The Wild One (39 page)

I love you, sweet Gareth. I love you so much
it hurts.

Sudden tears filled her eyes.

"Now, don't you worry," he told her, as he
noted and mistook the reason for her tears. "Tomorrow I shall go
talk to Nails — and Bull O'Rourke, as well. See what they have to
say about all this. They're professional fighters, Juliet; I should
not have won either match. But I promise you this. If something
evil
is
going on, I'm not leaving until I get to the bottom
of it."

She gazed up into his romantic, down-tilted
eyes, his dear, dear face, for a lomg moment. How very noble he
was. How righteous and determined, for all his so-called wildness.
And she knew, as she stood there in his arms, that the time had
come for her to tell him that which she should have told him long
before now.

"Gareth?"

"What is it, dearest?"

She took a deep breath and reached up to
touch his cheek. "I ... love you."

"Oh, Juliet ..." He actually blushed, so
pleased was he by her long-overdue admission. "You couldn't have
chosen a nicer time to tell me."

"I should have told you ages ago, when I
first knew. But I couldn't admit it then, not even to myself."

"And when
did
you first know?"

"When you took that bullet meant for the
little boy. When you nearly died trying to save him — and all of us
on that coach. I think I started to love you then. I think I've
loved you ever since. I just ... haven't told you."

"But — what about Charles?"

She gave him a patient little smile. "I'll
be honest, Gareth. Once, I was like everyone else in that I was
always comparing the two of you. But as I've grown to know you,
those comparisons have happened less and less, and when they
do
occur ... well, you always come out on top." She leaned
up to kiss the smile just breaking out on his face. "Lately, I've
come to realize that Charles and I would never have been this happy
together. We were too much alike. You, on the other hand ... well,
I've never had as much fun with anyone as I have with you."

"Oh, Juliet. I don't know what to say." He
was grinning fiercely. "But I will tell you this. I've always been
sure."

"Of what?"

"That I love you."

"Are you, now?" she asked, trying to muster
a grin even as a tear leaked from one eye. She knuckled it away.
Sniffled. Heavens, she was beginning to bawl like a baby.

"Yes. And you know something else, my dear,
darling little wife? I'm going to take you upstairs and prove
it."

Laughing, he swept her into his arms and
carried her up to their room — where he loved her so well, and so
thoroughly, that he drove all thoughts of fighting and foul play
from her mind.

Chapter 31

After making love to Juliet well into the
wee hours, it was no wonder that Gareth's eyes felt like lead when
he opened them the following morning. Even so, as he gazed lovingly
at his sleeping wife, he wanted nothing more than to gather her up
in his arms, bury his face in her silky, unbound hair, and cuddle
away the morning. The afternoon. The whole day.

If only he could. But that was not possible,
of course. He had to be at the barn at nine, and he wanted to get
into town to begin asking questions before training started. Subtle
questions, of course. He didn't want anyone to start wondering
about
him
— and the reasons why he was suddenly asking those
questions.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Juliet's
slumbers, he lifted the blanket and crawled out of the bed. The
floor was cold on his bare feet, and after gently replacing the
blanket, he all but hopped over to the chair where he'd put his
clothes, shivering as he hastily drew on stockings and breeches.
Despite his fatigue — and the concerns he'd shared with Juliet last
night — he was in a good mood. And why not? Those three words she
had spoken to him when he got home were still floating through his
head like fairweather clouds across a summer sky.

I love you.

He smiled and gazed at her lying there under
the blanket, her dark hair spread across the pillow like a Spanish
fan. God, he loved her, too. He loved her lustrous hair and silky
skin, her dark green eyes and pert little nose, even that soft,
twangy accent that left everyone who heard it scratching their
heads, wondering where she was from. He loved her slim, strong
body, the fullness of her breasts, and the way her waist flared
into curving, womanly hips ... hips that would, he hoped, bear many
more children. She was a calming, practical influence on his
reckless nature, the voice of reason where he was the soul of
impulse. Oh, yes, he loved her. He loved her courage, her
level-headedness, and her devotion. Most of all, he loved the fact
that she now trusted him without question, supporting his decisions
and standing by him when another woman might have demanded he bring
her and her baby straight back to Blackheath and the all-powerful
protection of its mighty duke.

