To describe the Cynster ball as an unrelenting crush would be a massive understatement.
At eleven o’clock the following evening, Isobel stood beside Declan at the side of the huge ballroom and, over the intervening heads, watched the drama unfolding in the rear corner of the room.
Edwina had just joined them. “I can’t see—tell me what’s happening!”
“I’d just finished dancing with Harry Cynster,” Isobel explained, “and he was leading me from the floor when a large gentleman came up, bold as you please, and asked—no, that’s too weak a word—he demanded to be told where I’d got the necklace.”
“And?” Leaning on Declan’s arm, Edwina stood on her toes and craned her neck to see, but was defeated.
“I was so surprised that I stared at him—and before I’d collected my wits, he started to bluster and said the diamonds were his, that he knew where they came from, and there’d been some mistake, and if I didn’t hand them over then and there, he’d have me taken up...” Isobel shook her head. “He went on and on. It was the most idiotically blatant attempt to get the necklace. Harry and I could barely believe it. Then, to cap it all, when Harry asked him how the necklace could be his, the man—Harry later told me he was the Marquis of Risdale—realized he’d said too much. He swung around, intent on making off—but Dearne was there along with two of the others. They’d come up behind Risdale and had heard all he’d said. Risdale put his head down and tried to plow through them, but they caught him and held him—and now Devil Cynster’s there, and they’re trying to get Risdale out of the ballroom without too much fuss.”
Declan said, “Wolverstone’s just walked up, along with Minerva. She’s talking rather severely to Risdale—it looks like she’s telling him to behave himself.”
Edwina grinned. “I’m quite sure she is...oof!”
Isobel and Declan looked around in alarm.
Edwina was pressing a hand to the side of her belly and doing her best to wipe the grimace from her face.
“What’s wrong?” Declan looked ready to panic.
“It’s just a twinge.” When he didn’t look convinced, Edwina lowered her voice and said, “If you must know, your dratted offspring kicked me. Hard.”
Declan didn’t look relieved. “Is that normal?”
“Quite normal,” Isobel assured him. “But why don’t you take Edwina to those windows over there. It’ll be a touch quieter, and your offspring might settle again.”
Edwina frowned. “We can’t leave you alone. You have to have two people with you at all times.”
Isobel glanced around and spotted Letitia, Dearne’s wife, talking with Lady Clarice. “I’ll go and join the marchioness and Lady Clarice. The musicians are resting, but they’ll start up again soon, and my scheduled partners will find me. Who knows?” She edged toward the marchioness. “Our luck seems to be in. We might actually succeed in luring the last of the backers out tonight.”
Declan glanced at Edwina.
She met his gaze, then looked at Isobel uncertainly. “I would prefer to retreat to the window—it’ll be cooler over there. If you’re sure?”
“Quite sure.” Isobel waved them away. “It’s a matter of...what? Five yards?” With a smile, she gave Edwina and Declan her back and slid into the crowd.
Her gown tonight was fashioned from a rich, almost iridescent peacock silk, an intense blue-green hue that brought out the deeper shades in the blue fire of the necklace as it lay against her white skin. If anything, the diamonds made an even more striking display than they had two nights before.
She smiled and nodded, easing past shoulders clad in silk and superfine. It was much like tacking through a crowded harbor—this way, then that.
She was still several yards short of her goal when a youthful dandy stepped into her path.
“I say—are you Miss Carmichael?”
She halted; the gentleman—given he was a guest, he had to be that—looked barely twenty. “Yes. I am.”
“Capital! I told the butler I’d find you—he’s trying to be everywhere at once at the moment. But there’s a messenger in the foyer asking for you. Seems in quite a state—he said something about a search for some boy.”
Boy? “Oh no.” Every other thought fled her head. Had Duncan somehow slipped past his grandparents? Iona was here, somewhere in the crowd. Was Duncan headed here, or would he make for the docks? Or...?
Frantic panic unlike any she’d ever known clutched her throat and made it difficult to breathe. She swung toward the ballroom doors; they weren’t too far away. “The foyer, you said?” She sounded breathless.
“Yes—at the bottom of the stairs. Here. Let me help you get through.” The young man didn’t presume to take her arm, but by walking beside her, he helped clear their path through the throng.
They finally reached the ballroom doors. The area about the top of the stairs was crowded, but the young gentleman pointed to the entrance hall below. With a weak smile, she edged past various guests and, barely restraining herself from running, started down the stairs.
The entrance hall was full of guests, both arriving and departing. The exchange of coats and cloaks, hats and canes, some being handed over, others retrieved, created a shifting morass of bodies. She halted on the landing and scanned the crowd, searching for one of Edwina’s footmen.
The young dandy halted beside her. “He was over there... Ah! There he is.” Half crouching, he pointed out of the open door. “He’s waiting outside on the pavement.”
Isobel picked up her skirts and, dispensing with caution, hurried down the stairs. She pushed through the people clogging the front hall and rushed onto the porch.
“He’s over there.” The dandy pointed to the right.
As often happened at major balls in Mayfair, a crowd of onlookers—maids, bootboys, footmen, and milliners’ and modistes’ apprentices—had gathered on either side of the red carpet to observe and ooh and aah at the guests’ clothes, jewelry, and hairstyles. Isobel saw several footmen who might be from Stanhope Street, but the night’s shadows were rendered blacker by the flares burning so brightly around the mansion’s entrance; she hurried down the steps and turned right.
