The Rogue (40 page)

Ethan
tilted his head, giving Maywell a baleful look. "You might want
to remember that, my lord."

Maywell
stiffened, then gestured sharply. The henchmen pushed them out of the
bedchamber and out of the empty house.

Hyde
Park was perfectly quiet but for the condensing fog dripping from the
trees. The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel and the horses'
tack jingled loudly in the silence. There was no one about, forcing
Jane to give up on her half-formed plan of shouting for help.

She
remained quietly in her corner of the carriage, doing her best not to
attract attention to the fact that she was twisting her wrists
carefully behind her. Her uncle's flunkies, perhaps intimidated by
her rank, had not bound her as tightly as they might have.

The
rope that had burned her skin had finally turned it numb. Jane put
the numbness to good use, pulling until she felt the coarse rope
dampen with her own blood. She kept quiet and simply went on
twisting.

The
carriage pulled to a halt sharply, sending her off balance and nearly
into Ethan's lap across from her. She jerked back from touching him
and pushed herself farther away with her feet.

"Jane,
I—" His murmur was cut off when Maywell's men pulled him
from the carriage to fall on the ground at their feet. Jane felt the
thud of his body as if she had taken the fall herself, but she could
allow nothing to interfere with her concentration now. Her wrists
slipped this way and that within her bindings. Soon…

On
the ground, Ethan gazed up at Maywell. "I can hardly manage a
duel like this. No one is going to believe that I died in a fair
fight with my hands bound."

Maywell
nodded. "No one is going to believe you died in a fair fight no
matter what. You're a shopkeeper's son—"

"Clothmaker,
actually," muttered Ethan.

"People
will be more aghast that you actually had the nerve to participate in
a duel of honor than they will be that you died of it. That's only
what one would expect."

"Due
to the inborn superiority of the upper classes, you mean." Ethan
spat out dirt and grass and laughed openly. "Inbred, perhaps.
You lot do insist on marrying your cousins."

The
first crack appeared in Maywell's sorrowful armor. He raised his foot
swiftly. The kick did away with Ethan's ability to breathe for a
moment. He wheezed harshly. "Lovely boots," he gasped. "Who
is your shoemaker?"

"Why
do you care?" Maywell snarled. "You'll never buy another
pair."

He
cut a hand sharply at his men. "Get him up. I want this parasite
dead before the sun rises."

As
he was pulled to his feet, Ethan cast one last look back into the
carriage. Jane sat hunched in her corner, staring over his head at
nothing at all.

No
last look of longing, no words of farewell. He'd really done it this
time. Even though he was fairly sure he was about to die, the one
thing he wished was that she hadn't learned that he had put her in
Bedlam.

Everyone
had a limit of forbearance. Even the forgiving Lady Jane Pennington.
Of course, most girls would hold commitment into an insane asylum
against a bloke. It was only to be expected.

Yet
somehow he hadn't. Somehow, he'd apparently expected that there was
nothing that could turn his Janet against him. Somewhere deep inside
him, at some point, he'd begun to believe that her love was real—that
she would love him until the day they both died of it.

Since
it appeared that day was today, he was a bit disappointed that she
couldn't have stretched her adoration out a few more hours at the
very least.

You're
a lowborn rotter and you don't deserve a bloody second of her love,
so just shut up and get yourself and her out of this so you can try
to win her back again.

A
lovely plan. Unfortunately, he hadn't a chance in hell of doing it.
He was bound, unarmed, and surrounded by Maywell's men in the middle
of a deserted park.

Then
his bonds were cut with the swipe of cold steel. Startling hope
bloomed within him. "One down," he whispered to himself.

He
was marched to the center of the clearing. Apparently Maywell wasn't
willing to wait for dawn. Torches and lanterns lit the circle of
thugs.

"Make
it look right," Maywell called as he climbed back into the
carriage. "Pace it out."

So
Ethan was stood back to back with another man, then paced out from
the center. "One, two, three—"

"Fifteen,
thirty-four, seven," Ethan chanted with them. That earned him a
smack to the head that sent his ears ringing, so he desisted. Still,
he laughed in their faces when they had to start over.

"Ten!"
the man next to Ethan said defiantly. "It was right that time,
you bloomin'—"

"The
pistol!" Maywell called.

To
Ethan's complete disbelief, a finely worked dueling pistol was put
into his hand.
Two
down
.

"Don't
get yer 'opes up," the man beside him sneered. "It's got
nothin' but black powder in it. It wouldn't look real if you didn't
have powder burns on your hand."

Ah.
Back to one, then.

It
occurred to Ethan that he was actually going to die. Here. Now. He
found that his former disinterest in his future had evaporated.

He
wanted to live. He wanted it most powerfully.

Above
all, he didn't want to die with his last words to Jane hanging over
them both. What if she spent the rest of her life thinking he had
meant what he'd said?

Ignoring
his captors, Ethan threw back his head. "Jane!" he shouted.

She
did not answer, but he did hear a pained cry come from the carriage.
The vehicle was rocking madly. There must have been one hell of a
fight going on in there. Ethan pulled at his captors' grip, helpless
to go to her.

"Jane!"
he shouted at the carriage. "I lied! I lied, Jane, just like you
said!"

The
carriage bounced a last time and stopped with a final cry, cut off
horribly short.

