Shana Galen (14 page)

And now, after all of that, he said he needed her. She should think it all the most wonderful turn of events. But there was one small point that bothered her. “And yet, you did not rescue me.”

“Bloody hell. What do you want from me? If I spirited you away, how many countless others would die? I cannot let my feelings interfere with my work. Too many people are counting on me.”

“
I
was counting on you!”

“Do you think it was easy for me to allow myself to be captured? To watch Foncé walk out of that room with you and not know if I would ever see you again? To pray to God and all that is holy I was not hurt so badly that he carved you up before I had a chance to tell you, just this once, what you mean to me?”

Elinor shook her head. Why was he saying this? Was it another lie? To what purpose? “I don’t understand,” she finally answered.

“Neither do I.” And he pulled her hard against his chest and crushed his mouth to hers. At first Elinor could not move, and she wanted to fight him. She wanted to reject him for all the times he’d turned away from her. But Winn was holding her too close and too tightly, and she had no choice but to succumb. Gradually he relaxed his hold slightly, cradling her head with one hand and cupping her cheek with the other. His kiss gentled, became something sweet and poignant. Unable to resist, and feeling the old rush of excitement at his touch flooding through her, she opened herself to him. The cellar and Foncé and her escape plans faded away for the moment, and there was only Winn. Winn surrounded and enveloped her, and she had no fears, because she knew he would take care of her.

He trailed kisses over her eyes and her cheeks, touching his lips lightly to her temple. “Ellie, Ellie.”

I
love
you
, she thought.
Damn
it! After everything, I still love you.

But she did not say it. She would never say it again.

“I know what you are going to say,” Winn murmured.

She raised a brow. That was good, because she had no idea.

“We need to think about escape.”

She hadn’t been about to say that, but it seemed like what she should have been thinking of saying. She nodded.

“While I like your tower, and I am always a proponent of unconventional methods, I do not think it our best strategy in this situation.” He bent and lifted a shard of broken wood lying on the ground.

“And what is our best strategy?” she asked, relieved he was finally willing to discuss escape options.

“Let me show you.”

***

Winn believed in a straightforward approach whenever possible. As he had told Elinor, he was not averse to the unconventional. He was known for his unconventional methods, though what one man considered unconventional, another considered direct and efficient. That was the case today. Conventional wisdom said to find a back door exit, but the most efficient path—unfortunately also the most lethal— pointed him toward another approach, an approach Foncé and his men would least expect. And it was a hell of a lot better than spending a quarter hour making a crate tower only to discover there was no way to exit the cellar.

Winn knew of one certain exit—the one at the top of the cellar stairs.

Elinor was looking at him expectantly, her cheeks pink and her hair loose and tangled about her face. There was a smudge of dirt beside one eyebrow, and he itched to wipe it away. She looked more beautiful than he could remember. Scenes of her throughout their lives together flashed before him—the light behind her at the altar of the church where they’d married, her softly rounded belly when she was carrying Georgiana, the way she’d looked down at Caroline and crooned to her softly in the middle of the night when she did not know he watched.

She’d always been beautiful—this woman, this wife, this mother. It was he who had not taken the time to notice or appreciate it. She had been right about that at least. But he’d never known she blamed herself. If he could only go back, he would have done it all differently. He would have loved her as she deserved to be loved.

But he could only go forward, and he might have hurt her too badly ever to win her back. His gut twisted in knots when he even thought it, thought he might be too late to save their marriage.

But he could still save their lives. He took her arm and steered her toward the wooden stairs leading out of the cellar. Slats were missing, and the wood was so warped it listed to one side, but it had survived the weight of that hulk of a man carrying him down here, so Winn felt fairly certain it would support the two of them. “We walk up those stairs, ram the door, and face Foncé’s men directly.”

She stared at him.

He raised his brows. “Well?”

“I thought you were hoaxing me.”

Winn scowled.

“That is your solution?” Elinor asked, glaring at him.

“What is wrong with it? We have the element of surprise in our favor.”

“What is wrong with it? For one”—she lifted a finger—“we are outnumbered.”

Winn waved his hand. “I am not going to discuss this with you. I’m the operative, and I say we are going up the stairs.”

