“You’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever heard of.” Horatia turned from her own path to join Eleanor as she took her constitutional through Green Park, Lizzie trotting happily at her side, Beth trailing behind, complaining of her shoes. It was a beautiful day.
“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” The sun was shining, Eleanor wore one of the new costumes Remington had bought her, and she could scarcely keep an unlady-like grin off her face.
Last night…last night had been a living embodiment of her most secret dream. She had been feted by London’s finest, she had danced and been complimented, then at two the handsomest man in the world had taken her home, and there made sweet love to her—and more important, sweet conversation. There hadn’t been one acrimonious word between them. Quite the opposite.
Now Eleanor bowed and smiled as she passed people she had met the night before, and she even found Horatia to be a charming and enjoyable companion.
“When I heard the duchess’s cousin had been pretending to be her, I said to Huie—that’s my husband, Lord Huward—Huie, I said, that girl’s going to be shunned by everyone in society, and Her Grace is going to send her into exile. And I said, Huie, that luscious Mr. Knight has been courting her, and now he’s married her, and he must be furious. I said, that man has an aura of danger about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss de Lacy turns up dead one day. Well, Huie agreed with me, but Eleanor—I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I?”
Eleanor wanted to think about that, but Horatia didn’t wait for Eleanor’s consent. “Eleanor, last night you proved Huie completely wrong. The duchess still loves you, the ton loves you, and that luscious Mr. Knight loves you.” Envy dripped from her tone. “How did you do it?”
“I’m lucky, I suppose.” Very lucky. They were headed for the gazebo. There Beth could go off and visit with the other maids, Lizzie could chase rabbits, and Eleanor could sit in the sun and do her needlework and dream about Remington.
“I suppose.” Horatia lowered her voice. “What about your stepmother? That awful Lady Shapster? She’s the one who told everyone that you’d married Mr. Knight, and not the duchess, and she said awful things about you. What are we going to do about her?”
We? “Lady Shapster is not a problem for me,” Eleanor said.
“No, I suppose not. Lady Georgianna made it quite clear last night that she wished Lady Shapster would fall off the face of the earth, and everyone feels that way. I said to Huie that Lady Shapster has gone beyond all that is decent in her persecution of Eleanor, and she’ll get her comeuppance, you’ll see!” Horatia nodded vigorously, and her corkscrew curls bobbed.
“I think she already has.” Last night, as Eleanor had danced with Remington, Lady Shapster had stood and watched, her face a mask of jealousy and spite. She was drowning in hate, and nothing she could do would ever salvage her reputation. Now, at last, she would have to go back to Eleanor’s father and live in the house with him, a victim of her own cruelty and a captive to his indifference.
“I suppose you’re right,” Horatia said. “But it seems so unfair that she should get away with—”
From behind them, Beth’s voice broke in. “Excuse me, Mrs. Knight, but there the ol’ witch is, ’eaded straight at us like a ship under full sail.”
“So I see, Beth.” Lady Shapster wore a silver walking gown and a billowing cloak, and her golden head was bare except for a blue feather bobbing above her head. She looked beautiful, and she looked deadly, and all of Eleanor’s brave defiance faded away. She wanted to curl into a ball and hide her head.
Horatia grasped Eleanor’s arm. “Do you want to walk the other way and pretend we didn’t see her?”
“No.” No. Eleanor had spent far too many years hiding from Lady Shapster. Lady Shapster would not vanquish her now.
Lady Shapster planted herself directly in the path in front of Eleanor.
Lizzie growled.
Eleanor slipped her fingers under Lizzie’s collar. “Sit!”
Lady Shapster’s feverish eyes ignored Horatia, ignored Beth, ignored the dog, and gleamed viciously at Eleanor. Only Eleanor. “So you think you’ve succeeded in achieving every one of your hopes. But I assure you, when society hears that Mr. Knight has left you everything in his estate, they’ll draw away from you as decent people must.”
Lizzie growled again and lunged.
Eleanor held her back.
Lady Shapster’s little foot swung out. “Keep that vicious bitch away from me.”
Infuriated, Eleanor said, “Don’t you kick at my dog.”
