Alex stared into the fire, a tumbler of brandy between his hands. He felt hollow, empty. The wet English chill refused to loosen its grip on him, even with his chair pulled close to the hearth and more liquor inside him than was left in the bottle. He could hardly believe the headlong rush to be at Caroline’s side had ended in this—sitting alone and hopeless in an anonymous hotel room.
Tomorrow he would leave England again. Forever. Although this time he would not be fleeing, nearly out of his head with grief and fever.
The flames sank lower, and darkness brought the memories.
He had been delirious by the time he reached Southampton but still aware enough to buy himself passage on a ship. He did not care where he was bound as long as it was away. Away from England, away from his family, and what he had done. The injury to his leg, untended for days, was beginning to poison his body. It ought to have killed him, but the ship’s doctor saved his life. Alex remembered little of that journey, could not recall the man’s face through the haze of pain and medication.
By the time he was able to stumble onto deck, once again in possession of his senses, they had reached the Mediterranean.
Crete rose on the horizon like a lost continent from the depths of the ancient sea, its soil soaked in myth and remorse. Flowers burned on the hillsides, and the shore and mountains offered a rough sanctuary.
It had been his penance. His retreat. Until now.
He dashed the contents of his glass into the embers and they roared up, feeding on the fumes. There was no peace for him now, not after she had made him live again.
No peace on these shores for him, not after what he had done. What he would always be.
A murderer.
Nothing could change that. He had been a fool to imagine that having a child with Caroline would somehow absolve him of his past. There was no absolution. She would have married him, then cursed him for the rest of their bleak lives together. He could not condemn her—either of them—to that.
Thank God there had been no baby. He had nothing to offer. Nothing to give. His lips twisted bitterly as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the well-worn letter from Pen that had summoned him.
Caroline is in trouble.
His heart jolted as he read the familiar line written in the girl’s angular hand. There was no baby. Then what the devil could it mean?
The events on Crete—Simms’s stray gunshot, rowing for their lives in the froth of the souroko. A shiver passed through him, a stirring of urgency blunted by the brandy in his blood. Pen—he had to talk to Pen. He tried to lever himself out of the chair, but the room began to rotate slowly around him.
Tomorrow. He’d send the girl a note. They would meet, somewhere he wouldn’t run the risk of seeing Caroline. Tomorrow.
He stared into the gathering shadows, a cold line of foreboding laid over his heart.
~*~
The next day Alex found himself once again lifting the heavy brass knocker of Twickenham House.
“Sir,” the butler gave him a cold look as he held the door open. “I believe you are expected. Miss Briggs has—”
The girl burst into the foyer. “Alex!” She grabbed him by the arm. “Thank heavens you are here—you must go after her!”
“Who? Pen, calm down and tell me what’s afoot.”
She hauled him over to a sitting area with red velvet upholstered chairs, then paced back and forth, the words tumbling out of her, her hands turning around and around one another.
“A messenger came for Caro a half hour ago, after she’d left for her luncheon appointment, and said it was urgent. I thought—her brother’s wife, the baby… At any rate I knew where she had gone and I told him, even though it was irregular. I shouldn’t have, I see that now, but—”
“Pen.” He caught her by the shoulders, stilling her. “Don’t try to explain, just answer me. Caroline is in danger?”
“Yes.”
He forced himself to breathe and listen, to keep her panic from infecting him. “And you know where she has gone—you can tell me how to get there?”
The girl nodded, her eyes fixed on his face as though he were the one solid thing in the room. “Kensington. Barberry Lane. I wrote it down. I’m her secretary now, so I keep notes on these things, and I’m so afraid. If Mr. Simms catches her this time—”
“Simms? Did you say Mr. Simms?” Fear began to beat through him, uncontrolled and rising. “He’s here, in London? Why didn’t you tell me?” God, the days he had wasted in self-pity when that madman was here. His jaw tightened.
“I was in such a hurry when I sent that letter to you. The ship was leaving for the Mediterranean and I only had time to write a quick note and send the messenger racing down. And”—she dropped her gaze—“no one believed me about seeing Mr. Simms. I was afraid you wouldn’t either, if I told you.”
“It’s all right, Pen. You did the best you could. Now call one of the servants to fetch my horse. I’ll go after her. Meanwhile, explain as much as you can.”
