Fifteen minutes earlier
Lord Rutledge walked me down the corridor and toward the exit with the construct following obediently. He kept the gun trained on me beneath the jacket while he had a smile or laughing greeting for everyone we crossed paths with. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary.
I could have screamed, leaped aside, or engaged in any number of shenanigans to bring this hostage situation to a close. But I had two problems: while I doubted Lord Rutledge wanted to compromise his political position by being part of a fracas in the middle of Westminster, I could not absolutely guarantee it.
He could, in fact, be ruthless enough to fight or kill me at the center of British politics, which meant the innocent people going about their daily activities would, by extension, be in danger.
The second issue was a bit deeper and more problematic: if I escaped now, I would not learn what he meant about my being a problem for him over the last year. I had my suspicions, of course, but unconfirmed suspicions are dangerous.
So, I allowed myself to be escorted from Westminster, appearing for all purposes like a compliant victim, so I could enjoy the look on his face when I showed him exactly how problematic I could be.
“Don’t bother running when we reach the out-of-doors,” he warned before we entered the antechamber. “Despite what you might believe, I will happily shoot you.”
I doubted that, but I had no intention of running. Not until I had more answers, anyway.
Lord Rutledge led me toward his carriage, a black four-seater with his family crest on the door, similar to my own clarence but without the extra frills of artifice to make the ride smoother or ease the burden on the horses. He spent his money in other places, as evidenced by the mechanical dog padding silently behind us.
The coachman jumped down to open the door, and Lord Rutledge said to me, “If you don’t mind?”
“I certainly do mind,” I groused. “The only reason I am participating in this charade is for the pleasure of the look on your face when I break your arm.”
Lord Rutledge climbed in behind me, sat opposite me with the gun pointed at my chest, waited for Ripper to leap into the carriage and the driver to close the door. Once we were safely ensconced, he leaned forward and slapped me again. This time, he meant it, and my head snapped to the side, cheek burning, eyes watering.
“At some point or other you must learn that the natural balance of power always leans toward those who have the strength to take what they want,” he said genially as if he hadn’t just struck me. “I am stronger than you are, so you will cease making threats you cannot possibly carry out, or I will be forced to teach you a lesson your father clearly didn’t bother with.”
Certain I had been taught my lesson, he pounded one meaty fist on the roof twice, and the carriage jolted into motion. I sat back to let the momentary dizziness pass, swallowed the blood from where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek, and folded my arms.
“And what makes you think he did not try, sir?”
“If he put any real effort into it, you would be obedient and meek, as is proper. He had a good head for business, but he was weak. I, Lady Gwen, am not. Though I would rather not kill you if I don’t have to. The mess, you understand.”
“You believe your right to strike me was granted by greater physical power?”
“That is not simply my belief, it is an immutable law of nature: the hierarchy of strength. The strong can take what they will and can protect what they take. The weak can do neither, and so need the strong to protect and provide. If you would learn to accept this as the natural order of things, perhaps you would not have cost me so much time and effort and ruined so many of my plans. Now you will pay for your actions.”
“Pray, who will make me pay, my lord? Surely not you.”
“I will not be drawn into a pointless verbal sparring match. You will answer my questions as I ask them, or I will cause you pain until you do. Am I understood?”
I allowed myself a moment to sulk. Lord Rutledge was several orders of magnitude cleverer than I had given him credit for, but he had a weakness I could exploit when the time was right.
“I asked you a question, Lady.”
“So you did.”
His walrus mustache made his frown look far less sinister than it should have, and his lazy lips took the verbal bite out of his words. But he was willing to commit violence, so when he said, “Am I understood?” I knew the threat in his voice was a real one.
“Perfectly,” I replied, suitably cowed by his manly intimidation.
“Very good,” he said, his natural joviality reasserting itself in his tone. “What have you done with the eye?”
I stopped breathing for a heartbeat. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, lass. I know you stole it. I want to know where it is.”
“How do you know?” I asked, then flinched and covered my mouth with both hands.
He chuckled. “You think the dog and the constable are the only protections I have? I thought you cleverer. When you stumbled across Cassandra Monmouth, I wrote that off as an accident. Wrong place, right time, and all that. But when you discovered Ashcroft’s relationship to the vampire, I thought, here is a woman with uncommon intelligence, for her sex. Don’t make me reassess my opinion of you.”
“You knew about Monmouth? About Ashcroft?”
He snorted. “‘Course I did. Who do you think arranged it all? Ah, there. I can see by the look in your eyes you are beginning to recognize who you are dealing with. I hope you will believe that I mean what I say, and that there are consequences to crossing me. Now, unless you’d like me to perform a thorough search of your home for my property, tell me what you have done with the eye.”
I made a mistake and misjudged this man badly. My mask of indifferent fear slipped, and he saw the recognition and anger in my eyes. I was going to have to do something dangerous, more dangerous than I’d planned.
