JMcNaught - Something Wonderful (61 page)

"Your grace?" Fawkes' urgent voice stopped Jordan as he straightened, intending to walk over to the shooting contests, which had become more humorous than intense as the contestants squinted through ale-blurred eyes at the target nailed to a tree. "I must insist you leave at once," Fawkes whispered, falling into step beside Jordan.

"Don't be a fool," Jordan snapped, completely out of patience with Fawkes and his theories. "The meaning behind my cousin's note is obvious—they'd planned this party for me together, and that is undoubtedly why they met in secret those two times."

"There isn't time to argue about all that," Fawkes said angrily. "It will be dark in a few more minutes and my men aren't owls. They can't see in the dark. I've sent them ahead to position themselves along your route home."

"Since it's already too late to reach the house in daylight, I fail to see what difference it makes if I stay here for a while."

"I cannot be responsible for what happens if you don't leave here at once," Fawkes warned before he turned on his heel and stalked off.

"Can you believe those grown men are actually cheering their turtles on to victory?" Melanie chuckled, watching Tony and her husband. "I suppose I ought to go and remind them of the decorum required of men in their exalted positions," she said, and carefully descended from the platform with no such intention in mind. "Actually, I want to be there to see the winner cross the line," she confessed with a wink.

Alexandra nodded absently, scanning the open, cheerful faces of the cottagers, her gaze stopping on one disturbingly familiar face that wasn't cheerful at all. Suddenly, for no reason at all, she found herself recalling the night she met Jordan—a balmy night just like this one—when two cutthroats held Jordan at gunpoint.

"Grandmama," she said, turning to the duchess. "Who is that short man over there in the black shirt—the one with the red kerchief around his neck?"

The duchess followed her gaze and shrugged. "I'm sure I wouldn't have the vaguest idea
who
he is," she declared primly. "I've seen more of these cottagers today than I have in the entire thirty years I lived at Hawthorne. Not," she added a trifle reluctantly, "that I don't think your party was an excellent idea, my dear. Things have changed in England of late, and though I regret the necessity for pandering to those who serve us, it's wise for a landholder to be on good terms with his tenants these days. One hears talk of them demanding more and more and turning quite nasty…"

Alexandra's attention wandered, her mind returning to her dismal preoccupation with the night she met Jordan. Nervously, she glanced around the open field, looking for the man in the black shirt, who seemed to have vanished. A few minutes later, without realizing what she was doing, she began taking inventory of those she loved, watching to make certain they were safely within sight. She looked for Tony and could not see him, then she anxiously sought out Jordan and saw him standing at the perimeter of the woods, his shoulder propped casually against a tree, drinking ale and watching the festivities.

Jordan saw her looking at him, and he nodded slightly. The sweet tentative smile she sent him made him ache with uncertainty and regret. He raised his glass to her in a silent, sardonic toast, then froze at the sound of a vaguely familiar voice in the darkness beside him. "There's a gun pointing straight at yer head, milord, and another one pointing at yer wife over yonder. Make one sound and my partner will blow her head off. Now, move sideways toward the sound of my voice, right here in the woods."

Jordan tensed and slowly lowered the mug of ale. Relief, not fear, surged through his bloodstream as he turned toward the voice; he was ready for this long-awaited confrontation with his unknown enemy—
eager
for it. Not for an instant did he believe Alexandra was in any danger, that had merely been a ploy to make him obey.

Two paces brought him into the enfolding darkness of the dense woods, and another pace ahead he saw the deadly gleam of a pistol. "Where are we going?" he asked the shadow holding the gun.

"To a cozy little cottage down this path. Now get in front of me and start walkin'."

His body coiled like a tight spring now, Jordan moved another step forward onto the path, his right hand tightening on the heavy mug of ale. "What shall I do with this?" he inquired with feigned meekness, turning slightly and lifting his right hand.

