The Diamond Key (23 page)

He saw Ingall walk the dog early in the morning, and he saw him walk it late at night. Great gods, did the man not understand that was what servants were for?

Boyce could not wait any longer. His money was dwindling, along with his patience. Besides, since his pockets stank of sausage, strange dogs had taken to following him around. He revised his plan.

First he grabbed one of the street dogs. After he bandaged his hand, he was more selective, coaxing the second stray with a bit of sausage. It ran off before he could get the rope around its neck. The third mongrel was too old to run and too tired to care. It was missing an ear, half its tail, and some of its teeth. For a bite of the sausage, it would have followed Boyce to hell and back.

So Boyce slipped a noose around its neck and pulled his slouch hat down low on his forehead. He pretended to be out for a stroll, pretending the club in his hand was a walking stick, and the ugliest creature in the world was his faithful companion. When he saw his quarry walking toward him, he touched the brim of his hat.

“Mornin’. Nice dog, that.”

Wynn nodded politely and paused while the two dogs investigated each other. “A, uh, handsome chap you have there, too.” He moved on, whistling for Homer to come along.

Boyce waited, then followed. When Ingall reached the end of the block, headed toward the gardens, Boyce pulled the old dog faster. No one was in sight, no one would hear any outcries. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but it was now or never.

It was never for the old dog. The sausage was gone, and he had no hurry left in him. He lay down. Boyce pulled, the dog snarled. Boyce pretended he had more sausage in his hand. The dog bit him. Boyce raised his club. “Why, you miserable, worthless—”

“I say, is there a problem? Your dog appears to be sick.” Wynn bent down to examine the ancient mutt.

And Boyce brought the club down on his head.

He had done it! He had actually succeeded in separating Ingall from his pet. Things were finally going his way. Boyce almost danced with joy, except he still had to catch the little ratter.

There was the dog, jumping around out of arms’ reach, snarling and showing its teeth ... and there was Ingall, stretched out cold on the ground. Boyce’s wagon was close by. The dog ... or Lady Torrie’s lover? It was a hard choice, all right.

* * * *

Wynn awoke with Satan playing cymbals in his skull. He tried to rub his aching head, but discovered that his hands were tied behind him. His feet were tied to the legs of the battered chair he sat on.

He grimaced against the pain and made his eyes look around. He was in a hovel of some kind, cold, dark, and dirty, with little furniture beyond his chair and a littered table. Someone had obviously been here recently, for the grease stains were fresh and the wine in one of the chipped glasses had not yet dried. The ashes in the fireplace still smelled of smoke, although no new fire had been laid. He twisted around and spotted another room, but could not see past the doorway.

“Hey,” he called out. “Who is there?”

No one answered. The front door was shut tightly, but the windows were not covered, so his assailant must not be worried about neighbors peering in. It was still daylight, but gray and overcast, so Wynn could not tell the time by the sun’s position. He could hear no peddlers’ calls or carriage wheels, so guessed he had been taken somewhere on the outskirts of London, deuce take it.

Cudgeling his brain, he recalled a cudgel, in the hands of a shabby old man with a broken-down dog. Why the devil the man would attack Wynn, he had no idea. All he knew was that he was going to kill the bastard who did this.

First, of course, he had to get loose. He could bounce along in the chair until he reached the table, he supposed, then break one of the bottles somehow, and saw at his bonds—and his wrists—with a shard of glass. His head pounded at the thought. Besides, Wynn might not be able to tie a neckcloth worth a tinker’s damn, but a rope, a cord, a length of hemp? Given enough time, there was not a knot he could not untie, be it on a ship, in a warehouse, at a wilderness trading post. The fact that the knots were behind his back added a mere minute or so to his efforts. He appreciated the challenge, for it took his mind off the pain in his brainbox.

Wynn’s captor, it seemed, was as bad at tying knots as he was at housekeeping. The ropes at the viscount’s hands fell away in two shakes of a dog’s tail—if the knave who struck Wynn hurt Homer, he would die twice—and the ones at his feet instantly followed.

He stood gingerly, then waited for the room to stop spinning. He appeared to be in one piece, except for the gash on the back of his head. The blood was already dry, so he must have been here for some time. His gun was missing from his waistband, and his purse was gone from his inner pocket, but Wynn’s knife was still in his boot, another mark of the assailant’s ineptitude.