I leaned over, opened the carriage door, and made to jump. Rutledge’s fingers clamped on my upper arm, hauling me back inside faster than I anticipated. The door snapped shut.
He flung me across the inside of the carriage, and my back hit the other door, jamming the handle into my spine and making the back of my head bounce off the lacquered wood. White stars flashed before my eyes.
The construct remained seated, but our positions had changed and there was a bit of distance between us; Rutledge on one side near the right-hand door, and me on the other. That gave me time to move before he could strike or catch hold of me.
“You’re a madman,” I panted, rubbing the back of my head.
“No, I simply have more information than you do. And if you try to escape again,” he thumbed back the hammer on this revolver, “I will be forced to do something unpleasant. Where is the eye?”
“I gave it to the Cutthroat King.”
His eyes narrowed, the pouches beneath them shaking like loose pillows as the carriage turned and began crunching over gravel instead of cobbles. Gravel? A park? He wanted privacy. Good.
“You are lying,” he said, regaining his seat on the bench.
“Am I? How can you be certain?”
“Because I have had Scotland Yard watching you for months.”
Tony.
“Why am I still alive, if I have been thwarting your plans at every turn?”
“Because you are a notable public figure and I thought, perhaps, your arrest would send the right message. But I see that was wishful thinking. You are much better off out of the way, permanently. I will find the eye, myself. Perhaps take over conservatorship of those two lovely children. They may come in handy, at least.”
White hot rage seared my insides, but my voice was only disgusted as I said, “All of that information and you still failed to learn the most important thing about me. Amazing.”
“And what is that, pray tell?” he asked as he sighted down the length of the barrel and aimed at my chest.
I squeezed the ignition packet on the grenade I’d been hiding since folding my arms over my chest. The gunpowder ignited with a sharp snap. The Marquis flinched at the sound as I held up the grenade and said, “I don’t care much if I live or die.”
He froze in shock for a few precious moments at the sight of the live grenade smoking on my palm.
I ordered, “Ripper, break the coach wheels!”
All hell broke loose.
Ripper smashed through the wood of the lower panel in a single violent leap. Less than a full second later, the coach jerked to the side as the first wheel went down.
The Marquis’s arm swung upward as he tried to regain his balance, taking the barrel off my chest. He fired once in surprise, the shot splintering the wood just above my left ear, then twice in reaction. Little bits of ceiling rained down on my head. I used my free hand to push myself up and lashed out with my right foot as the Marquis tried to correct his aim. The toe of my sturdy workman’s boot connected with the Marquis’s wrist and sent the pistol clattering against the carriage wall as he yelped in pain.
I tossed the grenade between his legs, unlatched the door, and rolled backward out of the cab in the same motion. There was a stomach-dropping lurch as Ripper took out another wheel, and I landed hard on both feet before leaping to the side.
Two more shots rang out and kicked up dirt not far from where I landed. The man was quick for his size. Ripper’s metal feet dug into the earth as he flew by for another go at the coach, passing between me and the driver, who climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Before Ripper could blast through the final wheel, the Marquis leaped free of the carriage and my grenade exploded. I rolled backward, away from the blast, but debris still rained down on my face and torso as my ears rang.
The Marquis appeared above me, his face red with anger as he wrapped both huge hands around my throat and squeezed.
I generally wore skirts while at home, in part because it was expected and proper, and in part, because I enjoyed the swishing sound they make. But trousers have several advantages. One is the lack of weight, as I noted earlier in the day. The other is the freedom of movement, which was particularly handy when executing martial arts maneuvers.
The Marquis of Rutledge, like most men, assumed his greater size and strength assured him victory against someone like me. So, instead of covering my legs and torso with his weight, which would have effectively immobilized me, he locked his elbows out and leaned into his shoulders, leaving space between my body and his.
I fastened my hands around his right wrist, used my feet to push my hips to the side, kicked my legs up so that my left calf hit him in the neck and my right leg wrapped across his chest under his armpit, leaving his elbow pressed against my hips. When I arched my back and thrust upward with my pelvis, he lost his balance and toppled to the side.
I took a great gulp of air as I arched my back. His elbow strained backward over my hips and a high-pitched “ahh,” escaped beneath his mustache as he thrashed. But he was not strong enough to break away.
“This,” I said through my teeth, pulling harder, “is called an arm bar.”
“Stop,” he panted, his own body arching with pain. “Stop!” He tried to wriggle out of my hold but the man had no technique.
“Your strength doesn’t matter now, does it?” I growled.
“Gwen!” a voice yelled.
“Help!” the Marquis cried.
I jerked his wrist backward, tight against my chest as my hips thrust upward. The Marquis’s elbow held for a strained second, then popped. He screamed. I let go and rolled to my feet, panting and glaring down at the red-faced man who tried to kill me and been responsible for so much death and suffering.
“I warned you that I’d break your arm,” I said.
