Andrea Kane (38 page)

“Pierce, you’ve been shot. Are you insane?” Daphne gasped.

“Probably.” With a grimace of pain, Pierce unclasped his wife’s cape, wrapping it around the two of them in an apparently intimate cocoon. “Are the bloodstains covered?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. So are my unconventional attire and our evening’s spoils. Now put on your shoes.” He thrust them at her, donning his own in a few quick, jerky movements. Waiting only until she’d complied, Pierce stepped boldly out of the shadows, tugging Daphne in his wake. “Follow my lead. Walk.”

“Pierce—”

“Snow flame,” he stared down into her confused hazel eyes, a spasm of pain shuddering through him, “trust me.”

With a weak nod, she fell into step beside him, hovering a hairsbreadth from hysteria.

From halfway across the grounds, shouts emerged, and a myriad of guards began racing purposefully over the estate, their plodding steps drawing closer and closer.

“Relax,” Pierce murmured into Daphne’s hair. He paused, waiting until two sentries were nearly within view. Then, he veered Daphne around, drew her against him and covered her lips with his.

“Uh, pardon me, sir.”

Pierce raised his head, an obviously irritated expression on his face. “Yes?”

The guard shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“Indeed.” Pierce enfolded Daphne protectively against his jewel-laden coat. “A little discretion would be appropriate, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand, sir,” the other guard inserted, turning three shades of red. “But Lord Benchley’s just been robbed.”

“Robbed?” Pierce looked shocked. “Good lord. What was taken?”

“I don’t know the details yet, sir.”

“Well, I’d best go to the guest quarters at once and ensure that my belongings are safe.”

“Of course. But first—” the guard cleared his throat self-consciously, “Did you happen to see anything or anyone who looked suspicious?”

“No, I can’t say I did. Did you, darling?” Pierce asked Daphne.

From somewhere inside her, Daphne found the strength she needed. “No,” she murmured breathlessly. “But then, I was hardly looking about.” She paused for effect. “Please, my lord, I’d appreciate your returning me to the manor. If my husband should discover my absence—” Delicately, she broke off.

“Of course, sweet.” Pierce gave the guards a meaningful look. “I’m sure you’ll forgive us? I’d like to see the lady to her room before any irrevocable damage has been done.”

“By all means, sir. We apologize for detaining you.”

Backing off, the guards darted onward.

Ten minutes later, Pierce shoved Daphne through the gates and weaved his way onto the road beside her. By this time, he was sheet-white, and nothing could disguise the blood soaking through his coat and running down his arm.

“The sentries who were here earlier,” Pierce gazed about, blinking to clear his vision, “by now they’re all inside, swarming the grounds.” Sharply, he inhaled, leaning against a tree. “We should be—all right.”

“Stay here,” Daphne commanded.

She didn’t wait for a reply. Breaking into a run, she raced toward the grove of trees that concealed their carnage. Minutes later, she rode up to collect her rapidly fading husband.

“The carriage. You’re too—close to the manor,” Pierce rasped in protest.

“I don’t give a damn.” Daphne wrapped her arm about his waist. “The sooner you’re in that carriage, the sooner we’ll be gone. Now, help me.”

Between the two of them, Pierce made it into the front seat.

Daphne climbed in beside him, slapped the reins and sped off into the night.

“What if the servants are awake?” Pierce muttered as Daphne half dragged, half carried him up the stairs at Markham.

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.” She urged him toward the landing, praying they would reach his bedchamber without incident. The ride home had been a nightmare, with Pierce in a semi-conscious state. Never before had Daphne been so grateful to arrive anywhere as she’d been when they passed through Markham’s iron gates.

With a physical strength she never knew she possessed, Daphne maneuvered Pierce down the hall and into his chambers. She locked the door behind them, her insides wrenching with apprehension as her husband collapsed on the bed.

She went to him at once, flinging aside her blood-soaked cape, and gingerly peeling off his coat and shirt. Then she fetched a basin of water and went to work cleansing the wounded area, simultaneously assessing the severity of the injury.

“A flesh wound.” Despite Pierce’s condition, he recognized the panicked look on Daphne’s face and attempted to assuage it. Averting his head, he stared dazedly at his oozing shoulder. “The bullet just grazed me.”

“Thank God. Still, you’ve lost a great deal of blood.” Schooling her features, Daphne continued to wash the wound, determined to conceal her distress.

