Ransomed Jewels (3 page)

“Honeywell!” the man yelled, and a second man appeared. “Hold this light. I need to see how badly she’s hurt.”

The man called Honeywell lifted the lantern and the other man pulled at her bloody gown.

“Ah, hell, Major,” the man called Honeywell whispered. “Look what the bastard did to her.”

Claire wanted to turn her face from them but didn’t have the strength. Instead she kept her gaze focused on the man hovering over her. The man who gently brushed her hair back from her face. The man who softly pressed a wet cloth someone handed him to her cheek and made the pain seem bearable.

She’d never seen him before. She was certain she’d remember if she had. His hair was dark and his eyes the color of worn silver. He wore the look of intelligence and command. Claire wondered how he’d gotten there.

“I’ve got to move you. It’s going to hurt.”

His words registered in bits and pieces, but not fast enough to prepare her for the pain. She sucked in a deep breath when he gently picked her up. She tried to be brave, but the pain was too great. A loud moan echoed inside her head and she knew he’d heard it, too.

“Get me some cloths,” he said to the servants who’d gathered in the doorway. “And some water and salve and bandages. And get her room ready upstairs. Now!”

The servants scattered to do his bidding.

“Honeywell,” he said, issuing orders as he carried her out of the room and up the stairs, “see if he has any papers on him. Anything to identify him.”

The man, Honeywell, left them and came back before they’d reached the upstairs landing. “He’s Russian, Major.”

Claire saw the muscles at the major’s jaw clench. “Get rid of him.”

“Yes, sir. Where do you want me to take him?”

“I don’t care. Someplace where no one is likely to find him.”

“Right, Major.”

“Then find Bronnely and tell him to get over here. Fast.”

The man nodded and disappeared. The major carried her down the hallway and into her room, where a servant stood outside the door.

“Who . . . are . . . you?”

“Major Samuel Bennett,” he replied, his face grim. “Your husband and I were . . . friends.”

“You’re . . . a spy,” she whispered, ignoring the arch of his brows and the dark look in his eyes.

“How did he get in?” the man asked.

“The . . . roof.”

Claire thought she spied a flash of guilt before he masked it.

The major laid her on the bed and rinsed out a cloth, then placed it on her face. The cool wetness against her burning flesh was a jolt and she sucked in a quick breath.

“Lie still. You’re still bleeding.”

Claire shivered; he reached for an extra blanket and put it over her. She felt its warmth almost immediately but still couldn’t seem to stop trembling. She closed her eyes and shuddered. When she opened them again, Tilly, one of the upstairs maids, was there with a fresh basin of water.

“Maude’s on her way up,” the trembling maid announced.

“Who’s Maude?” he asked the maid before she left the room.

“The mistress’s old nurse. She sleeps in a room off the kitchen,” the maid said, then left the room.

The major brushed back a strand of hair from Claire’s forehead and pressed a cloth against the cut on her shoulder.

“Your face is bruising already. I’m afraid you’re going to be sore for a long time.” He lifted the cloth from her shoulder and placed another one on the cut. “The Russian came for the necklace,” he said, as if to inform her he knew about the necklace, too.

He kept his gaze on her, the hostile look in his eyes as rigid and unyielding as his military stance. His words were soft and gentle, but what they implied was anything but.

He leaned down over her. His movement brought the sharp, chiseled planes of his face closer to her. The steel gray of his eyes was frigid, his look harsh and removed. An unmistakable warning pelted her with a fresh wave of pain and she sucked in a breath.

“They won’t give up until they have it back.”

Claire closed her eyes to block out the pain, and the truth of the major’s words.

This wouldn’t end . . . until they’d killed her, too.

Chapter 2

Sam brushed back a strand of golden hair that had fallen over her forehead and placed another cool cloth against her cheek. He thought maybe she’d lost consciousness, and secretly hoped she had. The less she remembered of this night, the better.

She was paler than when he’d first found her, and the grimace on her face indicated she was in pain. The sticky wetness seeping through the makeshift bandage on her shoulder told him she was still bleeding, although not as badly.

A twinge of guilt touched him when he saw what the Russian had done to her, but it didn’t stay long. Only long enough for him to admit that some of what she’d suffered was his fault. He should have anticipated the Russian would climb in from the roof. But he hadn’t. He’d expected to catch the bastard before any harm came to her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized his mistake until he’d heard the gunshot.

