Priceless (28 page)

“Olivia,” he repeated.

“Yes, Olivia. You know, the beautiful sister? The one you’re going to marry?”

She sounded so flippant. She thought he didn’t want her—because she wasn’t as glamorous as her sisters. How dare she mock him, when she was so pigheaded? With all the cunning of a hunter, he said, “You say I’ve never lied to you.”

“Never.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She made a soft sound of disgust. “I also said you could play the social game if you chose.”

He ignored her. “You’re the only woman I want. All of London knows it.”

Head turned away, she riffled through a pile of papers. She didn’t speak out loud, only mumbled, “Then why have you abandoned me?”

Savoring his incipient victory, he said, “You’ve been behaving oddly.”

“Oddly?” Her voice rose. “You’re a fine one to talk. You’re going to marry my
sister
.”

“I didn’t think I could have you. Olivia hasn’t your intelligence, and I believed she would never trouble herself
about my honesty.” With his index finger, he pressed on her cheek until she faced him. “I told you, I thought you were measuring me against my father.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He leaned back, crossed his ankles, and smiled. “Almost as ridiculous as measuring yourself against your sisters.”

She lifted his paperweight, hefted it as if she would throw it, too. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Your father is dead. Cruel people keep the myth alive, and only because they know it hurts you,” she insisted. “My sisters are alive, alluring—”

“Vain, simple-minded, and dull,” he finished for her. “However, they are accomplished social butterflies, and what does that win them? They’ll never grow. They have no ambition to be more than they are”—he pulled her into his arms—“and they’ll always be less than you are.”

He sounded so genuine, so honest. He knocked the support of her indignation from beneath her, and without her anger the misery crept in. Feeling bruised, she whispered, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Knocking his knuckles lightly against her forehead as if he could pound the truth into her, he said with slow, plain emphasis, “Because I love you.”

Adam’s declaration echoed in the night air, but Bronwyn said nothing. Impatient with her reticence, he prodded, “I said I love you. Have you nothing to say in return?”

She started to speak, did not. Said his name, but no more. His darling, the lady who lived to translate documents, to use language with precision, appeared to be inarticulate. He smiled, more charmed by her speechlessness than by any other’s eloquent declaration, and he leaned close to encourage her words with his kisses.

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door had them springing up and apart.

“Come in,” Adam called gruffly.

The door swung wide, and a maid bustled in carrying two candelabras alight with flame. “Got candles fer ye, master.”

“So I see.”

The perky maid stood, awaiting instruction.

“Oh, put one on my desk and another over there somewhere.” He waved vaguely.

“Aye, master. Gettin’ dark earlier an’ earlier, ain’t it?”

“That it is.” With the newfound illumination, he could see the flush bathing Bronwyn. It scarcely seemed possible, but that warm color made her more attractive than ever. Never taking his gaze from Bronwyn, he fished in his desk drawer until he found a coin. He tossed it to the maid. “Close the door behind you.”

The girl observed them, standing so stiff, and she stifled a giggle. “Aye, sir.” She curtsied as she pocketed the coin. “Thank ye, sir.”

As the door clicked shut, Adam and Bronwyn rushed together. As she clutched him around the neck and lifted her face to his kiss, he knew he’d come home. Their lips melded like iron in a forge. Nothing could ever separate them.

“Bronwyn?”

From outside the study door he heard a woman’s voice, but nothing could break through the sensual fire that enveloped him.

“Bronwyn?”

In his arms, Bronwyn began to struggle.

“No,” he moaned.

“It’s my mother.” At the knock, she jerked him back by his hair. “Let go. It’s my
mother
.”

Her frantic demand penetrated. Reluctantly he loosened his grip and slithered onto a chair. Bronwyn started for the door, and he woke to his situation. He was alone with Bronwyn, he was aroused, and he most definitely
didn’t want her mother to see. Scooting the chair beneath the desk, he folded his hands before him and tried to look businesslike and calm.

Bronwyn flung wide the door. “Maman! What a surprise to see you.”

Lady Nora frowned.

“I mean, to see you here.” Bronwyn smiled brightly. “In Adam’s study.”

“Yes, I can see it would be.” Lady Nora watched as Bronwyn licked her lips. “I thought we should have the final fitting on your dress for tomorrow. We have to make sure you’re displayed to your best advantage. There are many eligible men here for the wedding.”

