The Earl's Complete Surrender (23 page)

As the Duke of Campbell's fourth son, Thomas Blake's options for the future had been limited, and since he'd always been an excellent shot and swordsman, he'd chosen to make a career out of it. But unlike his older brother who'd become a soldier, Thomas had chosen a darker path.

“Disappointed?” Blake asked. Without waiting for an answer, he raised his hand and fired a shot directly at Mr. Lambert, who fired back. The shot struck Blake's upper arm. He grimaced, but showed no other signs of pain. “I underestimated you.”

“Your mistake,” Lambert said, gasping for air.

Stepping forward, James placed himself between the two men and raised his sword. “How about you fight me instead?” His body ached just at the thought of it. It would take at least another day before he was fully recovered. Engaging in any kind of fight now would be a strenuous business, but James knew that he had no choice. Not with Lambert already wounded and with Lady Newbury in potential danger.

Blake inclined his head. “It's the reason why I'm here.”

Tucking his pistol inside his belt where another resided, he stepped forward, sword in hand. Moving backward, James allowed him more space while studying Blake's movements. He walked slowly at first, like a cat out on the prowl and with seemingly little interest in James. But James knew better. He'd seen Blake fight once before and was aware of his tactics.

Deciding to lure Blake in, James relaxed the arm holding the sword and sighed with feigned impatience. The moment he did, Blake attacked with a quick thrust in his direction. But James was prepared. Leaping aside, he ignored his body's protests and counterattacked with three swift jabs followed by a low slice to Blake's calf.

With a curse, Blake jumped back, his eyes darkening with anger. “You can't win, Woodford.”

“Seems to me that you are the one losing,” James said. He was doing his best to appear unaffected by the brief exertion. “You were found guilty of murder. How did you escape the rope?”

Body tense, like a serpent ready to strike, Blake's cold eyes met James's. “The Electors saw my potential. The choice to become their assassin when considering the alternative wasn't a difficult one to make.”

Catching a flash of movement from the left, James instinctively glanced that way just in time to see Lambert release a dagger from his hand. Half a second later, Blake emitted a guttural roar.

“No!” James ran forward as Blake reached for his second pistol. The dagger Lambert had thrown was lodged between his stomach and his chest. James lunged, grabbing hold of Blake's arm just as the pistol fired. Lambert dropped to the floor and sagged against the desk.

With a strong tug, James forced Blake back around and punched him hard in the face. Blake stumbled back. “I believe I'm done for,” he muttered. “But I'm taking you with me.” Gasping, he moved to strike.

James met him, catching Blake's blade with his own and forcing it sideways. The movement allowed him the opportunity to thrust at Blake's arm in the exact location where the bullet had struck him earlier. A howl of anguish rose through the air. “Not bloody likely.” James pressed down harder until Blake slumped to his knees. “Tell me, who else is involved?”

Blake's face contorted. “I won't tell you a damn thing!”

James added more pressure to the wound where blood pooling beneath the layers of Blake's clothing was soaking the fabric. “Is Scarsdale one of you?”

“Like I said,” Blake murmured, “not a damn thing.” Casting his sword aside, he reached for the dagger protruding from his chest, but rather than pull it out as James had expected, he shoved it deeper. James watched, horrified while Blake's eyes rolled back and his legs buckled. He fell to the ground with a thud, blood pooling around him on the floor.

“Christ almighty,” James muttered, returning his attention to Mr. Lambert whose blank stare confirmed that he too was dead. Behind the desk, Lady Newbury whimpered. “It's all right. You can come out now.”

Rising from her hiding place, she stepped slowly around the desk, her breath catching as she caught sight of Lambert's body. “Is he . . . ?”

James nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

“We cannot leave him like this.” Her voice was small as she spoke, her eyes shimmering with the onset of tears. She shook her head. “This is all my fault. I asked him to help and—­”

“He knew what he was getting himself into,” James said grimly. “I just wish I could have found out more from Blake.”

Lady Newbury glanced toward Blake's sprawled out body. “You knew him.”

“Not very well. I helped apprehend him a few years back when he was making a comfortable living from highway robberies. Killed a number of innocent ­people without thinking twice about it.”

“How does a duke's son end up like this?” she asked, shaking her head with dismay.

“I can't say.”

Crossing the floor, he retrieved the journal and the notebook from where he'd placed them earlier. “Looks like we're on our own as far as these are concerned. We should get back to the apartment so we can start decoding, because although we know that Blake was an Elector and that Scarsdale might be too, neither of these men killed my parents, your grandfather or Lord Duncaster. We're looking for someone older, in which case, it could be any number of men.”

 

Chapter 19

C
hloe's hand shook as she cut into one of the bell peppers they'd bought, along with some ham, cheese, bread and tomatoes on their way back to the apartment.

“Let me help,” Woodford said, coming up be­hind her.

She flinched, not realizing he'd been there. “I'm fine,” she said.

“That's clearly not true.” Reaching her side, he placed his hand on hers and pulled it away from the vegetable, removing the knife from her grip as he did so. “You've had a traumatic experience. It's going to take time for you to get over it.”

