Wicked, My Love (26 page)

“What the hell are you wearing, Ralph?” the railroad baron demanded. “Where is Powers? You were supposed to be watching him night and day.”

Ralph glanced at the other men and rocked on his feet. “So he, um, said that pretty maid wanted to play a little game with me, Naughty Pussycat Likes a Big Tail. That we were all going to be curious, frolicking kitties…and…and then he tied me up and, well, that pretty little maid never came.” He scratched his beard. “Do you think she doesn't desire me?”

“Be quiet!” Harding boomed. “Goddammit.” He slammed the wall with his flail, knocking a nasty hole in the plaster. “Search the entire house,” he yelled. “Find that blasted Powers! I should have killed that annoying cully one of the thousand times that I felt like it.”

Enough
of
this
madness
, she thought. She had to get Randall out of here. Clutching her crossbow and keeping her eyes on the viscount, trying to transmit her idea to his mind, she edged closer to the long windows that faced onto the back courtyard and mews. A fat moon, partially concealed by clouds, sat practically on top of the neighbor's roof. She opened a window, sending a blast of humid night air through the room.

“What are you doing?” Harding demanded.

“Good evening, Mr. Harding. I only bargain in good faith. Now I'm exercising my option to walk away. Come, Randall.”

She slipped out the window and grabbed on to the scaffolding.

“Boys!” Harding shouted. He rushed forward, his
sanjiegun
spinning, but was too late. Randall had already dived outside and now dangled from a pole. Isabella shut the window behind him and rushed down a long plank as Harding's flail slammed the glass, shattering it.

“Isabella, don't be foolish,” Harding called, his head poking through the broken window. “You're making a terrible mistake. If you come back, all will be forgiven. You're just being a flighty, mindle
ss female.”

“I've calculated your risk,” she replied. “And I've decided against your offer. Let's go, Randall.” She set down the ancient crossbow and jumped, her skirts flying up like wings as she descended down into t
he courtyard.

“You come back inside, or I'll put you in Newgate,” Harding shouted. “Boys, catch her!”

Out of the darkness, three stable hands scampered toward her.

“Oh, hell,” she heard Randall hiss from above. Then his body crashed from the sky onto the men, knocking them to the ground. “Run!” he told Isabella.

She wouldn't dare leave him, not while she had breath in her body. She grabbed his hand, yanking him from the ground. One of the servants charged toward her. Randall brushed him off with a hard elbow as they rushed through the alley and into the street.

Her petticoats beat around her legs. Behind her, she could hear feet pounding. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see three of Harding's fleet-footed men, including the one with a white fluffy tail bouncing off his thighs, closing the distance. Randall held her tight as they veered onto a park lane. The walks were littered with the lovely people who loitered about Hyde Park at night. They tugged her dress. “Ey, got a fine necklace 'ere, just for me pretty lady.” “Want a reticule for yer lovely gown? Doesn't cost 'ardly anything.” Meanwhile, Randall received more il
licit solicitations.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. “Got 'er!” a man shouted in her ear. She screamed and was jerked sideways, freed from the man's hold. She felt as if she were hurtling through the air, toward a four-wheeled black carriage that had pulled onto the curb.

The carriage door opened and Powers leaned out.

“You!” Isabella screamed.

“I knew you would need me,” Powers shouted.

“Jump inside,” Randall cried, and lifted her.

For the second time that night, she was tossed into a strange carriage. Randall leaped in behind her, his arms open and ready to embrace her. He was yanked back, falling half-in and half-out of the carriage. Outside, one of Harding's triplets held on to the viscount's leg, even as the carriage lurched forward.

“You let go of him, you filthy, hideous parasite,” she shouted, and latched on to Randall's underarms. She would not let them be separated again. Randall gave a sharp kick. A black shoe arced into the air as Harding's foot soldier fell face-first onto the pavers. Isabella tugged, helping Randall scramble inside.

He collapsed against her. “I have you, my love. I have you,” he whispered. She closed her eyes and rocked in his arms, drawing in his scent, the heat of his muscles, his damp perspiration.

“Randall, my darling, I—”

Powers cleared his voice. She opened her eyes to see her former object of devotion across the carriage, hunched over a satchel. Disgust washed over her. How could she have been attracted to this…this… “Rat!” she yelled. “Do you know how much trouble you caused? How dare you sell the bank false stock? And…and…I was going to name my first child af
ter you.”