The other room held one cot with two ragged blankets and a chair with clothes draped over the back. On the seat rested a visored helmet. Inside the knight’s headpiece Wynn found a tin of tooth powder, a comb, and a dented silver button—with a B engraved on it.

Very well. Boyce. Wynn had not thought the fop had the brass to attack someone who could fight back. Of course, he’d taken Wynn by surprise, from behind, with a bat, but Wynn was still impressed. He’d still kill the bastard, but with a modicum more respect.

When? That was the question. He could leave now, hail the first passing cart to take him home, round up his band of armed men to come surround the place, and notify the magistrate while he was at it. Everything would be legal, by the book. They could arrest Boyce, charge him with any number of crimes—and then let him go. He was a lord, and the nobs did not hang their own.

Besides, Wynn did not know where he was nor how far from help. By the time he reached home, Boyce could have returned, seen his captive gone missing, and fled. To try another day, perhaps going after Torrie again. The idea of Boyce on the loose, and Torrie with nothing but a silly straw bonnet between her and his club, made Wynn’s blood run cold. One drop of her blood and— How many times could one snake die?

Wynn wanted this ended now. Here. He wanted to get on with his life, with Lady Torrie Keyes in his life. So he did what he’d had to learn that first winter in the Canadian wilderness to keep from starving, when it was either hunt or be hunted. He used the rope and the table and the door and the fireplace poker to build himself a rabbit snare. Only a whole lot bigger.

Then he sat back in the chair, his hands loosely behind him holding the knife, and he waited. He had learned that, too.

Wynn was expected at his solicitor’s office at nine of the clock to sign papers with Troy and Bette.

He was expected at Bow Street at ten, to hear the report from the Runner who had spoken with the current Lord Lynbrook.

He was expected at Duchamp House at eleven, to accompany Torrie and her father to look at two mares in foal he was considering purchasing.

When the usually prompt viscount did not arrive at any of his destinations, everyone began to worry. By twelve, they had all converged at the Kensington house, where Young Cyrus was equally as concerned. His lordship had never returned from his early morning dog walk, to don apparel suitable for paying important calls. His first weeks on the job, Young Cyrus fretted, and his employer would look like a ragpicker out in public. How was he to get respect at Shay’s Tavern if his gentleman did not befit the title? Ruthie was upset that the viscount’s breakfast had gone untouched. So had Homer’s.

And Barrogi was missing, too.

“If they are together there is no need to worry,” Troy said. He patted Bette’s hand in reassurance.

But Young Cyrus reported that the Italian had been out most of the night, was asleep when the viscount left, and then departed, leaving a folded note behind.

“What did it say?” Bette asked, but Young Cyrus was affronted that they might think he would read his employer’s personal mail.

“Give it here.” Lord Duchamp had no such qualms, and the Runner, worrying that some foul deed was afoot, thought he should read the note. Torrie was ready to grab the letter, if it would lead them to Wynn, but the solicitor, Castin, held out his hand. “As his lordship’s man of business, I believe I should be the one.”

He put on his spectacles, then held the letter closer, trying to decipher Barrogi’s handwriting. “Oh, dear,” he said, while everyone held their breaths. Castin looked to the Runner when Barrogi admitted taking money and a diamond stickpin from his lordship’s dresser. Barrogi wrote that he intended to pay the viscount back when he opened his gambling parlor, the Four Aces, or the Winning Hand, in honor of his former employer, but Castin did not think that would hold weight with the representative of the law.

“Oh, heavens,” Castin said, glancing at Lady Lynbrook when he read how Barrogi had run off to Gretna Green with Rosie Peters, his lordship’s other former mistress, because Rosie deserved some romance in her life. He could not mention such a female in front of either of the ladies, much less read aloud how Barrogi would happily raise the woman’s
bambino
as his own.

“Oh, my stars,” Castin said, looking at Lady Victoria this time, when Barrogi wrote about leaving the viscount a wedding present. No betrothal notice had been sent to him to post.