Adam’s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip.

“The dressmaker did the final fitting today,” Bronwyn said.

“I want to assure myself of her reliability. You know she measured the waist wrong the first time she—”

“Ooh, Maman, you’re absolutely correct,” Bronwyn interrupted. “I’ll be up to my room as soon as Adam and I finish our discussion of the stock situation and its effect on the English treasury.”

Snatching at the bait, Adam invited, “Would you like to stay and debate it with us?”

“No.” Lady Nora took an involuntary step backward. “Bronwyn, I’ll expect to see you in your bedroom on the hour.”

“Yes, Maman.”

Bronwyn waited until Lady Nora was well away, then shut the door once more.

“Come here.” Adam pushed away from the desk and pointed to his lap.

With a light step, she moved to him and pressed her hand to his breeches. “What’s this?” she teased. “A dreaded swelling? Perhaps I can heal it for you.”

The warmth of her seeped through the material and
heated him once more. “I suspect you can, and I’d love to suggest—”

One huge thump on the door made them jump. Another followed, then another.

“Damn it!” Adam said.

Walpole yelled, “Adam, I know you’re in there. Come on, man, I’ve prepared a pleasant send-off.”

“A send-off?” Bronwyn murmured, puzzled.

“He wants to—”

“Come on, Adam! Before you join the ranks of leg-shackled men, you must have a proper send-off. All your friends are gathered in the blue room with refreshments.” Walpole’s voice lowered to a confidential roar. “And there are women with the most novel entertainments in mind.”

Adam’s gaze met Bronwyn’s, and without words they understood each other. Silently he rose and tossed his cloak over his shoulders. He offered his hand, she took it, and they tiptoed toward the windows.

“Adam, if you don’t come out peaceably, I’ll bring every man here to get you.”

Adam untied Bronwyn’s panniers, then helped her through the window and lowered her to the ground. He followed as quickly as his leg would allow. He pointed at the stable; Bronwyn nodded. Together they hurried across the grounds and slipped inside the dusky barn.

From the window of Adam’s study, Walpole watched them, looked at the discarded panniers and whispered, “I’ll be damned.”

Rachelle smiled as she descended the stairs to the kitchen, jingling the keys.

Such an annoying sound, and so sweet to her ears.

She had never experienced such satisfaction in her life. Judson remained in her hands, and he was miserable. She’d learned a lot about him since she’d imprisoned him in her
pantry. She knew his fears, his hates, his history. He’d told her everything, hoping to sway her to mercy. He had not. He had only planned his own future.

Physical labor made him ill? Wherever she sent him, he would work. He feared to expose himself without makeup, without his wig? He’d show all London his deformities before he left. He despised Adam Keane and the man that he was? Judson would soon discover the realities of Adam’s life.

Through the louvers that fed air into the pantry, she heard the chain move. Good. He was restless, waiting for her evening visit. The key clanged in the lock. Slowly, so slowly, she opened the door, giving him light and a release from the closeness. “Monsieur Judson, I have come to take your dinner dishes away.”

There was no answer from the dark.

“Did you not enjoy the dinner?”

Still no answer, and she stepped through the door. “I have plans for you. Tomorrow morning, a gentleman is coming for you. Do you know who he is?” For the first time, the silence unnerved her. Judson sat so still, so quiet, she leaned closer to see if he still tarried in her prison.

He did. His eyes shone in the dark, fixed on her with malevolent interest. A shiver ran up her spine as she thought about the brutality of her daughter’s murder, and she grasped the chain that bound his foot. She held it aloft, and his foot rose. He was fettered, as he should be, and her pleasure returned. “You must not sulk,” she said. “Your long confinement is almost over. The gentleman is a sea captain. He’ll bring a few men, and they will take you with them. They will teach you honest employment. Isn’t that a delightful thought?”

The chain rattled in the dark, and she dropped it with a thunk.

Guttural with horror, Judson asked, “A press-gang?”

“Ah, you understand.” She smiled, caressing the keys. “The image of the elegant Carroll Judson aboard one of Brittania’s finest ships, serving as the lowest seaman, fills me with the sense of achievement I have not felt since the death of my daughter.”

“You bitch.” His voice shook with intensity. “After all I’ve told you—”

“Superb conversation,” she agreed.

