London's Most Wanted Rake (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
he bed was empty. Channing awoke to the morning with a groan, his body late to acknowledge what his brain had already registered in its subconscious. Perhaps it was the emptiness itself that had awakened him. He rolled over and tested the pillow, the sheets for signs of her heat. They were cold.

Channing sat up and looked around the room. Alina was not an early riser and last night should have given her every reason to sleep late. After the rather frantic but explosive coupling against the wall, they’d adjourned to the bedroom for another bout of lovemaking, this time at a more sedate and lingering pace. It had left them both exhausted, he’d thought. Apparently she was a bit less exhausted than he was. ‘Alina?’ he called out, taking the lazy man’s approach to searching the house. Why get up when he could just shout? He fell back on the pillows, still tired. He’d like to curl back up with her and sleep for another few hours, then talk about marriage when he had her at her most compliant.

‘Alina?’ he called again when there was no response. This was truly worrying. Channing threw off the sheets and padded through the bedroom naked. Out in the other room there was no sign of her. Where else could she be? Downstairs? He grabbed a sheet and descended. He tried the front sitting room. His eyes lit on the chair where a spare shawl had been draped the night before. The chair was empty. His stomach knotted.

Channing bent in half, hands on knees as the reality swept him. Alina was gone! Not just gone as in having stepped out to get breakfast. She was gone; disappeared. Alina had left
him
while he slept in her bed, in her house. Surely she had to come back? The proposal, his confession of love, had it been too much? Was she truly not interested? Had she left because he hadn’t taken no for an answer or was there another reason?

Back in the bedroom he felt the sheets. How long ago? The sheets again. They were cool, so damnably cool. It could have been an hour ago, or more. Thoughts raced through Channing’s head as he pulled on clothes. Where would she have gone? Why hadn’t she wakened her maid? It would take time to check out the possibilities. He could not think straight, concern and puzzlement warring for his attentions. He called for Celeste.

* * *

An hour later, Channing was out of luck. He’d been reduced to shamelessly interrogating the poor maid. The only luck he had was that Alina had awakened Celeste. But there was little she would tell him. Celeste repeated everything for the fifth time. ‘Now she is gone. She packed a small valise with papers and left.’

‘Where?’ Channing pushed a hand through his hair. They’d already been over this. He knew what Celeste would say before she said it.

‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.’ That fact was clearly as distressing to her as it was to him.

‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Where would she go at eleven?’ How did one behave mysteriously in the bright light of day? How did one simply vanish? ‘Did she plan to come back?’ Channing tried another tack. Perhaps he’d focused too much on where she went. It might be better to focus on the aftermath, what happened after she completed her errand.

‘She didn’t say, milord. She didn’t pack anything for a journey, though.’ Celeste answered. ‘All of her things are still here.’

Cold fear tightened its grip on his stomach. Was that because she would be back or because she knew she wasn’t coming back?
And things like gowns and hairbrushes weren’t needed.
He didn’t dare voice the thought out loud. Celeste was on the brink of tears as it was. What kind of woman got out of her lover’s bed and walked straight to her doom?

A woman like Alina de Charentes. A woman who was fiercely independent, who wouldn’t let anyone else fight her battles, who would not tolerate anyone suffering for her. Channing knew in a flash of insight where she’d gone. ‘Oh God, she’s gone to confront Seymour.’ What was she thinking? Seymour had proven himself to be dangerous. Seymour had ordered an ‘accident’ yesterday. Did she think the broad light of day would protect her? It hadn’t protected her yesterday.

Channing pulled out a calling card from the case in his coat pocket. He scribbled on the back. ‘If there’s any news, or if she comes back, send word.’ He dressed swiftly. He had to go somewhere to think and to plan. Outside, he hailed a cab and gave the address for Argosy House.

He wanted to go after her, but he had no idea where she might intend to confront Seymour. Was there an arranged meeting? Before he could go charging after Alina, he needed his team of researchers. They would have an address he could at least try.

