The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (25 page)

“You're a fine one to talk... Sick as I may be, you'll be shuffling off the trappings of this earth before I will.”

Michael laughed. “Then what possible harm could there be in telling me what you've planned?”

“I don't suppose there is any harm,” Rupert reasoned. “After all, you should know what fate will befall your pretty little wife.”

~*~*~

Spencer reached the rooftop, but spared not even a glance for the weeping housekeeper who sat hunkered inside the door. He could hear the struggles beyond.

Stepping out onto the battlements, he looked over the side and felt true panic. Leaning down, he held his hand out to Abigail, who clung to the failing gutter.

“Take my hand!”

“I can't let go!” she cried. “There's too much weight!”

He knew that she was speaking the truth. She barely had the strength to hold herself there, much less to support her weight and Lavinia's. A choice had to be made, and Spencer made it as coldly as he had on the battlefield. Climbing over the battlements, he eased down beside her, bracing his feet against the chimney. When he was close enough to reach her, he pulled a small dagger from his pocket and began to cut away the fabric of her skirt.

Lavinia screamed, her foul shrieks splitting the air. With each slice of the fabric, it began to shred further, ripping away from the rest of the skirt. The last swipe of the blade freed Abigail from Lavinia's grasp. The other woman's scream echoed, growing more distant until it stopped abruptly.

Spencer leaned back against the roof top. “Well, now the question remains... how the hell do we get up from here?”

Abbi gave a watery chuckle in response. “I haven't the faintest clue.”

At that moment, the gutter finally gave way. Abbi screamed as she began to slide along the slate roof. Spencer grabbed her wrist, holding on tightly. With his feet braced against the chimney, they were relatively safe as long as it held, but given the general state of disrepair at Blagdon Hall that was a slim chance.

~*~*~

Rupert leaned forward and with the tip of a wicked looking dagger, tapped against the map. “Here, in the mine shafts and caverns beneath our homes, there is a mystical spring... the true Elixir of Life and not that nonsense the alchemists boast of creating! It has healing properties, but it cannot simply be consumed... Unless you have the blessing of a god, it will only bring misery and death!”

Michael nodded as if he were taking in the drone. “I see. And where does Abigail fit into your plan?”

Rupert chuckled again, his chest rattling feebly. “She's the sacrifice. I have sought the favor of my own god... Bacchus. The Greeks called him Dionysus, but we all know they are the same. I have devoted my life to his efforts after all.... drinking and whoring my way through the ton. Not so different from you, really!”

“So you mean to sacrifice Abigail to an ancient Roman god in an underground cavern that you clearly don't have the breath to reach on your own? All in the hopes that you'll receive his blessing, drink from a magical spring and be cured of consumption.”

At the word consumption, the two men guarding Rupert began to look truly panicked. Michael smiled. “Didn't he tell you that? The man is obviously dying. I hope he paid you in advance because not only is he at death's door, he's poor as a church-mouse... The last person he owed money to, a shopkeeper I believe, wound up with his skull cracked open. Or did Lavinia do that? She's handy with a rock, as poor Allerton could attest if she hadn't murdered him already.”

“Protection if what we was 'ired for!” One of the men protested. “I never agreed to do no murder! I'm not a killer!”

“He is,” Michael said. “How many young women have you sacrificed in those woods? All in your quest to obtain mystical artifacts that would extend your miserable life?”

Rupert shrugged. “A few. Offering those games encouraged collectors to part with their toys in exchange for participation... It was a more affordable option than outright purchase.”

.Michael knew that the hirelings had heard enough. Rupert's insanity would have become more than clear to them by that point. Addressing the beefy men, he said, “I mean to kill him. The question, gentlemen, is whether you remain in his questionable employee or in mine? He would pay you to stand by while he commits atrocities. I will pay you to simply walk away... and any others who might be lurking about. Gather them all, leave this house, and you will be rewarded.”

“How do we know you're telling the truth?” the second man demanded.

Michael's smile broadened. It was the opening he'd been waiting for. “You don't, but you're more likely to get the truth from me than from a man who believes in magical water and ancient gods that haven't been worshiped in thousands of years.”

“Come on, 'Arry! I never liked the 'toff anyway,” the first man said. “We'll be at the tavern in the village. There's twelve of us all together and 'e promised us each a sovereign.”

“Then a sovereign you will get. I'll send them to the village this evening.”

“No! You can't leave me here with him!” Rupert screamed, but it was too late. The men were already heading toward the door. To Michael, Rupert said, “You think you've won, don't you?”

Michael eyed him coldly. “It isn't about winning. It's about surviving... and you've done so for far too long, already!”

Without another word, Michael drew the pistol from his jacket and fired a killing shot. The ball entered Rupert's chest. A single trickle of blood ran from his thin, cracked lips, but Michael didn't linger to see it. He was up, moving toward the stairs, climbing them with all the speed he could manage.

Midway up the second flight, he felt the stitches in his leg give way completely. Blood seeped from the wound, but he ignored it, limping on.

At the top of the stairs, he saw Mrs. Wolcot. She was holding her injured arm to her chest. “We need rope. That chimney won't hold forever!”

Michael didn't ask what she meant, he simply opened the door closest to him and stepped inside. A narrow bed stood in the corner, the mattress rolled up, the rope supports bare. As quickly as he could, he loosened two of the longest pieces that ran the length of the frame.

Once he had them in hand, he made his way through the door to the roof beyond. Spencer held Abbi's wrist in a bruising grip, her feet dangling over the edge of the roofline.

