0764213512 (R) (43 page)

The world went grey. Cloudy. Beset with fog. No one else would solve the problem. No one else would provide the answer. Stella clutched at the soft wool cloak she had put on to fend off the wind. She could depend on no one else. No one else could ever make her what she was destined to be, no one else could give her the desires of her heart.

It was up to her and her alone. If she wanted the love, the husband, the title . . . if she wanted all her dreams to come true . . . if she wanted
anything
in this world . . . then she’d just have to take it.

Twenty-Three

L
ilias listened, unabashed, to the laughter seeping out from beneath the drawing room’s door along with the strip of lamplight. It warmed her more than any fire to hear it, and to hear it sound so bright. So light. So free. She pressed her fingertips to the closed door and smiled through it.

Maybe her methods hadn’t been right—though she hadn’t a clue how she could have managed it differently—but the outcome was. Her Rowena had found happiness. A husband who would love her and the bairn—whom she could love in return.

Soft footsteps padded up behind her, silent but for the muted squeak of the soles upon the floor. “Are we eavesdropping, Lily?”

Her smile only grew as she let her fingers fall and turned toward Mr. Child. “Aye, and happily so.” But she stepped away from the door and motioned him to follow. “They’re content. I just have to listen now and then to assure myself of it.”

“Well, if you’ve had enough of it . . .” He pulled his arms from behind his back, revealing her coat and his. “The moon is out and the night mild. I thought perhaps I could talk you into a stroll, since the duchess isn’t likely to retire for another hour.”

Unless the sickness struck earlier than it had in nights past. . . . But even if so, the duke would gladly see to his wife for a few minutes until she could be fetched. She accepted the coat and, once Mr. Child had helped her into it, pulled out the knit gloves she’d stowed in the pockets.

He led the way out the back, held the door open for her. And when she’d paused to await him, he didn’t offer his arm. Instead, he took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze that made her heart dance like a schoolgirl’s. “It’s a lovely night indeed, Mr. Child,” she said in an attempt to school her reactions.

Useless, given the way he smiled at her. “You could call me Franklin, you know. If you’re of a mind, and given that I’ve taken the liberty of calling you Lily without even asking your leave.”

She hadn’t felt so giddy since Cowan had pulled her away from the feast all those years ago, down to the shores of the loch, and kissed her under the starlight. “I’d like that. And I dinna mind that liberty at all. There are too few people left in the world to call me Lily.”

“It suits you. You’re fair as a lily, especially in the moonlight.”

Heat stung her cheeks—and made her laugh. “Listen to you, complimenting me as though I’m still a lass. And me blushing like one.”

Mr. Child—Franklin—rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, making her wish she hadn’t put on her gloves. “I can’t imagine you were any lovelier twenty years ago.”

“I’d heard the duke was a silver-tongued charmer, ye ken—but no one warned me his butler was too.” Smiling, she bumped her shoulder into his.

Franklin grinned. “And from where do you think he learned it?”

They rounded the corner of the house, to where the light from the drawing room windows spilled out onto the lawn. With the moonlight flooding down from above and the golden rectangles angling out from the house, it painted the shrubbery and trees in sharp relief. But why was a shrub moving when there was no wind?

“What in thunder?” Franklin must have noted the same, for he let go her hand and put a hand on her arm, bidding her stay still. “You there! Show yourself!”

Lilias nearly rolled her eyes—he would have done better to remain still with her, and they could have crept up together, unnoticed. But no, at his shout there was further rustling in the shrubs, and a darting shadow. Franklin took off that way, but a frustrated “Blast!” soon sounded. “Lost him.”

“Did ye see him at all?”

“No.” He huffed back up to her, a hand at his side. “I saw only a clear reminder that I’m not a young man anymore and oughtn’t to be chasing intruders about just to impress you. Brilliant, aren’t I?”

She took his arm, rubbed a hand over it. But she stayed focused on where the figure had been. “Whoever it was, was watching the family. Is that Humphrey fella still locked up?”

Franklin shook his head. “He’d done nothing really, other than trespassing—for which he was fined. But we’ve someone keeping an eye on him, and he’s in Cornwall.”

The moon still beamed and the wind stayed calm . . . but Lilias felt colder. “Who, then? Who would be spying on them?”

Pressing his lips together, Franklin shook his head again and led her toward the rear door at a quick pace. “I certainly don’t know, my dear. But we’d better tell His Grace posthaste.”

Foolish as it was, she almost wished they could keep it to themselves. With such news, the laughter would die. The light would fade. And Rowena’s smile would turn to a worried frown again.

They were walking. Around and around the house, through the gardens, into the wood and back again. Rowena shifted her hand on Brice’s arm but kept her gaze locked ahead of them. Not that she really saw the lawn sprawling before her or the blue sky covering them above. Only the list in her mind with most of the suggestions already crossed out.

The problem was that they weren’t just trying to stop one villain—they were now forced to deal with two, who would be coming at them from different directions.

