“Do, it, Jen. Besides, the bill goes to Cole.” He grinned wickedly. “And be sure to send for the cobbler so you can have a decent pair of shoes.” He gestured to her feet.
She laughed softly and nodded. “Now that, I won’t refuse.”
Mentally adding these purchases to the list of money she owed the Amesburys, Genevieve capitulated. Somehow she’d pay them back. They didn’t need her money, of course, but she refused to take advantage of their kindness and be an object of charity.
After Genevieve ordered enough clothes to satisfy Rachel, the modiste and her assistant gathered up her swatches and drawings and after promising to bring a few of the more essential items for a fitting tomorrow, they left.
A footman came in carrying a letter on a silver platter and held it out to Christian. He tore it open, his expression growing grave as he read.
She set down the dress engraving she’d been examining and went to him. “Is something amiss?”
He smiled but something hidden darkened his eyes. “The solicitor replied to my inquiry. He said the divorce may not be final for a very long time, if ever. It’s a lengthy process and ultimately must be approved by Parliament. As Cole mentioned, women are seldom granted divorces.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” Genevieve said, “but even if we married today, it wouldn’t be soon enough.”
She smiled at the thought of marrying Christian, but he looked pained. Had he reconsidered and decided marrying a divorced woman would be too much scandal to bring to the family? After all, he had his siblings’ reputations to consider. Or had he realized how broken she was and decided he didn’t want used merchandise?
One of the Grant’s men darted in and made a gesture to Grant. Christian’s brother leaped to his feet with the fluid grace of a panther and slipped out of the room. Christian stood, keeping his gaze trained on the doorway. After a brief exchange of words, Grant came in. With a mere glance, he and Christian seemed to have an entire conversation. Christian took up a defensive stance next to Genevieve. Their state of alert sent Genevieve’s heart pounding.
Christian’s gaze darted to the windows and he stood blocking her from the windows with his body. In one hand he gripped a gun that seemed to magically appear.
Rachel turned to him. “What is it?”
“Something has Grant’s man alarmed.” Christian’s wide and darting eyes took in the room all at once while his hand gripped his gun with white knuckles.
“Well, I’m going to go find out what it is,” Rachel announced.
“No, you’re going to stay right here where I can protect you.” Christian’s grim voice left no room for argument.
Rachel folded her arms and glared mulishly at Christian, but kept silent. A dark foreboding curled in Genevieve’s stomach. Wickburgh was here. He’d found her. She’d never be safe from him. Sooner or later, he’d cut through everyone in his way to get to her.
A moment later, Grant returned. “Lady Wickburgh—”
“Please,” Genevieve broke in, “don’t call me that. I’m just Genevieve.”
Grant paused. “There’s a white cat outside. It’s been disemboweled.”
Genevieve’s stomach lurched and she put a hand over her mouth. “I had a white cat.”
“Next to it was this note.” He held up a paper. “It says, ‘thinking of you, my dear.’”
Christian cursed under his breath.
Grant held out the note but she didn’t need to look closely to recognize
his
handwriting nor his style of torture. All the strength left Genevieve’s legs and she had to sit down quickly. All her courage fled. “He’s here.”
Her poor cat! She’d always been such a sweet little thing, always content to purr in Genevieve’s lap—often her one companion when she felt so alone. Too bad she didn’t think to find a new home for the poor little thing before she left Wickburgh.
“How could he have found you so fast?” Christian muttered. He turned to her and said firmly, “We’re moving you to a new location.”
“Fire!” shouted a distant voice. “The house is on fire.”
A woman screamed and feet thundered on the stairs. A cacophony erupted as servants began running and calling to each other.
“Stay with her!” Grant shouted. “It’s a diversion.” He ran out into the great foyer.
Christian put one arm around her and hefted his gun with his other hand. “Let’s get out of the house. Rachel, stay close.”
As they strode toward the front door, tendrils of black smoke curled along the ceiling, filling the house with the pungent odor of smoke. Genevieve coughed as smoke thickened. Shouts and thundering footsteps erupted all around them. Christian led her outside into the late afternoon sunlight and down the front steps. She glanced back at the façade of the house. Flames lapped at the side of the structure and smoke puffed upward to a growing dark cloud.