“I think you've misunderstood my good intentions.” Powers's hand slid from behind the satchel. He gripped a shiny silver and ivory gun. Etched on the side were the words “
La
Diablo
.” She burst out in laughter, not the funny, mirth-filled sort, but the scary hysterical, murderous kind born of anxiety and terror.

“What's so damn funny?” Powers hissed.

“Don't you mean
el
diablo
?” Isabella explained. “Your devil gun has a gender problem.”

“What?” He looked at his gun. “Bloody hell! That cheap rogue inscribed the wrong words. I never get a break.” His face darkened to a deep crimson and its lines hardened. Even through her fear, Isabella cringed in embarrassment for ever finding him attractive.

“I assure you, the bullets in it aren't so funny,” Powers hissed.

“Don't point the gun at her, point it at me, you flea-witted bugger.”

“Shut your hole, and sit yer arse down.”

Randall muttered violent curses as he tried to tuck her behind him. Powers wagged his gun. His features relaxed as he enjoyed the power
la
diablo
afforded him. “I'm going to tell a little story.”

“Great, because I would love to hear it,” Randall retorted, scaring Isabella. The small aperture pointed at his chest didn't seem to affect him except to make him more annoyed and arrogant. Meanwhile, she was terrified that with one slip of Powers's finger, Randall might be taken from her. She would have lost her mother, father, and then Randall. Not him. She didn't want to be in the world without him, even if he married another and she became the scary, old spinster Isabella who forgot the sexes of his children and bought beautiful frocks and ribbons for the boys and swords for the girls.

She felt the burn of tears coming back, and she didn't blink them away. Her father's injunctions to be strong were useless. Randall had chased them away. She felt as if her heart were outside her body, raw a
nd exposed.

Powers's nostrils dilated with his fast breath. “You see, I was in love with Isabella and had suspicions that Harding was going to try and destroy her bank…and…your political career. And I was going to stop him because we're all partners, see?”

“So you became Harding's houseguest,” Randall said. “Like a spy.”

“Like a spy, that's it. I spied on him and learned some things.” He patted his satchel. “Things that can get him in trouble. So, that's what you have to tell the police. Then Isabella and I can get married.”

“Go ahead and shoot me!” she cried.

“Marriage proposal by gunpoint,” Randall said. “You're such a romantic. Clearly this is true love.”

“Look, this ain't what it seems!” Powers barked. “I'm helping both of you! And I, um, loved Isabella since I first saw her. And more than just for
her money.”

“Well, aren't you the chivalrous hero?” Randall said. “I'm glad you cleared everything up with your little explanation. Because here's the story I was going to tell the police; it's about a young man who has a little gambling problem and gets fleeced by an unsavory dealer in a situation set up by Harding.”

“How did you know about that?” Powers yelled. His knuckles turned white, his fingers trembled on the gun. Isabella held Randall tighter.

Randall continued in a smooth, unruffled manner. “Oh, we know all about you. Your old tutor Busby, the naughty pussycat game, your semi-literate lovers, and the drawerful of hideous chemises.”

Powers's ears reddened. “Be quiet. That's none of your business.”

“Well, your future wife Isabella might be interested,” Randall pointed out. “Especially that part where Harding convinced you to sell stock to her bank in return for help with a particular gambling debt. So when Isabella readily sees that the stock is fraudulent, you go running back to Harding like a scared little boy, accusing him of setting you up.”

Powers's lower lip protruded. “He said that he didn't know the stocks were fraudulent.”

“And you believed him?” Randall chuckled.

“No,” Powers protested. “Like you said, I was a spy. That scoundrel said he would find out what had gone wrong. He said he would protect me. In the meantime, he made me work on that ugly house of his. All those little stones in the mosaic—I did those. Then he sees Isabella…and…” The man trailed off, unable to navigate through the numerous lies he
had spun.

“Harding didn't know about Isabella, and when he found out about her, he fell in greedy
amour
. She changed his game and you were going to take the fall for the crime after all. Ah, but you out-wiled Harding, didn't you? You and your naughty pussycat. You escaped. I say, I'm quite fond of my story. It possesses that nice ring of plausibility that the police so enjoy.”

“I want everyone to just be quiet, goddammit,” Powers shouted. Fire spewed from the mouth of the gun, and a huge hole gaped in the top of the carriage.

Isabella screamed and pressed her hand into Randall's chest, feeling his heartbeat.