The shuffling of aged feet tore his attention to the door. A plump, gray-haired woman in a thick, quilted wrapper rushed into the room. It was impossible to determine her age, but her eyes were sharp and her movements spry.

“My lady,” she said as she moved from the door, fussing with the practice of a woman who’d taken care of Lady Huntingdon in her youth. “What has happened—?”

The woman’s wrinkled hands covered her mouth the minute she saw her mistress’s blood-soaked gown and bruised face. “Ah, sweetling,” she whispered, wringing out a fresh cloth and placing it on Lady Huntingdon’s face.

“Maude?” Claire whispered.

“Yes, my lady. I’m right here. Maudie will take care of you now. There’s naught to fear.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder to where the butler stood. “What’s your name?”

“Watkins, Major.”

“Watkins, get a bottle of brandy and bring it up. Then go back down and wait for the doctor to come.”

The butler darted from the room and came back with a bottle. After he handed it to Sam, he left to wait for the doctor.

Sam poured a small amount of the brandy into a glass, then lifted Lady Huntingdon’s head and held the glass to her lips. She hesitated a moment, and he knew she wanted to refuse. He also saw she was desperate for anything that might ease the pain. She took a small sip.

“Drink some more of it,” he urged, but she shook her head and turned away from him.

Sam wanted to argue with her, but the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall stopped him.

“The doctor’s here, Major,” Watkins announced, ushering the surgeon into the room.

Sam cast a glance over his shoulder as his longtime friend and fellow agent entered.

Silas Bronnely’s hair was still slightly disheveled and the buttons of his waistcoat not all fastened, indicating Honeywell had roused him from his bed and not given him much time to dress.

“What trouble have you gotten yourself into, Sam?” he said as he crossed the bedroom floor, his long, gangly legs covering the distance in few steps. “Honeywell said you have someone that needs my—”

Bronnely stopped short, his gaze darting from the bed to Sam’s face, then back to the bed. “Well, well,” he said to Lady Huntingdon. “Well, my lady. You look as if you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a fix.”

“A . . . bit,” she answered on a gasp, her eyes wary.

“Don’t worry about talking just yet, my lady. You have nothing so important that has to be said this minute.”

Sam watched her face as her gaze lifted to his, and he felt a stab of something close to anger. Bronnely didn’t realize the lady had something very important to say.

Bronnely turned her head to the side to check the knife cuts on her neck, then pushed aside her bloody gown to look at her shoulder and arm. “Whoever got a hold of you was quite handy with his knife. I’m going to have to put in a few stitches. But if I do my best needlework, I can almost guarantee, in time, no one will ever notice.”

Sam took in the serious frown on Bronnely’s face as he studied the long ragged gash across her flesh and knew it would take more than a few stitches. A hell of a lot more.

Bronnely straightened, then reached into his bag and handed Sam a small brown bottle of laudanum. “Put a few drops in a glass and fill it half full with wine.”

Watkins rushed from the room again and came back with a decanter of wine. Sam filled the glass as Bronnely had instructed, then handed it to him.

“Major,” Bronnely said without looking at Sam. He was busy cleaning the wounds as he prepared to sew her flesh together. “Why don’t you leave us for a while? We can take care of this, can’t we?” He looked at the servant.

“Maude. My name’s Maude. And of course, doctor,” Maude said, rinsing more cloths in the fresh water one of the maids had brought up. “I’ve taken good care of the mistress from the day she was born.”

“Just leave that glass,” Bronnely said, holding out his hand to Sam. Sam handed it over. “We’ll call you when we’re finished.”

Sam watched Bronnely lift Lady Huntingdon’s head and put the glass to her lips; then he turned his back and walked to the door. “Here,” he heard his friend tell her. “Drink some of this. It will help with the pain.”

Sam waited to make sure she followed Silas’s order, then froze with his hand on the knob when he heard her weak answer.

“No.”

He spun to face her. Their gazes locked, and he saw the pain in her eyes. Her face was void of all color except the deep purple bruises growing darker by the second, and a thin film of perspiration that dotted her forehead. Her defiance was unmistakable.

“Drink it,” Sam ordered, as if he had the power to make her obey his command.

“I don’t . . . need . . . it.”

“The hell you don’t. I said, drink it.”

Her eyes brimmed with pain and still she issued him a challenge she should not have been strong enough to muster.