Her hands shook as she rinsed out the cloth, watched the basin water turn a sickly shade of red.

“Daphne,” Pierce stayed her with his other hand, “I’m fine. Just weak.”

“I’ll bind the area,” she said in a quavery voice, rising to walk to his double chest. “It will help stop the bleeding.” She took out several clean handkerchiefs and returned to the bed. Carefully, she wrapped the injured shoulder, putting as much pressure on it as she dared without causing Pierce undue pain.

Her own head spinning, Daphne fought for composure, crossing the room to pour Pierce a brandy. “This will help the pain,” she whispered.

Gratefully, Pierce tossed off the drink, relieved as the spirits did their work, dulling the agony to a dull, tolerable throb.

“Is it easing?” Daphne asked, stroking Pierce’s jaw with cold, shaking fingers.

He nodded, turning his lips into her palm. “I’ve survived worse.” His glazed stare fell on his discarded coat. “Thompson. He’s expecting me in London.”

“Thompson?” A pucker formed between Daphne’s brows. “Mr. Thompson? The jeweler?”

Pierce gave her a slight smile. “Um-hum. The one who bought your brooch for so unexpectedly high a price.”

“How did you know—?” Daphne broke off, realization dawning on her face. “You were there.”

“Not only there, but the proud owner of that hideous pin.” A chuckle, despite his muddled senses. “You were remarkable for a novice.”

“Thompson.” Daphne was thinking aloud. “He’s your contact, isn’t he? The one who buys the jewels you take.”

“Passionate, beautiful, and clever.”

“That’s how you knew I donated the money to the school.” Rapidly, the pieces fell into place. “You followed me from Mr. Thompson’s shop. How could you be certain I’d choose his store in which to peddle Mama’s brooch?”

“I couldn’t.” Pierce caressed her fingertips. “ ’Twas not even a gamble, but a lucky twist of fate.”

“When is Mr. Thompson expecting you?”

“Before dawn.”

“And which workhouse had you planned to visit?”

Silence.

“Pierce, tell me.”

“The Faithful Heart,” was the reluctant reply.

“In the East End. I know the place.” Daphne inhaled sharply. “I’ll wash and change clothes. Then, I’ll take our booty, plus a bit extra, ride to London and perform both errands. I’ll be back by midday.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll tell the staff you took ill and need complete privacy and bed rest. That way you won’t be disturbed during my absence. Have I omitted anything?”

“Yes.” Pierce struggled to a sitting position. “I have no intention of allowing you to go.”

Daphne bent forward, brushing Pierce’s lips in the softest of kisses, thanking God for sparing him. “My heroic husband.” She withdrew Pierce’s blade from his pocket, raising her skirts and tucking the knife safely beneath her concealing petticoats. “I’m afraid you haven’t a choice.”

Pierce was up, pacing unsteadily, when Daphne entered his bedchamber just after noon.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, closing the door behind her. “Your wound—”

“Is fine,” he retorted, making his way toward her. “I changed the bandage an hour ago. The bleeding has stopped. I’ll mend. What am I doing? Worrying about you.” Fiercely, he wrapped his good arm about her and drew her against him. “You’ve been gone forever. Thank God you’re safe.”

Daphne wound her arms about his waist. “This from the man who doesn’t believe in prayers?” she murmured, laying her cheek against his chest.

“Did Thompson try anything unethical? Did he cheat you? Doubt you? Hurt you in any way?”

“No. Actually, he was quite amused by the whole situation.” Daphne extracted the blade, handing it to Pierce with an impish grin. “However, he did offer me a job.”

“Very humorous. What about the workhouse? Did you have any trouble?”

“No, no, and no.” Tentatively, Daphne touched Pierce’s bandages. “Tell me you’re all right.”

“Now I am.” He buried his lips in her hair. “Christ, I was frantic.”

“I understand. I’d feel precisely the same way.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“Pierce, you were almost killed.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, reliving the moment when he’d believed himself caught, when all he could think of was losing Daphne.

When, for the first time in thirty years, his life mattered more than his cause.

And when he’d suddenly, vividly, known what he stood to lose.