Channing leaned back against the squabs of the cab. The slowness of his progress was driving him mad. Alina was in danger and he was stuck in London traffic on his way to an intermediary stop. That settled it. He was six streets from Argosy House. He could cover that distance faster on foot. Channing jumped out of the cab and tossed the driver a coin. Then he began to run, never mind the stares of people who found the sight odd, never mind that his boots weren’t made for running but riding or that he was going to have blisters. It felt good to run, good to be doing something.

* * *

Amery was waiting for him when he bounded up the steps to Argosy House. ‘She’s gone, Alina’s gone,’ Channing panted in the hall. His well-trained staff were trying hard to ignore the sight of him, sweaty and dishevelled, hands on knees as he fought for breath. They were not used to seeing him with even a hair out of place no matter what the crisis.

Amery had a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the front parlour. He barked an order for tea and sandwiches and shut the parlour door firmly behind him.

‘I’ve been expecting you.’ Amery reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. ‘This was delivered early this morning.’ There was a scold embedded there.
I couldn’t find you.

‘I think she’s gone to confront Seymour. Her maid said she took papers from her town house,’ Channing said, his thoughts starting to settle with his breathing. He unfolded the paper and read. The letter was short. It had been written in haste this morning, he guessed. She’d not had time to invest in a lengthy missive without risking he’d catch up.

He handed the letter to Amery. ‘She’s gone to confront Seymour to protect me.’ Channing’s head sank into his hands. Was this why she’d fought so hard against his proposal last night? Why there’d been an extraordinary edge to their lovemaking? She’d known she was leaving him. ‘All the while I was thinking last night would be a new beginning for us, and she knew it was the end.’

Channing groaned. ‘Last night, she knew. She’d already decided.’ When had Seymour got to her? She’d been with him all night except for when she’d gone to the retiring room. Had someone slipped her a note then? They must have, not that such details mattered at this point. All that mattered was that she’d gone out to face Seymour alone to protect him.

‘Why would she believe such a thing? Why would she do such a thing?’

‘Because she loves you.’ Amery went to open the door and let the tea tray in. ‘Quite a lot, too, if she went to all this trouble to slow you down.’

Channing raised his head. ‘What?’

‘Why didn’t she just leave this note at what is it, the Piccadilly house? Is that why I couldn’t find you this morning? It would have saved a lot of time if she’d left it propped up on a table.

Damn her. She’d led him on a deliberate goose chase, knowing full well the places he’d look for her, the place he’d go if he didn’t find her.

Amery passed him a plate of sandwiches. ‘Eat something. It will help. I’ll pour a little something stronger in the tea to make it worthwhile. Nick and Jocelyn will be here soon. I sent a boy to get them.’ He paused. ‘It might be best to say this out loud before they get here. You do understand Seymour will not hesitate to kill her? He’s already tried to do it once. To him, it’s the most expedient answer to a messy problem.’

Channing nodded. ‘It might be best to say
this
out loud. She will not die for me.’

‘Understood,’ Amery replied. ‘Did the maid say what she took with her?’

‘Papers.’ He wished the maid had said Alina had taken a weapon.

‘Papers aren’t much good at stopping bullets.’ Amery was grim.

‘She must have thought they were her best chance,’ Channing argued, not wanting to agree with Amery’s rather dire comment. But then it hit him. Hope flickered for the first time since waking up. ‘She took papers because she had a plan. She thinks she has something she can use to stop Seymour.’ He only hoped it would also be something that would keep her alive until they could find her.

* * *

Alina had a plan. She was going to bluff Seymour into compliance. Actually, it wasn’t entirely a bluff, she was just going to exaggerate the truth a little. She ran through it one more time as the hired cab slowly wound its way through the London streets, imagining how the scene would play out. It was always good to visualise. Was there an argument she’d forgotten? An angle she hadn’t anticipated?

So far so good. She’d made a clean getaway, although it hadn’t been easy to leave Channing. She’d laid a time-consuming trail for him in case he followed her. She had to eat up the clock. The meeting with Seymour wasn’t until one. She had to outwit Channing long enough to make the meeting and then she’d have to outwit Seymour. What happened with Channing after that remained to be seen.