A maid was summoned and dispatched to the stables, and Alex turned to Pen. “Why do you think Simms is after her?”
“The day I wrote you, she was deliberately run down in the street by a cab—a cab with yellow-spoked wheels. And who was in it but Mr. Simms!”
Alex clenched his hands. “The same Mr. Simms from Crete? You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.” Her eyes were wide. “I know it was. Caroline didn’t see him, and Viscount Keefe made light of it. But I know who I saw.”
“Has there been anything since then—any other attempts?”
She lowered her voice. “The same cab, the yellow-wheeled one, follows Caroline when she goes out. I know it sounds far-fetched. Caro won’t believe me. She thinks I’m being fanciful and am not accustomed to city life.”
“And she went out today—with whom?”
“Viscount Keefe. They took his curricle.” Pen’s voice was unhappy.
“Useless.” He was coming to hate Keefe more every minute. “And a messenger came after she left, and…”
“After I told him where she’d gone, I went out on the step. Then I saw the same messenger go up to a cab. That cab, the one with the yellow wheels. Right away, the driver whipped up the horses and they were gone. He’s after her. She’s in terrible danger.”
Alex felt it, too, a tightness that gripped his limbs, an urgency that had him pacing as restlessly as Pen. He whirled in relief when the butler pulled the door open. “Here’s the groom with my horse. Don’t worry, Pen. I’ll find her.”
“I know.” The words were barely a whisper as she followed him to the threshold.
~*~
“Here we are.” Viscount Keefe pulled the curricle up outside a respectable-looking town house. “Mrs. Baxter awaits.” He jumped down and handed the reins to his footman, then helped Caroline down from the seat.
She resisted the urge to smooth back her hair. No need to be anxious—or not much, at any rate. Although… Americans were different, and there was so very much at stake. Perhaps a little nervousness could be forgiven.
The viscount held out his arm. He looked a trifle ill at ease himself, though he gave her his usual charming smile as he led her up the steps. He rapped on the door. There was no answer.
“Did we get the day wrong?” Caroline fished the invitation from her reticule and frowned as she scanned it. “No, we are here at the proper time, and place. This is 14 Barberry Lane.”
“Well, Americans are not always predictable when it comes to protocol. Maybe we should just peek inside.” The viscount set his hand to the knob. There was a slight tremor in his fingers. “Ah, it’s open.” He waved her forward.
“Are you sure?” Caroline hesitated on the threshold. “I don’t think it’s quite the thing. Perhaps Mrs. Baxter is expecting us to be late?”
“We can wait in the hall for her butler if that is the case.” He set his hand between her shoulders and gave her a gentle push forward.
“My, it’s rather dim in here. Our hostess must be a bit of an eccentric.” Caroline kept her voice low and peered into the nearby drawing room. “Why look, the furniture is still swathed in dust covers.” Unease shivered along her spine, like a spider had been dropped down her collar. She turned to her escort, who was fumbling with something by the front door. “My lord, I do not think we are expected. There has been some mistake.”
“So sorry, my dear.” He strode up to her, grabbing the back of her head and bringing a kerchief up to her face. Her unease roared into full panic, flaring like a suddenly overturned lamp in a pool of oil. A noxious odor wafted from the kerchief, and she tried to twist away, but the viscount had a firm hold on her.
What was he doing? Why? There was only time to take one quick breath before her nose was buried in the acrid linen. Caroline fought not to breathe in the fumes, but sudden darkness swathed her senses, the fire of her fear abruptly doused.
~*~
Caroline returned to herself in bits, enough presence of mind remaining to feign continued unconsciousness. She was lying on her back, her hands tingling. She cautiously flexed them and found she was bound, arms pulled to either side. Where was she? What had happened?
Disbelief and confusion mingled on her tongue with the bitter taste of whatever it was she had breathed. Her eyelids felt like shillings had been stacked on them, they were so hard to open. It was easy to keep her gaze to a mere slit.
A bedroom. A gas lamp, the thick red shade keeping the room more in shadows than light. Movement in the corner of her vision. She slowly turned her head. Viscount Keefe! She almost called his name in relief, before she recalled that he was the one who had brought her here.
