Barbara Metzger (24 page)

Aunt Rosalie took the earl’s arm and led him down the stairs. Then he turned back to glower at the giggles that followed him.

* * * *

Ty was on his way back to Kent, his soldier’s instincts telling him to hurry. Staying overnight with his man Winsted at an inn in London’s seamier side had earned him two rewards: not having to face Sir Clarence, his wife, and Grim Gilbert, and information about Finster Dunsley. Thea’s uncle, they learned, had recovered and subsequently fled from Town, along with his man-of-all-dirty-work, Ice Pick Porter.

Dunsley was being hounded by the duns and Sukey Johnson, all demanding money or his hide. One of his gambling partners had discovered a marked deck of cards at his house when they carried him there, unconscious after the duel, so the law was possibly looking for the knave, too, as were a few of his wagering victims. His niece was the only asset left to the man.

Thea was not safe.

Worse, Delia was not safe.

Worst of all, Ty learned when he sneaked through the kitchens of St. Ives House to raid the petty cash strong box, the Earl of Stivern was headed there, too.

Ty urged his pair faster.

Chapter 27

Ty left his man Winsted off in the village, with instructions to get to Squire Gannon’s place. The viscount wanted the guardianship of his brother’s betrothed settled this very day. As soon as he turned his hired rig off the road onto the drive to Faircroft, he knew he was too late. A quick glance showed him Diablo out in the paddock next to the stables and an old cart with two horses hitched nearby. Closer to the house, one man held a screaming woman, the wet nurse, Ty recognized, Hester Wigmore. Even from this distance, Ty could see the glint of sunlight off a long, deadly blade held to her throat. That had to be Ice Pick Porter, the hired thug.

Another man held his pistol on a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a many-caped greatcoat. “Oh, hell,” Ty swore, bringing his rig to a halt in a stand of trees, and leaping down. The man who held the gun aimed at Ty’s father’s chest had a curly-brimmed beaver perched atop white bandages on his head, like a snowman’s hat. That had to be Finster Dunsley, soon to be a dead man. As Ty crept ahead, keeping to what cover the path offered, he saw Delia in her black gown come out the door, right into danger.

“Bloody hell.”

Ty was too far out of pistol range to chance a shot. He crouched and moved closer, trying to hide his bulk, in scarlet regimentals, no less, behind narrow trees and low shrubs. Luckily neither man was looking his way, for the tree trunks and ornamentals barely concealed a man of his size.

He made a quick dash to a thicker stand of bushes, almost within shooting range. That was all he saw before a solid object connected with the back of his head and darkness fell. No one had told him about Ice Pick Porter’s brother, Brick.

* * * *

Delia was upstairs with the earl when they heard the commotion. They had just seen the duchess and her vicar off, with her maid along to satisfy propriety, of course. The earl wished to see Melinda once more before heading back to the inn for breakfast with Lady Presmacott, which would be the first time in Delia’s memory she’d ever heard of her aunt rising before noon.

Before Delia could go to the window to see what was making such a noise in the yard, Mindle came gasping up the stairs, his coat and spectacles all askew, the old blunderbuss in his shaking hands. “They’ve got Mrs. Wigmore, Miss Dilly. I’m afraid to shoot for hitting her.” He had to sit down, wiping his brow.

Thea fainted and Aunt Eliza started wailing, but Delia had time for neither. She sent Dover to see if the back door was safe. If it was, he was to leave that way, to run for Jed in the stable, or for help in the village. Then she ran for the library, where George’s pistol was stored, the one the army had shipped back to her. It was unloaded, of course, and she had no ammunition for it. The intruders might not know that, however.

By the time Delia got to the door, the earl had stepped out as if for a stroll in Hyde Park—right into the sights of a much larger gun. Delia had no doubts that that one was loaded.

Hessie Wigmore was still screaming, in the arms of a narrow-faced man with close-set eyes and a long, deadly knife at her throat. The earl was standing nonchalantly, one gloved hand in his greatcoat pocket. If this were a purple-backed novel, Delia knew, he’d have a pistol hidden there. In truth, she feared his lordship meant to pull out his quizzing glass. The man whose weapon was trained on the earl did not appear the type to appreciate such an affectation. Nor a touch of snuff, if the earl was about to offer it.

