Jacquie D'Alessandro (30 page)

With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the white linen, realizing with a heavy heart it was the handkerchief she’d given him. Unfolding the last piece of material she looked down. The emerald ring rested on top of a thick bundle of faded letters tied with a worn piece of leather. She instantly recognized her own handwriting.

She felt the blood drain from her face. These were the dozens of letters she’d written to Philip while he was abroad. Andrew’s most prized possession.

The truth hit her like a backhanded slap, and she felt an overwhelming need to sit down. His love for her was not
of a recent nature as she’d assumed. He’d been in love with her for…
six years
. He’d rescued these letters before leaving Egypt, keeping them with him all this time. And now had given them to her. Wrapped in the handkerchief she’d made him, leaving everything of her behind. Because she’d sent him away.

Something wet plopped onto her hand. Dazed, she stared at the tear, as another, then another, fell onto her skin. All those years she’d ached with loneliness, endured her husband’s cruel neglect and rejection of her and Spencer, Andrew had been wanting her. Needing her. Loving her.

The realization, the depth of his feelings, his devotion, humbled her, enervated her, and she could almost feel the wall she’d built around herself and her heart crumbling, leaving her exposed and her feelings utterly bare. Undeniable. She could hide from them no longer. She did not simply desire Andrew. She loved him.

A sob escaped her, and she pressed her trembling lips together. With an impatient exclamation, she dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. Later. She could cry later, although she dearly hoped she would not need to. Right now she needed to figure out where Andrew had gone, think of a way to help him find Carmichael. Then tell him what a fool she’d been. And pray he’d forgive her for the hurt her fears and confusion had caused both of them.

Clutching the letters and ring to her chest, she paced to the window and stared out at the soft, golden light signaling dawn. Her gaze drifted toward the stables in the distance, and she blinked at the sight of Andrew’s familiar, broad-shouldered figure approaching the wide double doors. Her heart jumped in relief. He was still here. If she hurried, she could reach the stables before he left. But with Carmichael possibly about, she needed some protection.

She dashed to her bedchamber, then dropped to her knees before her wardrobe and pulled out a worn hatbox. After opening the lid, she removed the small, pearl-handled pistol hidden beneath a pile of old gloves. She then set Andrew’s letters and the ring on top and replaced the hatbox. Cursing the further delay, she hurriedly dressed, then, slipping the pistol into the pocket of her gown, left the room.

A
ndrew paused in the doorway of the stables to allow his vision to adjust to the dimness of the interior, his pistol balanced in his palm. He slowly scanned the vast interior, eyes and ears straining for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing appeared amiss, and a quick search ascertained that Carmichael wasn’t hiding in one of the stalls or the loft. Fritzborne wasn’t about, which concerned Andrew. Surely he’d returned from Mrs. Ralston’s cottage by now.

He allowed himself another quick peek over the door
of the third stall where Shadow slept, curled up in the corner on a blanket-covered bed of hay. He’d have to make arrangements for someone to retrieve the puppy for him. And return Aphrodite. God knew he wouldn’t have the strength to come back to Little Longstone again himself.

Forcing his feet to move, he walked into the tack room. After setting down his pistol on a worn bench, he was preparing to reach for Aphrodite’s saddle when he heard Spencer’s voice ask, “You’re leaving, Mr. Stanton?”

Andrew turned swiftly. Spencer stood framed in the doorway, his eyes reflecting confusion and hurt.

Alarm rushed through Andrew. With Carmichael looking for him, the last place Andrew wanted Spencer was
here
.

Andrew approached him, his stomach tight with concern. “What are you doing here, Spencer?”

“I wanted to play with Shadow. As I left the house, I saw you entering the stables. You’re leaving?” he asked again.

“I’m afraid so.”

A stricken look came over Spencer’s face. “Without saying good-bye?”

Guilt kicked Andrew squarely in the gut. “Only for now. And only because time is very short. I planned to write you.” He quickly told him what was going on, concluding with, “As soon I’ve saddled Aphrodite, I’ll take you back to the house. You must remain inside until Carmichael is caught. Protect your mother. Do you understand?”

Spencer nodded. “When will you come back?”

Andrew pulled in a deep breath. There was no time to say all the things he wanted to, but he couldn’t do less than give Spencer the truth.

“Do you recall all those bothersome suitors who wish to court your mother?”

“Of course. We showed them not to pester Mum anymore, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. But unfortunately I fear I’ve become one of the bothersome suitors.”

Spencer blinked several times. “You want to court my mum?”

“I wanted to, yes, but things are not going to work out as I’d hoped.”

Spencer frowned, and Andrew could almost hear the wheels turning in the young man’s mind. “Why aren’t things going to work out? Mum likes you, I know she does. And…and she enjoyed the strawberry ice very much.”

“I know she likes me. But sometimes liking someone isn’t enough. And in this case, it isn’t enough.”

His bottom lip trembled and his eyes welled with moisture. “So you’re not
ever
coming back?”