“Secondly,” she said, tugging his shoulder before he could start up the steps. “The door is locked. I already tried it.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not worried about a locked door.” He started up the stairs again, but she pulled him back.

“Very well, you may be strong, but you cannot fight all of them. Foncé has at least five guards here.”

Why was he even listening to her? He had the experience, not she. Of course, every point she made was valid, but what concerned him more than dealing with whatever lay on the other side of that door was waiting for Foncé to decide he was ready to deal with Winn. “Not every guard is in front of that door. It’s early. Some are sleeping.”

“But all of them have weapons. You are unarmed.”

“It’s never stopped me before. And I have this.” He raised the wooden section of board.

She reached for him, another attempt to delay him, but he grabbed her hand, kissed it, and placed it by her side. “I’m going, Elinor. Trust me on this.”

He was halfway up the steps when he heard her mutter, “Do I have a choice?”

But she came after him. She followed him up the stairs and stood a few steps below him while he studied the door. She’d told him it was locked, but he tried it anyway. He didn’t relish battering the door and making all of that noise unless it was necessary. It must have been latched on the other side, because he could not open it.

“I told you,” she muttered.

He ignored her and pushed against the door. One thing was certain. There was not a bar across the door, and that meant he could probably hit it hard enough to break the latch. “I’m going to break it down,” he said, his voice hushed. He had to lean close to her so she could hear, and he could smell the floral scent in her hair. “Stay close to me. I don’t know what we’ll find on the other side. Step down one more. Give me some room.”

She did as he bade her, and then he felt her tug on his shoulder again. “Elinor.” He all but growled her name, but when he turned to her, she reached up, took his face between her hands, and kissed him.

He was so taken off guard, he didn’t even have time to kiss her back before she pulled away. “What was that for?”

She looked sheepish. “It might be my last chance.”

“Don’t count on it.” He grinned. He turned back around, rolled his shoulders, took a breath, and slammed into the door. The wood splintered loudly and parted, but the door didn’t whoosh open. On the other side, Winn looked into the wide eyes of one of Foncé’s men. The man raised a pistol, and Winn ducked. The wood above him splintered, raining down on him like oak needles. Winn jumped up, cursed, and kicked the door hard. The tactic was loud but effective. The door came off its hinges—the bloody latch still didn’t budge—and Winn jumped into a room that looked like it had been designed for use by servants bringing food from the kitchen to the main floors of the house.

As soon as Foncé’s man saw Winn come through the door, he ran for the exit, but Winn scrambled after him, cutting his own leg on a slab of sharp wood at the bottom of the broken door. Winn tackled the man just as he reached the door, wincing at the pain in his leg. Fortunately, they were in the back of the house, and it would take Foncé’s men a moment to reach them. The fewer men to fight, the better.

“Winn!” Elinor’s voice snagged his attention, and the guard rolled and slammed his pistol into Winn’s cheek. Winn’s vision went slightly gray, and he dropped the jagged board he’d planned to use as a weapon. With his fists his only option, he wrapped one hand around the man’s wrist and grabbed his scraggly brown hair with the other and rammed the man’s head against the floor.

The useless pistol fell to the floor, but the guard wrestled one hand under Winn’s chin and shoved Winn’s head up. Winn looked over his shoulder at Elinor, who stood in mute horror in front of the battered cellar door. “I could use some help,” he said, jaw tight.

Her brows came together, and then she blinked. “Oh! Of course. What should I…?” She looked about and then reached for a lamp. Winn could only pray she would hit Foncé’s guard and not him. She started for him, and Winn released the man so the momentum of their wrestling bodies propelled them over. He hit a table, but the guard was on top. He couldn’t give Elinor a better target. “Now,” he yelled. The guard drew a fist back. “Now!”

The lamp shattered over the guard’s head, and the man went limp. Winn threw him off, sat, and dusted porcelain debris from his clothing. He glared at Elinor, who was staring with what appeared to be concern at the guard.

“He’s fine,” Winn said. “You waited long enough to hit him.”

“I wasn’t certain where to hit him.”

“A moment more, and I might be the one unconscious.”