The bandit glanced at the object in his hand for a split second, but that was all Jordan needed. He flung the contents of the mug in the startled bandit's eyes and simultaneously swung the heavy drinking vessel, bringing it crashing against his assailant's jaw and temple with a force that sent the surprised villain to his knees. Bending down, Jordan snatched the thug's gun from the ground, grabbed the stunned man's shoulders, and yanked him to his feet. "Start walking, you son of a bitch! We're going to take that little stroll you wanted."

The thug swayed slightly and Jordan gave him an impatient shove that sent him staggering down the path, with Jordan behind him. Reaching into his own pocket, Jordan felt for the small pistol he'd been carrying since he returned to England. Realizing that it must have fallen out of his coat when he bent over his captive, he tightened his grip on its replacement and followed his unfortunate prisoner down the path.

Five minutes later the dark shape of the old woodsman's cottage loomed up at the end of the path. "How many are inside?" Jordan demanded, even though there was no light showing through the slats of the closed shutters to indicate anyone was there, waiting.

"No one's there," the bandit grunted, then he gasped as he felt the cold kiss of the pistol's muzzle pressing against the back of his skull. "One or two. I don't know," he amended quickly.

Jordan's voice was as cold as death. "When we get to the door, tell them you've got me and to light a lamp. Say anything else, and I'll blow your head off." For emphasis, he shoved the pistol's muzzle harder against the frightened man's skull.

"Right!" he gasped, stumbling slightly as he rushed up the steps in his haste to escape the touch of the gun. "I've got him!" he called out in a low, frightened voice as he kicked at the door with his foot. It swung open on rusty, squeaking hinges. "Light a damn lamp, it's black as pitch in here," he added obediently, standing in the doorway.

There was the sound of tinder being struck, a shadow bent toward a lantern, light flickered— In one swift motion, Jordan struck his captive's skull with the butt of his pistol and sent him sprawling to the floor, unconscious, then he straightened his arm, leveling his pistol at the stunned figure bending over the flaring lantern.

The face staring back at him in the lantern's glow nearly sent him to his knees with shock and pain.

"Jordan!" his aunt said wildly. Her gaze flew toward the far corner and Jordan instinctively spun, crouching, and fired. Blood spurted from the chest of his aunt's other hired assassin, who clutched frantically at his wound and toppled to the floor, a gun dangling uselessly from his limp hand.

Jordan spared the man only a brief glance to ensure that he was dead, then he turned his head and looked at the woman he had loved better than his own mother until one minute ago. And he felt… nothing. A cold, hard core of empty nothingness was growing inside him, strangling every other emotion he'd ever felt, leaving him incapable of feeling anything—even anger. His voice devoid of all expression, he asked simply, "Why?"

His quiet, polite calm so unnerved his aunt that she stammered, "W-why are we going to k-kill you, you mean?"

The word "we" brought his head up sharply. Going swiftly to the dead man in the corner, he snatched the loaded gun from his hand and discarded the empty one he'd been holding. With the loaded gun ruthlessly trained on the woman he had once adored, Jordan walked to the doorway that opened off the room they were standing in and glanced into what appeared to be a small bedchamber. It was empty and yet his aunt still seemed to think he was going to be killed and, moreover, she had specifically said "we."

And then it dawned on him who she was probably waiting for, and he felt the first sparks of fury begin to ignite inside him: His cousin and possibly his wife were apparently expected here to see that he was properly finished off this time.

Walking back into the main room, he said in a cold, deadly voice, "Since you're obviously expecting reinforcements, why don't we both sit down and await their arrival."

Doubt and panic flickered in her eyes, and she sank slowly onto the crude wooden chair beside the table. With exaggerated courtesy, Jordan waited until she was seated before he casually perched his hip upon the table and waited, facing the closed door. "Now," he invited silkily, "suppose you answer some questions—quickly and briefly. The night I was waylaid outside Morsham was no random accident, was it?"

"I—I don't know what you mean."