“Oh, you’re brave now. You think you’ve vanquished me. Well, wait until I tell the ton what you really are. I tried to warn your father about your murderous tendencies. He didn’t listen to me, but everyone else will. For shame!” Lady Shapster backed away as if she couldn’t bear to be close to Eleanor. “To have your husband killed so you can have his fortune.”
Horatia gasped loudly enough to frighten the birds in the trees.
The blood drained from Eleanor’s head, and a buzzing filled her ears. “What do you mean?”
“As if you don’t know. Do you think no one will be suspicious that a runaway dray just happens to be in front of the solicitor’s office as Mr. Knight leaves from changing his will in your favor?”
“Mr. Knight is dead?” Horatia squawked.
“Lawks!” Beth exclaimed.
Distantly, Eleanor noted that her hands shook. Her head buzzed. Remington, dead? Dead? He’d made love to her last night. She’d seen him this morning, when he had kissed her good-bye. That vital being couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.
This was—had to be—Lady Shapster’s idea of retribution. “You’re lying.”
“Lying.” Lady Shapster laughed low and long. “That’s rich, coming from you. Couldn’t you have waited to have him killed? Did you hate to have him touch you so much you couldn’t have let him swive you one last time?”
Eleanor didn’t even know how it happened. One minute, she was almost fainting. The next, her palm stung and she was staring at the mark of her hand on Lady Shapster’s cheek.
Horatia gawked.
Lady Shapster gazed at Eleanor as if she’d never seen her before.
Lizzie, free from Eleanor’s restraint, sprang at Lady Shapster’s skirt, bit into a mouthful, and tugged, ripping the beautiful, light cotton right at the empire waist.
The paralysis that held Lady Shapster silent ended, and she shrieked, “Eleanor!” in exactly the same tone she used to use in the old, horrible days when she drove Eleanor to tears.
Eleanor was not intimidated. She stepped up to her, toe to toe. “If I find out you’re lying about this, I’ll make you sorry. And you’d better be lying.” Whirling, she left the ugly scene behind, almost running with her need to find him. Find Remington.
Lizzie followed, keeping up in a determined doggy trot.
Beth lagged behind, keeping up a running lamentation on the master’s death and the sad state of her feet.
It’s not true. It’s a lie. It was not true. Eleanor chanted the words over and over, as if that would make them real. Remington couldn’t be dead. Before him, the world had been empty, with no place and no one for Eleanor. She had found love and home in the being of one man; God couldn’t be so cruel as to separate them before she’d even told him how she felt!
She reached the road and looked up and down for a sedan chair or a hired carriage. As if by a miracle, a handsome coach drove up with footmen clinging to the sides. The coachman tipped his hat. “Take ye somewhere, lady?”
She opened the door. She lifted Lizzie in. “Berkley Square, at once.” She climbed into the dim interior, its windows covered with cloth, settled into the seat, and waited for Beth to catch up.
Four things happened simultaneously.
The door slammed shut. The coach started with a jerk.
The dog growled, low and threatening.
And Eleanor realized she was not alone.
“If I were you, I’d keep my dog under control. I hate to stain my velvet seats with its blood.” The tall, thin gentleman in his old-fashioned clothes gave her a supercilious smile. “You do have a regrettable fondness for mongrels, don’t you?”
She stared across the interior at the seat opposite. “Lord…Fanthorpe?” Lizzie growled more, and Eleanor caught her collar as she lunged. “What are you doing here?”
“Your husband’s not really dead, my dear,” Lord Fanthorpe said. “But he will be.”
In a flash, Eleanor understood. She understood everything, and her blood chilled. She glanced toward the door.
His cane snapped across the seats, smacking the blue velvet so hard that she sprang backward, away from its lash. “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire you. Don’t imagine I’ll let you go so easily.”
Lizzie’s low growl was continuous now, her chest vibrating beneath Eleanor’s hand. “Remington is still alive?”
“Very much so, and I shall enjoy finishing him.”
Eleanor gripped the dog’s collar harder, her palm slippery with sweat. “You…killed Lady Pricilla?” She held her breath, praying he’d deny it.
“For the exactly same reason I’m going to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Eleanor wet her lips. The carriage was careening through London, headed for the countryside. “Why?”