“Oh, hell, hand over the demmed letter.” Lord Duchamp was not one to stand on ceremony. He read it out loud from start to finish, which, happily, finished with the address of the Scarecrow’s erstwhile partner in crime, Lord Boyce. Barrogi, it appeared, had paid the felon a visit in prison as a parting gift for the viscount. He was sorry he could get no more details other than an abandoned cottage toward Islington, for the prisoner’s jaw had somehow become broken.

Everyone rushed for the door and their horses and carriages and curricles, except for the weeping Lady Lynbrook, whom Major Campe refused to take along. Torrie did not wait for her father’s groom to hand her up into the sporting vehicle. She almost did not wait for her father, either, snatching up the reins before he was seated. She whipped up the horses and wheeled the carriage while he held onto his hat.

“Here, now, puss,” the earl shouted. “These are my prime cattle, by Jupiter.” And well behaved enough that he trusted his well-trained daughter at the ribbons, to a point.

“But Wynn is in trouble, Papa. I know it.”

The earl was worried, too. Ingall had not known that dastard Boyce’s direction when he set out to walk the dog. Nor had he notified the Runners, or the soldiers who surrounded Duchamp House. Ingall’s friend Major Campe could not have ridden
ventre
à
terre
to his aid, but Barrogi would have. The viscount had not known that his man had eloped, but he had not sent for him, nor sent excuses for missing his appointments.

Duchamp patted his daughter’s shoulder anyway. “He’ll be fine, poppet. Why, your lad has brought down bears and tigers, bandits and pirates. Do you think a counter coxcomb like Boyce could stop him?”

“If Boyce had a gun, he could.” She called to the horses to pick up their pace. She could feel the danger, feel the threat, almost like a badly sewn seam on a gown or a toothache. Only now she had nowhere to rub to make the hurt go away. If something happened to Wynn, the pain would never leave her.

“I mean to marry him, Papa.”

“I should hope so, after the way you two have been disappearing into dark corners at every chance. I don’t know what your mother would say about such fast behavior.” Well, Maggie would likely say they should leave the young people alone and go find their own private place. The earl hoped so, anyway, because he had been leaving the youngsters unchaperoned, despite his sister Ann’s affronted complaints.

“But I will not be marrying him because of that silly vow, you know. I meant it at the time, of course, that I would wed the man who saved me, but what if he had been the crossing sweep or a shoeless beggar?”

“I would have given him a reward and sent him on his way.”

“Exactly. And I will not wed Lord Ingall for a silly whim, either, or just because you want me married so you and Mama can be reconciled.”

That seemed a deuced fine reason to Lord Duchamp, but he held his peace, the same as he held his impatience to take the reins back. “So why are you going to marry the chap, then, my girl? Not for his looks, for I don’t relish my grandchildren having that hawk’s beak for a nose.”

“Wynn has a beautiful nose,” Torrie protested. “It is very distinguished.”

Lord Duchamp snorted, which caused the horses to break stride, but Torrie had them back to speed in seconds. The earl said, “And you’ll not wed for his money, either, I’d wager, since you’ve fortune enough of your own. Besides, the nodcock is liable to give more of his away before you get him to the altar.”

“I do not care, Papa. I would marry him if he gave every shilling away. I love him, you see.”

“Of course you do, puss.”

“And I will forever.”

Lord Duchamp nodded. “Just like your mother and I. That’s what we always wanted for you, my dear. That same kind of lasting love.”

“But he does not know.”

“He knows. If I am certain of anything, it is that he shares your regard.”

“I never told him.”

“You had your reasons, I suppose.”

“The time was never right. But, Papa, what if Boyce has hired other ruffians? You know Wynn will fight back. What if they kill him? What if I never get to tell him? Oh, Papa, I would die, too, I think.”

Lord Duchamp took the whip out of his daughter’s hand and cracked it over the horses’ ears.

They were far ahead of the others when they reached the outskirts of Islington. Torrie slowed the horses and looked around helplessly. The area seemed deserted, the road forked up ahead, and the afternoon light was waning.

“Don’t worry, puss. Campe will get here with his former soldiers, and they’ll cover every inch of the place. The Runner fellow can demand information, and Castin will pay any ransom demanded. We’ll have your lad back before the cat can lick her ear.”