The Earl's Complete Surrender (26 page)

The sound of glass unexpectedly shattering sent a jolt straight through her. It reminded her of when she was little and one of the maids dropped a crystal vase on the stairs. Spinning around, she accidentally knocked her glass onto the floor, breaking it as well. “Woodford!” Her voice ricocheted through the air the moment she saw the men climbing through the broken window behind her. Leaping to her feet, she snatched up a letter opener and hurried toward the door of the parlor.

A hand grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back and throwing her off balance. Tumbling into her assailant, she stabbed at him with the letter opener, thrusting it as deep as it would go the moment she realized she'd struck her mark. A roar of agony rose from his throat and he shoved her aside, straight into the arms of his accomplice who was quick to place a knife against her throat.

“Don't hurt her!”

A hand clamped down over her mouth, preventing her from calling out again. “Or what?” the man asked as a third man climbed through the window.

Chloe's eyes widened with surprise. Scarsdale!

“I'll slit you open,” Scarsdale said, holding up a sword.

The man she'd stabbed was leaning against the desk, groaning in between a series of curses.

“I don't think so. You and I are in this together,” said the man who was holding Chloe.

“What are you talking about?” Scarsdale asked as he stepped further into the room.

“Just find the journal and the notebook, Scarsdale, and let's get out of here.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Woodford asked appearing in the doorway with Hainsworth by his side. His eyes met Chloe's, sharp with fear. “Let her go.” He spoke in a low and dangerous, tone.

“Will do, as soon as we get what we came for,” the man holding Chloe insisted.

“I see that Lambert was wrong about you, Scarsdale,” Woodford bit out. “You
are
an Elector.”

“A what?” Scarsdale asked.

The man with the stab wound gathered the books and scattered paper lying on the desk. “I believe this is it,” he wheezed.

“Put that down right now or I'll shoot,” Woodford warned, raising a pistol. He muttered something inaudible to Hainsworth who also raised a pistol.

The man with the leg wound moved as if to proceed in Scarsdale's direction and shots immediately exploded within the confines of the room. Chloe fell back, dragged down by the man who'd been holding her. A rush of footsteps and anxiously spoken words followed. Strong arms lifted her upward, allowing her to see what had happened.

The man she'd stabbed was exactly where he'd been before, still leaning against the desk, but his eyes had widened with shock as he stared at the floor. Following his line of vision, Chloe saw that the man who'd been holding her had been shot in the forehead. Swallowing the nausea that rose up her throat, she allowed her gaze to travel across the floor to where Scarsdale was lying, gasping for breath while blood flowed from a wound in his chest.

“No,” she whispered, shoving away from Woodford's grasp and rushing over to Scarsdale. Lowering herself to her knees, she stared down at his twisted features. “Why?”

“I . . . nothing wrong,” he managed.

She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “How can you say that?”

Firm hands tried to pull her up but she pushed them back. “Let go of me,” she told Hainsworth. She heard Woodford say something, but couldn't make out what it was. Hainsworth released her and she leaned closer to Scarsdale.

“I . . . I saw these men attack . . . came to save you,” he said. His words were growing weaker.

“Why would you be here if you're not one of them?”

“Note. From you. Changed your mind.” His head lulled to one side. “Accept my—­”

“What's he saying?” Woodford asked.

“Nothing useful, I'll wager,” Hainsworth muttered.

“Your what?” Chloe asked Scarsdale.

“My proposal,” he rasped.

Chloe shook her head. This made no sense at all. Taking Scarsdale's hand between her own, she allowed the tears to fall. “I'm sorry it had to come to this.” Whether he was one of The Electors or not, she'd considered him a close friend until recently. Watching him die like this, was the most difficult thing she'd ever had to go through.

“Allow me to escort you upstairs,” Woodford eventually said, interrupting her thoughts.

Chloe blinked. She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there, clutching Scarsdale's lifeless hand. Her entire body trembled as she got to her feet with Woodford's assistance. “Where's the other man? The one I stabbed?”

