Will remained standing on her porch for several long moments, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared out at the beginnings of a light rain that tapped the thick stone slabs of her walkway to the street, distorting the beauty of her small front garden like the blur of a watercolor painting. It all seemed so clean and peaceful. Such an illusion, he thought bitterly, feeling his mood darken by the second, his emotions churn in turmoil, an unsuppressed anger at himself rising to the surface.
Why the hell was he more concerned about her feelings for him, for their unusual and seemingly hopeless relationship, than he was for her overall safety? And yet as he considered it rationally, that wasn’t the case at all. He didn’t think he’d ever been so worried about another human being, and it had been years since he’d felt so helpless to alter a situation. Perhaps the truth existed in the one overlapping the other—her longings to persevere mixed with his longings to have her; his desire to protect her as they both knew he had no legal right to do; their mutual attraction that would likely never go away, even as they continued to live in the same community day by day, year by year.
Will rubbed his aching eyes, wishing he’d brought an umbrella, then deciding he didn’t care at all if he got wet. He would be drenched anyway if he stuck to his plans, and stick to them he would. Vivian would be meeting Montague in less than two hours. What she didn’t know, what even his investigator didn’t know, was that he refused to be a pawn, to sit at home and wait for news as Hastings had suggested, had even insisted. He would be there for her, protecting her at all costs. Nothing else mattered. He and his friends, Samson Carlisle and Colin Ramsey, would insure both her safety and the arrest of the actor. Ultimately, he trusted no one else.
Will took a long look at the darkening sky. Then, posture erect with purpose, he ventured out into the steady drizzle at last, unconcerned about the worsening weather. Even as water sprayed his face and clothes, he felt nothing but a cold dampness deep inside, a foreboding unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
The final act in their sordid play was about to begin.
She despised doing nothing. How could she do nothing while she waited to become dinner for a fox? In little more than an hour she would need to enter a public pub that no doubt smelled of day-old sweat, spilled ale, and sour meat. She’d only been in such a vile place like that once before, looking for her husband and finding him in an upstairs, closet-sized, windowless room with a half-dressed whore, who was smoking his opium with him. He’d gone in search of a life Vivian couldn’t provide him, and now she was here, nearly full circle, trying to save hers. If it weren’t so absurd, it would likely be entertaining.
After several minutes of wringing her hands in contemplation of the grossly despicable things she was about to endure, Vivian began to pace the floor of her parlor, listening to the rain patter against the roof, feeling restless as she lingered alone, enclosed in her tiny, suddenly stuffy home. Remembering the envelope with the forgery, she glanced down to the tea table and felt an instant desire to see the craftsmanship inside.
Quickly, she reached for it, lifted the flap, and with great care, pulled out the aged document just far enough to note the signature near the bottom.
Marvelous, she thought in awe, gazing down at a remarkable copy. She almost smiled as she pondered the contacts the Duke of Trent must have to know someone with such talent he could create a work like this. True, she’d only seen the original once, but from her recollection, this one was a nearly flawless duplicate.
“Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Rael-Lamont, but a gentleman is here to see you.”
Vivian whirled around to face her house keeper, clutching the envelope and manuscript against her bosom instinctively.
Harriet stood in the doorway, looking rather sheepish and pink-cheeked. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, but he said it was important that he see you today.”
Recovering herself, Vivian straightened and gingerly returned the forged document to the envelope. “Who is he?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“A gentleman from Truro,” Harriet answered without hesitation. “He wants to purchase some orchids to give to his wife on their wedding anniversary. Lucky woman. Handsome, too, he is. I invited him in but he was dripping from rain and didn’t want to muddy up the floors. Kind of him, actually.”
Vivian felt a supreme annoyance set in. Her house keeper was all business, as if there were nothing else going on in her life worth a moment of worry. She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her palm across her forehead. “Why today…”
“I know it’s sudden,” Harriet said, her voice lowered a fraction as she became a trifle disconcerted, “but it is orchids he’s after, and he came all the way here just to look at yours.”
Her prized orchids. She could use the sale and her house keeper well knew it. If she refused to see him, Harriet would become suspicious, even troubled. She had no choice but to show the man her wares and get rid of him quickly.