The dandy gripped her elbow and stepped close, pushing into the crowd, who glanced at them curiously but readily gave way, their gazes refastening on the open doorway at the top of the steps.
“Just a trifle farther...”
She registered the odd tension in the dandy’s voice. Her instincts flared. She halted—but the dandy pushed her on.
He was stronger than she’d expected; she took several more steps before she locked her legs, wrenched her arm free, and, fury igniting, rounded on him.
Black cloth fell over her head.
In the same instant, her hands were caught and swiftly tied in front of her, even as she was jostled farther down the pavement, away from St. Ives House.
The black material of the hood was impenetrable. She sensed two men, burly and strong, closing tight on either side, then the weight of a heavy cloak settled on her shoulders. She hauled in a breath—
“If you value your son’s life, don’t scream,” one rough voice told her.
She shut her lips. Stunned realization bloomed. They—whoever they were—had succeeded in getting her out of the house. Had any of her protectors seen her leave?
The burly pair herded her on, but they were keeping to the pavement. Where was the dandy?
Hell—this was Grosvenor Square, the heart of fashionable London. Where was everyone?
Watching the distraction provided by the guests going in and out of St. Ives House.
On the thought, the men, each of whom had grasped one of her arms, halted. Straining her ears, she heard the familiar rasp of a door latch, then the men were lifting her up—into a carriage. They bundled her inside. She was too tall to stand upright; she twisted and, with her legs tangling in her skirts and the cloak, collapsed inelegantly onto the seat—the one facing St. Ives House.
Her knees brushed those of a man sitting opposite. He immediately—politely—moved his legs away.
The door shut. She shifted and wriggled and managed to sit upright.
“Good evening, Miss Carmichael. I regret the inconvenience, but if you value your life and wish to see your son again, you will remain still and answer my questions.” The voice was not merely cool but cold, utterly devoid of inflection. “I merely wish to speak with you away from that infernal crush and the oh-so-watchful eyes of your friends.” The man—a gentleman by his precise diction and choice of words—paused, then said, “Pray excuse me for a moment.”
She waited, but he didn’t leave the carriage. Instead, he lowered the window and spoke to someone on the pavement. The dandy, she realized. She thought of lifting the hood enough to see, but the cloak was wrapped about her; it would take too long to free her hands of the folds, and the man would surely notice. She listened instead, but they used no names. Nevertheless, it was clear that the dandy had been paid to lure her out of the house.
Chagrin coursed through her. She’d been playing the lure, but had been lured out instead.
Surreptitiously, she tested the bindings about her hands, but they gave not at all. Foiled on that front, she started cataloging everything she could—all her senses could tell her. The man in the carriage was patently the one in charge—he had to be their sixth and last backer. He was, she judged, of middle years—probably much the same age as the other backers.
The man dismissed the dandy. The window scraped as he raised it.
She gathered her wits and, her bound hands in her lap, her limbs restricted by the heavy cloak, prepared to do verbal battle.
“To reassure you, Miss Carmichael, we aren’t going anywhere. As I said, I merely wish to question you—oh, and to retrieve that lovely necklace, which, as it happens, belongs, at least in part, to me.”
She heard him shift, sensed him leaning nearer. She locked her jaw and forced herself to remain still as she felt the edges of the hood shift.
Then the man’s cold fingertips brushed her skin as he searched for the necklace’s catch; she suppressed a shiver.
He found the catch, released it, and the weight of the fabulous necklace fell away.
He sat back; she sensed he was holding the necklace up, admiring the stones in the weak light.
They were still at the curb in Grosvenor Square. She had to admire his sangfroid.
But surely she would have been missed by now. Her protectors would be searching.
Royd would be furious and...he didn’t really grow frantic, except perhaps inside. Panic wasn’t something a man as experienced as he indulged in.
He would come for her. She just needed to buy him, and the others, time.
“Quite exquisite.” The man shifted on the seat; she imagined him tucking the necklace into his pocket. “Now, to our discussion. No matter the temptation, I most strongly advise you to leave that hood in place. That way, I won’t have to kill you once our conversation is over. However, in case you doubt the sincerity of that threat...”
She heard the telltale click of a pistol being cocked, the sound loud in the enclosed space. She stopped breathing.
The man leaned forward. Then she felt the end of the pistol’s barrel press gently between her breasts.
“That’s where I’m aiming, and at this range, I can hardly miss.” His tone was still cold, but the cadence of his words verged on the conversational. He drew back, and the pressure of the pistol barrel vanished.
Her chest felt tight. She managed to draw in a shallow breath.
“So, Miss Carmichael, please tell me from where you got the necklace. And don’t think to fob me off with some nonsense that you don’t know where it came from—you’re Iona Carmody’s granddaughter, and by all reports, your apple didn’t fall far from her tree. You know all the pertinent details, so if you please, share them with me—I want to hear all you know about these lovely blue diamonds.”
She’d been thinking furiously about how best to stretch out their exchange. Her heart thudding, she hesitated just long enough to give the impression of consternation, then said, “All I know of the stones will make for a very long story. I could ramble for hours, but that won’t help either of us.” It was easier to manage men if they thought they were in charge. “Perhaps if you ask me what you wish to know, we might be done with this sooner, and you can let me go.”
Silence greeted her suggestion, then she heard what she took to be a rather dry laugh.