Well, hopefully not. If they could bring Catherine to justice quickly and efficiently, she might not have time to contact Malcolm. He might never know. Never enter the picture again. Never intrude upon the life she was building at Midwynd.

If only her breathing, quick and shallow now, would remember that.

“Do you need to rest?” Brice drew her to a halt, his brow creased more deeply than it had been a minute before, when merely talking about murderous men and thieving women.

“No.” She forced that old panic down and drew up a smile. “I think better these days when I’m moving.”

Brice lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, then replaced it on his arm. “I keep coming back to the same idea. But I don’t like it.”

She studied his handsome profile, but it gave her no hints. “And why is that?”

“Because it may require you going back to Catherine, to draw her here.”

The idea of facing the blonde again didn’t exactly please her—but it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the thought of facing down Malcolm. “I can do it. Whatever ye need me to do. Tell me yer thought.”

“We give her the jewels.”

Rowena’s legs froze, her feet rooted themselves to the ground. “We
what
? Have ye gone daft?”

Apparently not, given his grin. Or perhaps that was evidence that he
had
. “Well, not
the
jewels. Just . . . jewels. That could be mistaken for them.”

“Are there such things?” She still couldn’t quite wrap her mind around red diamonds. But oughtn’t any gem that someone would kill over be unmistakable? Oughtn’t anything worth so much, cursed so much, be identifiable at a glance?

“Rubies.” He said it calmly, evenly. Knowingly. “They have been mistaken for rubies for much of their existence, apparently. I can get some that are a close match in size and color and clarity.”

Her feet still weren’t inclined to budge. “You can get them. In three days?”

“In one.” He sighed and tilted his head back to watch a cloud scuttle by. “I have already done this legwork. They won’t be the
closest
match, but she’s never seen the real things. She won’t know that.”

“Even so, aren’t rubies of such size and clarity rather dear? Too dear to just toss willy-nilly into the hands of a criminal?”

A fortnight ago, she would have considered the quirk of his brow condescending. Today it looked merely amused. “Well, I don’t intend to let her
keep
them, darling. The whole idea is to have the constable there to arrest her whenever she takes them.”

Of course. Though if something went wrong . . . Well, they wouldn’t be as dear as the actual Fire Eyes. “So we put rubies in a hiding place. I go to Catherine and tell her I’ve found them but can’t bring them directly to her for some reason, that she must fetch them herself—and for some other reason,
she
must be the one to do it, not some hired lackey. But of course, we’re lying in wait. When she steals, she’s arrested.”

“Exactly. Simple, safe, and effective.”

Hopefully. Though she wasn’t sure it was enough to break the curse. Rowena tugged him onward again, toward the paddock where the horses were being put through their paces. She wasn’t much of a rider, but she did enjoy watching the creatures leap and trot and turn. “We have only to determine those reasons. Why would I not be able to bring them? And how do I convince her she must, herself, be the one to get them?”

Brice rocked his head back and forth in thought. “Well, with our happy news, you can claim to be constantly watched. That I or Mother or Ella are always at your side, and that they’re stashed in a place you can’t easily get to—which has also yet to be determined.”

“True. Though wouldn’t a letter be more believable then?”

Brice’s countenance went contemplative. “That would be my preference. It is just that I fear that she won’t take a letter seriously enough. Perhaps a trusted courier?”

Which would involve finding one. “One of the Abbotts?”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps. I daresay Geoff would appreciate the chance to help.”

“As for the other—how to convince her to come herself . . . Will greed suffice? Reminding her that if she entrusts the task to anyone else, they could make off with them?”

“I should think so. And there we have it. She’s arrested, and we have a few years at least before we have to worry with it again—time enough to get a story in circulation about selling them far, far away from here, so that if and when she wins her freedom or someone else looks for them, they follow a trail to the other end of the earth. It’s all finished before Annie arrives.” Brice traced his fingers over hers.

Oh, to be able to think of other things. Of Annie, of the coming wee one . . . of the fire his kisses had begun to ignite inside her.

As if reading her mind, Brice drew her to a halt under the boughs of a wide tree and aimed a warm smile into her face. “You’ve blossomed so, these last two months. When first I met you, you would sooner have cowered in a corner than face down a woman who would insult and threaten and steal.”

Or a man who could ignite passion within her. She returned the smile. “I’m sure I’ve much healing yet to do. But I—”

A crack shattered the air, and bark flew from the tree. Then came shouts, shoving, a whirl she couldn’t begin to process. Brice’s voice, yelling something about
down
. Another, calling their names. Hands pushing, shoving her to the ground.

“Nottingham!” Footsteps, swift and heavy. She could see the feet, recognized the polished but inexpensive shoes. They matched the voice.

“Abbott! No, don’t—”

Another crack . . . a thud. She craned her head around, then wished she hadn’t when she saw the blood gushing from Mr. Abbott’s head.

An animalistic keen rent the air, and she didn’t know if it came from her own throat or someone else’s.