“Oh, damn,” Powers yelled, staring at his gun, eyes wide with shock, sweat dripping down his flushed forehead. “Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn.”

The carriage rocked to a stop. Powers banged the ceiling. “Keep going to where I told you. Or I'll…I'll shoot you too…and your horses. I'll bloody well shoot everyone.” He carefully rotated the gun barrel.

Isabella heard the driver click his tongue, and the carriage lurched forward again.

“I'm not going to talk anymore,” Powers announced, keeping his gun trained on them.

Isabella clutched Randall. He whispered calming “shhhs,” caressing her arm with the back of his fingers. The carriage rambled on, weaving through the streets. They reached a wretched, unlit neighborhood where dark, scary eyes peered at the passing carriage. People huddled together on the doorsteps of falling, timbered homes, trying to sleep. Drunks wandered about, wild-eyed and talking to themselves. The reek of rot and human waste steamed up from the open gutter.

The carriage stopped in front of a building, the windowpanes grimy and almost impossible to see through. The torch beside the door lit the red letters painted over the window: Richard and Son's Pawn
.
The mouth of a murky alley gaped beside the shop.

Sweat slicked Powers's hair and beaded on his brow. “All right—all right, I'm getting out, and then you're following me. And don't try anything or your brains will be ornamenting the pavement.” Randall exited first and then turned to help Isabella down, quickly putting her behind him.

Powers set down the satchel, keeping the gun trained on them, and tossed up some coins to the driver. “That's extra for the accident. I'm really sorry about that.” He picked up his bag again, hugged it to his chest, and waved his gun. “Walk deep into the alley where no one can see you.”

Isabella kept Randall's fingers laced through hers. They would die together, she thought as they moved slowly into the darkness. How many years had she wasted? So many happy memories they could have made. But it all came down to this slimy and wet alley, which smelled like the mass grave of thousands of decomposing rats. The rhythmic drip of water echoed in her ears.

Randall walked slightly ahead of her, limping with only one shoe. “We can't go any farther,” he said, halting her. “We're at the wall.”

“Keep your backs to me and get on your knees,” Powers said.

“If we just discuss things, we might be able to work out an agreement,” Randall suggested.

“I said get on your knees!”

Isabella sank down onto the slimy stones, Randall beside her. “I love you,” she cried. She couldn't let him go to the grave without knowing the truth. “I love you with all my being. I probably always have. I'm sorry.” Tears fell again. “I'm so sorry.”

“Count to forty,” Powers barked.

“I wasted so many years.” She wept, feeling those years coming back like restless ghosts, thousands and thousands of memories and unhealed wounds. “I refused to see you for who you were because…I was afraid you wouldn't like me. And now it's about to end and—”

“Love, he isn't going to kill us,” Randall whispered. “He's trying to make a getaway. Just remain calm.”

“No, I'm going to kill you,” Powers said. “Now count to forty. Aloud. Start.”

“You were right about me,” she cried. “You saw through me as you do with everyone. I loved my father so much. I loved him. And he didn't love me.”

“That's not counting!” their captive yelled.

“He did, love.” The viscount raised her hand to his lips, kissing each of her fingers and the inside of her palm. “He adored you. He just didn't know how to show it.”

“Judith is right. I keep all this inside me, and it's been so hard for so long.”

“I know, love. I know.” Randall drew her close, pressing her to his racing heart.

“This is very touching, but can you stop making love and count?” Powers sounded exasperated. “One…two…three…and so forth.”

“I never thought—” Her words fell out in starts and stops. “I never thought… Do you really love me? Did you really mean those words?”

“I didn't want to love you. Maybe I've been fighting it for years and I refused to admit it, because I knew…I knew it would change everything for me—who I saw myself as, who I wanted to be. When I saw you being pushed into that carriage, none of that mattered anymore. It was meaningless. The only true thing in my life is you.”

“There's that bloody bugger,” a gruff voice shouted.

“Oh, damn it,” Powers cried.

Isabella turned to see two men in dark clothes and another with a white tail appended to his crotch at the alley's opening. A dark, large object flew through the air, hit the wall, and then a gun fired, raining mortar and brick down on them.

Randall's mouth latched on to hers as he pushed her to the ground. Was he shot? She could feel the hard thrum of his heart as his arms tightened around her. His lips were stiff and his body taut. She was jammed in that filthy, reeking place between the wall and the slimy ground with something hard, square, and with a metal point that lodged under the small of her back. Another gunshot rang out.