“I had heard you were a refreshing change from the usual gently bred miss.” He paused, then said, “Very well. Here’s my first question. What do you know of a gentleman by the name of Lord Peter Ross-Courtney?”
She drew in a breath and prepared to tell all.
* * *
Finally!
Inside the ballroom, Royd stood by one wall and, with Wolverstone by his side, watched the Marquis of Risdale, mute at last but still looking murderous, be led away by Trentham, Carstairs, and Hendon. A carriage with an escort was waiting by a rear door to whisk the marquis into Essex.
Dismissing Risdale, Royd raised his gaze and looked around the room, searching for Isobel’s dark head...
He forced himself to complete two visual circuits before he turned to Wolverstone. “Isobel—I can’t see her. I don’t think she’s here.”
Wolverstone was already frowning; he’d been searching, too. “I can’t see her, either.” The words were clipped.
“She wouldn’t have left—not unless she had good cause.”
“Even if she had,” Wolverstone replied, “someone should have seen and alerted us.”
In seconds, they, and all the others of their company they came across, were quartering the crowd. The congestion was at its height; just fighting one’s way through the bodies was an effort. The musicians were playing, and the dance floor was packed; Royd scanned the dancers, as did others, but Isobel wasn’t among the circling couples. Jack Warnefleet, her scheduled partner for this dance, hadn’t been able to find her.
Royd searched to the far end of the room, but he knew she wasn’t there. His instincts were in full flight, pressing and urging.
He met up with Wolverstone and Devil Cynster in the space beneath the musicians’ gallery.
Grimly, Wolverstone shook his head.
Devil Cynster swore.
Then the duke turned and took the stairs to the gallery three at a time. Abruptly, the musicians stopped playing.
As the dancers noticed, slowed, and looked up, Devil leaned on the gallery railing and roared, “Silence!”
All conversations ceased. Silks shushed as everyone swung to face the gallery.
Into the shocked silence, Devil said, “This is vitally important. We’re searching for a lady—the one with the necklace. Tall, black-haired, striking, in a blue-green gown. Most of you have seen her. Look around you now—can anyone see her?”
Rustles filled the room as people obeyed, but no one spoke up.
Then a pudgy beringed hand waved from the end of the room, and an older lady called, “That gel went out a few minutes ago—the Strickland pup was with her.”
Royd strode for the main doors, Wolverstone beside him. The crowd parted, clearing a path up the center of the room. Others of their company fell in behind them as, from above, Devil called, “Strickland!” When no answer came, Devil said, “Look around again—is he here?”
This time, no one answered.
Royd swore beneath his breath. The ballroom doors lay just ahead. He asked Wolverstone, “Do you know Strickland by sight?”
Wolverstone shook his head.
“I do.” Dearne was just behind them.
“You stick with Royd.” Wolverstone nodded ahead. “We’ll split up—you go downstairs. I’ll set people searching up here, then join you.”
They strode into the area at the head of the stairs. Leaving Wolverstone there—he was immediately joined by Honoria, and they started sending pairs of searchers down various corridors—Royd and Dearne, with several others falling in behind them, hurried down the grand staircase.
Royd paused on the landing, Dearne by his side; the position gave them an excellent view of the entrance hall. “Can you see Strickland?”
Dearne and several others searched, then Dearne pointed to a stripling leaning against the wall of the corridor running beside the stairs. “There.” The youth’s head was down, his attention on the notes he was counting.
“You’re on interference,” Royd ground out.
He all but leapt down the remaining flight and swung around the newel post. Two strides and he filled his fist with Strickland’s neckcloth, lifted the youth, and slammed him bodily against the wall.
He snarled into the boy’s stunned face. “Where is she?”
Strickland swallowed, then babbled, “She’s in the carriage outside.” His gaze darted to the wall of aggressive men closing at Royd’s back. His eyes widened to saucers. “It was just a lark! He said he just wanted to talk to her. I just had to get her outside—it was the others, his men, who took her and put her in the carriage, but he swore he’d let her go once they’d talked!”
The last word came out on a squeak as Royd flung him aside and raced for the door.
Behind him, he heard Dearne order, “Hold him!”
Royd heard the thunder of feet at his back, but didn’t turn to see who was following. He shouldered his way through the press of bodies and stepped onto the front porch. Carriage, the boy had said.
A chaos of carriages lay before him.
The thoroughfare was clogged with vehicles setting down arrivals and others summoned to take their owners up.
“Not those.” Royd looked farther afield. “If he wants to talk...”
Veiled by shadows, the small black town carriage drawn up by the curb some way to the right, well outside the light thrown by the street flares, was almost indiscernible.
Royd was moving again before he’d even thought. He reached the pavement, pushed through the crowd of onlookers, and raced for the carriage.
* * *
“So, you see,” Isobel said, “I haven’t actually spoken to Ross-Courtney or Neill at all. Indeed, I haven’t set eyes on them since we left the jungle.”
“But you’re sure they’re still in custody?” the gentleman pressed.
“I really can’t say, but I assume they are as I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”
“And you don’t know where?”
“No.” She caught the sound of rushing footsteps and hurriedly went on, “But I do know they’re not being held in any usual jail or by the police—”
The door was wrenched open.
“He has a gun!” she screamed.
“Frobisher!” the man snarled.
The carriage tipped as a large, heavy body came through the door.
Royd was going to get himself killed!
She couldn’t do much, but her legs weren’t tied; she raised one foot, shod in her ballroom pump, and drove the thick heel as hard and as deeply as she could into where she judged the man was sitting.