“So now what?” she asked.

He rose to his feet. “Now we escape.” He reached for the door, his hand pausing on the handle when he heard the sound of approaching voices.

“Oh, no,” Elinor moaned.

Winn couldn’t have said it better.

Sophia lay in bed, unable to sleep. It wasn’t Adrian’s soft snores keeping her awake, and it wasn’t worries and wondering about what was going on inside her body that kept her awake. Not tonight.

Rather, not this early morning. She peered at the bracket clock on her bedside table. In the dim glow of the hearth fire, she could just make out the hands. Half-past three. So much for the additional rest the doctor had prescribed her. She closed her eyes, snuggled closer to Adrian, who put an arm around her in his sleep, and tried to relax.

But something was not right. She had missed… something. Her eyes opened again. Something about the Maîtriser group. Something about Foncé. But what?
What?

Adrian had told her Baron had been taken by Foncé. The operative had known he would be captured. Adrian and Blue had tried to track Foncé, but he’d proved too elusive. This was also to be expected. Baron had devised the plan, because being taken captive and imprisoned at Foncé’s headquarters was the only way to know where the madman was hiding.

But Sophia didn’t believe that. Not entirely. Baron wanted to protect his wife. He had to know the chances he would escape Foncé’s lair were minuscule. But he was unwilling to desert his wife.

Sophia sighed. That was love. That was romance.

She snuggled into Adrian’s warm embrace and closed her eyes again. “Love!” she gasped and sat up.

“Wha—?” Adrian tried to pull her back, but she resisted.

“That’s it.” She climbed out of bed, lit a taper, and stumbled to her desk. She rifled through the papers, turn-ing them over and trying to read them in the dim light.

“Do I want to know what you are doing?” Adrian mumbled from the bed.

“It has to do with Foncé.”

“It cannot wait until morning?”

“This is it!” She held a piece of parchment aloft.

“Dear God.”

She carried the paper to the bed, where Adrian had buried his head in his pillow.

“Look at this. It’s a report from several years ago by one of our operatives who was tracking Foncé.”

Adrian lifted his head. “This is about the Maîtriser group? Who was the operative?”

“Ah…” She scanned the parchment. “Poseidon.”

“He’s dead. Foncé must have spotted him.”

“Yes, but not before Poseidon filed this report.”

Adrian took the paper, squinted, and scanned it. “We’ve been to all of these locations. Foncé is not headquartered there. Baron and Melbourne checked them all again when Lady Keating was taken. Nothing.”

“That’s because Melbourne and Baron had only the locations listed investigated.”

Adrian gave her a look, the look that said if this was one of her intuitive deductions, he was going to hit her with a pillow. “How are we to investigate locations not listed? That would include the whole of London.”

“No, it would not. We need only determine where Foncé’s mistress resides.”

Adrian shook his head. “He has no mistress. There have been no reports of one.” He held up a hand. “No recent reports. Yes, I’ve read Poseidon’s entry. I know at that time Foncé was seen with a woman presumed to be his mistress. But that was several years ago.”

“And several years have passed in which Foncé was headquartered outside London.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, exactly!”

He gave her that look again, and she almost laughed. Almost, because Adrian was exceedingly grouchy when he was tired and had little to no sense of humor at those times. “Where would Foncé go when he returns, a hunted man, in need of a place to hide and formulate a plan?”

“I suppose you are going to enlighten me at some point this evening.”

“To his former mistress’s home.”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because it makes sense! He would go somewhere familiar, somewhere comfortable. He cannot return to the house where we found him, so where is the next most logical—?” She pointed to him. “Logic, see? I’m using logic.”

Adrian looked unimpressed.

“—so where is the next most logical location? Voilà!” She spread her arms for emphasis.

“This is a hunch,” Adrian said, voice dark.

“It’s based on logic, though.”

“But you have no proof.”

“I cannot sleep, because I keep thinking about it. That’s proof.”

He frowned. “I thought your nose itched when you had a hunch.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps now that my body is changing with the pregnancy, I have sleeplessness rather than an itchy nose. Adrian, you must admit this is, at minimum, an avenue to explore.”

