A Lady's Revenge (29 page)

“What is the meaning of this?” Valère demanded, stalking toward the giant he had hired to fetch Cora. The ruffian, dressed in ill-fitting servant’s clothing filched from the Rothams’ laundry, looked out of place in his informant’s opulent foyer. The Foreign Office official had been rather displeased when Valère had requested the use of his country estate. The man seemed to be growing an inconvenient conscience at this stage of the game.

But Valère knew how to control such troublesome states of mind. Everyone, including traitors, had a weakness, and he already had his informant’s well in hand.

“What do you mean?” the behemoth responded in confusion. “I got your woman just like you asked.”

Cora’s limp body slid off his massive shoulder, and she staggered like a newborn foal taking its first step. A dark, wet stain snaked down her left shoulder, ending in a narrow rivulet on her middle finger.

“She’s been injured.” Valère reached out to steady her.

“Aye, well, she tried to run away. So’s I had to give her a little taste of me shiv.”

“You stabbed her?” Valère drew Cora to his side and cupped her jaw, lifting her pale face up for inspection. The black centers of her eyes swallowed the beautiful blue-green rims, and her lips had turned an unbecoming blue from loss of blood. “I did not give you leave to hurt her. Your job was to bring her to me. That is all.”

“If I didn’t give her something else to think about, she would’ve screamed for help. And her gentleman friend was right around the corner.”

Her eyes fluttered shut right before her legs gave way. Valère lifted her into his arms and headed for the staircase.

Marcel, who had been hovering behind the giant, stepped forward to take Cora. “Monsieur?”

Valère caught his manservant’s eyes. “I have no further need of Mr. Porter. See that he is adequately compensated.”

“My pleasure, monsieur.”

“Thank you, guv’nor.” The behemoth beamed. “Any time you need ole Billy, you know where to find me. Don’t you worry about that little prick in your lady’s shoulder. It’ll heal in no time.”

“Come with me, Mr. Porter,” Marcel said. The manservant’s hand stole inside the sleeve of his jacket. “I have your payment ready in the other room.”

When Valère heard a heavy thud echo through the entryway, some of the furious tension left his body. Once he reached the top stair, he looked back to see Marcel emerge from the drawing room. Nodding, his manservant slid the knife back into the protective casing hidden beneath his sleeve. Valère gave the dead man no further thought. He tightened his hold around Cora and continued on to his borrowed bedchamber.

He draped her unconscious body over the expensive silk counterpane, not caring about the scarlet liquid seeping between its threads. Flicking open a small pocketknife, he cut away her ruined ball gown.

And swore.

The opening was as long as the pad of his thumb, and blood oozed from the deep wound. The stupid bastard did not even try to stop the bleeding. It was no wonder she could not support her own weight, not after being jostled around in a carriage for the past three hours. She had lost a great deal more blood than he had originally thought.

Impotent fury poured through Valère. Cora’s delicate beauty, even scarred and pale as death, called to him, and he could not countenance anyone marring her perfection—unless he deemed it necessary.

“Excuse me, my lord.” The housekeeper nudged the door open with her elbow. “Your manservant said you’d need these.” She set the tray containing bandages, warm water, brandy, and various other items on a nearby table. “Is there anything I can do? Oh, my!” she exclaimed upon seeing Cora’s damaged shoulder.

He adjusted the black patch over his right eye, chafing at the restriction. He hoped to God the cat was dead, because if he ever saw the vermin again, he would rip its claws out one by one and stuff them down its rabid mouth.

He turned to the woman responsible for his blind eye, calculating how best to make her pay. “Help me remove her gown.”

The housekeeper scurried to the other side of the bed and gently pulled the flimsy material down Cora’s body as Valère lifted her. He turned her onto her side in order to cut the bindings holding her corset in place.

“Is she shot, my lord?”

“Stabbed,” he said. “Find something for her to sleep in.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Valère sliced open Cora’s chemise from neck to hem and opened the left side to wipe away the drying blood. The warm, wet towel removed the traces of her encounter with the footpad. The trail led to her exposed breast. Its perfection drew forth an unwanted craving.

He should be repulsed by the betraying bitch’s body, not drawn to it. With each swallow of desire, the clicking in his ears magnified.