“Like Pricilla, you have no sense of propriety. No sense of honor. Just like you, Pricilla mated with a commoner.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “That night, I found her in the garden. I could have raised the alarm, kept her from her Mr. Marchant, and her father would have forced her to marry me. But I didn’t want her.”
Was Lord Fanthorpe delusional? Driven to madness by the loss of his dear fiancée? “You couldn’t have murdered her. You had no blood on you.”
He waved his lace handkerchief in airy dismissal. “I prefer the word executed—and I had my footmen with me. They did the job, and adequately.”
She remembered the footmen riding on the coach, and she swallowed. “Adequately? Everyone who saw the scene said she suffered horribly.”
“I had a lesson to teach. I wanted it taught well. She was a traitor to us. To noble people everywhere. As you are.” His narrow chin lifted, his narrow lips sneered. “I tried to save you the night I met you.”
“Save me? Oh.” She remembered. “With the attack on the carriage.”
“My men had strict instructions to kill Knight and leave you alone. But Knight’s a devil with his cane.”
“Yes.” Her mind lingered lovingly on the memory of Remington’s cane, the weapon he carried because it appeared to be harmless. “You tried again on my wedding day.”
“Right you are! I’m not usually so inefficient, but”—he flushed—“I’m short on funds, and the best assassins cost money.”
Lizzie sat on the seat beside Eleanor, staring at Lord Fanthorpe through narrowed eyes, and Eleanor wondered how a dog sensed his rot and she had not. “How is Remington supposed to find me?”
“He’s a smart young feller. A Marchant.” Fanthorpe leaned forward and whispered, “You see, I know who your husband really is.”
A cold trickle of sweat crawled down her spine. “How?”
“His father had dark hair, he was stocky, he was freckled, but he had those freakishly pale blue eyes, just like Knight’s.” Lord Fanthorpe shuddered. “Did Knight think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Why would he care? He didn’t know that you were a murderer.”
Lord Fanthorpe smiled with every evidence of pleasure. “I love the irony of this. Yes, your Remington will get there eventually, and find your body, and whimper over it. But I won’t be the fool I was last time. I won’t trust to the law for justice—I’ll kill him, too.”
“You’ll kill him yourself?” Because this old man had no chance against Remington.
Lord Fanthorpe sighed deeply. “I realize you don’t have a title of your own, but you’re a member of one of our most noble families. Kindly remember a true aristocrat never dirties his hands with menial tasks.”
She petted Lizzie and thought. This old man was going to have her killed.
She didn’t believe it. Remington would come for her.
But the dog was a problem. Remington couldn’t defend her and Lizzie, and Lizzie would do her best to get into the thick of things. She already hated Lord Fanthorpe. She would try to bite him, and Fanthorpe’s henchmen would have no problem killing a dog.
Keeping one hand on Lizzie, Eleanor opened her reticule and produced her needlework. “Where is there?” As she freed her long, sharp needle from the canvas, she watched Lord Fanthorpe across the carriage. He was old, and he stank of evil.
“Lacy Hall. We should be there within the hour.” He leaned his head back against the seat, a dreadful smirk on his painted lips. “I needed someplace close, and I liked the touch of killing you both on Marchant’s old estate.”
Eleanor tied the end of the thread into a noose, then looped it around her fingers. “But won’t Magnus get the blame for the murders?”
“Possibly.” Lord Fanthorpe chuckled. “The old duke of Magnus thought it was Marchant, at first. That was so grand. He persecuted Marchant to the fullest of his ability.”
She tensed. Clutched the dog’s collar.
“But apparently the current Magnus convinced him someone else had done the deed.”
She measured the distance between her and the door.
“So the old duke made Magnus promise to find George Marchant and do some kind of reparation. Magnus was so helpful in tracking Marchant to Boston.” Still in that dreadfully amused voice, Lord Fanthorpe said, “That ridiculous fool told me all the details. All I had to do was hire the men to take out Marchant and his family.”
With all the force of her arm, she plunged the needle into the back of Fanthorpe’s hand.
He roared in pain.
With the thread, she jerked the needle free.
He snatched his hand back.