“Fine.” He pushed the covers back and stood. She took a moment to admire his nakedness—the long, lean torso, the muscled back and legs. “Where is this house?”

Sophia studied the parchment, willing that small detail to suddenly appear.

“Sophia?”

“I don’t know. Poseidon does not say, but he gives the name of the mistress. We can determine where she lived during that period, surely.”

Adrian ran a hand through his hair. “You know what that will require?”

“Yes, and if I’m correct, it is quite worth the inconvenience. Baron needs us. It may already be too late.”

“No. Foncé will wait until morning. He’ll want to be well rested before he goes to work.”

Sophia shuddered. She did not like to think of Foncé and his tools. “If it’s any help to you,” she said, watching Adrian dress. He moved with what she thought might be termed resignation. “I plan to go to Melbourne’s residence with you.”

“No.” Adrian’s answer was quick and definitive. “You’re staying here. You are to rest.”

“I feel fine. I’m not going to faint again, and I want to be a part of this.”

“No. I can handle Melbourne’s annoyance and this search.”

“I know you can.” She went to him, put her arms around him, placing her cheek against his bare chest. “But I can handle it too. And, Adrian,” she said when he began to protest again. “One way or another, I will have a part.”

He sighed. “I
knew
you were going to say that.”

***

Elinor grasped the first thing within reach, which happened to be a large book. It would probably not deter Foncé or his men for very long, but it might give Winn and her the chance they needed to escape. She scanned the parlor. Not that escape from this room was possible. There was a small window, but the glass was thick and would be difficult to break. And even if they managed it, she did not think either of them could fit through it.

“Stand back,” Winn said, pushing her behind him. She was still angry at him, still exceedingly annoyed that he had never planned to rescue her, but at least he was making some effort now. At the end. When their cause was lost. “Stay behind me and be ready to run.”

She let out an exasperated puff of air. “I’m not going to run. I’m going to stay and fight.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “With what? A novel? Darling, I regret to inform you that the poets have it wrong. The pen is not truly mightier than the sword.”

“And what do you have?” she countered. “Not even a novel!”

“I have my fists and years of training.”

The footsteps stopped before the door, and the voices quieted. Winn pushed her back, keeping his hand on her arm. Elinor said a silent prayer, grateful for Winn’s touch. The door burst open, and two men stormed inside. Winn didn’t move—so much for his training—but Elinor hefted her book at the younger of the two men, hitting him squarely in the forehead.

“Ow! Bloody hell!” He put a palm to his forehead and winced in pain.

“You might have done better to introduce yourself,” a petite woman with dark brown hair said from the doorway. “She doesn’t know you are on her side.” The woman wore a pink day gown, gloves, and a pretty straw hat. Instead of a reticule, she carried a sharp-looking dagger. She curtsied prettily. “I thought this just the thing for a morning call.”

Elinor shook her head. Where was Foncé? Who were these people?

“How’d you find us?” Winn asked.

The man she’d hit in the head waved his thumb at the woman. “Saint had a hunch. Bloody hell but that hurt.”

“I’m sorry?” Elinor said tentatively. She was beginning to realize these were not Foncé’s men at all.

“And you got Foncé?” Winn asked.

The older man shook his head. “I have a couple of agents searching the house, but I think it safe to say he fled. Probably had a lookout and a back exit.”

Winn gestured to the guard on the floor. “This one didn’t heed the warning.”

“Oh, good!” the woman said, bending to take a closer look at the man. “He might come in useful. That’s quite a bump.” She looked at Elinor and nodded toward the lump on the guard’s head. “Your work, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“I recognize your signature style.” The woman gave a sympathetic look toward the man Elinor had hit with the book. Elinor thought the woman must be having some fun at her expense, but she could not be certain. “You must think us all terribly rude.” The woman stood and held out a hand. “I am Sophia Galloway, Lady Smythe. The man you hit with that rather large novel is my husband, Viscount Smythe. And this distinguished gentleman glaring at me because I am breeching etiquette by introducing myself is Lord Melbourne.”

“They are members of the Barbican group,” Winn added, “and better known as Wolf”—he pointed to the man with a rather large welt forming on his forehead—“Saint”—he pointed to the woman—“and my superior.”