Flesh squashed beneath her heel, and the pistol went off.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.
The carriage rocked; grunts and curses filled the air.
Obviously, Royd wasn’t dead.
Then came a hideous thwack of fist forcefully meeting flesh, and the rocking eased.
An instant later, Royd’s hands closed on hers. “Hold still—let me get the hood off.”
She’d fainted for the first time not so long ago; now she was hyperventilating. She’d come within a whisker of losing him. The stupid man had flung himself at a villain with a pistol! Admittedly, to save her, but still!
Then the hood was lifted away, and she looked up, into Royd’s face. He was standing bent over her. In the poor light, she could barely make out his expression; he looked grim, but not in pain.
After one searching, comprehensive glance at her face, he looked down and picked at the knots in the rope about her wrists. “Are you hurt?” The words were a deep growl.
“No. Not at all.” Her heart was still galloping. “You?”
“I’m fine.”
She hauled in a breath, then another. The dizziness faded. Peering around him, she saw the man who had captured her sprawled in an ungainly heap across the seat. He didn’t look particularly notable in any way—a rather conservative gentleman of no great physical distinction.
The man stirred, then groaned.
Wolverstone and Dearne stood by the open carriage door, with others behind them.
She quickly said, “He threatened me, but other than that, he asked about Ross-Courtney and Neill. About what they’d said and where they’d been, and where they are now. And he took the necklace—it’s in his pocket.”
She paused to draw in another huge breath.
Royd drew away the rope; awkwardly, he crouched and massaged her wrists. Beneath his fingertips, he felt her racing pulse. “Everything’s all right.”
The words brought her gaze back to his face; her dark eyes were huge. “He knew about Duncan—knew I had a son.” Her fingers clutched his. “Oh, God—do you think—”
“No.” So that was why she’d left the ballroom. He wished he could hit the man—whoever he was—again. “No one will have got to Duncan.”
But he could see from her eyes that she wouldn’t calm until she knew for certain. He rose and helped her up. “We’ll send a footman to make sure.”
“Yes. Right now!”
He climbed down from the carriage, then turned to lift her down. She all but fell into his arms.
Her hand landed on his left shoulder—right on the spot where the pistol ball had scored a furrow—and he bit back a hiss.
He stepped back from the carriage, giving the others room to go in and haul the still-insensible blackguard out. With a house railing at his back, he set Isobel on her feet.
She looked down at her palm, then at his shoulder. Then her lips set, and she jabbed him in the chest. “Damn it, Royd—you are hurt! You’ve been shot, for heaven’s sake!”
“It’s just a flesh wound. It’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”
“How can you know? There’s barely any light.” She bobbed on her toes, studying the bloody scrape.
Royd saw one of Wolverstone’s footmen and beckoned. He gave the man orders to go to Stanhope Street and inquire as to the location of one Duncan Frobisher.
The footman looked to his master. After one glance at Isobel, Wolverstone nodded. “As fast as you can.”
Isobel barely seemed to notice. She was still muttering over his wound. “I told you there was a pistol. Are you sure it doesn’t sting? Did you really have to just leap straight in—”
He hauled her to him and kissed her.
Let free all the pent-up anguish of the past fraught minutes, reveled in—let both of them revel in—the fact they were both still there, both alive, relatively unscathed...
After the first heartbeat, she grabbed his head and gave as good as she got.
When he raised his head, she opened her eyes, looked into his—and he knew she was back. That she was with him, focused again.
He released her, but caught her hand. She turned, and they watched as the barely conscious man was dragged from the carriage. Royd caught Wolverstone’s eye. “Who is he?”
“Clunes-Forsythe. An exceedingly wealthy man of excellent birth—something of a powerbroker. Keeps to the shadows. I’ve heard he has no interest in any enterprise unless it promises some personal advantage.” Wolverstone joined them. They watched as several others, under Dearne’s direction, bound the still-groggy Clunes-Forsythe’s hands and commenced lugging him, hunched over and apparently unable to stand upright, along the pavement in full view of a now-goggling throng. The onlookers had deserted the St. Ives’ guests in favor of more action and drama.
Wolverstone gestured, and they followed the others, the three of them bringing up the rear.
“This may be the breakthrough we’ve been angling for.” Glancing at Royd, Wolverstone nodded at his shoulder. “How’s that?”
“Flesh wound. It’s nothing.” Of course, Isobel shot him a glare and humphed. He decided he owed her the truth. “It would have been much worse except Isobel kicked the blackguard where it hurts the most at just the right moment—his shot went high.”
Isobel swung to stare at him. Her gaze tracked down from the furrow in his shoulder, and her eyes widened...
He squeezed her hand—and kept squeezing until she dragged her gaze up and met his eyes. He grinned. “We make an excellent team.”
A muffled sound escaped Wolverstone, who was studiously looking ahead.
Isobel wasn’t appeased. She glared again, then muttered, “Later,” and faced forward.
Two paces on, Wolverstone inquired, “I take it they used some threat against your son to lure you from the ballroom?”
“Yes.” Isobel explained. In conclusion, she shrugged. “As soon as Duncan entered into the calculations, I forgot about everything else.”
“Entirely understandable,” Wolverstone returned. “That was what Clunes-Forsythe was counting on.”
They’d reached the St. Ives’ steps when pounding footsteps and a hail of “Your Grace” gave them pause.