An image of his informant’s special room came to mind, and his cock pushed against his breeches. Valère’s gaze slid to the hidden panel to the right of the bed, remembering the baron’s instruction on how to access the chamber. A series of three intricate maneuvers, and the wall opened without a sound.

A large bed sat in the middle of the room, adorned in red silk and black lace. Pulleys and ropes, straps and tethers, manacles and blindfolds, and other devices Valère could not name dotted the room.

They were all there for a man’s amusement, affixed to every conceivable surface of the bed, walls, and floor. Valère shifted his gaze back to Cora, to her bared breast. His heart raced with visions of him sprawled naked on the silken bed, of his wrists and ankles secured at the four corners, of Cora standing over him in a transparent negligee, a cat o’ nines slithering through her capable fingers.

His hand slid over her breast, and his cock tested the fabric of his restraint. He closed his eyes, curling his fingers into her soft flesh…

“Here we are, my lord,” the housekeeper said, striding to the bedside.

She stopped, frozen by the tableau before her.

Valère, nearly insensible with his need to take Cora into the side chamber, stared at the plain-faced servant. All he had to do was throw the English
salope
out and drag Cora into the side chamber, where he could relive some of their most memorable moments.

“My lord?” the housekeeper ventured.

And then, when he’d had his fill and his plan was fully executed, he would command her to take out her own eye before he killed her.

“Sir?” the housekeeper tried again, her voice shaking.

He blinked and pulled in a deep breath, forcing calm into his quivering muscles. Within seconds, his icy reserve returned. There would be time enough later to make use of the red room.

“Apply pressure on the wound for ten minutes,” he ordered the housekeeper, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “Then stitch her up.”

Fear flashed across her plain face. “I’ve only ever worked with cloth, my lord.”

He shrugged. “Here is your opportunity to expand your skills. I will be back in thirty minutes to inspect your handiwork.”

Guy wrote one word on a sheet of paper, stashed it under the loose brick, and set off at a breakneck pace for Somerton’s town house. The twenty minutes it took to reach his destination seemed like an eternity, much as it had when they had brought Cora across the Channel.

While waving him inside, Somerton’s butler peered over Guy’s shoulder. “Did Miss Cora remain at the ball, my lord?”

A heated flush suffused Guy’s face despite his best efforts to remain impassive. “Rucker, where is Lord Somerton?”

“In the library, my lord.”

Guy continued on to the library while divesting himself of his hat and gloves. “I’m expecting a message. Please deliver it right away.”

Rucker nodded. “Certainly, my lord.”

Guy rapped on the door twice before entering. Somerton sat behind his desk, piles of reports stacked before him. At Guy’s entrance, the older man rose to his feet with a smile of welcome, which quickly faded when Guy moved to the center of the room and clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

Somerton braced his hands on the polished surface of his desk, his head bent low in an unusual show of emotion. “Tell me.”

Guy did. Every detail, leaving nothing out. He would not try to cover up his own culpability in this debacle. Desolation churned in his gut. His fear for Cora, his anger at his own incompetence, and his need for vengeance were vying for supremacy, breaking his legendary control in the process.

Halfway through Guy’s accounting, Somerton moved to stand in front of the window. Who could blame him? He would not be able to stand the sight of the man who had succeeded in losing his charge—not once, but twice—either. Because of him, Cora must face Valère again. Guy balled his hand behind his back. With any luck, Specter would respond to his note posthaste. Although he did not hold out much hope, he nevertheless prayed the informant had some information—any information—on Valère’s whereabouts.

“A hundred pardons, sir, for failing you both,” Guy finished.

Somerton pivoted and pinned him with the superior stare he had used many times on Guy as a boy. “Let us hope she can be located before Valère does her serious harm.”

Guy nodded, a thousand vicious images filling his mind. Another thought intruded, one that had surfaced on his walk back to Somerton’s. “It is possible she was using herself as bait.”

Somerton’s head snapped up. His intelligent eyes glared at him while his calculating mind worked through the evidence.

Guy said, “Cora was never one for society, though she was adept at playing the part. After we returned to London, she threw herself with remarkable fervor into making the rounds. Now that I think on it more, she seemed to follow the same pattern every day—an unusual trait for a seasoned agent.”