Channing would be furious. He would wake up and find her gone
after
he’d offered marriage. That was exactly why she had to do this. She had accused him of proposing because it was a potentially expedient solution, but she knew better and it frightened her. Channing loved her. He’d spoken the truth last night. Their relationship had stopped being a series of games for him. Now, he was prepared to give up everything that mattered to him
for her
.

She’d never been loved like that.
Channing
had never loved liked that. He was a man who would love like the wolves that prowled the French woods in winter: ferociously, loyally and he would love only once. Those wolves mated for life. They protected each other, they died for each other. The
comte
had shot one that had crept too close to the château looking for food at the end of a cold January. For the next month, when the moon rose, she’d heard the howling of a lone wolf on the edge of the forest, crying for its mate. The wolves had moved on in the spring, but she’d not forgotten the utter desolation in that howl. The cry had penetrated her heart. It was not merely the cry of being alone, of being one, but the cry of a soul ripped in half, the cry of a being who knew they would never be whole again.

She didn’t want that desolation for Channing. It would be better to stop it before it went too far. She could save him from himself if she could face Seymour alone and distance herself from Channing. She would leave London and Channing would eventually find someone else, someone worthy of his all-consuming ability to love. He was meant to love, to be the leader of a pack. But not her, she was meant to be alone.

She couldn’t hurt anyone then with her scandals and her sordid past. It didn’t mean it was easy to be alone, only that it was best, even if her heart broke over the prospect. Channing had offered her the dream and it was a potent one, one she yearned to accept; a happy marriage, a marriage without fear, maybe even a family of her own in the future.
It’s a dream only. You can’t really have all that. What would children think of a mother accused of murder, who did the things you did? They will find out. Society will never let you forget what you were.
That was true, too. She would ruin whatever she touched. She was like the wolf who was cast out of the pack because of its ability to taint the entire group. She’d saved the Deverils the trouble of doing it. She’d cast herself out before they were forced to do it.

The cab rocked to a halt. Alina drew a breath and reminded herself, so far so good. Channing hadn’t caught up to her, or perhaps he hadn’t followed her after all. Perhaps he was regretting his proposal already or perhaps his friends had helped him see reason; they’d tried. They’d done their part. If she wished to go on alone, they should let her. All she had to do now was walk into the building and confront Seymour with her bluff.

Alina stepped down from the cab and paid the driver. She looked up at the building, shielding her eyes from the bright glare of the day. Her nerves quickened. She wasn’t naïve. She knew danger lay inside, although the prospect seemed surreal. It was daylight, the office building looked like every other brick building on Fleet Street, which was home to various businesses, newspapers and printers. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Seymour would attempt anything violent in such circumstances. Everything looked
normal
.

‘Comtesse.’
A man approached her on the pavement, dressed in a businessman’s standard dark suit, but businessmen didn’t travel with two burly henchmen. She noticed them right away, even though they stood at a distance. ‘If you’ll come with me?’ He gestured in the direction of the alley to the left of the building.

They wouldn’t be going inside after all. Alina wasn’t sure if she should feel relief or panic. Finally there was the air of the sinister about this meeting or panic for exactly the same reason. There was no real choice. She had to go with them, the two guards would ensure it, as would she. This was what she’d come to do. She had to see it through.

The alley was narrow, the bright glare of the street didn’t extend into this gloomy corridor. The man took her arm none too gently and guided her to a black door. She was tempted to jerk her arm free, but for a man who looked like a weasel, there was a wiry strength to him.

Seymour was inside. He was alone, but she felt vastly outnumbered by the two hulking men, and the weasel. With Seymour, it was four against one and who knew what weapons they carried. All she carried were papers to make her bluff believable. The door shut behind her with an ominous thud. She couldn’t see the guards. They must be behind her, standing sentry at the entrance, a reminder that she was in this alone now. Let the games begin.