God help him. How many times could his bloody heart break in one day? Andrew reached out and rested his hands on Spencer’s shoulders. “I’m afraid not. But I want you to know that you are welcome to visit me in London anytime you wish.”

“I am?”

“Yes. And I hope you’ll seriously consider making the journey. I believe you’re ready to venture outside Little Longstone. I’d show you the museum, and we could continue your pugilism lessons.”

Spencer dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I…I’d like that.”

“We can exchange letters if you’d like as well, although I’ve been told I’m an abominable speller.”

“I could teach you. I’m a good speller.”

“Well, it’s all settled then. Except…would you mind
terribly looking after Shadow for me until I can send someone for him?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all. Perhaps
I
can deliver him to you in London.”

Andrew smiled around the lump squeezing his throat. “An excellent plan.”

“Mr. Stanton…” He looked up at Andrew, the distress in his eyes cutting Andrew like a rusty blade. “What if people in London are…unkind to me?”

“I’ll be standing right next to you, Spencer. If anyone is foolish enough to be unkind to you once, I promise you they will not be so foolish twice.”

His words erased a bit of the worry in Spencer’s eyes, but none of the sadness. And it was time to leave. Giving Spencer’s shoulders a squeeze, he looked directly into his eyes. “I want you to know…if I had a son, I’d want him to be just like you.”

Spencer’s chin quivered, then a lone tear dribbled down his cheek, smiting Andrew more effectively than any weapon. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Andrew’s waist and hugged him tight. “I wish you’d been my father,” Spencer said, in a broken whisper.

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and hugged Spencer back. He had to swallow twice to find his voice. “So do I, Spencer. So do I. But we’ll always be friends.”

“Always?”

“Always. If you ever need anything, you have only to ask.” He patted the lad’s back, then stepped back. “And now, we really must go. Why don’t you get Shadow while I saddle Aphrodite?”

Spencer nodded, then walked toward the third stall. Andrew stood outside the tack room, watching him, wondering how a man could hurt so badly when he felt so bloody numb.

After the heavy wooden stall door closed silently behind Spencer, Andrew drew a deep breath and forced himself to bury this hurt, as he’d buried so many others. He turned to go back to the tack room, but had only taken a single step when Carmichael’s voice said, “Stop right there.”

Andrew turned and watched Carmichael emerge from the shadows, a pistol aimed directly at Andrew.

Maintaining an outward calm he was far from feeling, Andrew rapidly assessed his limited choices—choices made all the more daunting by Spencer’s presence. Damn it, if anything happened to the boy…

He forced his gaze to remain steady on Carmichael’s swollen nose and bruised cheek, and not stray to the stall Spencer had entered. Did Carmichael realize they weren’t alone? If so, he had to make certain Spencer didn’t reveal himself.

Andrew cleared his throat, and said loudly, “How long did you intend to
remain hidden in the stall
?”

“I wasn’t in a stall,” Carmichael said. “I was outside, taking care of the stable man.”

Relief and fury clenched Andrew’s hands—relief that Carmichael appeared oblivious to the fact they weren’t alone, but fury that this bastard had gotten to Fritzborne. “Did you kill him?”

Carmichael walked slowly closer, his eyes glittering. “I’m not certain. But even if he’s alive, he’s of no use to you. I bound and gagged him most thoroughly.”

Andrew’s gaze flicked down to Carmichael’s pistol, and he inwardly cursed the fact that his own weapon remained well out of his reach inside the tack room, where he’d set it down when he’d reached for the saddle. He still had his knife, but he’d have to choose his moment carefully. If he failed…

When approximately twenty feet separated them, Carmichael stopped. “It took you quite a while to come to the stables.”

“I’d have come sooner if I’d realized you were waiting…Manning.”

Surprise flashed in Carmichael’s eyes. “So you’ve figured out who I am. Good. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. You led me on a very merry chase these past eleven years, Stanton, but now it’s over. Now you will pay for killing my son.”

“Your son killed my wife.”

“
Your
wife? She was
never
yours. She belonged to Lewis. You stole her. Their marriage was going to unite two powerful families.”

“Your son beat her.”

“What of it? She was his to do with as he wished. If the girl hadn’t been so stupid, she wouldn’t have infuriated him so. Good God, she barely knew how to speak. Her only redeeming qualities were her family connection and enormous fortune.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. “I suggest you watch what you say about her.”

“And I suggest you not move again. I’m an expert marksman.”

“An expert marksman? I think not. You missed me at Lord Ravensly’s birthday party by at least a foot. Your carelessness nearly killed Lady Catherine.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched at Carmichael’s casual shrug. “One loses accuracy at greater distances, I’m afraid.”

“You attempted to harm her last night as well.”

“Her unexpected presence interfered with my plans.”

“And the museum? Was that your own handiwork, or did you hire someone to vandalize it?”

