.”

“Use Modred? No. He could be harmed. These are very dangerous and vicious people, Chloe. I have seen what swirls around them, seen the fury of the ones whose blood is on their hands. God alone knows what poor Modred would sense in them, would see in their black hearts. These sisters thought nothing of killing babes to further their need for the trappings of money and vanity. It would be too much for him.”

“Use him, Iago. One of the sisters is weaker than the other. Use Modred to get the truth from her. Argus could also help. But this is a chance for Modred to see that his gift is not just a curse, that it can be used to help people. He needs to see that.”

“I am sure he understands how—”

“He
understands,
but he needs to
see
how that works. Use him. He is expecting it.”

“Uncle,” said Germaine as she stepped up next to Chloe. “You need to listen to me. It was not Alethea who was in danger in the garden. She was not the one the man was aiming at.”

“Who else could it be? Claudette has had Alethea attacked once already and warned her there would be more trouble s-s-so…” He stuttered to a halt as he looked into Germaine’s eyes. “No, it cannot be. How could the woman have known, so quickly, that I found you and brought you home?”

“I do not know, Uncle, but it was me that man was aiming at. He smiled at Alethea, you see, a cold, vicious sort of smile, and so I thought he was after her. I believe she did, too, but something warned her who the true target was, and she pushed me out of the way just as he fired so that she was shot instead. There is no question in my mind that he was aiming at me at that moment.”

“Claudette must have men at the docks,” said Aldus. “It would make sense, for she needs to be in touch with France to send out any information and collect her blood money. It would also allow her to arrange a swift escape. And you have been looking for Germaine and Bayard for three years. It is no secret. She would also want to try and keep a watch on that, too. After all, they were on the beach that day. Germaine saw her.”

“She does not know that.”

“She does not need to. The moment word spread that you were looking for your sister’s children, that there was even a hint that they did not die on that beach, she would take action. Claudette would want to know for certain that there was no one who could bear witness to that day. She probably even contacted the men she had with her that day and was told that only two children were there. That is, if she actually left them alive after the murder was done.”

“Yes, she may have killed them, thinking she was leaving no witnesses.”

“That and out of habit. She appears to hire ruffians to do work for her and then use a rich lover to rid her of the ruffians. I am astonished that word has not spread through the various rat holes she gets her men from and made it difficult for her to hire anyone.” Aldus looked at Germaine. “Being trapped at that farm may well have saved your life, for I do not doubt for a moment that the very minute she heard a whisper you might have survived, Claudette would have begun searching for you as hard as Hartley was.”

“I most certainly do not wish to be grateful to the Moynes for anything,” said Germaine, her voice tight with anger. “Mayhap, if you are right and she wishes me dead, I could be used to—”

“No,” said Hartley. “You will not be used as bait.”

“Uncle, I am certain I would be well guarded.”

“I suspect a lot of the people she has murdered considered themselves well guarded.” He cursed when she paled and knew she was thinking of her family. “I am a clod,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I am also determined to keep you safe. Claudette has murdered men well trained in deceit and intrigue—neatly trapped them and sent them to their deaths. She has seduced God knows how many men of power and importance, and stolen secrets from them. I do not know how many people she has had killed and doubt we will ever know, but she is not a woman to be tricked by a tasty piece of bait left unprotected and apparently just waiting for her to collect it.”

“No, of course not. It is just maddening that she continues to walk freely. She should be waiting for her hanging. Damnation, she should be naught but a rotting pile of bones and rags in a cage at some crossroads by now.” She bit her lip when her uncle admonished her with one lift of a brow. “My pardon.”