“I’ll not make it . . . that easy for you . . . Major. I know why you’re . . . here. I know what you . . . want.”

He glared at her with all the anger he’d felt since he’d held Hunt’s lifeless body in his arms, and realized that one of the reasons his friend had taken the necklace was because of his infatuation for this woman.

What kind of woman was she that she could bewitch a man as honorable as the Marquess of Huntingdon into betraying his principles and stealing a fortune in jewels to buy her love? What kind of woman could contemplate keeping the necklace that had cost her husband his life?

Only one without a conscience or a shred of decency.

“As you wish, my lady. Far be it from me to force an unfair advantage.”

Bronnely gave him a warning look over his shoulder. “Major, why don’t you leave now so I can attend Lady . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, Bronnely,” Sam said, casting a glance to the doctor. “How remiss of me. Allow me to present Lady Huntingdon. The Marquess of Huntingdon’s widow. Please do your best to help her so she’ll be healthy enough to face the hangman’s noose.”

Without another glance at her, he opened the door and left the room.

Chapter 3

Sam stood in the large, masculine study that once belonged to the Marquess of Huntingdon, keeping his gaze focused on the deserted street from the window. For more than a week, he and Honeywell had taken turns watching Hunt’s town house.

Sam had secretly hoped Roseneau would come to get the necklace himself, and Sam could catch him. But that hadn’t happened. In fact, no one had heard from Roseneau in the four months since Hunt had been killed, which meant Roseneau was still in hiding. But time was running out, and he had to make his move soon.

So did the Russians.

They only had weeks left. Sevastopol was in jeopardy of falling, and representatives from Britain and France were to meet informally to discuss the terms for the conclusion of a war that had gone on far too long. The necklace was a key negotiating tool. It was possible that the British negotiators could use it to convince the Russians to bring about a quicker end to the war. Tsar Nicholas was dead, and his son, Alexander I, was less inclined to continue a war that was increasingly unpopular. The offer to return the necklace might be the one advantage that would tip the balance in favor of declaring peace.

But Sam knew Roseneau would do everything in his power to get the necklace first. The only chance he had of getting out of this alive was to bargain for his life in exchange for the necklace.

And there were, of course, the papers that were hidden inside the pouch.

Sam swiped his hand across his jaw. He wouldn’t let Hunt’s sacrifice be for naught. He wouldn’t let one hint of dishonor tarnish his name.

Sam rolled his shoulder, still stiff from the bullets he’d taken the night Hunt had died. He’d nearly died, too. He should have. Even Bronnely thought he wouldn’t live, but Sam knew he had no choice. He’d vowed over Hunt’s lifeless body to avenge his friend’s death. Even the raging fever that had set in just days after Bronnely had dug the bullets out of his flesh couldn’t stop him from his promise to get the necklace from Hunt’s widow.

He thought of the woman upstairs. The woman Hunt had loved so much he’d betrayed every principle by which he’d lived. And a small part of him wanted to make her suffer for the price her husband had paid to keep her love.

He braced his hands on either side of the paned window and listened.

Although it hadn’t been that long, it seemed like hours since Bronnely had started to work on her. Only in the last fifteen minutes or so had it been deathly quiet. Sam prayed Bronnely was finally finished.

He threw the remaining liquor down his throat and braced his hands again, then hung his head between his outstretched arms. A feeling of dread caused the minutes to stretch by in agonizing slowness. Bronnely should have been down long ago. How much time did it take to put in stitches?

Sam refilled his glass, then stared back out through the window into the darkness. He’d give him another five minutes and then he’d . . .

Sam released a steady breath. He knew the instant Bronnely entered the room. A surprising surge of relief washed through him, but he tamped it down. “Are you finished?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

Bronnely walked to the sideboard and filled a glass with brandy. “It could have gone easier.” He took a long swallow, then sank down on the burgundy settee against the wall. “She refused to take the laudanum.”

“That was her choice.”

“Because you forced it. She doesn’t trust you, Sam.”

“Then I’ll give her credit for not being a fool.”

Bronnely rubbed his temples, then closed his eyes and dropped his head against the back of the settee. “She was in an immense amount of pain.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it isn’t working.”

“I thought for a moment we might lose her. She was weak enough before this happened.”

“Weak from what?”

“Eating poorly. Lack of sleep. Worry.” Bronnely took another sip. “The nurse, Maude, told me her mistress hasn’t been herself since Huntingdon died. Tonight almost pushed her over the edge. It still might.”