Wolverstone looked back. “Yes?”
The footman they’d sent to Stanhope Street pulled up with a grin. Although breathless, he managed to get out, “All’s well with the boy—he’s apparently fast asleep in his bed.”
“Thank God!” Isobel felt a lingering weight slide from her shoulders; she’d been almost sure Duncan was safe and sound, but when it came to her son, almost would never be good enough. She smiled at the footman. “And thank you.”
The footman, still grinning, bowed. “A pleasure, miss.”
“Right, then.” Wolverstone started up the steps with renewed vigor.
Arm in arm, Isobel and Royd followed.
Wolverstone paused just inside the mansion’s doors.
They were joined by Devil Cynster. “Dearne said you wanted to have a go at Clunes-Forsythe here and now. Honoria suggested the ground floor drawing room—it’ll fit all of us who want to watch.”
Wolverstone nodded. He glanced at Isobel and Royd. “I’ve a feeling that, thanks to a mother’s overriding instinct to save her child, we’ve just been handed the lever we’ve been searching for. In kidnapping Isobel, stealing the necklace, and shooting Royd, Clunes-Forsythe committed three capital crimes—ones we can easily prove—and all before witnesses of unimpeachable standing.”
“As to that,” Devil said, “Strickland’s fallen apart. He’ll testify as to Clunes-Forsythe’s instructions. Strickland’s an idiot, but his family is sound—they’ll hold him to it.”
“Excellent.” Wolverstone waved them all forward. “Let’s see about bringing this oh-so-lengthy mission to a comprehensively satisfying end.”
* * *
“Let’s endeavor to make this easy on all of us.” Wolverstone stood before the huge fireplace in the St. Ives’ downstairs drawing room.
Clunes-Forsythe, his hands still bound, had been placed on a straight-backed chair at the end of the Aubusson rug, facing Wolverstone. To either side, the room was packed with all those who had assisted in his capture. The ladies filled all the available seats, and the men ranged about the walls.
Clunes-Forsythe’s face showed little expression, little by way of reaction to Wolverstone’s words, but the man was listening.
“Our position is this.” Wolverstone drew the blue diamond necklace from his pocket. Walking forward, he handed it to Isobel, seated in the middle of one of the long sofas; Clunes-Forsythe’s eyes tracked the winking stones. “These diamonds represent the products of an illicit mine operating in West Africa, a few days out of Freetown. The area in question is part of the British colony of West Africa. The mine could have been set up legitimately, but those behind it elected to improve their profits by keeping the enterprise a secret and, most relevantly, using slave labor—British men, women, and children seized from the settlement of Freetown. Through various efforts, a mission was dispatched with the aim of rescuing those held captive, closing the mine, identifying those responsible, and securing evidence sufficient to convict those behind the scheme.” Wolverstone paused to incline his head to Clunes-Forsythe. “Courtesy of your intervention tonight, we now know the identity of all six backers—and we have all six in custody.”
Clunes-Forsythe blinked.
Wolverstone’s smile took on a sharp edge. “Indeed. We already have Ross-Courtney, Neill, Deveny, Cummins, and Risdale secreted away. We realize that the rationale behind what you all believed to be a very safe investment was the assumption that your positions—especially that of Ross-Courtney as one of the king’s closest confidantes—guaranteed that, even if the scheme was uncovered, even if your involvement was discovered, ultimately no charges would be laid.”
His dark gaze resting on Clunes-Forsythe, Wolverstone paused, then, in a conversational tone, went on, “Five—or even three—years ago, that might well have been the case. But thanks to some of those here”—a wave indicated those watching and listening—“the Black Cobra was brought down last year. Together with unrest over the courts’ perceived reluctance to hear charges against the upper echelon—those with political, monetary, and social clout—the incident of the Black Cobra and the ramifications flowing from it have forced the government to take a stand.” Wolverstone leveled a steady gaze on their prisoner. “The government has already decreed that those behind schemes such as this diamond mine will be treated as any other men and bear the full consequences of their actions. Publicly.”
Clunes-Forsythe twitched; he was now listening avidly.
“As the investigating force, we currently have all six backers in custody. The other five are being held incommunicado—there will be no chance for any of them to alert any supporters to their incarceration. No chance for Ross-Courtney’s friends, or any others, to attempt to interfere. You will shortly be joining the other five. None of you will be freed again—the next time you appear in public will be at your trial. As for the evidence we either already hold, or are in the process of gathering, we have the three local managers of the scheme in custody as well, and all three have agreed to turn king’s evidence. Their testimony, linked with the personal evidence of the agents who freed those at the mine and of several officers who were among the captives, will prove conclusively the criminal nature of the mining operation. In addition, Ross-Courtney and Neill had already reached the mine and demonstrated their involvement beyond doubt to said agents and officers before the rescue was carried out and Ross-Courtney and Neill were captured. Further, we now have documentary evidence of the money Ross-Courtney sent Satterly to fund the mine. Now we know the identities involved, we will be able to access evidence showing where that money came from—namely, the six backers. We also know of the existence of the diamond merchant and expect to learn his identity any day. He will lead us to the banker, and that will close the circle, giving us evidence of the six backers profiting from the sale of the diamonds taken from the mine they paid to establish.”
Wolverstone sent a congratulatory glance around the room, at all those gathered. “All in all, we’ve managed to construct a strong and inescapable case.” He returned his gaze to Clunes-Forsythe. “We expect to have the last pieces in place within days.”