He sprang at her, but she was prepared. She stepped back, and the chain caught him. He sprawled at her feet, close, but not close enough. “You must not fret so. It will be only for the rest of your life.” Behind her she heard a shuffle, but as she turned to see, a club descended on her head.

“There! Take that, Madame Know-so-much.” Gianni gloated over her still body.

“Get the keys, get the keys,” Judson chanted. “Free me.”

Gianni groped at Madame’s waist and jerked the keys loose with a flourish. “Now, my master, I will save you.” Kneeling at Judson’s feet, he unlocked the manacle and tumbled aside when Judson kicked at him.

Rising, Judson shook out his legs. “At last. It took you long enough, stupid.”

“I had to wait until most of the other ladies were gone,” Gianni answered, staggering to his feet. “They wish to dispose of me, too.”

“Yes,” Judson drawled. “So they do. Do you have the money I saved from this debacle?”

Gianni patted his stomach, and coins jingled. “Hidden on me. It will be enough to keep us for a few months, yes?”

“Yes.” Judson aimed his boot at Rachelle. As it connected with her ribs she groaned, and he sniggered. “You didn’t kill her.”

“You know I have no stomach for that.” Gianni lifted a bag and dangled it before his master’s eyes. “But look what I brought you.” Affectionate and eager, he dug into the
sack and brought up the contents one by one. “Cosmetics. Powder. And most important, a wig.” He gloated as Judson exclaimed in ecstasy. “Let me work my magic.”

Subsiding onto the cot, Judson said, “Gianni, you are a marvel.”

“I will be quick,” Gianni promised. “Just enough to make the ladies turn and admire when they see you on the street.”

“Yes,” Judson hissed. “Make the ladies sorry they never begged me to pleasure them on the seat of my carriage.”

“That will be no problem, my master.” Gianni dabbed the cosmetics over Judson’s face, filling the pockmarks, etching quick eyebrows. After settling the wig on the shiny pate, he stepped back and squinted through the dusk. “All women must envy you your beauty.”

Judson’s hand flashed out and slapped Gianni across the face. “You fool.”

“Master?” Gianni watched anxiously as Judson leaped up and paced across the pantry in quick, jerky strides.

He stumbled on Rachelle’s arm and cursed. Then he smiled, the kind of smile that boded ill for his jailer. “I had forgotten she lay there.” He lifted his foot and he brought his heel down, hard, in the lower left of her back. Even though she was unconscious, her breath left her in a gasp of pain.

Gianni averted his eyes. “We will go to the Continent now? We will go back to Italy?”

“Perhaps.” Studying Rachelle, Judson nodded as he made a decision. “Give me a knife.”

“Oh, master.” From his belt, Gianni pulled the long blade that had so terrified Bronwyn. “We have no time.”

Judson took the knife. “Time for just a taste of fun.”

“You said it was no fun if they weren’t awake.” Gianni tugged at Judson’s arm. “I don’t know when those other women will be back. We must go.”

“You go to Dover. Take the money. Get us room on a
ship leaving for France. Wait for me there.” Judson swooped down, and in the dim light blood sprang from Rachelle’s cheek like water from a spring.

Gianni gasped in exaggerated upset. “I will not go without you.”

Judson studied Rachelle’s face and neck. “Yes, you will. Don’t stay on England’s shore, no matter what. The money must be safe. I have one thing to do before I leave.”

“So kill her, but do it quickly.” Gianni wrung his hands.

“Kill her? How did you know”—Judson glanced down at Rachelle. “Oh,
her
. Yes, of course I’ll kill her, but she is not the one of whom I speak. There is another, and the taste of her blood will be sweet as nectar.”

Grabbing his master’s arm, Gianni argued, “We must go. I didn’t wish to tell you, but Robert Walpole has put the blame for the counterfeit stocks on you. The mob of London is baying for your carcass, and if it were known you were here—”

“Yes, yes, Rachelle told me. She used it as an excuse to keep me. Protecting me from certain death, she said.” With a delicate touch, Judson traced the length of Rachelle’s forehead with the tip of his blade. “That will gush. Whoever finds her will be repulsed.”

Gianni put his hand on his stomach and staggered as the red fluid wet his shoes. “Please, my master,” he whispered. “Let us go.”