Sam stared at Bronnely in disbelief. “You’re serious,” Sam said, unable to mask his shock. “You really think she might die?”

“It’s possible. We have to get some nourishment down her. And pray a fever doesn’t set in.”

Sam felt an unfamiliar niggling of fear and swiped his hand across his jaw. He needed her to get well. At least well enough to tell him where she’d hidden the necklace. Which would also give him the papers.

“You almost look concerned, Sam.”

“Of course I’m concerned.”

“How touching. But I have to wonder. Is it the lady you’re the most worried about or something else?”

Sam ignored Bronnely’s intense look and splashed more brandy into his glass. “It’s complicated, Bron.”

“That’s obvious, Sam. This wasn’t some random thievery. Whoever attacked Lady Huntingdon meant business.”

Sam took another swallow and dropped down into an oversized wing chair. He couldn’t mention the necklace or the papers. He couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Bronnely.

“Surely you don’t think this is connected to Hunt’s death, do you?” the doctor asked, his hand halting midway to his mouth.

“I’m not sure what I think.”

“But if it is,” Bronnely said, sitting forward, “that means the lady upstairs knows something someone is willing to harm her to find out.”

“There is that possibility,” Sam said, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“And your guess would be . . .”

Bronnely waited for Sam to finish his sentence, but Sam shook his head and took another swallow of the brandy in his glass. “I don’t know, but I’m not going to rest until I find out.”

“Then I don’t envy the lady.”

Sam arched his brows.

“Face it, Sam. I know seasoned soldiers who shy away from your scrutiny. You don’t have the gentlest reputation.”

“Then I’ll have to take special care with Hunt’s widow. If she’s as injured as you say, I wouldn’t want to do her more harm.”

“She is, Sam.”

Sam pondered Bronnely’s warning as the two finished their brandy in silence.

“I’ll be back later,” Bronnely said, rising to his feet. “Try to get as much liquid down her as you can. I’ve told the nurse to fix a broth. See if she won’t take some of that.” He lifted his bag from the floor, then walked to the door. Sam followed him.

The minute he closed the door behind Bronnely, Sam turned toward the stairs. He didn’t care how much the rest of the world sympathized with her. He’d be damned if he’d let Hunt’s death be for naught. Damned if he’d let her keep the necklace, or let Roseneau have it.

He took the steps two at a time and threw open the door to her room as if he expected to see the enemy he’d mentally pictured breathing fire and wielding a sword. What he saw sucked the air from his chest.

There was nothing formidable about her. She looked as lifeless as if she’d already taken her last breath. Her coloring was as white as the sheets she lay on, all except the massive black and purple bruises marring her features.

The white bandages Bronnely had wrapped around her shoulder and arm were already stained with blood. She looked as helpless as a child, and yet . . . there was nothing childlike about her. She was all woman. A woman so desirable Hunt had given his life to keep her love.

Sam shot his angry gaze away from her and met Maude’s worried expression. “Why don’t you get some rest?” he said to the older woman. “I’ll stay with her for a while.”

Sam almost smiled at Maude’s hesitation. He picked up a chair and moved it closer to the bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll call if she needs you.”

Maude finally agreed with a nod. “There’s cool water on the table here. That might help keep the fever away. Doctor Bronnely said to give her plenty to drink.” She slid a glass closer. “I’ll bring up some broth before I retire.”

Sam nodded and watched Lady Huntingdon’s shallow breathing. When Maude reached the door, she stopped. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll hear you.”

“Get some sleep. It’s been a long night for you.”

“Not nearly as long as it’s been for her. The doctor tried to be gentle, but . . . she stayed awake through nearly all of it.” The older woman swiped her fingers across her damp cheeks, then closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with Lady Huntingdon.

Sam placed a fresh cloth on her forehead. She showed no indication that she felt it. No sign she knew he was here. He sat down on the chair and watched her.

Her hair was more gold than brown, the color of ripened wheat. It fanned out around her face and glowed a deep bronze in the firelight from the brushing Maude must have given it. Even though no one would know it by looking at her now, he knew her complexion was clear and creamy, and that she had exquisitely striking features.

He remembered how she’d looked the night he’d played the part of Hunt’s coachman and had driven her to Roseneau’s ball; her high cheekbones, the slight uplift to her small nose, the enchanting smile that lit her face.