But she had not demanded that he take them
all far away from here, had not become hysterical, shrewish, or
weepy with worry. She was, of course, nervous; he'd seen it in her
eyes. But she, like Lucien, was placing her faith in him, and
Gareth knew he would have to stand very tall indeed to measure up
to what each of them hoped for, and expected, from him. Once he
wouldn't have given a damn. Now he'd die before he'd let either one
of them — or himself — down.

Outside, the blackbirds were calling, the
first song to greet the dawn, and he could hear the distant
quacking of ducks down on the river. He checked the clock on the
mantle. It had just gone five.
'Sdeath.
Early, yes, but at
least he had several hours before having to report for training ...
which left plenty of time to hunt down Nails and Bull O'Rourke.

He finished dressing and stopped beside the
bed on his way out, where he bent down, cleared a strand of hair
from Juliet's face, and kissed her gently on a cheek as soft and
white as a magnolia petal. Charlie-girl was in her cradle, her
little body rising and falling beneath her blanket; Gareth paused
there as well, smiling tenderly down at the sleeping baby before
bending down to kiss her brow. Then, very carefully so as not to
wake either, he crept from the room.

Ten minutes later, he was munching on a
piece of buttered bread and striding up the leaf-shaded path
between the Mill Stream and the Abbey Meadow, heading toward town.
The sun was shining, sparkling on the water and glowing green
through the ivy that choked the trees that surrounded him, and if
he didn't know anything else, he bloody well knew one thing:

It was going to be a beautiful day.

~~~~

Dickie Noring hailed him just as he was
passing beneath the Gateway of St. Nicholas Church.

"Lord Gareth! Lord Gareth! 'Ave ye 'eard the
news? 'Tis a terrible thing, it is — 'specially as 'e 'as family
an' all!"

Gareth, suddenly alert, paused just beneath
the Gateway's vaulted stone ceiling, his gaze moving from the
County Hall across the street to the lad who, all out of breath,
came running up before him. "What are you talking about,
Dickie?"

"Nails died last night! 'E never woke up
after 'e went down! Some are sayin' it was the strength of your
hits that killed 'im, but the doctor thinks Nails 'it 'is 'ead when
'e fell. They're burying 'im tomorrow!"

For a moment, Gareth, blinking, could only
stare at Dickie as his brain tried to absorb what he'd just been
told.

"
What
?!"

"Aye, 'e died last night!"

Denial rose like a brick wall before him.
Nails
dead
? 'Sdeath, he hadn't even hit him that hard!

"You all right, m'lord? Ye're looking a bit
pale —"

"I am sorry, it's just that ... this comes
as rather a shock." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Dear
God." He pushed his fingers against his brow and leaned back
against the church's cold, unforgiving stone, his thoughts racing
and a prickling sense of unease icing its way up his spine. "Do you
know where Nails lived, Dickie? I — I must go and pay my respects
to his widow ..."

Moments later he was standing outside a
little terraced house on East St. Helen's Street, his tricorn in
his hands and his face grim. He saw the neat white curtains at the
windows, the black crepe that someone had already hung above the
doorway. Guilt twisted his gut. Confusion filled his head. And the
same thought kept going through his mind, over and over again like
a litany:
But I didn't hit him that hard ... I didn't hit him
that hard ... I didn't hit him that hard...

What a lame excuse to offer Nails's grieving
widow. He felt sick.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he raised his
hand toward the knocker. Despite the hour, he knew Nails's wife
would be up; country folk rose early, and besides, he doubted
anyone who had just lost a spouse would sleep much in that first
night following such a loss. Still, he hesitated, wondering if he
ought to just quietly turn away and leave this family to grieve. He
was, after all, the last person they probably wanted to see just
now.

Coward.

He tried the knocker and waited.

There was movement behind the door. He
cleared his throat, wondering what to say to these people. The
latch swung upward, and the door opened to reveal a gaunt woman
with wet, red-rimmed eyes. A handkerchief was wadded in her hand,
and two toddlers huddled against her skirts. She gasped at the
sight of Gareth, her eyes filling up all over again as she shoved
the handkerchief against her nose.

Gareth's heart went out to her. "I am so
sorry to hear about your husband," he said quietly. He clutched his
hat, feeling awkward and terrible and sick at heart. "I ... just
wanted to stop and pay my respects. I shall leave you in
peace."

He turned and began to walk away, but her
voice stopped him.

"M'lord, please!"

He took a deep breath and turned back
around, not knowing what to say, what to do.

She stood there in the doorway, looking
small, lost, and forlorn. "Don't go," she whispered, her bottom lip
quivering. "Oi know ye think ye killed me 'usband ... but ye
di'int."

"Thank you for that reassurance, Mrs.
Fleming, but I hold myself responsible for what happened. Had I
been Nails's second, I would have called off the fight. As his
opponent, I only did what I could ..."

"M'lord, ye don't understand. Oi've watched
ev'ry foight Nails ever did." Her eyes grew desperate behind her
tears. "Oi was
there
last noight, and Oi saw what state me
'usband was in. Ye di'int 'it 'im that 'ard. And when 'e fell, 'e
landed on 'is knees — 'is 'ead never 'it the floor, no matter wot
the doctor thinks."

Gareth stared at her and frowned.

"Don't ye see?" She gazed tearfully up at
him, her eyes willing him to understand. "Me 'usband di'int die at
yer 'and.
'E died because 'e someone gave 'im laudanum just
before the foight!
"