“Hainsworth helped me tie him to a chair in the dining room and is currently there with him, questioning him about the events that took place.”

“I didn't realize,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his.

“You're in shock,” he told her. “I need to get you out of here and away from all of this.”

Instinctively, she started dropping her gaze to where Scarsdale still lay, but Woodford placed his hand against her cheek and gently turned her head away.

“He said he came here because I sent for him,” she murmured. “You don't suppose it's possible that . . . that he . . .”

“That he was set up?” When she nodded, he said, “Given what we know, I'm more inclined to believe that he lied to you.”

Aware of how unlikely Scarsdale's story sounded, Chloe nodded, agreeing that Woodford was probably right. “Bring the journal and the notebook,” she said. When he hesitated, she added, “We can't afford to lose any time.”

A
fter seeing Lady Newbury to her bedchamber and ensuring that she would be comfortable at the escritoire there, James headed back downstairs to the dining room. Bloody hell! He'd never been so terrified in his life as when he'd seen that scoundrel holding a knife to her elegant throat. A shiver shot along the length of his spine at the memory of it. She'd been brave though and had thankfully managed to cripple one of the attackers before James and Hainsworth had arrived, making their task a great deal easier.

“Has he said anything useful yet?” he asked Hainsworth as he crossed the floor to where he was standing.

The intruder groaned. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth where Hainsworth had probably punched him. “He says that Scarsdale hired him and his friend to help him steal two books.”

Woodford nodded. It was just as he'd thought. Scarsdale was just as guilty as Newbury had been. “It makes sense. When he was expelled from Thorncliff, he probably waited for Lady Newbury and me to leave, knowing that we would do so as soon as we found the journal.”

“Since then he's had you followed and attacked at every available opportunity,” Hainsworth said. “Bloody bastard.”

“Who else is involved?” Woodford asked the intruder.

“Don't know,” the man replied.

Woodford grunted in response. “Not to worry. We'll have our answer soon enough.”

“What do you mean?” Hainsworth asked, turning away from the intruder and facing Woodford.

“There's still the journal. Once we have the names—­”

“Jesus, Woodford! I understand your commitment to this cause, but Lady Newbury was almost killed tonight because of it.” Inhaling deeply, he allowed the strain of the evening to drain from his features. “You have to consider the consequences of continuing down this path.”

“Scarsdale is dead.”

“You don't know that he was acting alone. The Electors consist of several men. You know this.”

He was right. James couldn't ignore that. “What do you propose I do?”

“Burn the book. Destroy it. If there's nothing for them to come after then—­”

“I've already told you, that's not an option.” Turning away, he walked angrily to the door. “Keep questioning him. I'm going to start cleaning the study.”

This was no simple task. The man who'd threatened Lady Newbury was one thing, but Scarsdale was an earl—­a peer of the realm. Bowing down, Woodford dragged both bodies to one side so he could remove the shards of glass from the floor. When this was done, he took out his handkerchief, dipped it in a glass of brandy that he poured, and proceeded to wipe down the desk where blood from the man that Hainsworth was now questioning, stained it. He did the same with the letter opener that Lady Newbury had used.

As soon as this had been completed, he went back into the parlor where he picked up a blanket. Unfolding it, he flung it across the two bodies in the study, covering as much of them as possible. In the morning, Hainsworth would have to help him remove them. He shook his head, unhappy with the rising number of casualties his mission had caused. Thinking about it made him ponder Hains­worth's suggestion more objectively than before. Perhaps he should consider destroying the journal. One thing was certain—­if Chloe were harmed because of any stubbornness on his part, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Crossing to the sideboard, he poured himself a new brandy and downed it in one gulp, then poured another and lowered himself onto the chair behind the desk. For now, he would have to send another note to the king, as well as one to the chief magistrate, informing them of Scarsdale's death.

He winced. This was not a task that he looked forward to by any means. Still, it had to be done, but to do so he would need paper. Lady Newbury had taken all the sheets that had been on the desk, upstairs with her. For a moment, he considered asking her for some, but then decided against it. She could do with a bit of quiet, and besides, there was probably more paper to be found in one of the desk drawers. He reached for one and pulled it open. It was empty. So was the next one. The third, however, was locked.