“I heard that gunshot,” Daphne was saying in a strangled tone. “I saw you struck, and all I could think of was—” She broke off, fought to regain her composure. “No. I won’t do this.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I need you, Pierce. But I also love you. I can’t—won’t ask you to relinquish your quest. I understand the bond you share with the children. Lord knows, I care for their happiness as much as you do. So whatever decision you make, I’ll respect, and leave it to God to bring you home safely to me.” She stepped back, took Pierce’s hand in hers. “Here,” she said in an aching whisper.

Pierce opened his eyes in time to see his wife press a large sapphire into his palm.

“You didn’t specify which stone you wanted me to save,” she managed. “So I had Mr. Thompson pry this from the chest. I hope you approve of my choice.”

A wave of emotion engulfed Pierce’s heart. For a long moment he stared down at the glistening gem, awed by his wife’s selflessness, more awed by the realization that the decision he’d so vehemently sought had, in the end, found him.

“A most impressive gem,” he replied, his voice oddly choked. “We’ll put it in the drawer with my cravats as a covert symbol of our one unforgettable crime together.” His thumb stroked tears from her cheeks. “It’s time,” he pronounced soberly. “As of now the Tin Cup Bandit will restrict himself solely to the second half of his ritual.

“Once a month I’ll leave a tin cup of money in a workhouse of my choosing. And if I’m caught, well, I’ll merely attribute my odd brand of generosity to all the inspiring articles I’ve read on the Tin Cup Bandit. The
retired
Tin Cup Bandit. The difference, however, will be that, unlike my predecessor, my actions will be totally legal. And I can’t be shot or hung for donating my own funds, now can I?”

Wordlessly, Daphne smiled through her tears.

“Am I to assume you approve of my plan?” Seeing the question in his wife’s eyes, Pierce shook his head. “I’m not doing this for you, Snow flame.” He tossed the sapphire to the bed, extending his now empty hand to her, offering her their future. “I’m doing this for me.”

“No, Pierce,” Daphne demurred softly, drawing his palm close, placing it against her abdomen to share her newly discovered miracle. “You’re doing this for our child.”

“W
HAT INFORMATION HAVE YOU
brought me, Larson?”

Tragmore perched on the edge of his desk, his eyes narrowed expectantly on the investigator.

“Very little, sir. The marchioness keeps mostly to herself. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I see no evidence of improper behavior, and certainly no indication that your wife is being unfaithful.”

“Does that mean no guests have visited Rutland?”

“Other than your clergyman, no.”

“Chambers?” Tragmore sat up straighten “He called on Elizabeth again? Was he alone?”

“Yes sir, just as he was on the two previous occasions.” Larson glanced at his notes and shrugged. “He arrived shortly before four in the afternoon, evidently for tea. The butler ushered him into the drawing room, the maid put the flowers in a vase, and—”

“Flowers?” Tragmore jumped on that revelation. “The vicar brought flowers?”

Larson started, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of Tragmore’s tone. “A mere formality, my lord,” he hastened to assure him. “Nothing more lavish than any casual caller would offer.”

“Nothing lavish. Were they yellow, perchance?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, they were.”

“Yellow roses,” Tragmore muttered, bitterness and satisfaction lacing his tone. “How charming.”

“My lord, if you’re suggesting that anything indiscreet transpired between the marchioness and the vicar, I must assure you—”

“I don’t pay you to assure me, Larson,” Tragmore snapped. “Nor do I pay you for your interpretations of my wife’s behavior. To refresh your memory, I pay you to uncover information and to relay it. Bear that in mind.”

“Very well, my lord.”

“The roses. You saw the vicar present them to the marchioness?”

Larson nodded. “I did. I was, as always, concealed in the hedges just outside the drawing-room window. I don’t dare move about during daylight hours. The duke has numerous guards stalking the grounds.”

Impatiently, Tragmore waved away Larson’s meandering explanation. “What happened after Chambers gave Elizabeth the flowers?”

“She gestured for him to take a seat, which he did. He stayed only long enough to drink one cup of tea, then took his leave.”

“Did he sit beside Elizabeth?”

“No, my lord.” Larson rustled the paper in his hand. “As I’ve indicated in my report, the vicar sat in an arm chair, the marchioness on a settee. They made not the slightest attempt at physical contact. They simply chatted.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Not through the closed window, no. But judging from their serene expressions, I would suggest the vicar was offering counsel to Lady Tragmore. A qualified opinion, my lord. Not an interpretation,” Larson added.