Of medium height, the armed man had dark stubble on his jaw and a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead, under a wide, curly-brimmed hat. An end of the white bandage was hanging loose, fluttering about his shoulders in the slight breeze.

“Put down your gun or I will shoot,” Delia threatened in the strongest voice she could command, raising the pistol she held.

The man cocked his wrapped head to one side as if wondering if this slim, black-clad female would have the nerve to pull the trigger on a living target. “But you can’t shoot both of us,” he decided, “not with that pistol.”

She could not shoot either, with an unloaded weapon, but Delia did not lower her gun.

“So either the nob or the woman dies, too,” he said, spitting nearly at the earl’s feet. “Now, I want my niece Thea,” Dunsley continued more loudly, in case anyone had any doubt as to his identity, or anyone in the house had not heard him. “You get her out here now, and this swell and the screamer go free.”

“I am afraid I do not know anyone of that name, sir,” Delia said, stalling, but lowering the gun, since her bluff had failed and her arm was getting so tired she might drop the thing. “I am the only female here, other than the servants. You are wasting your time and breaking the law, I am certain. The magistrate has already been sent for.”

“More reason to hurry,” the man with the knife shouted.

“She’s here all right,” Dunsley yelled back. “This old cow told us.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Dilly,” Hessie Wigmore cried. “You never said as how I shouldn’t mention the young lady. Only the young gentleman.”

“So the bastard what stole my girl is here, too, eh? I thought he might be, when I got wind where that brother of his went.” Dunsley smiled, drawing attention to the white scar that hooked through one lip. “Better’n better. I’ll want him out here, too. Might as well get my fun while I fetch the gel.”

“Perhaps you would rather have a sum of money,” the earl put in, wiggling his hand in the pocket, suggesting a purse.

“Oh, I’ll never turn down a roll of soft, will I, Ice Pick?” Dunsley asked his confederate with a hoarse laugh. “But I still want the chit, and that blackguard what stole her, and did this”—he pointed to his head, where the bandage was coming more undone—”to me.”

“No, I am sorry,” Delia said before the earl could protest, or get himself killed with a reckless act of defiance, especially if he thought she could back him up with her empty pistol. Mindle and his blunderbuss would be no help, either, the way the old butler’s hand was shaking. “But they have left for ... for Gretna Green. Perhaps you saw a large traveling coach go by.”

“ ‘At’s right, Fin, we did,” the ruffian with the stiletto called over, growing anxious at the delay.

“And I looked in. Nobut a toff in spectacles and a female in furs, and a maid pretending they wasn’t all over each other. Now quit your argle-bargle, missy, and get my niece out here. I’ve got a paying client waiting for her.”

“That’s reprehensible. You cannot send that child to a—”

“She’s my kin and I can do what I want. Now send her out or I shoot this fine gent here.”

White-faced, Thea started to go past Mindle, out the door toward Delia. “I will come, Uncle. Put your gun away and tell your man to release Mrs. Wigmore. She has done nothing to deserve your ill-treatment.”

“No,” Delia shouted, pulling her back and shoving her into Mindle’s arms. “Your sacrifice will not save Nonny. Nor the earl, most likely. Dunsley has to keep him from following.”

Dunsley laughed again, a chilling sound that brought goose bumps to the back of Delia’s neck. “You’re a downy one, missy, I’ll give you that. Too bad we can’t take you along, too. A spirited woman would bring a higher price. Some men like a female what puts up a good fight. And that red hair ...”

Delia felt nauseated. And she could hear Nonny trying to make his way down the stairs on one leg.

“I’m going to count to ten. Then I am going to ruin your gentleman’s fine coat here by blowing a hole through it,” he told Delia, then said to the earl, “I’ll try to miss that purse you offered, your lordship. One.”

Help was not going to arrive in time.

“Two.”

Delia knew in her heart that Dunsley would kill Ty’s brother, and his father if the earl stood in his way.

“Three.”

She glanced at the other man. He looked ready to stab Hessie Wigmore now, just to stop her caterwauling.

“Four.”

Delia had only one option left; she whistled.

* * * *

Ty returned to consciousness to feel agony in his skull and a heavy boot on his chest. He looked up to see a man even larger than he was, grinning down at him through missing teeth. The giant held a brick in his huge hand, daring Ty to make a move. He did not, waiting for a better moment for what he knew to be a futile attempt. He was outweighed, with a bad arm and the devil’s own headache. And he was lying atop his pistol.