Sighing, she set the envelope back on the tea table and smoothed a few loose strands of hair off her cheeks with her palms. “Of course I’ll see him. Did he leave a card?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harriet reached out, a small silver tray in her hand.
Vivian glanced at the fine print: Mr. G. Herman, Esquire.
She had never heard of him. Then again, he’d said he was from Truro.
“If anyone else calls, I am not at home, Harriet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shoulders straight, Vivian lifted her skirts, sidestepped her house keeper, and left the parlor for the nursery.
She didn’t see him immediately as she walked out the back door and into her plush work area. The eaves and overgrown ivy protected the tables of greenery in the small enclosure from direct hit by rain, yet a sprinkling remained and the noise from splattering on the roof was nearly deafening.
“Such an ugly day, isn’t it Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
She froze on the spot, her back to him as he apparently stood behind the archway to her left, unseen from the house.
“I thought perhaps this would be a more…comfortable place to meet,” he added lightly.
Garnering strength even as fear gripped and then encased her, she turned to look at Gilbert Montague, her mouth opening in surprise at his gentlemanly appearance. Now clean shaven, hair cut short, he wore a suit of deep gray and a stylish great coat to match—clothes of impeccable quality. No wonder Harriet hadn’t recognized him.
“Wh—What are you doing here?” she managed to mumble, her voice low and trembling.
He smiled. “I’ve come for you.”
She instinctively took a step away from him, venturing out into the rain where droplets struck her face and hair.
“Get out,” she seethed, “before I scream.”
Slowly, and with an icy coldness, he replied, “You scream and I’ll break your creamy, delicate neck.”
Bile rose in her throat; her legs began to shake, making her suddenly fear she might fall. “What about the manuscript?” It was all she could think of to say.
He chuckled, though his eyes remained steely hard as they stayed locked with hers. “Come, Vivian, are you so naive that you have no idea what this scheme is really about?”
Confused, and feeling more frightened by the second, she backed up even more, her body growing chilled as rainwater started to saturate her gown.
He began to walk toward her, so slowly she almost didn’t notice his encroachment.
Trying to feign composure, to react with defiance, she raised her chin a fraction and said, “I have no idea what you think this is about, Mr. Montague, but I have done my best to comply with your wishes. I simply want the copy of my separation agreement that you have in your possession returned to me. After that, I hope never to lay eyes on you again.”
This time he laughed with pleasure, as if he found her words truly amusing.
“In point of fact, the name is Herman, and although it hardly matters, you’re not much of an actress.”
She blinked; his expression went flat and cold again.
“We’re going for a ride, Vivian. We’re going to walk out of here together, get into my carriage, and ride.”
Her world started to reel. She retreated another foot and this time her hip struck the edge of a short wooden table, jarring her.
He smirked. Then with a quickness she’d never anticipated, he latched onto her upper arm and leaned toward her. “You’ll come with me now, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he enunciated in a thick whisper she read on his lips more than heard.
The fog of fear within began to take a solid form as she fought the urge to simply run and chance escape. He must have read her thoughts, for at that moment he yanked her toward him, against him, and she couldn’t mistake the sharpness of a blade at her waist.
She had never anticipated this, and neither had Will.
Will…How I need you now.
As Gilbert grabbed her around the shoulders to usher her through the nursery and toward the side gate, she glanced around furiously, trying to think of something. Anything—
He tightened his grip. “You scream, Vivian, you try to escape, and you die, right here among all your pretty little plants. I am in charge now. Remember that.”
“My staff—”
“Won’t even realize you’re gone for at least another thirty minutes or so,” he cut in quite casually. “That’ll give us plenty of time to leave the city.”
Shivering, she gazed up at his smooth, deceptively handsome face. “Bastard,” she spat between clenched teeth.
He grinned again, proudly, and in some very odd gentlemanly manner, lifted his free hand and wrapped his coat around her, hugging her against him, to protect her from the pelting rain.
“Yes, true,” he replied as he led her through the tall wooden gate and out to his waiting carriage. “And I don’t even need to act.”
Reluctantly she stepped inside the dark enclosure, hoping for rescue, unsure if she could fight him or if the knife he carried would wound her mortally. One thing she didn’t doubt anymore was that he would use it.
As they rode west out of town, without interruption or cause for concern by any onlookers, it became apparent to her that she was now very much on her own.