Clunes-Forsythe met Wolverstone’s gaze. “Why are you telling me this?”
In an even tone, Wolverstone replied, “In order to expedite the gathering of evidence to the point that any trial will be cut and dried—for obvious reasons, the government does not wish such a spectacle to be prolonged—I’ve been authorized to offer leniency to one of the six backers. Just one, for we don’t require more than one of you to give us the few pieces of information we’re still waiting on. To be clear, the crimes involved in the establishment and operation of the mine and profiting from it are hanging offences. The Crown’s leniency will extend only to commuting one sentence from hanging to transportation for life. That is the offer currently on the table. However”—Wolverstone paused in a histrionic manner Isobel, for one, appreciated—“once we have all the required evidence in our hands—which will be within a week, if not days—then the need for cooperation will vanish, and the offer of leniency will be withdrawn.”
Clunes-Forsythe was patently following every word. A moment elapsed, then he asked, “Have you made this offer to the other five?”
“To four of them. Risdale was picked up this evening—we haven’t yet spent time talking with him.”
Clunes-Forsythe arched his brows. “And none of the others took up the offer?”
“No.” Wolverstone smiled. “But none of them know about the investigations—all the rest I just shared with you.”
A touch of wariness seeped into Clunes-Forsythe’s expression. “Why did you share that information with me?”
“Because at this point, you, of the six, are the one who stands to gain most by cooperating. Consider—if, by some misbegotten chance, Ross-Courtney managed to get word out, and the king stepped in before we have the necessary evidence, and our ability to prosecute vanished, then the other backers might well walk free—but you won’t. You’re facing the gallows come what may. Tonight, your pursuit of the products of the mine led you to commit three major crimes. First, you kidnapped a lady from a ton ball. Second, you lifted a necklace worth a king’s ransom from about her neck and placed that necklace in your pocket.”
Clunes-Forsythe’s black gaze swung to Royd. “Frobisher could have done that.”
“No, he couldn’t have.” Dearne spoke from his position by the wall. “I was on his heels. You’d put a hood over Miss Carmichael’s head. Frobisher didn’t have time to lift the hood, retrieve the necklace, and put it in your pocket before I was there.”
Wolverstone caught Clunes-Forsythe’s eyes. “You see? And your third crime was to shoot Frobisher, at point blank range, in front of me, Dearne, Lostwithiel, and several others. Your chances of talking your way free of any of those charges are nil.”
Clunes-Forsythe stared up the room.
No one said anything; Isobel found it amazing that even though there were close to fifty people in the room, no one fidgeted, let alone moved. Not even Iona, who had insisted on attending and was seated beside her. They were all waiting to see which way this would go. Wolverstone had made their position out to be much stronger—much more immediate—than it actually was. But he’d been convincing, and Clunes-Forsythe appeared to have followed Wolverstone’s careful direction.
Eventually, Clunes-Forsythe straightened and drew a deeper breath. “If—I say if—I were to...expedite your investigations, would the commutation of sentence extend to the charges arising from my actions tonight?”
He was going to accept the offer. Isobel felt triumph well and tamped it down. He hadn’t accepted yet.
“That,” Wolverstone said, “would depend on those involved in those charges.” He arched a brow at Royd, to his right. “Frobisher?”
Royd had been standing with arms crossed, legs braced, his eyes rarely leaving Clunes-Forsythe’s face. His gaze still on the man, he nodded curtly.
Wolverstone turned to Isobel. “Miss Carmichael?”
Her gaze also on Clunes-Forsythe, she, too, nodded.
“St. Ives?”
Isobel glanced around.
His arms crossed over his chest, Devil Cynster was leaning against the edge of the fireplace. “I’m not delighted at the prospect.” The expression on his harsh-featured face made that obvious. “However, if agreeing means he’ll never darken England’s shores again and, instead, will slave away in a penal colony at the ends of the earth for the rest of his natural life...” Devil shrugged. “I suppose I can accept that.”
Wolverstone looked back at Clunes-Forsythe. “You have your answer.”
“In that case”—Clunes-Forsythe drew in a long breath—“you may consider your investigations complete.” He smiled, a thin-lipped gesture. “I never trust anyone and men like Ross-Courtney least of all. I’ve kept records of everything. All the details you might wish for. Far more than Ross-Courtney ever had an inkling I knew.” He raised his bound wrists and reached inside his coat. He struggled, but no one rose to help him. Eventually, he drew forth a chain from which dangled a key. “If you will send someone to my house, to my study, this key opens the safe behind my grandmother’s portrait to the left of the desk. Inside, you’ll find ledgers with all the details you might need.”
Wolverstone walked to Clunes-Forsythe and took the key.
“I have one question.” It was Caleb who spoke. “Pure curiosity. You just made a choice between hanging or what Cynster said. Why choose what many, especially of your age, would consider a fate worse than death?”
Clunes-Forsythe’s brows rose. After a moment, he replied, “Ironically enough, I daresay it was the same choice those I condemned to slavery made. Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
Wolverstone studied Clunes-Forsythe for a moment, then said, “Purely as a formality, we allege that you—along with Risdale, Neill, Lord Hugh Deveny, and Sir Reginald Cummins—were recruited by Lord Peter Ross-Courtney to fund an illegal diamond mine to be worked by slave labor in the West Africa Colony. The local management of the mine was provided by Arnold Satterly—a connection of Ross-Courtney’s and principal aide to the colony’s governor—along with Muldoon, the resident naval attaché, and William Winton, the assistant commissar at Fort Thornton. Can you confirm those details are correct?”