James stared at it. He'd never known Hains­worth to keep any drawers locked at Hainsworth House or at any of his estates. In fact, he'd always been extraordinarily candid, sharing everything with James and claiming that nothing would be kept from him. Curiosity blended with unease. Clearly Hainsworth was hiding something.

Glancing toward the door, James gathered up the letter opener and placed the tip of it against the lock, jiggling it slightly until he heard it click. Almost dreading what he might find, he pulled the drawer open and looked inside, frowning at the sight of a small box. Guilt gnawed at his conscience. He shouldn't have intruded. Considering where they were, the box probably contained a gift for one of Hainsworth's lovers, which would explain the reason for keeping it locked away.

James prepared to close the drawer back up, then hesitated. The box was too small to contain earrings or a necklace, and he doubted that Hainsworth was contemplating marriage. So what then? The spy in him took over and he picked up the box. For a moment he just held it between his hands, sensing that whatever was inside it, it had to be important. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the lid and almost dropped the box. His heart rate slowed until he feared it might stop altogether. There was no doubt in his mind about what he was looking at. His memory was simply too good, and the images all too clear. This was his father's signet ring.

 

Chapter 21

P
ushing all thought of what had happened in the study to the back of her mind, Chloe tried to continue with her work. Woodford was relying on her. She couldn't allow Scarsdale's death to weaken her resolve.

The nib of her quill scratched across the paper as she wrote the next word, deciphering as much of it as possible before moving on to the next until she finally unveiled the first name. Rothgate. Other titles followed in quick succession after that. Six in total. All belonging to men of influence with roots deeply imbedded in the British aristocracy.

An involuntary shiver whispered across her shoulders. She'd met all of these men, socialized with them and even danced with a few. Not in a million years would she have guessed that they were traitors . . . murderers. Encouraged by her findings, she persevered, eager to uncover any remaining names before she went to inform Woodford of her findings.

A knock sounded. “Come in,” she called out. The door opened behind her. “You won't believe what I have discovered!”

“Really?”

Turning in her seat, she looked toward the door and saw Hainsworth. “Oh! I'm so sorry. I thought you were Woodford.”

He smiled and nodded. “Not to worry.” Limping further into the room, he glanced around. His gaze fell on the fire that Woodford had lit when he'd helped her upstairs. “You said you found something?”

“Yes, my lord.” Rising, she gathered up the books. “I've uncovered several of the conspirators—­six so far. I was just going to finish this paragraph before sharing the names with you and Woodford, but since you're here . . .” She handed him her notes.

“Unbelievable,” he said, staring down at the pages in front of him. “I told Woodford that he ought to destroy these books. They're too dangerous for either of you to have in your possession and now that you have the names . . .”

“There's still one,” she said, “and it's the most important.”

He tilted his head and frowned. “How so?”

“Because according to what I've found so far, I believe that there's a hierarchy among The Electors that defies the social structure of the peerage. Instead, it's determined by age and the length of experience within the group.”

“You're saying that The Electors aren't equals? That they have a leader?”

Chloe nodded. “It has to be someone older. There's a mention of a Grand Master at least—­someone I've yet to identify.” She gazed into the flames of the fire, considering the options. “As soon as I have the names of all the families involved, I'll be able to arrange them in the correct order and figure out who that person might be.”

A clicking sound pulled her out of her reverie and she turned toward Hainsworth, frowning at the sight of the pistol he was holding. “What are you—­?”

“Throw the books into the fire, Lady Newbury.”

She stared at him, her mind unwilling to comprehend what she was seeing and hearing. “You can't be one of them,” she said, retreating a step as she tightened her hold on the books.

“It wasn't meant to be like this, but you've left me without much choice.”

“But Woodford . . .” Her chest contracted. If Hainsworth was an Elector, then Woodford might be as well. No. It wasn't possible. He wanted to find them as much as she did.

