Yankee Earl (30 page)

      
Rachel was uncertain whether to laugh, cry or sink into the ground with embarrassment. “Harry. My sister is quite an adept penman. She used to forge all sorts of notes from parents for the other girls at school when we were young. Once she's seen a sample of anyone's handwriting, she can copy it.”

      
“But why…” He cut off his question, not altogether certain he wished to know the answer.

      
Rachel supplied it anyway. “She's taken the notion that you and I are quite the perfect match and did not like how we behaved this evening.”

      
He smiled grimly, almost seeing the humor in it. “So I've gone from dastardly rake from whom she must rescue you to shining knight she must aid so that I win you.”

      
Before Rachel could reply, a shot rang out in the distance. “Where did that come from?” she asked.

      
“Behind those outbuildings near the woods, I think. Stay here,” he commanded, turning to run toward the sound of voices yelling faintly. One was a woman's.

      
“Are you beetle-headed? Someone's trying to kill you, and you intend to run into the darkness all alone!” she cried out, picking up her skirts and dashing after him.

      
Jason stopped long enough for her to catch up and seize hold of his arm. He pried her fingers away, saying, “Go to the house for help. Someone's in trouble. I haven't time to argue.”

      
With that, he took off again. She followed him, cursing the mule-headedness of the male of the species, and reached into her pocket to produce her Clark pistol. “I always carry a weapon when I go out at night alone. A precaution you would be wise to emulate, m'lord, especially considering present circumstances.”

      
He turned and saw the pistol. “Give it to me.”

      
“Tis mine, and I know how to use it, as you would recall if you had not been so foxed the night I saved your arse,” she replied, passing him at a swift run.

      
Cursing beneath his breath, he followed her. “I wasn't that drunk,” he replied, catching up as they approached a small cluster of dilapidated buildings.

      
As they drew nearer, the sounds of a fight became clear. Rachel heard the woman's voice again and instantly recognized it, as well as a second high-pitched voice. “Harry and Fox!”

      
Jason's longer strides carried him around the shed first, with Rachel directly on his heels. The sight they beheld was almost comic. The body of a tall, thin ruffian lay stretched out on the ground while nearby another hard-looking fellow battled with two opponents. Harry was hanging like a leech on his back, while Fox gripped the man's wrist with one hand and flailed away at his kneecap with Jason's empty pistol.

      
Just as the man succeeded in clubbing the boy to the ground, Harry bit his ear and he let out a piercing oath, whirling around in a vain attempt to punch her. Rachel leveled her pistol, unable to shoot until her sister was out of the line of fire; but Jason waded in, seizing the man by his grimy shirtfront and smashing in his nose. The sound of bone breaking was audible even over the shrieks and yells of Harry and Fox.

      
The intruder dropped like a stone. Harry jumped away. Rachel lowered her pistol, about to rush to her sister's side, when she caught a flash out of the corner of her eye. The attacker who had been lying on the ground had rolled to his knees and was raising a knife over Jason's back as the earl knelt beside Fox.

      
“Jason, behind you!” she cried as she aimed and fired. The sound of a second shot blended with her own, and the would-be killer fell sideways and backward, struck simultaneously by two pistol balls.

      
Both Rachel and Jason turned to see LaFarge lowering his smoking pistol, only to be almost trampled as two of the marquess' “special” footmen came crashing through the shrubs. The stocky little Frenchman held up his hand, and the two beefy footmen came to heel as obediently as Paris and Adonis.

      
Jason turned from his examination of Fox and flashed Rachel a genuine smile of gratitude. But his words were teasing. “My darling, I soon may be the only man in England whose wife is his bodyguard.”

      
“M'lord, you may be the only man in England whose wife
need
be his bodyguard.” Rachel was amazed at the steadiness of her voice.

      
Jason crouched beside Rachel as she attempted to comfort her sobbing sister. But when Fox would have joined them, his way was blocked by his master-at-arms, who held out his hand. The lad knew what was coming. He handed LaFarge Jason's spent pistol.

      
“A Hawken sixty-five caliber, is it not,
mon petit
? A very fine example of American craftsmanship. Your brother, the earl's?”

      
Fox nodded in misery. “
Oui
,
monsieur
.”

      
“Hmm,” the stocky little man continued. Then,
mon petit
, why were you abusing it by using it as a club against that worthless wretch's knee?”

      
“Well, sir, I had already shot the one man…”

      
“Ah, yes,” exclaimed LaFarge, in the manner of one to whom a great secret has just been revealed. “You of course refer to the dead man who was just about to stab your brother in the back.”

      
“Well,” admitted Fox, “I suppose I did not shoot him as well as I thought. I aimed for the center of his chest.”

      
“However, it appears,
petit monsieur
, that you hit him in the hip.” LaFarge sighed and muttered to himself, “Less time on foils, more time on pistols.”

      
Harry sat sprawled in the grass with her skirts up above her calves, hiccupping and sobbing. “Tis all right, dear heart, just calm yourself,” Rachel said, placing her arm around her hysterical sister's shoulders. “You were very brave.”

      
“Oh no, I was not. I was frightened to death. And I bit him! Ugh,” she said, covering her mouth with her hands to keep from gagging. “I shall probably get the plague from the filthy blackguard. Oooh!” she gasped, suddenly realizing that her legs were sticking out for the whole company to see. She struggled to pull down her skirts so they were decently covered, all the while sniffling and coughing.

      
“Will someone please tell me what in blazes is going on?” the marquess gritted out as he arrived on the scene. Soon everyone from Roger Dalbert to the upstairs maid was milling about.

