The Lady Chosen (40 page)

Tristan, Charles, and Deverell came together before the door; although she saw them move, assumed they were talking, she heard nothing, not the slightest sound.

Then Tristan turned to the cellar door, thrust it open and walked in.

Charles and Deverell followed.

The silence lasted for a heartbeat.

“Hey!”

“What…?”

Thuds. Bangs. Stifled shouts and oaths. It was more than just a scuffle.

How many men had been in there? She’d assumed only two, Mountford and the weasel, but it sounded like more…

A horrendous
crash
shook the walls.

She gasped, stared down. The light had gone out.

In the gloom, a figure burst out of the second cellar door, the one at the end of the corridor. He turned, slammed the door, fiddled. She heard the grating sound of an old iron lock falling into place.

The man ran from the door, raced, hair and coat wildly flapping, up the corridor toward the stairs.

Startled, paralyzed by recognition—the man was Mountford—Leonora hauled in a breath. She forced her hands to her skirts, grasped them to turn and flee, but Mountford hadn’t seen her—he skidded to a halt by the nearer cellar door, now wide-open.

He reached in, grabbed the door, and swung it shut, too. Grabbed the knob, desperately worked.

Into a sudden silence came a telltale grating, then the clunk as the heavy lock fell home.

Chest heaving, Mountford stepped back. The blade of a knife held in one fist gleamed dully.

A thud fell on the door, then the handle rattled.

A muffled oath filtered through the thick panels.

“Hah! Got you!” Face alight, Mountford turned.

And saw her.

Leonora whirled and fled.

She was nowhere near fast enough.

He caught her at the top of the stairs. Fingers biting into her arm, he swung her hard back against the wall.

“Bitch!”

The word was vicious, snarled.

Looking into the starkly pale face thrust close to hers, Leonora had a second to make up her mind.

Strangely, that was all it took—just a second for her emotions to guide her, for her wits to catch up. All she had to do was delay Mountford, and Tristan would save her.

She blinked. Wilted a fraction, lost a little of her
starch. Infused her best imitation of Miss Timmins’s vagueness into her manner. “Oh, dear—you must be Mr. Martinbury?”

He blinked, then his eyes blazed. He shook her. “How do you know that?”

“Well…” She let her voice quaver, kept her eyes wide. “You are the Mr. Martinbury who is related to A. J. Carruthers, aren’t you?”

For all his reconnoitering, Mountford—Duke—would not have learned what sort of woman she was; she was perfectly certain he wouldn’t have thought to ask.

“Yes. That’s me.” Gripping her arm, he pushed her ahead of him into the front hall. “I’m here to get something of my aunt’s that now belongs to me.”

He didn’t put away the knife, a dagger of sorts. A frenetic tension thrummed through him, about him; his manner was strained, nervous.

She let her lips part, striving to look suitably witless. “Oh! Do you mean the formula?”

She had to get him away from Number 16, preferably into Number 14. Along the way, she had to convince him she was so helpless and unthreatening that he didn’t need to keep hold of her. If Tristan and the others came up the stairs now…Mountford had her and a dagger, not to her mind a helpful arrangement.

He was studying her through slitted eyes. “What do you know about the formula? Have they found it?”

“Oh, I believe so. At least, I think that’s what they said. My uncle, you know, and my brother. They’ve been working on our late cousin Cedric Carling’s journals, and I
think
they were saying only just a few hours ago that they believe they have the thing clear at last!”

Throughout her artless speech, she’d been drifting toward the front door; he’d been drifting with her.

She cleared her throat. “I realize there must have been some misunderstanding.” With an airy wave, she dismissed
whatever had occurred downstairs. “But I’m sure if you talk to my uncle and brother, they’d be happy to share the formula with you, given you are A. J. Carruthers’s heir.”

Emerging into the moonlight on the front porch, he stared at her.

She kept her expression as vacant as she could, tried not to react to his menace. The hand holding the knife was trembling; he seemed uncertain, off-balance, struggling to think.