~~~~

At about the same time Mrs. Fleming was
telling Gareth about the severely allergic reaction Nails had had
to laudanum, Lucien's informer was standing at the window, reading
the missive that had just arrived from the duke.

My brother is at Swanthorpe Manor in
Abingdon, Berkshire. I am not easy with the situation in which he
has involved himself. Go there immediately and report back to me
daily, and if there is trouble I wish to know about it at once.
This time,
do
not
lose
him
.

Blackheath

The last four words were double-underscored.
This was serious, then. Very serious.

Chilcot folded the note, put it into his
pocket, and called for his horse. He would go immediately to
Abingdon, keeping a low profile until the rest of the Den members
could join him there.

By the tone of Blackheath's note, there was
no time to lose.

~~~~

Snelling gave all of his fighters the day
off out of respect to Nails. Most of them went to get drunk, but
not Gareth.

He found Bull O'Rourke sitting in the Old
Bell Inn, bent morosely over a pint of ale. Bull had, by all
accounts, been drinking more or less steadily ever since his
humiliating loss to the younger, less seasoned Gareth and was not
much help when Gareth questioned him about events preceding their
match. All he could tell him was that he remembered feeling "bloody
strange" just after the first blows were exchanged, but he'd
attributed it to the strength of Gareth's hits. Gareth pursed his
lips and made a mental note of what he'd learned.

On Monday, after his morning's training, he
paid a visit to the local chemist. His questions turned up nothing,
but then he didn't think the perpetrator would be so stupid as to
buy the drug in Abingdon. On Tuesday afternoon he borrowed a horse
from Becky's brother Tom and went to Wallingford to see the chemist
in that town. Nothing. On Wednesday he tried the one in Wantage.
Nothing.

He was beginning to think he was pursuing a
dead end when he finally found what he was looking for. It was late
on Thursday afternoon when he walked into the small shop in Oxford
and asked the apothecary the same questions he'd put to the others.
Yes, a man with a narrow face and close-set eyes had recently
bought a large amount of laudanum. No, he didn't know who the
customer was.

But Gareth did.

And as he rode home that night, he recalled
Lucien's words:

Just promise me one thing... That if you get
in over your head, you'll contact me.

His brother was right. Sometimes it did take
more courage to put aside your pride and ask for help than try to
do everything yourself.

Arriving home, he immediately wrote to
Lucien.