The dog made a lunge for him, but Eleanor propelled herself against the door, opening it. “Go home,” she whispered in Lizzie’s ear, and tossed her out onto the road.
Eleanor heard a yelp as Lizzie hit the ground.
Grabbing Eleanor, Lord Fanthorpe slammed her back against the seat.
Gripping the needle, she swung her hand at his face in a great arc. The needle sliced through the skin under his eye.
From outside, a footman shut the door. Popping open the hatch, he shouted, “M’lord, shall we stop fer the dog?”
“No. Let it go.” Stunned by her attack, Lord Fanthorpe touched the cut, then looked at the blood on his fingers. His eyes were thin slits of hate. “You slut.” His voice trembled with rage, and he lifted his arm to strike her.
“Don’t!” she shouted. “That’s a menial’s work.”
As he swung, he said, “I’ll make an exception for you.”
“Remington, they’re saying on the street that you were killed by a speeding dray.” Clark stood in the door of his office, where Remington was going over the profits from his newest shipment.
“Never felt better,” Remington said. Then it struck him—how odd that Fanthorpe should be leaving England at the same time such a rumor was circulating. A prickle of warning ran up Remington’s spine. “Who says so?”
“Lady Huward is screeching over half of London that you went to your solicitor, changed your will in Mrs. Knight’s favor, and within an hour, you were killed.”
Remington’s sense of unease grew. “That’s a very specific rumor. Where is Lady Huward?”
“She was in Green Park. Now she’s home, surrounded by ladies and almost fainting from shock.”
“Green Park?” Remington rose. “That’s where Eleanor walks. Does rumor say where Eleanor is?”
“I believe she was there, too.”
“Hell!” Eleanor would have chided him for swearing if she’d been here. Eleanor, who had so sweetly kissed him good-bye this morning. Her lips had clung, and he’d thought, for a moment, that she was going to tell him that she loved him.
She hadn’t.
But surely a woman like her wouldn’t give herself so freely unless she loved him. Maybe she didn’t realize it. Maybe she was afraid to say the words. But it was the truth. It had to be.
“I’m going home,” Remington said. “I want to see that Eleanor is safe.”
“Henry, order Mr. Knight’s carriage. Remington, I’ll go with you.” At Remington’s lifted brow, Clark said, “I did promise, as your best man, to watch your back.”
Remington nodded and ran toward the outer door, Clark puffing beside him.
Fanthorpe had to board that ship today. He should be there now.
But what if he were truly mad? Eleanor looked much like Lady Pricilla. What if Fanthorpe sought to destroy Eleanor?
Or what if he wasn’t mad but knew Remington’s true identity? In his drive to wipe out Remington’s entire family, would he include her?
And what if he was on board but had hired the job done? The carriage was pulling up as they descended the steps. “Home,” Remington shouted. “Hurry!”
“Does anyone walk with her?” Clark asked as they swung inside.
“Her maid. That dog. I don’t like this. The rumor is so blatantly untrue, so easily disproved, and Horatia is such a fool—I don’t believe she made it up. I think someone told her.” Remington’s hands trembled as he fingered his cane. He kept a knife hidden in the carriage, too, and he drew it out and fingered the nine-inch blade. Sharp and made for slashing…he strapped the sheath to his arm. Couldn’t John drive any faster? “I didn’t think he would go after her.”
“Fanthorpe,” Clark said. “Of course.”
The rest of the ride to his home was silent, their arrival grim.
Beth sobbed in a chair in the foyer.
Bridgeport stood wringing his hands, and at the sight of Remington, announced, “Madam is missing.”
“With Lizzie…,” Beth quavered, her eyes red and swollen.
Remington turned icy cold. His brain began to work as it always did in crises—intelligently, coolly. “How long ago was she taken?”
Beth gulped and said huskily, “An ’our, sir. Just like ye instructed, I screamed and screamed, but the coach rolled away so fast, no one could catch it.”
An hour’s head start, but in a coach. “Bridgeport, get me my horse. Clark, follow with help.”
Clark nodded. “But where?”
Remington knew exactly where he was going. “To Lacy Hall, to the ruins of the old house on the estate. And Clark—for the love of God, hurry.”