“I see. I must say I am pleased to find at least someone within your ranks had a plan to rescue us.”

Melbourne laughed. “You should direct all your thanks to Lady Smythe. Baron, I am certain you would like nothing better than to escort your wife home, but I cannot let you do so until we two have had a lengthy discussion. I want to know everything.” Something crashed on one of the floors above them, and Elinor jumped.

“Do not concern yourself,” Melbourne told her. “Those are my men. We are searching for anything Foncé might have left behind, especially regarding the plot against the regent.”

Elinor inhaled sharply. “That’s true? I don’t understand why anyone would want to murder the Prince of Wales.”

The older man gave her a long, direct look. “The Maîtriser group is one we’ve been trying to quash for quite some time now. They deal in blackmail and extortion, but I’ve long believed they had more sinister practices as well. I believe they are in league with Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“But he’s in prison now.”

“And who put him there?” Winn asked. “He’s escaped once before. All he needs is another opportunity.”

“And what better opportunity than if England is in turmoil because our future King and regent has been assassinated,” Elinor said slowly.

Melbourne and Winn exchanged a look, but Elinor could hardly wonder over the meaning behind their shared glance.

It was true. There
was
a plot to kill Prinny. It had not been some elaborate ruse planned by Winn to impress or frighten her. She glanced at him. She’d believed he was a spy, but seeing him now, in that capacity, drove the meaning home. Did he do this sort of thing all the time? Break into buildings, fight with armed men, work side by side with beautiful women?

Elinor glanced at Lady Smythe again, not certain why she was suddenly feeling jealous. Elinor supposed it was because she had not known women could serve any function above organizing a household, bearing children, or warming her husband’s bed. Lady Smythe was married, but that meant nothing these days. How could a man like Winn resist a woman like this Saint? She was beautiful and had an air of intrigue about her.

“Would you like to send your wife home and report to my offices?” Melbourne was asking Winn.

“No,” Elinor said suddenly. Her voice was a bit louder than she intended, and everyone’s attention focused on her. “What I mean to say is, I want to help. I don’t want to go home. I’m part of this now.”

“Oh, no. That is out of the question,” Winn said.

But Elinor was not going to back down now. Yes, she could admit she’d been terrified for part of this ordeal, that there had been a moment when she wanted to give up, but she was also willing to admit, if only to herself, that she’d also been elated. For the first time in years—perhaps in forever—she had been part of something exciting, something dangerous, something important. She had planned hundreds of balls and fetes and soirees, but she derived no true pleasure from such undertakings. The tasks were her duty as the wife of a baron of the
ton
.

But right now, her heart was pounding against her ribs, her vision was clear, and her entire body felt alive. She had never felt so alive before. She would not give it up so easily.

“Actually,” Melbourne said, “I would not mind hearing your wife’s account. She may be able to add something useful. After all, she did spend several hours with Foncé before we located her.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” Elinor said.

“No, it’s not.” Winn took her elbow and steered her toward a corner of the room. It was a small room, and his action did little more than give the illusion of privacy. “I do not want you involved in this. In fact, I want you to go home, pack your valise, and go to my mother’s.”

“No.”

He blinked at her, and she realized this might very well be the first time she had blatantly defied him. “Excuse me?”

“No. I want to help you find Foncé. I want to help protect the prince.”

“Elinor, you are not trained in this sort of work. You would only endanger yourself—”

“Actually,” Lady Smythe said from across the room where she was making no pretense of not listening, unlike her husband and Melbourne, “we use civilians all the time. Think of our informants and those we pay to ferret out information.”

“This is hardly the same thing,” Winn said, and Elinor thought his jaw might have been clenched rather tightly.

“Sophia, stay out of it,” Lord Smythe said.

“The situation is not exactly the same,” Lady Smythe added, obviously ignoring her husband’s injunction, “but I think Lady Keating might be of use to us.”

“She is my wife. I am not going to use her in that manner.”

Elinor opened her mouth to point out that he had used her abduction to locate Foncé just the night before, but Winn raised a finger. “Do not say it. Now, you are to go home, pack your things, and leave Town.”