A bucket brigade lined up along the street and began throwing water on the blaze. Christian’s gaze fixed on those working to save the house. She understood. She ached to help, too, but if Wickburgh had started the fire, he’d have men ready to spirit her away the instant she was left unguarded. Genevieve’s heart pounded. All this senseless destruction. How much lower would Wickburgh stoop?
She had done this, too, by allowing the Amesburys to help her. They were all in danger. Next time it would be worse than a fire. Next time, he might try to hurt Christian or Rachel. That bullet in Scotland had probably been meant for Christian.
The heat of the flames blistered her face and they all took a few more steps back. The setting sun cast long rays over the landscape and made silhouettes out of the buildings. Rachel stood watching the blazing house, her mouth open and her eyes round with horror.
A wagon filled with men wearing the badges of fire fighters careened around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the house. The horses pulling the wagon snorted and stomped but remained almost calm amidst the smoke and chaos as the firefighters worked a large pump. After checking the firemark on the house to verify the owner paid for fire insurance, one man directed a hose toward the fire and held it steady as a stream of water poured out. Others ran to refill the trough of water inside the fire truck, sometimes stumbling over those in the bucket brigade.
Christian stiffened, vibrating with tension, his gaze fixed on something across the street. She followed his line of sight. A man wearing a long dark coat stood watching them, unmoving. Cold foreboding crept down Genevieve’s spine. The man dashed down a side street. Christian tensed as if to give chase, but never left her side. A sickening crack sounded next to Genevieve’s ear.
Christian grunted and fell onto his knees, his hand on his head. A man with a bulbous nose stood over him holding the butt of a pistol. Genevieve let out a cry. Christian turned, bringing up his gun and pointed it at his attacker. A third man with pocked skin appeared and grabbed Christian’s gun, forcing it down. It discharged, the gunshot deafening her and the smell of gunpowder combining with smoke from the fire. All three leaped toward Christian. Unarmed, he fought them with his fists, landing several solid blows.
Fumbling for Rachel’s tiny hand gun she kept in her pocket, she rushed to his aid. Someone grabbed Genevieve’s arm, swung her around and struck her hard. Pain exploded from her face. She staggered back but his bruising grip kept her from falling. A second gun fired. A woman screamed. Rachel? The assailant dragged Genevieve into an ally. Dark anger boiled up inside of her and she bit and kicked her attacker.
“None o’ tha’,” a male voice rasped, exhaling the pungent odor of old onions and sausage.
She kicked harder and dug her nails into his arm. He struck her face and black spots exploded before her eyes. Dazed, she collapsed, dimly aware of being hauled into a darkened coach. Someone threw her onto the floor. She lay, dizzy and panting, staring at a pair of boots.
“Well done,” said a familiar voice. “I will see you generously rewarded.”
Pinpricks moved down her neck and spread across her arms. She knew that voice. Her husband. Lord Wickburgh. He leaned back against the seat cushions, eyeing her coldly. The coach began moving, taking her further away from Christian.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked him in the face. She’d almost forgotten how cold his eyes were, like the stare of a reptile. She glared at him. “I will not go home with you. Not now, not ever.”
After taking snuff out of a box and inhaling deeply, he looked her over without a glimmer of emotion. “Genevieve, you wound me. After all I’ve done for you.”
“Done for me? Abusing me, locking me away, killing my pets ...?”
“Disobedient wives must be punished just as disobedient children.”
“Disobedient?”
“Surely you didn’t mistake my necessary use of punishment for lack of caring? You know I loved you, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t think you ever loved me.”
He drew his brows together. “Odd, but I loved you more than I ever thought I could love.”
She didn’t miss his use of the past tense form of the word love. Perhaps he was right; perhaps he loved the only way a twisted sick mind like his could.
She drew herself up. “I am not coming back.”
He let out a sharp laugh. “What makes you think I want you back now? You’ve been a disappointment. And you’ve clearly cuckolded me. No, I no longer want you back.”
Terror trembled in the bottom of her stomach. “What do you want?”