Clunes-Forsythe leaned back in the chair and met Wolverstone’s gaze. “Your summation is correct in every respect.”
Isobel smiled. She looked across at Royd as he looked at her.
“Done.” They mouthed the word simultaneously.
Then they laughed.
* * *
Triumph buoyed all those who’d been a part of the effort to capture the backers.
Wolverstone dispatched Clunes-Forsythe to Essex, then returned to congratulate everyone. During her husband’s absence, Minerva had arranged for champagne to be served in the drawing room. The company toasted themselves. They toasted the captives. They toasted Royd and Isobel and all the Frobisher captains and their ladies, who, as Wolverstone put it, “had been critically instrumental in bringing an ugly chapter in British colonial rule to an end.”
Isobel kept a satisfied smile fixed on her face; she felt the triumph as much as anyone, but she also had trouble ignoring the dark stain marring the left shoulder of Royd’s coat.
When he bent to whisper in her ear, suggesting they use his injury as an excuse to leave, she dallied only long enough to place Iona under Kate’s wing. Along with all the others, Iona had returned to the ballroom, where fully half the ton waited, agog to learn what had transpired. Rather than dally in the front hall, stationary prey for all those intent on speaking with them, admiring the necklace—once again gracing her throat—and asking all sorts of prying questions, they left the carriages for the others, slipped out of the mansion’s side door, and, arm in arm, set off at a brisk pace.
Away from the bustle about the St. Ives’ steps, the night was cool, the sky overcast, the streets relatively empty of pedestrians. They skirted two other residences hosting parties. Their long legs ate the distance, and soon, Humphrey was admitting them into the quiet of Declan and Edwina’s front hall.
After reassuring Humphrey that all was well with his master and mistress, and that they and the others would be along shortly, Isobel pointed to Royd’s wound and requested hot water to be delivered to their room.
Humphrey bowed. “At once, ma’am.”
She turned and led the way up the stairs. Humphrey had consistently referred to her as “ma’am,” not “miss”; she hadn’t bothered to correct him, reasoning that, in truth, his choice of honorific was more accurate than not.
Royd climbed the stairs in Isobel’s wake. Inside him, a morass of emotions were swirling, welling, and churning, surging toward breaking loose. He’d managed to keep them suppressed, managed to maintain a civilized façade, but even as they reached the top of the stairs, he could feel his control eroding.
The wound on his shoulder stung, but getting shot had been a relief. Once the pistol had discharged, it had no longer been a threat to Isobel. Seeing her as he had in the instant in which he’d wrenched open the door—hooded and tied, with an unknown gentleman holding a pistol trained on her...he never wanted to face such a horrifying sight again.
Capping the sequence of realizing she was missing, then grasping the fact that she’d been lured away, that moment had shaken him to his foundation, to a depth and a degree that, until then, he hadn’t realized was possible.
To have secured her again, only to lose her... That couldn’t ever happen.
She stopped outside Duncan’s door, eased it open, and tiptoed inside.
Royd followed. He couldn’t understand why she tiptoed; their son slept as heavily as he did.
Halting just inside the darkened room, lit only by a small night-light on the dresser, he watched as she gently tucked Duncan’s arm beneath the sheet, then she brushed back his hair and dropped a kiss on his temple.
From where Royd stood, he could see Duncan’s face, in sleep more like Isobel’s than his.
He could see her face, too—see the unconditional love that transformed her features from Amazon to madonna.
Something inside him swelled, overwhelming all other emotions.
When she stepped back from the bed, he reached out, caught her hand, and towed her out of the room. He shut the door, then drew her on to theirs; he opened it, swung her through, then followed and shut the panel.
He’d forgotten just how much, emotionally, they mirrored each other. As he turned, intending to haul her to him, she flung herself at him, and he caught her.
At the first touch of their lips, all restraint cindered. There was no argument about who was in charge; tonight, neither of them were.
Neither of them could control this—this maelstrom of need.
Passion was there, pulsing and strong, while desire raged, a fiery torrent in their veins, but it was need, raw and ungovernable, that drove them, a near-violent craving for reassurance.
For the most elemental affirmation that they had weathered the challenge, that they were hale, whole, and oh-so-intensely alive.
He loosened her laces just enough to drag her bodice down, then he feasted on her breasts. Her head tipped back, and she moaned, her nails biting into his upper arms through coat and shirt.
Then her grip eased, and her hands went a-wandering—over his chest and down to, through his trousers, cup and caress him. Then her busy fingers found the buttons at his waist and slid them free.
Her hand dove inside, and she found him. Held him, claimed him.
Chest swelling, he raised his head, pivoted, and pushed her back against the door, then he bent his head and ravaged her mouth again.
She met him, matched him, challenged and defied him every step of the way.
His Amazon.
He couldn’t wait. Neither could she.
She kicked off her pumps.
He rucked her silken skirts up to her waist, slid an arm beneath her hips, and hoisted her against the door.
“Your shoulder,” she gasped, even as she wrapped her long legs about his hips.
“Later.” He positioned his erection at her entrance, sucked in a breath at her slickly heated welcome, then thrust in, deep, into the indescribable wonder of her body.