“I keep seeing Lambert's face before me,” she said. Gathering a ­couple of plates, she set them on the counter and began arranging some of the ham. “Keeping busy helps.”

He nodded. “I know what you mean. I use the same tactic whenever I happen to think about my parents.” The knife hit the cutting board with a loud thwack. Silence passed between them until Woodford finally said, “I'm worried about Hains­worth. He should have been back by now.”

Chloe nodded. “I know.” She gathered the slices of bell pepper and placed them next to the ham, then handed Woodford a tomato. “What's your plan?”

He eyed her for a moment. “Considering what just happened to us, I wouldn't be surprised if he has been attacked as well.”

She placed her hand against his arm. “I hope that's not the case. I know how much he means to you.”

Woodford's expression tightened and he looked away, returning his attention to the tomato he was now cutting. “There's a good possibility that he hasn't managed to deliver the message yet.” Sliding the tomato slices toward her, he let her arrange those as well. “If he's not back within the hour, I'll have to make another attempt at it myself.”

She'd known this would probably be his course of action, so she nodded, even though she disliked the idea. “What about the journal?”

“You can start working on it while I'm away. I will help you with the rest of it when I get back.”

Lowering her gaze, she studied the plates on the counter while her hands placed slices of bread next to the ham. She would not lose her composure in front of him. Not when he counted on her to help. But the thought of him getting hurt, or worse, killed, made her throat close and her eyes burn. “Let's eat,” she said, handing him a plate without looking at him.

“Chloe,” he murmured, his hand falling solidly upon her shoulder.

The use of her given name was too personal. It tore at her defenses, reminding her of everything that lay between them—­a vast expanse of unspoken truths. “I cannot lose you,” she whispered, hating the vulnerability as he turned her toward him and held her close, his arms around her like a band of protection.

“It will not come to that,” he told her gruffly.

She wanted to believe him, in spite of the fear that crept inside her chest to torment her heart. The incident at Lambert's house had forced her to acknowledge her feelings for Woodford as she'd held her breath, praying that he would live. Her efforts to safeguard her heart had been for nothing. Somehow, against her better judgment, she'd fallen in love with him after all.

Afraid he'd find out, she pulled away, snatched up her plate and made for the door to the hallway. “Let's hope not,” she said, relieved by the curt tone of her voice. She hadn't gone more than a few steps before loud banging erupted against the front door. Halting, she looked back at Woodford. “I don't suppose that might be Hainsworth?”

Jaw clenching, he shook his head. “We need to leave. Grab the journal and the notebook and meet me in my bedchamber. There's a ladder outside the window there that will help us get to the ground.”

Gathering her wits, Chloe ran to the table in the front room, opened the drawer and pulled out the two books. The banging persisted. She glanced toward the front door. It was practically shuddering with each blow. Realizing it wouldn't hold for much longer, she hurried back toward Woodford's bedchamber and found him there in the process of swinging a satchel over his shoulder. “Weapons,” he said, undoing the latch on the window and pushing it open. “After you.”

Chloe knew better than to argue. Handing him the books, she stuck her head outside and instinctively looked down. Big mistake. Her stomach contracted and she drew an immediate breath as her hand pressed against the windowsill.

“The ladder is on your left,” he said.

She nodded with more confidence than she felt.
I can do this,
she told herself. The alternative wasn't an option. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of the side of the ladder, climbed through the open window and perched herself on the ledge. Cursing the restrictive skirt of her gown, she stuck out a leg, thankful for the sturdy feel of a rung beneath her foot. Putting her weight on it, she swung herself across the distance between the window and the ladder, almost sagging with relief when she was finally holding on with both hands.

Knowing that Woodford would soon be under attack again if she didn't make haste, she began climbing down as fast as she could, not pausing until she was on the ground. Looking up, she saw a ­couple of men appear at the window just as Woodford landed beside her. “This way,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along at a run.

Reaching the street, they dodged carts, carriages and horses as they hurried across to the other side. Once on the pavement, Woodford turned left. He did not slow his pace once, forcing Chloe to keep up as best she could. Grabbing the skirt of her gown, she cursed propriety as she hitched up the fabric to allow for better movement.

Reaching King's Road, Woodford dashed toward a vacant hackney and flung the door open. “Get in,” he ordered Chloe, then turned to the driver. “Carlton House. As fast as you can go.”

The carriage lurched forward before Woodford even managed to close the door. Landing on the seat across from Chloe, he expelled a deep breath and leaned back. “Are you all right?”

She managed a nod. Her heart still thundered against her chest while she fought for breath. “The books?”

He patted his satchel. “Safe for now.”

“How did they know where to find us?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you suppose Hainsworth might have told them under duress?”

He shook his head and frowned. “No. Hains­worth would never give up my location under any circumstance. It's more likely that they were at Lambert's house with Blake and somehow managed to follow us back. Considering Blake's sudden appearance as well as that other attack on me yesterday, I'm inclined to believe that we may have been under surveillance since we left Thorncliff.”

“By who? What Lambert said about Scarsdale is true. He doesn't seem like the type to be behind something like this.”