He looked across at Number 14. “Yes,” he breathed. “Your uncle and brother are very fond of you, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes.” She gathered her skirts and with absolutely no hurry, descended the steps; he still did not let go of her arm but descended alongside her. “Why, I’ve kept house for them for more than a decade, you know. Indeed, they’d be lost without me—”

She continued in airy, totally vacuous vein as they went down the path, turned into the street, walked the short distance to the gate of Number 14, and went in. He walked beside her, still holding her arm, not saying anything; he was so tense, nervously starting, twitching, if he’d been a woman she’d have diagnosed incipient hysteria.

When they reached the front steps, he pulled her roughly closer. Held the dagger up for her to see. “We don’t need any interference from your servants.”

She blinked at the dagger, then, forcing her eyes wide, stared blankly up at him. “The door’s on the latch—we won’t need to disturb them.”

His tension eased a notch. “Good.” He propelled her up the steps. He seemed to be trying to look in every direction at once.

Leonora reached for the door; she glanced at Duke’s white face, tight, taut, wondered for one instant if she was wise to trust in Tristan…

Hauling in a breath, she lifted her head and opened the door. Prayed Castor wouldn’t appear.

Duke stepped inside with her, keeping close beside her. His grip on her arm eased as he scanned the empty hall.

Quietly closing the door, she said, her tone easy and light, inconsequential, “My uncle and brother will be in the library. It’s this way.”

He kept his hand on her arm, still looked this way and that, but went with her quickly and quietly through the hall and into the corridor leading to the library.

Leonora thought furiously, tried to plan what she should say. Duke’s nerves were strung tight, any tighter and they’d snap. God only knew what he might do then. She hadn’t dared look to see if Tristan and the others were following, but the old locks on the cellar doors might take longer to pick than less heavy modern locks.

She still didn’t feel that she’d made the wrong decision—Tristan
would
rescue her, and Jeremy and Humphrey, soon. Until then, it was up to her to keep them all—Jeremy, Humphrey, and herself—safe.

Her ploy had worked so far; she couldn’t think of anything better than to continue in that vein.

Opening the library door, she sailed in. “Uncle, Jeremy—we have a guest.”

Duke kept pace with her, kicking the door shut behind them.

Inwardly muttering—
when
would he let her go?—she kept a silly, innocuous expression plastered on her face. “I found Mr. Martinbury next door—it seems he’s been looking for that formula of Cousin Cedric’s. He seems to think it belongs to him—I told him you wouldn’t mind sharing it with him…?”

She infused every ounce of quavering helplessness into her voice, every last iota of intent into her eyes. If anyone could confuse and obstruct someone with words written on a page, it was her brother and uncle.

Both were in their usual places; both had glanced up, then remained frozen.

Jeremy met her gaze, read the message in her eyes. His desk was awash with papers; he started to rise from his chair behind it.

Mountford panicked. “Wait!” His fingers tightened on Leonora’s arm; he hauled her to him, jerking her off-balance so she fell against him. He brandished his dagger before her face.

“Don’t do anything rash!” Wildly, he looked from Jeremy to Humphrey. “I just want the formula—just give it to me, and she won’t get hurt.”

She felt his chest heave as he dragged in a breath.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I
will.
I want that formula.”

The sight of the knife had shocked Jeremy and Humphrey; Duke’s rising tones were scaring her.

“I say, see here!” Humphrey struggled up out of his chair, uncaring of the journal that slid to the floor. “You can’t just come in here and—”

“Shut
up!
” Mountford was dancing with impatience. His eyes kept flicking to Jeremy’s desk.

Leonora couldn’t help but focus on the blade, waltzing before her eyes.

“Listen, you can have the formula.” Jeremy started to come around his desk. “It’s here.” He waved at the desk. “If you’ll—”

“Stop right there! Not one more step, or I’ll slice her cheek!”

Jeremy paled. Halted.

Leonora tried not to think about the knife slicing into her cheek. She closed her eyes briefly. She had to think. Had to find a way…a way to take control…to waste time, to keep Jeremy and Humphrey safe…

She opened her eyes and focused on her brother. “Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was weak and wavery,
totally unlike her. “He might lock you up somewhere, and then I’ll be alone with him!”

