Love's Labyrinth (36 page)

Olivia slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door. She slipped the latch up and peered outside. Yes, that was the creak at the bottom of the steps. Was Nicholas as sleepless as she?

She shut the door and stole down the hallway, listening to the faint footfalls, which walked quickly in the direction of Nicholas’s study.

Warren walked with purposeful steps through the house, grimly focused on the task at hand. His fingers closed on the hilt of his sword, the palm itchy to plunge it into Nicholas’s chest. He pushed open the door of Nicholas’s study. Beyond the study lay Nicholas’s bedroom. Maybe the bitch would be with him. And he’d slay two birds with one sword. He laughed silently at his own black humor and stepped into Nicholas’s bedroom.

“Who’s there?” Nicholas’s voice was cold, alert and wary.

Warren blinked, momentarily dismayed to find him awake. With a cry, he rushed in the direction of the shadowy bed, and the white-clad figure within it.

Nicholas rolled away when he saw Warren’s dark shape coalesce out of the shadows, the raised sword shining in the starlight. He reached for his own weapon and landed on his bare feet on the other side of the bed. “Warren, you’re mad.”

“Am I?” Warren hissed, stepping away from the bed.

In the shadows, Nicholas could see the silvery blade glimmering. He moved warily away from the corner, easing toward Warren to give himself more maneuverability. His own sword jerked up instinctively as Warren rushed in to attack.

With a great cry, Nicholas leapt to the offensive, and the blades crossed and rang. “You came to let me kill you, Warren?” he spat at the other man.

“I’ll see you dead.” Warren reversed his attack, lunging at Nicholas’s chest. Nicholas parried and riposted, his short nightshirt billowing. The tip of Warren’s blade caught in the fabric, ripping a slit across the shoulder and catching in Nicholas’s flesh. He cried and twisted away, thrusting his hilt at Warren’s sword.

The clash of weapons, the thud of footfalls, and the sporadic cries brought Olivia speeding into the study. She paused, horrified, in the doorway, staring at the two men fighting in the dark bedroom. Without a word, she turned on her heel and sped down the hallway, up the steps toward Geoffrey’s room. She hammered on the door until he opened it, his hair tousled, his nightshirt rumpled. “Geoffrey, come quickly, please—Nicholas is fighting someone—please—”

He stared at her a moment as her words registered, then reached for his own sword and dashed down the stairs. “Get Miles,” he cried.

Olivia rushed into the kitchens, where a low fire glowed in one of the wide hearths.

Geoffrey paused in the doorway, assessing the situation. The two men were fighting at very close quarters, circling around each other, slashing at each other in the barely adequate light. As his own eyes adjusted, he realized Nicholas was slowly losing the upper hand, as Warren forced him closer and closer into the corner. He waited for just the right second, then leapt into the fray.

The two brothers were closing in on Warren when the bright glow of a lantern fell over their shoulders, illuminating Warren’s sweat-slicked face. “Lord Nicholas!” cried Miles, entering the room with Jack on his heels.

Warren raised his sword to block a blow of Geoffrey’s, and in that moment, Nicholas lunged. The blade pierced the thick leather doublet and slid between Warren’s ribs. His eyes widened in shock, then he crumpled to the floor.

Nicholas backed away as Miles, Jack, and Olivia crowded closer, all talking at once.

“Are you all right, Nicholas?” Olivia’s voice rose above the rest.

He turned and reached for her with his left hand, his right still gripping the hilt of his sword. He pulled her to him, and she clung to him carefully, fearful that he might be hurt. “Are you all right?” she asked once more.

“I am,” he said against her hair. “I’m quite all right. A few scratches, nothing more.” He looked at Geoffrey. “Thank you.”

“It was Olivia who came to get me.”

“How did you know?” Nicholas asked, as Miles gently took the sword out of his hand and tried to coax him to the bed. Jack had summoned Janet, and now she bustled in, with a tray full of ointments, to assess the wounds.

“I heard someone go by in the hallway—I thought it might have been you—” she blushed unexpectedly. Nicholas smiled, and Geoffrey hid a grin.

“I see,” he said with a wink, as Janet pushed him to sit on the bed.

“Come, come, Lord Nicky, you’ve got more than a scratch or two on you—Jack, don’t stand there gaping, fetch Ned and Tom from the stables to move this one—”

She indicated Warren. “He lives?”