She’d been the picture of elegance and grace. A most amazing vision. The way her gown clung to her body when she’d walked up the stairs on Hunt’s arm was enough to cause any healthy male to take more than a second look. Her sheer perfection made the Marquess of Huntingdon one of the most envied men in Society.

But Sam knew the perfection everyone saw on the outside didn’t dwell inside the Marchioness of Huntingdon. Why else would Hunt have felt the need to buy her love? Why would he have stolen a necklace to give to her?

Hunt had paid for his devotion with his life.

Sam looked at her fragile outline beneath the sheet covering her. Bronnely was right. She was overly thin. As if she hadn’t eaten well since Hunt’s death. The question was, why?

He leaned back in his chair and compared the facts he knew with what he surmised. Surely grief wasn’t the reason. It had been four months since Hunt’s death. Could she have loved him so desperately that she found it impossible to live without him?

Sam rose to his feet and paced the floor at the end of the bed. No. He knew too much about her to believe that. No. It wasn’t grief that had stolen her appetite.

Perhaps it was guilt.

He walked back to the side of the bed and placed a fresh cloth on her forehead. She shuddered when he touched her.

He sat in the chair and tried to recall everything he knew about her. From her childhood and life growing up the pampered daughter of a marquess, to the last time she’d been seen in public. The day of Hunt’s funeral.

Sam hadn’t been there. He hadn’t regained consciousness until weeks after Hunt had been buried. But every report he’d seen had noted that the Marchioness of Huntingdon held her composure remarkably well.

Hunt had once commented that her only interests were the latest styles of gowns and which balls they were to attend, but Sam knew that couldn’t be all there was to her. The Hunt he knew would never have married anyone that shallow. He could never have tolerated anyone who wasn’t a match for his intellect. And there’d never been anything to indicate Hunt regretted marrying her. Never.

So, how could she not mourn a man who loved her as Hunt had? Surely she cared for Hunt a fraction as much as he seemed to have cared for her?

Sam fought another wave of anger and turned his head when the door opened and Maude entered.

“I brought some broth.”

“Set it on the table,” Sam said.

Maude set down the tray, then picked up a glass and lifted the cool water to Lady Huntingdon’s parched lips. Most of it ran down the side of her face, but a little of the liquid must have made its way into her mouth because he saw her swallow. Maude gently dabbed her bruised flesh with a soft cloth, then repeated the motion.

“Did she say anything while Bronnely was tending to her?” Sam asked

“You mean did she tell us why that blackguard attacked her? No, Major. It required effort enough for her just to stay alive.”

“You know what they want, don’t you?”

Sam focused his gaze on her, but she didn’t answer, and he clenched his hands in frustration. “Why won’t she give it over, Maude? She won’t be safe until she does.”

“You’ll have to ask her that, Major. I’m sure she would if she thought she could. Evidently giving it over isn’t possible.”

Maude’s words struck the nerve she’d intended. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it.

Maude gave Sam a sympathetic look over her shoulder. “I know what the mistress has is important to you, Major. But keeping it must be as important to her as it is to you.”

They shared a look that hinted at an irreconcilable impasse, then Maude moved from the side of the bed and handed Sam the glass of water. “Make sure she drinks. Then try to get some of that broth down her if you can. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Sam listened for the door to close, then took the glass and held it to her lips. He thought she swallowed a little of the water, but wasn’t sure. Next, he tried to spoon some of the broth past her lips. On the first try, she turned her head and refused to open her mouth. He tried a stronger approach and forced her mouth open. She spit back most of the first spoonful, but swallowed the second, and the third.

“Just one more,” he whispered when she turned her head away from him after the fourth spoonful.

“Please . . . no more.”

He placed the broth back on the table by the bed and picked up the wine laced with laudanum. “Here. Drink a little of this. It will help with the pain.”

She tried to shake her head, but the motion was barely noticeable.

“One swallow isn’t enough to force you to tell me where you’ve hidden the necklace, my lady. It would take this whole bloody glass and more. Drink it. You aren’t strong enough to survive much more pain and you know it.”

She slowly turned her head on the pillow, and the raw pain in her eyes nearly took him to his knees. He’d never seen such helplessness. Or felt such a compelling need to protect. “One swallow,” he demanded and held the glass to her lips.

She swallowed once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow. The effort it took to do that much concerned him. He straightened the covers around her, then sat back in his chair.