“Nothing much. You’ve become too much trouble. You won’t do as you’re told, you’ve run from me—twice. Keeping you has been more trouble than you’re worth. Since you won’t stay with me, I shall ensure that you will never be with anyone else, either.” He flexed his fingers.
He didn’t want her back. He wanted her dead.
Cold fear crawled down her spine like a hundred spiders. “You can’t just kill me. If I turn up dead—”
“You are already dead. We...ah...
found
a body that I’ve identified as you and given you a proper Christian burial. I announced your death in all the papers.”
No. She would no longer subject herself to him. She was a worthwhile human being who loved—and was loved by—a wonderful man. She didn’t deserve this. She’d never let him hurt her again.
She made a desperate leap for the door and yanked on the handle. He grabbed her and delivered a bone-jarring blow. She crumpled to the floor of the carriage. Lord Wickburgh struck her again and then kicked her. After days of living with a total lack of fear and pain with Rachel and Christian, she’d lost her earlier numbness to his beatings.
Christian. Her last glimpse of him had been of ruffians overpowering him.
He could be injured. Or dead. Oh, what had she done? She’d failed to protect the ones she loved.
CHAPTER 24
In the street, Christian fought with his attackers and landed a solid punch. Without warning, the thugs fled. He took a few running steps after them, but remembered Rachel. He ran back to her as she pushed herself up from the street.
“Are you hurt?” He picked her up, searching for signs of injury.
“No.” Her eyes were narrowed in anger rather than fear or hurt.
He looked wildly around. “Genevieve!”
Only firefighters and a milling crowd near the house met his gaze. He looked out over the carts and horses in the streets but saw no sign of her.
“Someone took her. In a black coach.” Rachel spat out the words.
Sick with dread, he scanned the area. A darkened alley to his left seemed the most obvious place. “Stay here,” he commanded.
He darted into the alley. A few dirty children played in an otherwise empty area. He ran through it to a larger street at the other end. As he looked both ways, his heart sank. She was gone. He turned at the echo of footsteps and fell into a defensive crouch. Grant, with Rachel right behind him, ran to him.
“I caught one, but he was a diversion,” Grant growled. “I can’t believe I let myself get suckered into that one.”
“She’s gone,” Christian gasped. Frustration chewed at his stomach until it left a raw, festering wound.
Grant’s mouth tightened. “I found McCullen back there.” He pointed to an ally across the street. “He’s dead.”
Christian winced at the loss of a good man as he continued peering into crowds for any sign of Genevieve. Desperate energy filled him. A coach turned a corner a block down the street, and a white object fluttered out of the interior. Had Genevieve thrown it?
He ran after it. With Grant at his side and Rachel only a few steps behind, Christian dodged traffic, keeping one eye on the coach. There. A bit of trampled white. He knelt and retrieved a white embroidered handkerchief.
“Genevieve’s,” Rachel confirmed.
Up ahead, a black coach with red wheels careened around a corner. Christian sprinted after the coach. It turned another corner. He raced after it, leaping over objects in his path and dodging pedestrians. His lungs burned but desperation spurred him on. The coach led him to the riverfront area. By the time he rounded the next corner, it vanished. He looked up and down the street. Nothing but the rolling fog.
Christian cursed and leaned over, bracing his hands on his thighs. He’d lost her. What to do now? A cold ball formed in his heart.
Grant appeared next to him. “He’s going to kill her and throw her into the Thames.” Grant was barely winded despite the pace.
“Heaven help us.” With a madman like Lord Wickburgh, Grant was probably right. Since the world thought her dead already, no one would suspect him of murder.
“This way.” Grant darted away.
As his pulse throbbed in his ears, Christian ran next to Grant through a narrow alleyway to the riverbank. Ramshackle buildings crowded along the edge, some so close they seemed in peril of toppling into the water. Christian raced along the embankment. Ahead, a coach pulled to a stop, its coach lamps swinging eerily in the billowing fog and growing darkness. He ran toward it, desperately hoping it was the one he sought.
A woman cried out in pain. Genevieve. She was there. With that monster. And he was hurting her.
Something fierce and wild possessed him and he curled his hands into fists as he plunged toward the carriage. No one would hurt her. He’d defend her, even if he had to kill. Or die.