Pale Moon Rider (42 page)

She frowned, then followed his uncomfortably indirect glance down to the torn edges of her gown. “Oh. Yes, yes I can manage.”

“Good. Then dress quickly, if you please. We haven’t: many moments to spare.”

While Renée changed in a shadowy corner of the dressing room, Finn gathered up the coins, the pin, the brooch, and the jewelry case, returning them to the valise. He removed the wine-splattered counterpane, bundling most of the broken glass inside, then turned down the corner of the sheets as if the bed had been prepared for the night. When he was reasonably satisfied with the appearance of the rest of the room, he took the braided cords off the curtains and began tying Vincent’s wrists together.

Renée returned, pale as a ghost but freshly attired in a light woolen gown that closed all the way up to her neck. She had washed the blood off her chin and throat, but her lip was still leaking, as was the cut on her cheek. Her hands, though ice cold, were a good deal steadier however, as she placed them on Antoine’s shoulders and gave him a fierce hug.

“You were very brave,” she insisted. “Just like
papa.
He would have been so proud of you! When I saw you standing there, lifting that bottle, ready to smash it on his head, I could have laughed right in
le cochon’s
face!”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Finn said, “both your father and lady mother are likely smiling down upon you now, bragging to all their heavenly companions what a fine job they have done raising you. You have one more task to perform, however, before you puff out too much. You must take your sister quickly and discreetly to the tower.”

Startled, Renée looked at Finn. “What about you?”

“I will be along directly, never fear.” He retrieved her cloak from the floor and draped it around her shoulders. “I must insure this wretched swine cannot cry out an alarm or cause a disturbance until we are well on our way.”

“We will help. Or we will wait.”

“Not here, mad’moiselle. I would feel exceedingly more at ease if you waited in the tower. I will only be a moment behind you, I promise. And please,” he crooked an eyebrow in anticipation of an argument, “Do exactly what Mr. Hart tells you to do. Even though I thought I should bite my tongue off before saying this, I believe you can trust the rogue. He will see you and the young master come to no harm. Quickly now.
Faites vite!”

Antoine took her hand and started pulling her to the door. “We will not leave without you!”

Finn was already bending over Vincent again. “Yes. Yes … go.”

After checking carefully down both ends of the hall, Antoine and Renée slipped out of the bedroom and hurried toward the tower stairs. Antoine bade her stop halfway and scampered to the bottom, peering cautiously down the long gallery. There was a couple strolling leisurely down the hall admiring the dusty old portraits, but they were still well along where the light was stronger. He retreated quickly and, holding a finger over his lips to caution her, lifted the edge of the heavy tapestry to one side while Renée ducked behind.

The door made the faintest squeak as it swung inward. The sound was no louder than what a mouse might make scurrying away from a tabby but to Renée it was like a scream. It was also pitch dark inside the musty old tower and for another heart-stopping moment, she feared they were too late. Tyrone had gone without them. He had waited as long as he could, and despite his promise …

The sudden scrape of flint on tinder quelled the bubble of panic rising in her chest. It was dispelled altogether when the spark was touched to an oil-soaked taper and she saw Robert Dudley standing against the far wall beneath the curve of the stairwell. His features were stark, distorted by the weak flame, and as he held the taper to a fat yellow candle, the brighter light revealed the worried look on his face.

“I thought I was going to have to go looking for you,” he muttered, obviously not pleased at the delay.

“Where is M’sieur Hart?” Renée asked.

“Here.” The voice came from the blackness beside them.
Dudley
limped forward with the candle, while the shadows retreated to show where Tyrone was seated on the stone steps. He looked, as Finn had forewarned, terrible. His face was drawn, his eyes dulled by exhaustion and pain. His jacket and waistcoat were unbuttoned, his cravat was loose and the ends were trailing down the sides of his lapels. His right hand was cradling his ribs, his left was holding a gun.

“Have you packed all your trunks?” he inquired with mild irritation. “Are you certain there is nothing you have forgotten? Where is poor Finn—dragging them down the stairs?”

Antoine pressed his lips together. “Finn is upstairs dragging the body of M’sieur Vincent into the anteroom to hide it.”

Dudley
had lit a second candle by then and the light reached into the shadows behind Antoine. From where Tyrone was sitting, he could only see Renée’s shoulders and the sagging crown of golden curls, but from where
Dudley
was standing, he could see the bright, dark rivulet of blood seeping down her cheek.

“Tyrone … ?”

But Hart was staring at Antoine. “Say that again.”

“Finn is upstairs—”

“You have your voice back.”

“Then you should have heard me when I said Finn is upstairs dragging the body of M’sieur Vincent into the anteroom to hide it! I had to hit him on the head because he was beating Renée and making her cry!”

“Tyrone”—
Dudley
crooked his head—“you might want to have a look.”

Tyrone pushed to his feet. Renée quickly raised the folded wad of linen, both to blot up the blood and to shield her face from the probing eyes, but Tyrone took hold of her wrist with one hand and her chin with the other. She could feel his gaze hardening as it inspected every reddened blotch, every faint scratch and cut, settling finally on the slash that cut across her cheek.

“Vincent did this to you?”

His voice was so cool, so calm, it caused her to stammer when she answered. “Th—the cut was caused by a piece of g—glass. It must have happened when Antoine broke the bottle over his head.”

“Is he dead?”

She shook her head. “He is insensible. Finn is tying him up so he cannot call out an alarm.”

“Robbie”—Tyrone half turned, though his eyes did not leave Renée’s face—“take them out to the boat. I’ll just go back and see if I can help Mr. Finn along. We shouldn’t be too far behind you.”