Tying the lengths of rope together, he created one continuous piece that would reach her. He added a loop to the end, he tossed toward her. “Put your hand through the loop and wind it about your arm so I can pull you up!”

She managed to grasp the loop with her free hand, and did as he told her to. Slowly, hand over hand, Michael hauled her up. When she reached the battlements, he grasped her upper arms and hauled her over. Blood now flowed freely from the wound at his thigh, all the stitches having given way. Tying the rope around one of the stone pillars of the battlements, he tossed the looped end back to Spencer, who grasped it and began to hoist himself up.

“Rupert?” Abbi asked.

“Dead.”

“And the Squire?”

It was Spencer who answered that question. “He will be soon enough, courtesy of Mrs. Wolcot's underhanded deeds. Let's get the lot of you downstairs and sort out the merely painful injuries from those that require actual treatment.”

Michael grimaced as he stood. “How did you manage to come away completely unscathed?”

“I'm better at all this than you are,” Spencer answered succinctly.

Epilogue

Abbi stood over the crib of the newest member of the Brammel family, Elizabeth. Michael had brought her to visit his friends and to attend the christening as he was to be named one of the godparents. It was a sweet interlude after all they'd been through. His leg was finally healed, and her shoulders as well. Hanging from the gutters atop Blagdon Hall had left her aching and sore for more than a month.

A small noise from the crib drew her attention back to the reason for their visit. The baby was only six weeks old and while the nurse insisted the baby wasn't smiling at all, but merely having gas, Abbi didn't believe her. Surely no expression so sweet could be caused by anything less than joy.

“Emme, she's perfect.”

Emme smiled. “I rather think so. Of course, I can't say that to Rhys. He insists on taking the credit for it. Wretched man.”

Abbi laughed softly as they exited the nursery and made their way toward the small sitting room. Unlike many society mothers, the Duchess of Briarleigh was taking a very hands on approach with the raising of her child. Abbi imagined that when she and Michael started a family of their own, she would do the same.

Emme poured tea for them both, “So Rupert and Lavinia were both completely mad. Lavinia, because she was simply Lavinia and Rupert because he was dying?”

Abbi considered her answer for a moment. “No. I think they were cruel and twisted people. Calling them mad gives them an absolution from their actions that they don't deserve. Each of them knew what they were doing, knew it was wrong, and yet chose to do it anyway. They were selfish people, thinking only of their own ends.”

“That's true enough I suppose,” Emme agreed. “I have some experience with that, though less with the living than with the dead.”

Abbi shuddered. “Good heavens. I don't even want to think about that... I don't think I'll ever return to Blagdon Hall without wondering if their nasty spirits are lurking about!”

“I'll come for a visit and let you know,” Emme offered.

“No, no and absolutely not,” Rhys said as he entered the room, Michael following him. He moved forward and kissed his wife on the cheek. “No more nasty spirits. We've had enough of those for a lifetime. Only the befuddled ones. Those you can help to your heart's content.”

“Rhys, that isn't how it works! It's my duty to help all of them... and to help the living who are occasionally tormented by them. We discussed this.”

Rhys looked at Michael. “Is your wife this obstinate and difficult?”

Michael shook his head as settled onto the small settee next to Abbi. “I cannot answer that question without implying that my wife is either better than, worse than or equally difficult to yours. I think I'll simply avoid the question altogether.” With a kiss of her cheek, he stole the last biscuit from her plate and popped it into his mouth.

“Thief,” she muttered.

“It's on account,” he offered with a wicked grin. “I'll pay you for it later.”

Abbi blushed, Rhys laughed and Emme scolded Michael for misbehaving. “Rotten. Utterly rotten!”

Michael rose, kissed Emme's cheek and tugged Abbi up from the settee, taking her by the hand. “So that my wickedness does not offend, I will steal my wife away and leave you to scold your own husband.”

In the hallway, just outside the ducal chambers, Michael kissed her soundly.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“Because I can. If I haven't kissed you senseless at least several times a day then I'm failing in my duties as a husband,” he replied.

“Funny, I don't recall that being part of our vows.”

He moved along the hallway, leading her toward their rooms. “Really? I recall specifically that the vicar told me I should—.”

“Stop! For goodness sake, do not bring the vicar into this! It's blasphemy!”

He chuckled softly as he opened the door to their chamber, propelling her inside. “It sounds so much better when you're blaspheming. 'Oh, God, Michael!' It's music to my ears when you say that.”

She laughed in spite of the blush that stained her cheeks. “You are the most wonderfully wicked man I've ever known.”

“Only that you've known? Not in the entire world?” he asked as he picked her up and tossed her on the bed. “I shall have to try harder.”

“That sounds promising,” she replied cheekily.

“Minx.”

“Rogue.”

He looked down at her. “Not anymore. I'm thoroughly redeemed. Wickedness doesn't count if it's conducted with one's wife.”

“Where do you find all these rules that work so well to your advantage?” she asked. By the time she'd finished asking the question, she no longer cared for the answer. Michael's hands were roaming beneath her skirts, his mouth trailing hot kisses over her neck.

“Do you really want to talk about that now?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. You can make up all the rules you want, just don't stop doing what you are.”

“Have I told you today,” he asked, punctuating each word with a soft kiss, “How much I love you? And how incredibly lucky I am to have found you wiggling your lovely bottom in the air as you scolded a cat?”

She smiled as his mouth moved over her neck, his teeth gently grazing her earlobe. Her entire body was suffused with heat, but it was the tenderness that filled her, swelling within her heart at the sweetness of his words that truly left her breathless. “Tell me later... after you've shown me.”

THE END