Mountford shifted, dragging her so he could keep both Humphrey and Jeremy in view but was no longer standing directly before the door. “Perfect,” he hissed. “If I lock you two up, just like I locked the others up, then I can take the formula and be on my way.”

Jeremy stared at her. “Don’t be stupid.” He meant every word. Then he glanced at Mountford. “Anyway, there’s nowhere he could lock us up—this is the only room on this floor with a lock.”

“Indeed!” Humphrey puffed. “A nonsensical suggestion.”

“Oh, no,” she warbled, and prayed Mountford would believe her act. “Why, he could lock you in the broom closet across the hall. You’d both fit.”

The look Jeremy sent her was furious. “You
fool!
”

His reaction played into her hands. Mountford, so nervous he was jigging, jumped on the idea. “Both of you—now!” He waved with the knife. “You”—he pointed at Jeremy—“get the old man and help him to the door. You don’t want your sister’s lovely face scarred, do you?”

With a final glare at her, Jeremy went and took Humphrey’s arm. He helped Humphrey to the door.

“Stop.” Mountford pulled her around so they were directly behind the other two, facing the door. “Right—no noise, no nonsense. Open the door, walk to the broom closet, open its door and walk in. Close the door quietly behind you. Remember—I’m watching every move, and my dagger is at your sister’s throat.”

She saw Jeremy haul in a breath, then he and Humphrey did exactly as Mountford had ordered. Mountford edged forward as they went into the broom closet directly across the wide corridor; he glanced down the corridor toward the front hall, but no one came from that direction.

The instant the broom closet door shut, Mountford pushed her forward. The key was in the lock. Without releasing her, he turned it.

“Excellent!” He turned to her, eyes feverishly bright. “Now you can get me the formula, and I’ll be on my way.”

He pushed her back into the library. He closed the door and hurried her to the desk. “Where is it?”

Leonora spread her hands and shuffled papers, confusing what little order there had been. “He said it was here…”

“Well find it, damn you!” Mountford released her, ran his fingers through his hair.

Frowning as if concentrating, disguising her sudden spurt of relief, Leonora drifted around the large desk, spreading and sorting papers. “If my brother said it was here, I can assure you it will be…” She continued rambling, just like any of the dithery old dears she’d helped over the years. And steadily, paper by paper, worked her way around the desk.

“Is this it?” Finally opposite Mountford, she picked up one sheet, squinted at the receipe, then shook her head. “No. But it must be here…perhaps it’s this one?”

She felt Mountford quiver, made the mistake of glancing up—he caught her eye. Saw…

His face blanked, then rage poured into his expression. “Why
you
—!”

He lunged for her.

She weaved back.

“This was a trick, wasn’t it? I’ll teach you—”

He would have to catch her first. Leonora wasted no time arguing; she put her mind to dodging him, darting this way, then that. The desk was big enough that he couldn’t reach her over it.

“Ah!”
He launched himself over the desk at her.

With a shriek, she whisked out of his reach. She
glanced at the door but he was already scrambling to his feet, his face a mask of fury.

He raced at her. She ran.

Around and around.

The door opened.

She rounded the desk and fled straight for the tall figure who walked in.

Flung herself at him and clutched.

Tristan caught her, then caught her hands, pushed her behind him.

“Out.”

One word, but the tone was not one to disobey. Tristan didn’t look at her. Out of breath, she followed his gaze to Mountford, leaning, panting, on the opposite side of the desk. He was still holding the dagger in one fist.

“Now.”

A warning. She backed a few steps, then whirled. He didn’t need her there to distract him.

She rushed out into the corridor, intending to summon help, only to realize Charles and Deverell were there, standing in the shadows.

Charles reached past her, caught the door, and pulled it shut. Then he leaned nonchalantly against the frame and grinned somewhat resignedly at her.

Deverell, his lips curved in the same, almost reminiscent wolfish smile, leaned back against the corridor wall.

She stared at them. Pointed to the library. “Mountford’s got a dagger!”

Deverell raised his brows. “Only one?”

“Well, yes…” A thud reverberated from behind the door. She started, swung around and stared at it—as much of it as she could see past Charles’s shoulders. She glared at him. “Why aren’t you helping him?”

“Who? Mountford?”