“He's like a son to me,” Hainsworth said. “I don't want to harm him any more than you, so just throw the books in the fire and we'll be able to forget that—­”

“What?” Woodford asked as he strode into the room, the harsh tread of his boots against the floor a testament to his anger. “That you killed my parents, that you've lied to me all of these years and that you've betrayed me in every conceivable way? Lower your pistol, Hainsworth, or so help me God I'll shoot you where you stand.”

Hainsworth's jaw tightened. Chloe drew in a breath. Woodford looked as though he might consider ripping Hainsworth's throat out with his bare hands, if it came to that.

“You're like a son to me, Woodford,” Hains­worth said. “I've loved you all these years as if you were my own. The reason why you're so skilled at what you do is thanks to me. I taught you how to shoot, how to box and how to handle a sword!”

“I would have preferred it if my father had been able to do so in your stead,” Woodford said, his voice low and measured.

“Your father was a threat. He was going to uncover everything. The Electors is a commendable institution, Woodford,” Hainsworth said with a mixture of vehemence and pride. “It has existed for generations, its members working diligently for the benefit of England and Europe as a whole. Our only mission is to preserve and protect.”

“No, it is to control and to shape the world according to your vision,” Woodford stated.

“You don't understand. After The Terror, the ­people of France hated the nobility. They needed a commoner to lift their spirits and inspire them to greatness, so we gave them Napoleon—­a simple soldier who would have been little else, had it not been for us.”

“And when he no longer served your purpose, you got rid of him, just as you got rid of King Gustave the Third,” Woodford accused. “I'm sure there have been many other victims, though I've yet to discover them all.” His eyes darkened. “Back at Thorncliff, it was you in the secret passageway, wasn't it?”

“I knew that if I could just find the journal before you did, and destroy it, everything would be so much simpler.”

A hollow silence followed until Woodford said, “You hired Blake to kill Lambert.”

“After you and Lady Newbury mentioned him, I had no choice. It didn't occur to me that you would somehow manage to continue decoding the book without his help.”

“So you returned to the apartment with a leg wound, hoping that I would be forced to give up my mission and that everything would return to normal without me ever discovering your involvement?” Woodford took a step toward Hains­worth. “Scarsdale had nothing to do with any of this, did he?”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” Hainsworth said.

Woodford stared at him. “But the men who were with him . . . neither of them recognized you.”

“Because I didn't hire them. Rothgate did.”

Woodford blinked. Chloe had never seen him so incredulous before. “You don't deserve to live,” he muttered.

“It was for the greater good,” Hainsworth said. “If you'll only let me explain, I'm sure that you'll agree. It has always been my hope that you would one day join the cause and—­”

“Lower your pistol,” Woodford told him, hardening his voice.

Hainsworth didn't even flinch. “I warned you about involving her. If only you would have listened, it wouldn't have had to come to this.”

“You ordered Blake and everyone else you sent after us not to kill us,” Chloe said in dismay. It was difficult to fathom that the callous man who stood before her might have a hint of a conscience.

“My goal was always to destroy the evidence without Woodford discovering my involvement and without him getting hurt. As for you, Lady Newbury, I couldn't risk drawing the kind of attention that your death would have incurred.”

“How good of you,” she told him bitterly.

He snorted. “But things have changed now and it's time for a new plan.”

Sensing what was about to happen, Chloe flung herself sideways just as the pistol in Hainsworth's hand exploded. Another shot sounded as her body thudded against the floor. Opening her eyes, she expected to see that Hainsworth had been killed and was surprised to find him still standing, though the pistol he'd been holding now lay at his feet. His jacket had been torn open at the shoulder where Woodford had shot him.

“So this is how it's going to be?” he asked. “Why didn't you just kill me?”

“Because I'm not through with you yet,” Woodford said, “not after you killed Scarsdale.”

“He was a fool,” Hainsworth said. “Newbury only kept him close for the sake of appearances.”

“That doesn't mean that he deserved to die.” James could feel his blood pumping through his veins as he glared at the man he'd trusted so well. The deception was incomprehensible.