“She was luring Valère from his cave,” Somerton said with a blend of admiration and seething anger.

“Why would she place herself in a position to be tortured again?”

“For the same reason you or I would.”

Guy stared at the dark blemishes on Somerton’s desk. “To protect her loved ones.
My
God.
”

“Indeed.”

“If I had discerned her scheme earlier, I would have put an end to it,” Guy said. “In the beginning, I was delighted that she was recapturing a measure of her former life. Not until this evening did I start putting all of the pieces together.”

“Her cunning is commendable,” Somerton said, “but I would have preferred some notice. I could have set a few men on her.”

With a sick heart, Guy stared at his mentor. “There was no need for her to be at risk. Our men were closing in on Valère’s position.”

Somerton sent him a repressive look, a silent reminder of who was in charge. “We tried hiding her. We tried protecting her. Both to no avail, I might add,” Somerton said with cold logic. “I agree with her tactics but not her method. If she had confided in us, we would now be in possession of Valère’s location. Because she chose to keep her own counsel, we will be bloody lucky to find either deBeau now.”

Cold-blooded bastard.
Even though Somerton’s words had a ring of truth to them, the sacrificial lamb he spoke of with such dispassion was the man’s ward, the closest he would ever come to having a daughter.

Guy choked back his disappointment and fear. “What now? We have no idea where he’s taken her.”

Somerton resumed his seat behind his desk. “Have a seat while we figure out our best course of action.”

Guy hesitated, not wanting to sit. The need to act burned strongly in his blood.

“Helsford. Sit.”

A knock heralded the butler’s entry. “Excuse me, my lord, but Lord Helsford asked that I deliver this message straight away when it came.”

Guy accepted the crumpled scrap of paper. “Thank you, Rucker.”

“My pleasure.” The butler bowed and then backed out of the room.

Guy scanned the short missive. “It’s from my informant. We are to meet in one hour.”

“Good. That will give us time—”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Rucker said, a harassed expression on his face.

“What is it?” Somerton asked, distracted.

“Miss Cora’s servants would like to have a word with you.”

“Not now, Rucker,” Somerton said. “I’ll speak with them in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, your lordship, but this can’t wait ’til morning,” Dinks declared, elbowing the butler aside.

“What’s the meaning of this, Dinks?” Somerton asked, coming to his feet.

Bingham, towing a reluctant Jack, followed Dinks into the library. They squared off in front of them. “We have news of Miss Cora.”

Guy met Somerton’s look of confusion.

Bingham nudged Jack forward. The young man looked as though he was headed for the gallows. Wrinkled clothing and disheveled hair capped the dark circles ringing his bloodshot eyes. Sunken hollows etched the bristled planes of his cheeks, and his tall frame looked to be caving into itself.

“Tell ’em, boy,” Bingham snapped.

Jack stared at the rug in front of him, strangling his hat between his hands. He swallowed several times in an attempt to speak, but no words emerged.

“Is there something you wish to tell us, Jack,” Somerton asked in a coaxing tone.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Go on, then. If you have information about Miss Cora, I should like to hear it.”

Again, Jack hesitated.

The smack Dinks delivered to the footman’s head echoed across the room. “Stop yer shilly-shallying around, Jackson O’Reilly,” Dinks said, fury causing her to slip into her childhood accents. “Stand tall and tell his lordship what you know, or I swear I’ll beat it from you meself.”

“And I’ll hold ye down,” Bingham added.

Jack stepped away from his two friends, obviously aware their threats weren’t idle. His spine straightened, and his emerald eyes settled on Somerton.

“Jack, you have exactly ten seconds to tell us what you know, or there will be three of us extracting the information out of you.” Guy felt a stab of pity for the footman, even though he meant every word. The devil-may-care man had vanished, and in his place stood a guilt-ridden, frightened boy.

“I know where Miss Cora’s headed.”

“Explain yourself, Jack,” Somerton interjected in a measured voice.

“You see… his lordship… my sister… do what he said… she’d die…”

“Jack!” Dinks and Bingham yelled at the same time.

“Calm yourself, boy. Start from the beginning,” Bingham instructed in a gently firm voice. “Leave
nothing
out.”