“He could have been involved in some minor capacity while someone else pulled all the strings.”

“I suppose anything is possible at this point,” Chloe agreed. When he shifted to one side, she asked, “How's your back doing?”

“Not as well as I had hoped. Fighting Blake has undone most of the work you did with the compresses.”

Heat rose to Chloe's cheeks as the memory of Woodford stretched out naked on the bed rushed to the front of her mind. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she said, averting her gaze and pretending to look out the window.

“I've been thinking,” he said with measured words. “Perhaps I ought to—­” The sound of pistols firing cut him off. He leaned toward the window just as the carriage jolted sideways, throwing him against Chloe. A silent scream broke from her throat as air rushed from her lungs. “Jesus! Are you all right?” He was off her in an instant, his eyes filled with concern.

“I'll be fine,” she gasped. “What's going on?”

Grabbing on to a handrail while the carriage bounced along, too fast to be safe in London traffic, Woodford held himself steady and looked out. It only took a second before he was back on the bench beside her and reaching for his satchel. “I counted three men. They're chasing us on horseback.”

“And the driver?”

“I think he jumped off a little while ago.”

Chloe stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm afraid so.” Pulling a pistol from his satchel along with some powder and shot, he handed it to Chloe before retrieving a second pistol. “I don't suppose you know how to reload?”

“I'm not especially fast at it, but I can manage.”

“Excellent.” Leaning out of the window, he aimed and fired. “That's one down,” he said as he handed the used pistol to Chloe in exchange for the other. She did her best to reload as fast as possible while he fired the next shot. “Just one to go.” They exchanged pistols again, but just as he prepared to fire, the carriage lurched to the left as they rounded a sharp corner. “Damn!”

“Is he still after us?” Chloe asked when Woodford continued to hold his fire.

“I don't see him.” Leaning out of the window he appeared to be studying the exterior. “I'm going to climb to the front and get control of those horses before we hurt someone.” Tucking one of the pistols into his jacket pocket, he nodded toward Chloe who still held the other pistol in her hand. “Keep an eye out. If the man appears again, shoot him.”

She barely managed to blink before Woodford was scrambling backward out of the window and hauling himself up onto the roof. His legs disappeared from sight and the next thing she heard was the thud of him moving above her. Looking out of the window, she directed her gaze to the rear of the carriage, but the street behind them was mostly empty, save for a few shocked onlookers who stared after them as she and Woodford raced toward only God knew where.

Less than a minute later, she felt the carriage begin to slow as Woodford pulled on the reins. “Hold on,” he called to her. “I'll take us closer to Carlton House.”

Trotting forward at a more reasonable pace, Chloe kept her lookout position by the window. She was almost more concerned by the sudden lack of activity around them. Granted, two of the three men pursuing them had been shot, but would the third give up so easily or would he just fall back until a better opportunity to attack presented itself?

The carriage drew to a quiet halt and Chloe expelled a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. “I don't think we were followed, but I can't be sure,” Chloe told Woodford as he opened the carriage door and helped her down. Unbalanced from all of the tumult, she held on to him for a brief second, savoring the security of having him close.

“We'll have to stay alert,” he said, taking the satchel from her. With one hand against her elbow, he guided her forward. Their steps were brisk until they rounded a corner and Carlton House came into view. “Careful,” Woodford muttered as he drew her to a halt. “You see those carriages parked up ahead?”

“Yes.” There were three of them.

“Come along,” he said, starting in the direction of the carriages. “We're going to cross the street behind them, but if anything . . .” He stopped and so did Chloe, her senses on immediate alert because of Woodford's sudden stiffness.

A man up ahead with a bundle tucked beneath his arm was strolling casually toward them. Looking back in the direction from which they'd come, Chloe saw another ­couple of men on the opposite side of the street approaching as well. “What do we do?” she asked, hoping that Woodford would have a brilliant plan.

“Run,” Woodford said, grabbing Chloe by the hand and breaking into a sprint. They wove their way past pedestrians until they reached Piccadilly. Dodging a ­couple of carriages, they rushed across the busy street. “Can you leap up onto the step of that moving carriage?”

Glancing in the direction he indicated and understanding his plan, Chloe nodded. She wasn't the least bit sure she could manage the task, but she was determined to at least try. More so when she heard shouts coming from somewhere close behind them.

“I'll be right behind you,” he said, allowing her the space she needed to race out into the street, her skirt flapping around her legs as she ran. Coming alongside the carriage, she grasped hold of the handlebar next to the door and jumped up, praying that no one would recognize her and comment on the Dowager Countess of Newbury's unladylike behavior. Her concern about that fact was swiftly dashed aside as Woodford leapt up beside her. “I bet you didn't realize what you were getting yourself into when you insisted on coming to London,” he said with a rare grin. It made his eyes glow with a warmth that went straight to her heart.

“No. I confess that I did not.” The level of excitement she'd experienced in the last day alone was more than she'd ever expected.

“Any regrets?” He slanted a look in her direction before returning his attention to their pursuers.

“Not at all,” she told him truthfully. “I would make the same decision again if I had to.”