“I had hoped that this would end with his death, but you refused to do as I suggested.” Without warning, Hainsworth snatched up the journal and notebook, flung them into the fire and produced a dagger from his waistband. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, but you don't have it in you. Do you?”

James lunged, heedless of the knife in Hains­worth's hand. “I'll bloody murder you for what you've done,” he yelled as his fist slammed into Hainsworth's face. Hainsworth's mouth fell open and blood poured out. “You're a traitor!” James punched Hainsworth again, producing a loud cracking sound along with a spurt of blood. Hell, he wasn't sure he could stop now that he'd started hitting him. Years of sorrow born from the loss of his parents and the discovery of Hainsworth's betrayal, bubbled up into a furious rage. He felt possessed and consequently hit him again and again until Hainsworth coughed, his head lolling sideways as if he'd accepted his fate.

A hand pressed against James's shoulder, pushing him back. “That's enough,” he heard Chloe say. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. “You must stop now before you kill him and face charges yourself.”

“Nobody would blame me,” he said, leaning back and looking up at her.

“I certainly wouldn't,” she calmly agreed, “but there's no sense taking such a risk when this man's fate has already been sealed. He's going to hang, Woodford, for killing your parents, as well as for the part he's played as one of The Electors.”

“But the books—­”

“I have them,” Chloe told him. “One is a little charred at the corner, but it's still legible.”

James stared down at Hainsworth, the front of his jacket still clasped in his hand. “Why did you do it?” he asked breathlessly as he leaned back on his haunches. “
How
could you do it?”

“It was for the cause,” Hainsworth wheezed. “I would do anything for the cause.”

“Not any longer. You'll be going to Newgate now to await your trial,” James said with disgust as he climbed off of him and got to his feet. He turned to Lady Newbury. “Come with me.” Wincing, she followed him out of the room with a slight limp. “Where does it hurt?”

“On my hip and thigh,” she said as he closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock. “I landed harder than I'd expected when I tried to avoid getting shot.”

If anything had happened to her . . . raising his hand, James brushed aside a lock of her hair. “You did well. I'm proud of you.”

“I wouldn't have thought that he . . .” She stared back at the closed door. “I'm so sorry that it turned out this way. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

Years of memories drifted through his mind—­Hainsworth presenting James with this first Thoroughbred, teaching him about astronomy and mathematics, the desperation on his face whenever James had been sick and Hainsworth sitting by his bedside until he got better. “It's painful,” he admitted, “but I'm glad that I finally know the truth.”

She placed her hand carefully against his arm. “What happens now?”

“Stay here. I'll inform the watch.” He headed toward the stairs.

“I'd much rather come with you.”

Realizing how distraught she must be by everything that had happened and how uneasy the thought of staying in the house with two criminals and two dead bodies would be for her, James held out his hand. Her fingers touched his, carefully at first and then with greater assertiveness. It felt good. Comfortable. “Let's get this over with so we can get some rest. You look exhausted.”

It took another hour to have Hainsworth and the man Rothgate had hired apprehended and the dead bodies removed. “Thank you for your help,” James told the watchman who'd arranged for a guarded carriage to be brought around from Bow Street.

The watchman nodded and tipped his hat. “Any time, my lord. Have a good night.”

“The same to you,” James told him, closing the door and locking it firmly in place. He believed they were safe, but refused to take any chances, so he also secured the door to the parlor in case someone else decided to climb through the broken window in the study.

“Is it finally over?” Lady Newbury asked from the foot of the stairs.

“For now,” he told her with a sigh. “Tomorrow we call on the king.”

“Not like this,” she said.

Understanding her meaning, he went toward her. She might not think she looked presentable enough for an audience with King George, dressed as she was in the same gray gown that Mrs. Dunkin had given her, and perhaps she didn't. There were stains on it now, both from blood and from dirt, but that didn't stop James from thinking that she looked absolutely exquisite. He rather liked the disheveled departure from her otherwise pristine style. “Don't worry,” he said, knowing how important her appearance was to her, “we'll figure something out.”