He could hear the conversation in front of the house, and despaired that he had failed them all. Nothing good could come of this and he’d been no help whatsoever. Worse, he’d brought Nonny and Thea into this trap, and brought the danger to Miss Croft’s doorstep. Worst of all, the earl was there to see his son’s inadequacy—and possibly die for it. He never wished to succeed the old curmudgeon, even less this way.

Then he heard an amazing sound. Delia had put her fingers to her lips and let out an astounding, piercing whistle through that glorious gap in her teeth.

“What the ... ?” the brick-wielding behemoth wondered, and so did Ty, and everyone else, seeing a little white dog come yipping toward them. Then they heard the thunder of hooves, and felt the ground shaking beneath them. Ty recalled some of George Croft’s words, about getting the horse back: “Oh, I have only to whistle for him,” the lieutenant had said, by Jupiter, and something about a circus.

Diablo cleared the paddock fence as if it were an enemy cannon he had to leap. Then he galloped across the lawn toward Delia, who screamed, “The hat, you spawn of Satan, go for the hat!”

Diablo charged. Angelina bounded. The horse headed for the wide-brimmed hat and the white cloth fluttering under it. The dog raced for her new owner, the one who always had treats in his pocket. She bit Brick on the ankle. Ty grabbed the man’s other ankle while the lout was distracted and pulled him down, then rolled over and reached back for his own pistol. He bashed Brick over the head. Then he hit the big ox another time to make sure he stayed down, before running toward the house.

Ice Pick saw the dog and the soldier coming, and shoved Hessie Wigmore away from him, ready to throw the knife. The earl’s shot stopped his arm before he could release the weapon.

Dunsley, meanwhile, was too busy running to think of shooting anyone. He lost his hat to those huge yellow teeth and hot breath. Then he lost his bandage, unwinding around him like a shroud. He lost part of his scalp, too, before he reached a tree. He might never have climbed a tree before in his life, but Finster Dunsley scrambled up that evergreen like a squirrel.

He would have shot the white horse, but his tree trunk was swaying, and then the gelding capered off, the bandage in his teeth a banner of triumph flying behind him.

In front of Dunsley, beneath his tree and out of range of his pistol, was a half ring of armed men: the officer with his pistol, the earl casually but expertly reloading his prized Manton, the old butler with an equally as old weapon, young St. Ives with what looked like a fowling piece that might or might not be able to reach its mark across such a distance. Four fingers were quivering on four triggers, three aching to send this mawworm to Hell where he belonged; Mindle’s because he was old.

Farther away, a groom stood guard, pitchfork in hand, and the Croft woman held a boy to her, his face turned into her skirts so he could not see.

Ice Pick was on the ground, cradling a shattered arm. Brick was out cold.

Dunsley could not win, but he could take one of them with him, whichever came within shooting range. “So which one of you brave hearts is going to step closer and fire, then?”

It was Squire Gannon, the magistrate, coming from behind with his rifle.

“There,” Belinda’s father said when the smoke cleared. “Now maybe I can sleep at night.”

Chapter 28

The Porter brothers would be transported; Dunsley’s body would be dumped. No one would miss any of them.

Nonny had been restored to his bed, his wound re-bandaged. Thea, Aunt Eliza, and Mindle were resting, thanks to the laudanum drops, and a half a bottle of fine brandy the latter had unearthed. Hessie Wigmore had gone home, her milk curdled for certain.

Delia was upstairs, letting Squire Gannon offer Belinda’s jewelry and a bottle of goat’s milk to his baby granddaughter, once he had washed his hands, of course.

Lord Tyverne and his father were in the drawing room, sharing the rest of the brandy and a sigh of relief.

“Deuce take it, sir, I am sorry you got involved in this hobble,” Ty began.

“Hell, I am sorry I did not shoot the dastard on sight. The rat-faced one might have run off, but I could not be sure, could I?”

“With gallows bait like that? Never.”

They both sipped their drinks, contemplating how different the outcome might have been, if not for Delia.

“Your Miss Croft is quite a woman, Tyverne.”

“Amazing, isn’t she?” the viscount agreed, possibly the first time in recent memory he and his father had concurred about anything. “I mean to have her, you know.”