      
“I was w-waiting in Rachel's room.” Harry hiccupped miserably, “Then I was set upon by these two kidnappers. But they were not after me. They must have been after Rachel.”

      
At that, Jason and Rachel exchanged startled glances.

      
Fox eagerly interjected, “The baroness is right. The two cracksmen carried her to this tall, thin man, who became very angry. He said, 'This isn't Rachel Fairchild.' Then, he ordered them to kill Lady Harry because she recognized him.”

      
Rachel embraced her sister. “Good God, my darling. Who was it?”

      
Harry hiccupped again. “It was Frederick Forrestal. I will swear to it.”

Chapter Sixteen

      
“Twould appear our quarry has taken French leave of the ton. Not a soul knows aught of his whereabouts. I do believe young Mountjoy was quite shaken when I informed him of the gravity of the charges against his hero,” Drum said dryly as he poured himself a glass of Roger Dalbert's excellent port.

      
Jason had dispatched a special messenger to London to summon his friend to the Dalberts' country house after the bungled abduction attempt. His missive indicated that Etherington's son was every bit the blackguard they had thought him to be, and at last they had eye-witness evidence regarding Forrestal's character. If he would stoop to kidnapping Rachel to force her into marriage, Jason reasoned, he would also have hired assassins to kill his rival.

      
“What about the duke?” Jason asked. “Might he have any ideas about where his son has gone?”

      
“None. Etherington left no doubt whatever that the young scoundrel has now made forfeit his chance at the title as well as the bulk of the Forrestal family money.”

      
Jason lifted an eyebrow in curiosity.

      
“You left London just before the gossip mills began to whirl with the news. Quite a delicious scandal. Seems the old man has bestowed all the unentailed lands and investments on his nephew Marshall. Fed up with dear Frederick's debts and dueling. Never gave a fig about his dissolute vices but couldn't abide a loser. Left his son with an empty title, some paltry estates, and no way to maintain them or himself.”

      
“Unless he found a rich wife,” Jason supplied.

      
“Exceedingly foolish of him to try for Rachel. As a future duke, even an impoverished one, he could have found some Cit with more money than sense who'd be willing to supply a handsome dowry to make his daughter a duchess. Now old Freddie ain't even got that chance.” Drum's expression revealed more than a hint of relish.

      
“If he is convicted of a capital felony, Lords may deny him the succession?” Jason asked, already pretty sure of the answer, which Drum's nod confirmed.

      
“With the blessings of his esteemed father, who shall bring the matter before that august body forthwith. Unfortunately, I've been unable to catch even a whiff of where Forrestal's run to ground.”

      
“Sooner or later he'll be caught. In the meanwhile, I'm considerably reassured that no one will be taking shots at me or trying to poison me before I depart Albion's shores,” Jason said, draining his glass.

      
“I would not be all that certain,” Drum cautioned. “The danger is—”

      
“What's endangered, eh?” Roger asked as he burst through the door to his library, still dressed in dusty riding clothes from his daily outing. He made his way to the Pembroke table and poured himself a drink as Drum explained.

      
“Jason feels Forrestal will give over his attempts to kill him. I disagree. The way a chap such as he reasons, his disgrace, the loss of everything from Rachel Fairchild to the dukedom, will be the earl's fault. He'll want revenge.”

      
“Now the blighter has nothing to lose, eh, what?” Roger nodded his head in agreement. “We'd best see that Forrestal's brought before the bench, and that right soon. Can't have him popping up at the church with pistols blazing!”

      
“Ah, no. We certainly would not want anything to disrupt your cousin's marital bliss, would we?” Drum asked slyly, watching Jason with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

      
Through the open door, Rachel had overheard the conversation after Roger barged into the library. Before making them aware of her presence, she stood quietly, waiting to see what Jason might reply to Drum's sally.

      
“Since the wedding is scarce a week away, I doubt that my marital
bliss
—” he paused to emphasize the word—“is in any danger.”

      
The irony of his tone spoke volumes to Rachel. He could not wait to escape the odious prospect of marrying her. “Forrestal is accounted to be quite an excellent shot,” she said coolly as she swept into the room. “If he deigns to come after you himself this time instead of hiring incompetents, I would not dismiss the idea that he could kill you before the week is out.”

      
Jason was surprised to see her. He turned, striding over to take her hand and press a kiss on it as Roger and Drum made their bows. After the botched kidnapping two days ago, the fox hunt had been canceled and all the guests had returned home. “I understood you were off for London to collect your trousseau this morning, Countess.”

      
His lips felt warm and hard, sending a shiver of desire coursing straight up her arm to her heart. Could he see how his touch affected her? She prayed not. “Harry insists on accompanying me. 'Twould seem I'm not to be trusted for a final fitting without her present to oversee it. But before we are off to London, she must wait for Melvin, who is arriving tomorrow from their estate to accompany us.”

      
Rachel withdrew her hand from his and turned to practical matters. “Now, what is to be done about Frederick Forrestal?”

      
Jason grinned at her straight-to-the-point manner. “At times you are as tactlessly blunt as a Yankee, Countess.”

      
“There is no need to insult me, m'lord.”

      
Coughing to cover his delight at the chit's cheekiness, Drum replied to her question about Forrestal. “I have Bow Street runners searching every haunt that the villain favored in London, and other agents dispatched to seaports from Gravesend to Brighton. If he's taken ship abroad, we shall know it in a few days. Meanwhile I'm off, headed back to the Great Wen to assume my role as master-of-the-hunt. We shall run Forrestal to ground, have no fear.”