After a deep breath, the young man closed his eyes and began his heartrending tale, one that left those present feeling a mixture of sympathy, betrayal, and a desire to commit murder.

“Not long after we arrived at Herrington Park, Lord Valère’s man, Marcel, approached me,” Jack began, focused on a distant memory. “He said they had my sister, Grace, and, if I didn’t do what they said, I’d never see her again.”

Guy had already heard the story from Cora, but he could not help asking, “And you believed him? Without any proof?”

Jack scowled. “I’m not an idiot, m’lord. Miss Cora would have my hide if I believed such a thing without knowing the truth of it firsthand.”

Guy’s eyes narrowed at the footman’s tone. “Go on.”

“Well, as I was saying,” Jack continued, his voice growing stronger, “I didn’t believe him at first. I told the frog-eater I wanted proof.”

“Did he give it to you, Jack?” Somerton asked.

“Yes,” he snarled. “The bastard held a lantern outside the carriage window—”

Dinks wrapped a plump arm around him while he struggled to finish the story. Her silent support seemed to be what he needed to continue. He hugged her briefly, and she stepped away as he continued.

“Someone smashed Grace’s face against the carriage window. She’s only eleven years old, m’lord, and didn’t understand what was happening. She b-begged me to help her as she squirmed and cried for release.”

“What did Valère demand of you in exchange for your sister’s safe return?” Somerton asked.

“His man handed me a folded note with instructions on how to deliver it. They wanted to separate Lord Helsford from Miss Cora.”

“Did Valère free your sister, Jack?” Somerton asked.

“No.”

The footman’s face crumpled with the knowledge he had failed both his sister and mistress. Guy knew a moment of kinship with the young man, as he, too, had failed Cora.

“Do you have anything else to add, Jack?” Somerton queried.

“Yes, m’lord. Marcel came to me again.”

A charged silence ignited inside the room.

Guy stepped forward, hands curling into ready weapons. “Jack, did you play a role in what happened this evening?” An undercurrent of menace shifted along the edge of his voice.

“No, m’lord, I swear it. Marcel wanted me to give him Miss Cora’s schedule, but I refused. He was not happy about it and swore Grace was lost to me forever—” A catch in his throat choked off the words. He fought to compose himself and, after a moment, his glittering eyes flashed in triumph. “I followed him.”

Somerton stepped around his desk and leaned against its massive front. “Did he lead you back to Valère?”

A spark of pride lit Jack’s features. “That he did, m’lord.”

“Can you find the place again?” Guy demanded.

“Without a doubt.”

Somerton looked to Bingham. “I need three horses readied.”

“Right away, m’lord.”

“Make it five horses.” Dinks crossed her arms over her bosom with a look that dared Somerton to gainsay her.

“What are you about, Dinks?” Somerton asked.

“We’ll not be left behind, Bingham and me. Miss Cora needs us.”

Somerton’s lips thinned. “You can trust us to deal with this situation.”

“Yes, I have no doubt you will. However, with our help, the little mite will be home that much sooner.”

“How?”

“Just stating a fact, my lord. There are places servants can go and people we can speak to that fine lords, such as yourself, cannot.”

“We will be riding hard and fast.”

A knowing smile spread across Dinks’s face. “I’d have it no other way, my lord.”

Her double entendre was not lost on the group of men. It eased the tension permeating the room by a degree and seemed to infuse a new determination among those present.

“Very well,” Somerton said. “You can follow behind in the carriage. We may need a conveyance to carry Cora and the others home, anyway.”

Guy looked to Somerton. “I must make my rendezvous. My informant might have uncovered information we can use during the rescue.” He looked to Jack. “What direction will you be heading?”

“Due west, m’lord.”

“I’ll meet you all at The King’s Arms, then.”

“I should apprise Lord Latymer on our progress,” Somerton said. “While I am at the Alien Office, I will recruit additional men to bring along. Let us regroup at The King’s Arms in one hour.”

As Guy cantered away, Somerton’s words echoed through his mind.
We
may
need
a
conveyance
to
carry
Cora
and
the
others
home.
The words conjured up the searing image of Cora lying motionless on the filthy table in France. He could not dispel it. Never would he allow her to go through that again.

God help him, he could not go through it again, either.