“Aye,” Miles said, looking up from where he crouched beside Warren’s prone body. “But the blade went in deep—I doubt he’ll survive.”

“See to him, Miles,” said Nicholas. “The man’s mad with grief and hate. If he recovers, he can answer for his crimes, although I’m not sure he’s really responsible.”

With a muttered assent, Geoffrey directed the men to carry Warren to the hall, where a makeshift pallet had been set up. Janet finished binding the last of Nicholas’s wounds. A sling, which Janet had insisted upon, and Nicholas had protested was unnecessary, bound his right arm to his chest, and a white strip wound around his chest. She straightened up with a sniff. “Now mind you don’t go moving about, Lord Nicky. They’ll open up again, and I must have a look tomorrow, when I can see better. Imagine—attacking good folk in their beds in the middle of the night! It’s not Christian.”

She bustled away, and Olivia and Nicholas were alone. “You thought it was me, hmm?”

“I thought it could’ve been you,” she said, feeling embarrassed once more.

“Tomorrow night it will be me,” he replied, reaching out to finger one long dark curl. He picked up the silky strand and brought it to his mouth. She moved just a little closer, as the now familiar heat flared deep. It spread through her body in a slow, steady wave. He smiled at her, and she drew closer. His left arm closed around her, and she melted into his embrace, her mouth soft beneath his kiss. “But tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, “tonight, you’ll stay with me.”

“And all the nights after that,” she murmured, as he drew her mouth to his once more.

“DID YOU SAY you found this painting at a pub in Kent?” William Danecourt peered over his spectacles at Alison and Geoffrey. “Which your friend—Miss Olivia Lindsley—tentatively believes to be the Dark Lady? Someone named Olivia, Lady Talcott?”

“Yes, yes,” said Alison. “As I explained to you on the phone, we happened to see this picture on our way to Talcott Forest, where Olivia was planning to do some research. She’s finishing up the work for her father—the late David Owen Lindsley?”

“Ah.” Danecourt lifted his pale blond brows. His tailored gray suit and crisp blue cotton shirt belonged on a man twice his age, thought Alison, who guessed him to be about twenty-four. Despite his youth, he seemed as stuffy as the portrait of his father appeared to be, which hung in the tastefully furnished foyer of “Danecourt & Son—Appraisers of Antique Artifacts.” Olivia said they were the best in London.

“Look, would you just take a look at it for me? Tell me what you can about the painting? I know your father’s not here, but could you—?”

“Certainly, Miss O’Neill.” He bent over the painting with a magnifying glass, surveying it carefully.

Alison glanced at Geoffrey. He was looking very comfortable in rumpled khakis and a denim work shirt. They’d been in the twentieth century for over a week now, and Geoffrey was settling in remarkably well, and far better than she’d been able to adjust to the sixteenth. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, except for their being in the awkward position of having to make explanations regarding Olivia’s disappearance. As for culture shock, he was adapting quickly.

Danecourt murmured to himself several times, then turned the portrait over. He ran his fingers over the canvas, then frowned when he reached the bottom. “Hmm,” he said.

“What is it?” Alison asked eagerly.

“This is somewhat odd….” He ran his fingers over the lower portion of the canvas back. “It almost feels as if there’s a packet of some sort behind this. As if this….” He cut the canvas carefully along the bottom of the frame. “Look here. Just as I thought. It’s a double canvas. There’s something under here.”

Alison squeezed Geoffrey’s hand. She knew in her gut that Olivia had left some message, something tangible…. “Hmm,” said Danecourt again, as he lifted a slim leather packet from between the two layers. “What’s this?”

“What do you suppose it could be?” Alison asked, but even as she spoke, she knew the answer.

“Would you like to open it?” Danecourt asked.

“No, no, that’s okay. You go ahead.” She clutched Geoffrey’s hand tighter.

Danecourt’s long pale fingers swiftly unwrapped the thin leather. Within lay a sheaf of parchment sheets. “I say, what have we here?” He picked up one and began to read it to himself. He put it down, his mouth working silently. He read another, and then another, and his eyes grew wider and wider, and Alison wanted to giggle.

“Oh, my God.” He took a short gulp of air. “Oh, my God. Oh. My. God.” He took a deeper breath, then, without looking at either Alison or Geoffrey, dashed out of the room, calling, “Melissa! Melissa! Where’s that number my father left?”