Jordan glanced at the familiar face of the unconscious thug who had waylaid him that night and then at his aunt. Without a word, he lifted the gun he was holding in his crossed arms and pointed it at the terrified woman. "The truth, madam."

"It wasn't an accident!" she cried, her eyes riveted on the menacing pistol.

The gun lowered. "Go on."

"N-neither was your impressment, although you weren't supposed to be impressed, you were supposed to die, except you're—you're so very
hard
to
kill
!" she added in a tone of anguished accusation. "You always had the devil's own luck. You—with your money and your titles, and your strong, healthy legs, while poor Bertie is a cripple and my Tony a virtual pauper!"

Tears began spilling from her eyes and she whimpered furiously, "
You
had everything, including luck. You can't even be poisoned!" she cried, her shoulders shaking. "And we couldn't a-afford to hire more competent people to kill you, because
you
have all the money."

"How very thoughtless of me," Jordan drawled with bitter sarcasm. "Why didn't you simply
ask
me for money. I'd have given it to you, you know, had I dreamed you needed it. Not," he amended caustically, "to have me killed, however."

"Grandmama," Alexandra said a little desperately, "do you see Jordan anywhere? Or—or that man with the black shirt and red kerchief around his neck?"

"Alexandra, for goodness' sake," the duchess said in exasperation, "why are you constantly fidgeting and asking me to look about for people? Hawthorne is somewhere nearby, you may be sure of that. He was there by that tree, drinking a mug of that dreadful potion, but a moment ago."

Alexandra apologized, tried to sit still and remain calm, but a few minutes later she could no longer quell the unexplainable, rising panic she felt.

"Where are you going, dear?" the duchess asked when Alexandra abruptly arose and shook out her skirts.

"To look for my husband." With a rueful little laugh, Alexandra admitted, "I suppose I'm afraid he'll disappear again, the way he did a year ago. Silly of me, I know."

"Then you do care for him, don't you, child?" the duchess said fondly.

Alexandra nodded, too uneasy about Jordan's whereabouts to try to salvage her pride with a noncommittal answer. Her gaze shifted restlessly over the crowd as she picked up her skirts and began walking toward the place where she had last seen him. Tony was nowhere to be seen, but Melanie and John Camden were walking toward her, arm in arm.

"Wonderful party, Alexandra," John Camden admitted with an abashed grin. "I've never had as good a time at the fanciest affairs in the city."

"Thank you. H-have you seen my husband anywhere? Or Tony?"

"Not in the last fifteen minutes. Shall I look for them?"

"Yes please," Alexandra said, raking her hand through her hair. "I'm really in a sorry state tonight," she admitted, by way of an embarrassed apology. "I keep imagining things—earlier today I actually thought I saw a man up in one of the trees over there. And now Jordan seems to have vanished."

John Camden smiled and spoke in the soothing voice one might use with an overwrought child. "We were all together but a few minutes ago. I'll find them and send them to you."

Alexandra thanked him and hurried off toward the table where heavy pewter mugs of ale were being served. Passing it, she nodded at one of the scullery maids, and then walked over to the tree where Jordan had been standing. With a last glance at the milling partygoers in the clearing, she turned toward the woods and hesitantly began walking down the narrow path. Telling herself she was being fanciful and silly, she stopped after a few paces and looked about her, listening intently, but the sounds of laughter and fiddles from the clearing behind her drowned out the forest noises, and the thick branches overhead blotted out all the light, making her feel as if she were standing in an eerie void that contained only noise but no life.

"Jordan?" she called. When there was no answer, she bit her lip, her forehead furrowed into a worried frown. Intending to go back to the clearing, she started to turn, and it was then she saw the tankard lying in the path at her feet.

"Oh my God!" she whispered, snatching up the tankard and turning it over. A few drops of ale poured out of it. Wildly, she looked about her, expecting—
hoping
—to see Jordan lying in the path, perhaps passed out from too much drink, as Uncle Monty had occasionally done. Instead, she saw a small gleaming pistol on the side of the path.