“No,” Renée cried. “No, you must not go back in there. Please, Tyrone. You must not go back. I am sure Finn will be along any moment!”

“I am sure he will. I just want to hurry him along.”

As if to confirm her fears, Renée saw him check the charge in both firing pans of the snaphaunce before he reached around and tucked the gun into the waist of his breeches.

“Tyrone, please … it means nothing. Vincent means nothing. It is over.”

“Go with Robbie. Finn and I will be right behind you.”

But she had seen something else when the flap of his waistcoat flared open with the movement of his arms.

“M’sieur
Dudley
”—she looked imploringly to him for help—“do you know his wound is bleeding again?”

“What?”
Dudley
stepped forward and before Tyrone could stop him, he lifted the panel of the striped satin waistcoat. There was blood on his shirt, just a few spots to be sure, but it meant his stitches had suffered too much strain—probably when he had been cajoled into performing a foolish charade for the Misses Entwistle—and the wound was oozing into the bandages.

“I am fine,” Tyrone said. “It has been like that all night.”

Dudley
held the candle closer. Some of the spots were older and darker, some were new and bright red.

“I am going back,” Tyrone said evenly. “Take them to the boat and wait for us.”

“My vote is with the lady,”
Dudley
argued. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I was not aware this was a democratic assembly.”

“All right then, go back. Blow Vincent’s head off. The house is full of dragoons and as soon as the alarm goes out, you can bet the woods, the canal, the roads, and fields will be full of them too. Look at yourself. You can hardly stand without holding on to the wall and you still have to run through the tunnel, row a boat into
Coventry
, and possibly fight off a patrol of Roth’s mongrels with or without an alarm going out. But if you feel you have to risk everyone’s safety to go and kill him, then by all means … go and kill him. I am sure Mademoiselle d’Anton and her brother both will appreciate the gesture from their gaol cells.”

A finely sculpted muscle in Tyrone’s jaw twitched. There was no visible lessening in the fury that had turned his eyes a cold slate gray, but there was a faint glimmer of reason. It took a moment for the glimmer to spread, but it eventually won a reluctant nod of agreement.

“All right. I won’t kill the bastard. But you
will
take Renée and Antoine down to the boat and I
will
wait here for Mr. Finn. Someone has to stay and see that the door to the cistern room is locked behind us.”

Renée touched his arm. “Tyrone—”

“You have my most solemn word of honor that I will not go back and shoot the bastard,” he said to her. “Not tonight, at any rate. And if my word is not good enough for you, mam’selle, then here, take this.” He removed the snaphaunce from his waistband and handed it to her. “The other one is on the step, take it as well. Would you like my cravat, too, so I am not tempted to strangle him?”

It was obvious he was not accustomed to having to answer to anyone or justify either his past actions or future intent, and Renée took his hand in hers, fighting against the minor resistance she felt as she raised it and held the long, tapered fingers against her lips.

“I am sure you could strangle him with your hands alone, m’sieur, but I shall happily accept your word that you will not.”

The resistance wilted out of his hand. His fingers shifted and cradled the side of her neck. “Does this mean you finally trust me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “With all my heart.”

“Never that much, I hope,” he murmured.

“That much and more,” she whispered, rising up against him. She blew out a soft, helpless breath as her lips touched his, but before he could react or respond to the words she pressed against his mouth, she moved quickly away, following Antoine and Dudley through the secret exit to the chambers below.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T
yrone stood there for a full minute without moving, his body dark against the shadows, his hair silvered by the candlelight. He stared at the fake prayer nave long after it was pulled shut behind them and he could still hear the faint echo of her words in his ears, he could taste them on his lips.

Je t’aime.

How many times had he heard variations of the same declaration from women he had known in the past? How many times had he just laughed and plied his mouth, his hands across their bodies until they cried it out again in wild, passionate abandon? For that matter, had anyone ever said it to him sober or fully clothed? Or even in those precise terms? Usually they loved what he did to them or how he made them feel or the fact he made no demands on them and gave no promises in return.

He stared at the nave until his eyes felt dry and he was forced to look away. When he did, he turned his head too sharply and the savage pounding in his temples began in earnest again. His ribs were on fire and his skin was clammy. Maggie had given him two packets of powdered willow ash to take if the pain in his side got bad, but they were both gone and the effects had worn off hours ago.

Where the devil was Finn? He had promised he would not go back into the house—not with the intentions of killing Vincent, at any rate—but neither could he stand here in the darkness and shadows hearing the whispered rush of her words against his mouth without being able to say something in return … though he was not quite sure what it was he wanted or ought to say. “Damnation.”

He started buttoning his waistcoat. He tied a hasty knot in his cravat and retrieved his jacket from the steps. The muscles were stiffer than he had let on and it was agony fitting his arm into the sleeve, but he managed with a great deal of cursing. After shielding the glare from the candle, he slipped out: through the low archway and stood in the darkened niche, listening for any sounds from the other side of the tapestry.

Finn felt a bead of sweat slither down the bridge of his nose and drip off the end. It landed directly in Vincent’s gaping mouth, but neither of them noticed. Finn was too busy struggling to haul the oblivious man’s bulk through the door to the dressing room, and Vincent’s mouth was stuffed too full of dirty linens for one more salty drop to matter. He was dazed and disoriented, his eyes rolled back into his head at every bump and jostle, but he was still weakly fighting to resist being dragged into the anteroom.

“Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and all the saints!” Finn grunted and heaved and shoved the lumbering hulk into the corner, then staggered back and stood bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in shallow, labored pants. “Might I recommend moderation in the future, sir,” he gasped. “In food as well as drink.”