Something cold and hard rested just behind my ear, sending a shiver running down my back. I froze, cursing myself for having forgotten the driver, and fought the urge to cough away the stinging pain in my windpipe so he wouldn’t shoot me for moving.
“Stop!”
Tony stood not ten feet away, panting, his pistol raised. The driver took a handful of my hair and jerked me backward, using my body as a shield between Tony and himself.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any techniques to save myself from this. Just anger and fear.
“You’re going to put your gun away,” said the driver in a smooth, carefully cultured voice. “Unless you’d like to see what the inside of Lady St. James’s head looks like.”
“Drop your gun and step away from the woman,” Tony countered, and his voice was like hearing thunder on the horizon that promised a coming storm.
Click. A cold rush of primordial dread slid down my spine at the sound of a gun hammer locking into place behind my ear. Despite what I told the Marquis, I didn’t really want to die, at least not yet. Not when Lia was so close. Not when Sam was still in danger.
“Enough,” the Marquis gasped. “Stop this. Jasper, that is an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
Which meant his death will be much harder to explain.
Rutledge rolled to a sitting position, then struggled to his feet while cradling his broken arm, his once red face now pale with pain and beaded with sweat. “The inspector would like to protect his friend, naturally. And he is sworn to do his job, just as all good public servants are. He won’t shoot either of us, will you Hardwicke?”
“Put the gun down,” Tony growled, not taking his eyes off the driver.
“Put it down, Jasper. You see I am in no danger. The inspector is behaving rationally.”
Tony’s jaw clenched, and the cold barrel dropped away from my head.
“There, you see, Inspector? No harm done. Just a misunderstanding after a nasty accident. Hot tempers and all that. No need to put your career in jeopardy over a trifle, not when you have people to care for.”
“Ripper, to me,” I said.
The construct left the wreckage of the carriage and limped to my feet. The explosion damaged some part of it, but I didn’t have time to check what it was. My eyes were fastened on the Marquis’s face.
“You had better get your master to a surgeon,” I said with mock concern. “His arm is already swelling. If they don’t set the bone soon, he may never regain proper use of his arm, even with elvin medicine.”
The man’s small, dark eyes fixed on me with a hatred hot enough to make my skin burn. I had surprised him, challenged his assumptions, and come out at least marginally on top. He was down an expensive carriage, an expensive construct, and one arm.
“I’m glad you survived the accident with no harm, Lady Gwen. Your mother will be glad of your safety, and the children. Inspector,” he said with a nod.
The driver, a pale, waxy-faced man, passed me and helped Lord Rutledge onto one of the coach horses that wandered back after their first panicked flight. It danced sideways, unused to having a person on its back, but the Marquis never would have walked out of the park without passing out.
We watched them disappear into the park in silence, the driver giving us a single backward glance before rounding the bend in the path. Tony didn’t say anything, just gathered his horse and reached down to lift me. I climbed on behind him, wrapped both arms around his waist, leaned my head tiredly against his back, and said, “Ripper, follow.”
Tony walked the horse out of the park, then turned toward Grosvenor Square.
After we rejoined traffic, he asked, “What happened?”
“The Marquis was expecting me. He’s the one responsible for Lady Monmouth, and the vampire that enthralled Lord Ashcroft.”
Tony blew out a long breath.
“You need to get your family out of town,” I said. We both knew the Marquis’s veiled threats had been serious ones.
“And take them where? I can barely afford to keep them in their current residence.”
“Take them to Wainwright. I’ll pay for the ticket. Mama would love to have them.”
“Gwen—“
“Damn your pride, Tony. Your parents are in danger now because you came to help me. Let me do this. It is not charity, it is a debt. I’ll send them north on the train with the children.”
Tony was silent for a long time.
We turned into the square, and each clop of the horse’s hooves echoed like a hammer striking a gavel. Knowing I had been right, that something bigger than we suspected was connecting these dangerous supernatural events, didn’t feel very gratifying given what that information cost us.
Whatever sense of safety either of us had, less for ourselves than for our families, had been destroyed. The Marquis was a pompous, condescending ass, but he had significant political power, and apparently, his fingers were also deep in the pockets of important people in Scotland Yard.
Tony reined in at the front door.
“We’ll take them to Wainwright together,” he said.
“I don’t have the time, I need to return the—“
Tony dismounted in a rush, then grabbed me by my waist and lifted me from the horse’s back in an easy motion. His eyes were implacable as he said, slowly, and without removing his hands, “We will take them to Wainwright together. They will be safer that way.”
I looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “Can your parents be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon?”
“I’ll be certain of it.” I nodded, and Tony remounted. “You’ll tell me the rest of it on the train,” he said.
I agreed.
He kicked the horse into a trot, leaving me standing in the square with the construct at my feet, and not much time. I had to fulfill a promise, retrieve the artifact that was currently putting Delilah in danger, schedule a train ride, and hope that I was still alive to escort the children in the morning.