He was bent over a small table, his hands busy with odd implements. A shiver of fear breathed over her. Dear lord, what kind of trap had she fallen into? The viscount struck a match, the stink of phosphorus burning her nose, then lit a miniature lamp crowned with cut glass. It seemed made for some express purpose, but she did not know what.
Slowly, Viscount Keefe drew a long metal instrument from beneath his coat. She let out a gasp of fear and his head jerked up.
“Awake, I see.” He smiled at her—there was nothing leering or sinister about his expression, just his usual disarming smile. “I am very sorry for this circumstance, Miss Huntington—or perhaps I should call you Caroline, since we are soon to be very intimate.”
She pulled against the bonds that cut into her wrists. “Why? Why are you doing this?” She worked her left wrist back and forth, trying to keep him distracted with talking.
He gave an apologetic shrug. “Our courtship was proceeding too slowly. It was necessary to speed up matters. While I’ve no doubt you would have agreed to become my wife in due time, the arrival of that Trentham fellow has muddied the waters.”
“My lord. I was more than willing to become your wife.” Well, she had been before the bizarre events of the afternoon had begun to unfold. “Untie me. There’s no need for… whatever it is you are planning.” She could not help glancing at the implement he was holding.
He followed her gaze, then let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, don’t fear, this particular instrument is not for you. I, however, find it’s rather crucial—especially under the circumstances. Give me a moment, and then we can go about our business together.”
He set the item down and drew a small pouch from his pocket, the type gentlemen used to carry tobacco. He opened it and removed a shaving of something black and solid. Ah—the metal object was a long, thin pipe, ornamented with filigree. He carefully filled the tiny bowl, sent her a thoughtful glance, and added a bit more. With a nod of satisfaction he licked his fingers and closed the pouch.
Taking advantage of his distraction, Caroline worked her left wrist against the strap. It felt looser. Two or three hard yanks would probably free her, but what then? She slid her gaze back to the viscount.
He was holding the small lamp beneath the bowl of the pipe. As he inhaled, a look of bliss spread over his face. A cloying scent drifted to her—one not completely unfamiliar. She realized she had caught the same aroma trapped in his hair and clothing several times before.
“Opium, my lord?” She was not as surprised as she might have been.
It all began to make sense: his sudden tremblings, the way he hurried away after their outings. The clues had been there all along. Certainly some members of the ton were firm believers in their tonics and tinctures of laudanum. Still, eating opium was one thing, smoking it quite another.
He gave her an open smile. “Do you despise me for my vice? You should not. It’s very calmative, especially in difficult situations. Not that I don’t find you attractive, Caroline, but performing under these circumstances… you understand the pressure.”
“Did you…did you ever care about me at all?”
“Of course.” He sounded surprised. “I truly have come to admire you. Although after we are married, I’m afraid your boarding school is going to have to close. I’ll be needing the money for my own… interests.” He smiled down at his pipe.
“After we are married?”
“Here.” He stepped unsteadily to the bed and held out his pipe. “Take some. It will make this easier for you.”
She shook her head emphatically.
“No? A pity to waste it.” He set the stem to his mouth and inhaled long and deep, swirling the lamp beneath. A dreamy look settled over his face, his lids half closed. Finally he set the pipe back on the table. “Time to get to it, my dear. Just imagine it is our wedding night—only a bit early.” He swayed and caught himself, one hand on the bedpost. “Our marriage bed.”
She watched in horror as he fumbled at his breeches.
“My lord! There is no need to be hasty.” She began tugging in earnest at her bonds. “Untie me and I’m sure we can discuss this rationally. You are a gentleman. There is really no need for, for…”
“Unfortunately, there is.” He blinked down at her, his smile still fixed on his face. “I may be a gentleman, but I’m rather a hard-pressed one at present. You see, I have no money. Don’t look so shocked, my dear. It’s a common occurrence. Things have come to a head, and—well, let’s just say it’s best I secure my interest in you promptly.”
Her stomach twisted. How could he? She had believed him to be a good man—but clearly there were things she ought to have known about Viscount Keefe. She jerked her feet, but they, too, were bound tightly. She swallowed back the sharp sting of fear.
“And now…” He paused.
Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, then shuddered as his weight came down across her, pressing her into the mattress. She gritted her teeth and waited. And waited. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
She opened her eyes. Viscount Keefe’s face was inches from her own, his eyes closed, a beatific expression on his face.
“Viscount Keefe?”
The man was unconscious, of all things. The extra opium had been too much for him.
He began to snore, the oaf. She had to get free. She bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he was too heavy. Maybe if she wiggled to the side, as far as the tethers would allow…Yes. She was only partially trapped by him now. She drew in a deep breath.
One hard yank. Another. She bit her lip as the strap abraded her wrist. Dear heavens, please, please. She folded her fingers together and pulled, ignoring the pain as she forced her hand to compress through the confining loop. Tight, too tight, then suddenly slack as her hand slipped free.
Her skin burned, her fingers were squeezed bloodless, but she had her arm back. She wrung her hand out, two sharp shakes, then pushed at the viscount with all her strength, moving him enough that she could turn her body sideways and reach her other hand. It was awkward, untying knots with her left hand, but they were not as tight as she had feared.
Her unconscious suitor was still partially pinning her to the bed, but Caroline was able to scoot out from under him. A ripping sound, but she could hardly care about the condition of her skirts. He seemed oblivious to the world, one hand upflung temptingly near the strap she had just untied.
It was easy enough to pull his arm a bit higher. Satisfaction flared through her as she cinched the leather tight about his wrist. There. See how he liked being cooked in his own sauce. Marry him, indeed!
She bent, working to free her ankles. Nearly there…
A thud, from the front of the house. The front door closing. Someone was coming. Her heart raced as her fingers fumbled over the knots. She bit back her frustration and tried to keep her hands from trembling as she pulled the last strap off. She sprang to her feet and sent one wild glance at the door. Should she stay?
No. Whoever was coming would be in league with the viscount. A witness to her staged compromise, no doubt. There would be no help from that side of the door.
She pivoted. The window. Thank heavens it opened smoothly. She flung her leg over, barely caring what was below, just thankful she was on the ground floor. A twiggy bush broke her leap from the sill, and her torn dress caught on the branches.
Dratted clothing! She yanked herself free, picked up her ruined skirts, and ran, making for the front of the house, the safety of the street.
Luck was still with her. A hansom cab loitered at the corner. Passengers or no, this was her escape. She hurried up to it.
“Mayfair, quickly,” she gasped at the driver. Without hesitating, she opened the door and flung herself inside.
~*~
“Unhand my cousin, you blackguard!” Reginald burst into the room, then drew up short at the sight of Keefe snoring on the bed, one hand affixed to the post. “Blast it!” He grabbed the man’s shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, you incompetent fool. Where is she?”
“What?” The viscount opened his eyes dreamily and blinked up at Reginald. Saliva had leaked out one corner of the viscount’s mouth, wetting his handsome face.
Reginald curled his lip at the apparatus spread out on the small table, then ran to the open window and leaned out. Just in time to see the backside of his cousin disappearing into a cab with yellow wheels. The door had barely closed behind her before the driver whipped up the horse and the vehicle sped out of sight.
He hit his fist against the sill. Bloody hell. Why was he saddled with such an incompetent? His perfectly laid plans were now in ruins, for want of proper execution. That was the end of things now, at least where his cousin and the viscount were concerned. Reginald was mortally certain she would entertain no further offers from Keefe.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. At least he was not implicated in this—and even if the viscount tried, no one would believe him, the sotted idiot. But damnation, now what? He turned back to the figure on the bed.
“Get up.” He prodded the man, finally getting him to sit.
The viscount swayed, then frowned at the strap around his wrist. Memory slowly filtered back into his expression. “The minx. Untie me, and we can go after her.”
“There is no going after her. Untie your own damned self, and get out. Go—as far as possible. My father will not be happy once he hears of this little fiasco.”
“But…” The man stared up at him, his green eyes beginning to clear. “My money. The wedding.”
Reginald leaned close. His throat was tight with anger. “There. Is. Nothing. No money, no wedding. You have failed. Our partnership is over.” He whirled and stalked to the door. “I suggest France. If your funds can stand the strain.”
“Wait. Surely there’s some—wait!” The viscount had gained his feet and was straining forward, with little success, as one hand was still firmly attached to the bedpost.
Reginald slammed the door closed behind him.