She wrapped him in warmth and welcome, in passion-slicked delight, held him tight and caressed...then he withdrew and thrust in again, deeper, farther, and she gasped and held him even tighter.
They fell into the rhythm they knew so well, one that caught them, trapped them, built, then drove them.
On, ever on.
Into the waiting glory.
Into the joy, the wonder, the scintillating pleasure neither could reach without the other.
This was theirs.
Forever and always.
This joining at a depth that linked their souls.
Where, beyond the senses-numbing, wit-shattering tumult of a shockingly glorious climax, love waited, a blessed benediction, to soothe their forever-yearning hearts.
To reassure, to renew, to reaffirm what was, and what would always be.
Them, together.
For eternity.
* * *
Hours later, long after they’d heard the others come in and the house had settled for the remainder of the night, Royd surrendered to Isobel’s insistent prodding and consented to sit on the edge of the bed so she could tend his wound—bathe it enough to remove his ruined coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and then dab some ointment Humphrey had provided over the raw red groove.
He set his teeth and endured, but when she stared at the ointment-daubed spot and said, “Should we bandage it, do you think?” he’d had enough.
“No.” The word was categorical. He fell back on the bed and used the opportunity to wriggle out of his trousers. “Come back to bed.”
“Hmm.” Through the shadows, she studied him, then she turned and set the pot of ointment aside.
He shuffled higher on the bed to recline against the pillows and watch as she removed the necklace, stripped off her exceedingly crushed gown, then shed her stockings and garters, and finally, her chemise.
Naked—an Amazon in truth—she walked through the shadows to the end of the bed, then, with an almost feline grace, she crawled up until she could sit straddling his waist.
Her gaze had locked on his latest wound.
Then, as if noticing them for the first time—which he knew wasn’t the case—she let her fingers trace old scars. “Was it true,” she asked, “what you said on the pavement—that if I hadn’t kicked that bastard, his shot would have gone lower? Or was that just you gilding the lily?”
He hesitated—he had no idea what tortuous path her mind was taking—but...no secrets. “It was true. In such a situation, he could hardly have missed, and I didn’t reach him in time to deflect his aim.”
Her gaze rose to his eyes. Her eyes were so dark, he had no hope of reading their expression, let alone her emotions, and even less her mind.
“If it hadn’t been you... I don’t think I would have thought to kick him. I was so...” She paused, clearly thinking back. “I was going to say frightened for you, but that isn’t accurate—I was so far beyond frightened, even beyond desperate.”
“You were where I was when I hauled open the carriage door and saw him holding the pistol on you.” He paused, then more quietly said, “I’d reached the point where nothing else mattered but keeping you safe.”
Her gaze on his face, on his eyes, she nodded. “Yes. That’s it exactly. I don’t matter if I can’t have you—me living doesn’t matter if you’re not there to share my life.”
He let a moment go by, then confessed, “That’s the way I’ve always felt about you.”
She drew in a breath, then replied, “And that might be the way I’ve always felt about you, too, but when we handfasted, I hadn’t had a chance to find out—hadn’t had a chance to experience that moment, that instant of utter selflessness. That instant when you realize that, even though we’re two people, in reality we’re effectively one.” Her gaze dropped to the long scar beneath her fingertips.
And in an instant of blessed insight, he caught her train of thought. “I mentioned that I was thinking of rearranging roles in the company. I talked to my father yesterday, and he agreed. When we get back, I’ll be retiring as Principal Captain of Frobisher Shipping—the operational head of the company. We’ve all agreed that hat will pass to Caleb.”
She considered that. “So what will you do?”
“I intend devoting all my time to building and improving ships. With you.”
She studied him, one finger beating a tattoo on his chest. “Won’t you get bored?”
He shook his head. “Now I have you in my life again, now I’ve been reminded of how precious what we have between us is, now I have Duncan to care for, too, I don’t need missions to give my life purpose. I’ll have you, Duncan, and the ships we’ll build together. And the rest.”
“What rest?”
“A home. And Duncan’s nearly eight—don’t you think it’s past time he had some siblings?”
“You just want him to have more brothers so you’ll have more sons to teach to sail.”
He grinned. “Not true. A girl or two, or even three, would keep my life interesting equally well.”
She laughed, but then she looked at him and sobered. After a moment, she said, “What truly frightened me—not just tonight, but in the attack on the compound, too—was the extent I would go to save you. Love might be a strength, but it’s a vulnerability, too, isn’t it? We both feel it that way.”
“Yes, but there’s responsibility to counter that—a responsibility in being the one loved, in not taking silly, unnecessary risks. In not risking what we have unless we must.” He captured her fingers, drew them to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the slender digits. “And we both understand that, too.”
Slowly, she nodded. Then she asked, “So in the future? No risks?”
“That I can’t promise—and neither can you. But as we proved tonight, if there are risks we deem must be taken, then we’ll take them together, and we’ll win through.”
She smiled, then tipped sideways onto the bed and stretched out alongside him, her legs tangling with his, her head resting just below his uninjured shoulder, her hand splayed over his heart. He heard the smile in her voice as she said, “Because we’re an excellent team.”
“Indeed.” He settled his arms around her, then raised his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “Because we’re bound by unbreakable chains that will never release us, that will draw us together even if we try to stay apart.”
“Together,” she murmured. “Together for the rest of our lives.”
He wasn’t about to argue. Instead, he held her close as, together, they slid into dreams of their joint future—a future built of, built on, and built around their love.