A frigid smile curled the corners of Carmichael’s lips.
“That was me. I cannot tell you the satisfaction I experienced with every hack of the ax. Every shattering windowpane. Then watching your investors abandon you. All small retributions for what you did to my family.” His eyes blazed with hatred. “Lewis’s marriage to the Northrip heiress would have solved all my family’s financial problems. After you murdered my son, I lost everything. Northrip found out about my debts and backed out of our merger. I killed him, of course, but it yielded me nothing more than the satisfaction of ending his life. My home, my business—all gone. You deserved nothing less in return. First, losing your museum, and now, finally, after many years of searching for you, your life.”

A loud gasp sounded from the doorway. Andrew turned, and his heart nearly ceased beating. Catherine stood inside the doorway, less than twenty feet away, her eyes wide with horror.

“Unless you want me to shoot Mr. Stanton, you will cease fumbling with your skirt
now
, Lady Catherine.” Without taking his gaze from her, Carmichael continued, “And if you so much as move an inch, Stanton, I’ll kill her. Now, hold your hands out in front of you, Lady Catherine…yes, just like that, and come stand near Mr. Stanton…no, not too close. Stop right there.”

She’d halted approximately six feet away from Andrew. As he spoke to Catherine, a slight movement behind Carmichael caught Andrew’s attention. Spencer, eyes wide, was peeking over the edge of the stall door directly behind Carmichael.

Their eyes met, and Andrew gave a sideways jerk of his head, praying Spencer would understand to remain out of sight. The boy’s head vanished.

Andrew’s mind raced. How could he get Spencer, Catherine, and himself out of this mess, alive? Carmichael
stood about four feet directly in front of the stall where Spencer hid. Inspiration suddenly struck and he cleared his throat.

“You know you’ll hang for this.”

“On the contrary, Sidney Carmichael will simply disappear, never to be heard from again.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. My guess is you’ll be swinging from a rope very soon.” He made a
tsk
ing sound. “Yes, swinging. Just like an old stall door, just like my old friend Spencer used to do. And would probably love to do again. Right now.”

He heard Catherine’s sharp intake of breath, but he dared not look at her. Confusion flickered in Carmichael’s eyes, then his gaze hardened. “A rather odd choice for your last words, but no matter. Your life is over.” He aimed the pistol directly at Andrew’s chest.

In the blink of an eye, the stall door behind Carmichael swung open, smacking him hard on the back, the momentum throwing him off-balance. Andrew raced forward. Before Carmichael could regain his balance, Andrew’s fists found their marks with two hard, quick blows to Carmichael’s midsection and jaw. He grunted, and the pistol slipped from his fingers, landing on the wooden floor with a thud. Andrew grabbed him by his cravat, and had just brought back his fist to deliver another blow when Carmichael’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp in Andrew’s grip. Andrew let go, and the man fell to the floor in a heap to reveal Catherine, chest heaving, eyes glittering with a combination of fury and triumph, holding a heavy feed pail, which bore a large dent.

“Take
that,
you bastard,” she said to the fallen man.

There were a dozen things Andrew wanted to say, yet when he opened his mouth, what spilled out was, “You floored him.”

“I owed him one. Are you all right?”

Andrew blinked. “Yes. You?”

“Fine. Only sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to floor him twice.”

Holding that dented bucket, her eyes blazing, color high, she looked magnificent—like an avenging Fury, prepared to fell any brigand who dared to cross her.

“It certainly appears you have no need for those pugilism lessons we discussed.”

Spencer hurried toward them, his complexion pale, his eyes wide. “Is he dead?” he asked.

“No,” Andrew said, “but thanks to your mother, he’ll have a devil of a headache when he comes around.”

Catherine dropped the bucket with a clang, then closed the distance between her and Spencer with two jerky steps. Hugging him fiercely, she asked, “Are you all right, darling?”

Spencer nodded. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Mum.” He looked at Andrew over Catherine’s shoulder. “You, too, Mr. Stanton.”

After Catherine released her son, Andrew placed a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and smiled. “I’m fine, thanks to you. You saved my life. Your mother’s as well.”

Crimson stained Spencer’s pale cheeks. “He meant to kill you. And my mum.”

“Yes, he did. You were extraordinarily brave, keeping your head and remaining quiet, then acting at precisely the right moment. I’m incredibly proud of you. I’m in your debt.”

Spencer’s blush deepened. “I only did what you told me to do.”

“And you did it brilliantly.”

A smile curled Spencer’s lips. “It appears we made a good team.”

“Indeed we did.”

Andrew jerked his head toward Carmichael. “We need to tie him up, then search for Fritzborne.”

After Carmichael was securely bound and gagged, they located Fritzborne behind the stables, struggling mightily against the ropes binding him. Andrew cut through the ropes with his knife, quickly explaining what happened. Once Fritzborne was free, Andrew helped him to his feet. “Do you feel well enough to ride to summon the magistrate?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Fritzborne assured him.

After he’d seen Fritzborne on his way, Andrew turned to Catherine. He folded his hands across his chest to keep from reaching for her. “Now perhaps you’d tell me why you left the house, Lady Catherine?”