Ethan's
heart wanted to stop. "
Jane!
Jane, I love you
!"

Sickened,
he waited for a reply of some kind, but nothing came.

Maywell
opened the carriage door and lowered his bulk to stand on the gravel.
Ethan craned his neck, but could see nothing in the dark carriage
behind the man. "Well?" Maywell cried to his minions. "What
are you delaying for?"

Ethan's
"opponent" stepped up and raised his pistol obediently.
Ethan raised his in response, hoping against some chance that there
had been a mix-up with the pistols. All he wanted was to go to Jane
in that horribly silent carriage…

The
flunky aimed and Ethan saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

A
shot rang out.

The
man opposite Ethan went spinning off to one side, his shot going
wild. Another one of Maywell's men dropped from the wild bullet.

His
opponent had been shot. Ethan didn't try to analyze any further than
that. He turned and discharged his black powder charge into the face
of the man at his right.

With
a roar, the man staggered back, clawing at his face. Ethan used the
spent pistol to cosh the bloke over the head. Out of ideas, he threw
the pistol wildly at the man to his left. Incredibly, it hit him
square in the forehead, taking him down like a sawn tree.

Unarmed
again, Ethan rolled out of the way of the fire-fight. When he reached
the cover of the trees and darkness, he circled around the clearing
to where he thought his mysterious rescuers might be.

There
was only one man, standing in the shadows, juggling what looked to be
at least four pistols, his silver hair gleaming in the light of the
remaining torches.

"Jeeves?"

The
butler turned. "Good evening, sir—"

Ethan
saw one of Maywell's men rise and aim. "Jeeves, get down!"
He threw himself at the butler.

Something
hard hit him, spinning him away from Jeeves. The butler jumped up and
fired, then ran to where Ethan lay on the ground.

"Ouch,"
Ethan said faintly, clutching his arm. "That smarts."

"Yes,
sir. I imagine so, sir." Jeeves helped him to his feet.

"Well,
what do you know," Ethan gasped. "Winged in a duel in Hyde
Park. All my gentlemanly aspirations have finally come true. My
father would be so proud."

The
clearing was pandemonium. Men were shooting in every direction,
waving pistols and torches and shouting. Apparently only that one man
had had the sense to figure out where the bullets were coming from
and he was on the ground, not saying much.

"Come,
sir. This way." Jeeves made to guide Ethan from the park.

"Jeeves,
no. He still—" Ethan staggered. "He still has Lady
Jane!"

Jeeves
pulled him on. "I don't believe he will harm her, sir."

"No,
Jeeves ! I can't let him put her back in Bedlam, I—"

Other
hands had him now, larger, stronger ones he couldn't resist. They
rushed him into a waiting carriage that sped off down High Street,
leaving the park and Jane far behind.

Ethan
stumbled into the Liar's Club on Jeeves's arm. There was no one in
the public area, for it was nearly dawn. Even the rotters were in bed
at this hour.

Not
so the men in the back room. Several jumped up to help Ethan to a
chair without so much as demanding explanation.

In a
moment, more men rushed in, some clad in dressing gowns and caps.
Kurt loomed over Ethan for a long moment before turning away.
Relieved, Ethan spared enough energy to wonder where a bloke like
that had his nightshirts made. What yardage!

Then
the scarred giant was back, this time with a tin pan full of steaming
water and gleaming, dangerous bladed instruments. They looked eerily
like devices of torture. Ethan began to push himself to his feet.
"Sorry, sir. I must be go—"

The
room dimmed and slid sideways. Dizzy, Ethan allowed hands to push him
back down. Jeeves tugged off his blue coat, now shot through with a
bullet hole and soaked with blood that would never come out.

Pity.
The room turned another circle. He'd really fancied that coat…

Agony
ripped through him, starting at his shoulder and echoing through
every fiber of his body. He jerked back from the thick, blunt fingers
that probed at his wound. The giant pressed him flat again with very
little apparent effort and single-mindedly went back to his quest,
ignoring Ethan's incoherent cursing.

Someone
tipped brandy into Ethan's mouth, but he spat it out. He couldn't
allow his mind to dim, not when Jane—

"Jane!"
Was that labored croak his own voice? He grabbed at Jeeves with his
free hand. "We have to go back for Jane!"

Just
then the giant twisted something inside Ethan, rather like a time key
of pain, and blackness pulled Ethan in. Even as the room faded, he
heard Jeeves's sedate voice. "Do not worry, sir—we will
find her."

"Jeeves?"
he muttered as he faded out. "What are you doing at the club?"

Ethan
came to as Jeeves and the giant were wrapping his shoulder. They
finished and stepped back.

"Move
tha arm," the giant grunted. After a moment, Ethan decided the
man had asked him to try moving his arm. He couldn't easily, for his
shoulder was wrapped tightly, but he rolled it forward slightly. It
throbbed fiercely, but Ethan could tell it wasn't as serious as it
had seemed when he was losing so much blood. He looked up at the man.
"Thank you, doctor."

The
man grunted and showed several broken teeth. "Doctor." He
grunted again, then turned and walked away without another word.
Jeeves nodded serenely. "I believe he likes you, sir."

Ethan
wisely did not comment on that dubious statement. "Jeeves, did I
tell you to bring me here?"

The
butler looked thoughtful. "No, sir. I don't believe you did."