Authors: Christina Dodd
“I am sorry, but this has got to be all about his brother.” When Caroline shook her head in ignorance, Nicolette continued, “Michael was killed in Moricadia. Jude hasn’t been the same since, and if de Guignard and Bouchard are responsible for Michael’s death, then Jude would have been willing to go to any lengths to take revenge. He would even have gone so far as to play the fool to put them off-balance and discover their nefarious plans.” Nicolette gave Caroline a moment to absorb that. “You understand, dear. You have so much in common with Jude.”
“I do not!”
“You’re willing to do anything—stay in England, work at menial jobs, even give up your chance at true love—to provide and care for your sister.”
“That’s different!”
“Is it?” As she walked away, Nicolette smiled enigmatically. “Is it really?”
It
was
different. What Caroline had done didn’t involve treachery…although she would have done almost anything to provide for Genevieve. And if Genevieve had been killed, Caroline would have gone mad.
Then…“What do you mean,
true love?
” She stared at the door where Nicolette had disappeared. Nicolette knew? She knew that Caroline loved Jude?
Caroline ran up the stairs and to her room.
Was she so obvious? Did everybody know?
Would the humiliation of this day never end?
“Miss Ritter, what’s this?” Daisy asked as Caroline entered.
Daisy’s shocked tone yanked Caroline out of her fury and her sorrow. “What? What did you find?”
She glanced around to see Daisy standing beside the dressing screen…and holding Jude’s long, thin-bladed knife in her hand.
He was going to fight the battle of his life. Because of Caroline, he had forgotten the knife he handled so cleverly. And the men he faced were brutal murderers.
She was an heiress. She never again had to do anything she didn’t desire.
But being an heiress didn’t free her of her moral obligations, nor did it free her from the bonds of love. She didn’t want to love Jude, but she did, and even if she never saw him again, she wanted to know that somewhere in this world Jude lived and breathed. If she was responsible for his death, she would never forgive herself.
“Give me the knife, Daisy. Get me my cloak.” Grimly, Caroline picked up the piece of paper with Comte de Guignard’s handwriting and read the information. “I’m going to follow Huntington.”
H
arry had watched as that fine young lord left his horse in the care of a stableboy by Nevett’s front steps. Huntington had gone in to visit Miss Ritter, and when he came out he looked none too happy.
Good. That would teach him to trifle with Miss Ritter. She deserved better than a trick and a tickle, and Harry knew that was exactly what Huntington had been giving her. Harry knew everything that happened in London and beyond, for he worked for Throckmorton—a good man, and one willing to keep Harry informed. So Harry shared the network of beggars and thieves who reported to him, and he divided his salary from Throckmorton according to who brought him the best tidbits. But Miss Ritter he tended for free. She had become his special project, sort of his own charity case.
Swinging himself into the saddle, Huntington gathered the reins, and trotted his horse down to the corner. He stopped. He looked down at Harry, and asked, “What’s happened so far?”
Harry knew that Huntington wanted an account on the day’s events, and Harry tersely gave it to him. “The ’oresons shot at the queen—not that it was the queen, ye know, but rumors that she’s dead and that the Frenchies did it spread over London. There’re riots all up and down Piccadilly. The trouble’s spreading. Before long, the rioters’ll go fer any Frenchies they know. Yer Moricadians got away, no one knows where, and Throckmorton’s suffering quite a turn over at the ’Ome Office.”
“I’m sure he is.” Huntington leaned his arm on his saddle. “I know where the Moricadians are hiding. Get a messenger. Send word to Throckmorton. I need men at Whitefriars Dock at the warehouse. It seems empty, but be careful. The Moricadians are brilliant shots, and they have no qualms about doing what they must to survive long enough to make it to their ship.”
“Aye, m’lord, Oi’ll spread the word.”
Huntington glanced back at his father’s house. “Miss Ritter is very angry at me.”
“So Oi see.” Harry grinned at the sight of her hand-print on Huntington’s face. “Landed ye a good one, did she?”
“She was…distressed.” Huntington touched his cheek. “She must remain here. She knows where the Moricadians are hiding, and this is the only place she’s safe.”
“If she tries t’ leave, what do ye want me t’ do?” Harry asked with exasperation. “Bite ’er on the leg?”
“Whatever it takes.” Jude spurred his horse into a gallop and was out of sight at exactly the same time Miss Ritter stepped out onto the stairs and strode toward him.
Harry groaned. “That woman’ll be the ruination o’ me.” Gathering his money cup, he stuck it under his rags and pushed himself toward Caroline.
“She must remain here,”
he mimicked Huntington’s noble accent. “
This is the only place she’s safe.
So what does the lady do? She tries t’ leave. Women. No sense. No sense at all.”
Caroline saw Harry approaching as fast as he could and heard him muttering.
“Where do ye think ye’re going, Miss Ritter?” he called as they got close.
“I have to go after Lord Huntington.” She walked briskly toward the main street. “He left something that he desperately needs.”
“And what would that be?” Harry planted himself squarely in front of her.
“His dagger.” Opening her cloak, she showed him the blade tucked into her belt.
“ ’Is lordship and Oi have made each other’s acquaintance,” Harry said, “and Oi feel sure if ’e left without it, ’e can do without it.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t wonder that Harry claimed to know Jude. Jude wasn’t what he appeared to be; maybe Harry wasn’t, either. “But I can’t wait here and wonder if he’s going to die for needing it. I’m an heiress. I have a choice now, and I have to do the right thing.” She walked around Harry and made her way to the corner. She looked up and down, trying to decide if she should keep walking or if a cab would be by soon.
Harry got in front of her again. “Look, Miss Ritter, ’e’s a man and a fighter, and ye’re a woman—”
She glared at him.
“—And a fighter,” he added hastily. “But this kind o’ combat is brutal and ugly, and ye shouldn’t see it.”
“I’m not going to
see
it. I’m going to help.”
“Ye’d just get in the way.”
“Look!” She crouched down so she could look in his eyes. “I’ve spent my whole life being a proper lady no matter what my circumstances, and I won’t do it anymore. I have the right to hate Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard for what they’ve done to my country. I have the right to hate Huntington…and the right to fight at his side.”
“Ye’re saying it’s not the same kind o’ hate,” Harry said shrewdly.
“That’s right. I’m done being a lady. I’m angry, Harry. Angry at everything that has happened to me. I’ve taken control of my fate, and I’m not giving it up. If somebody’s going to kill Huntington, it’s going to be
me
, not some assassins who think they have the right to come to England and use us—use me! For their purposes.”
“Right.” He was beginning to see her point and even agree with it. “All right then. I’ll come with ye and—”
“No, Harry.” A cab rolled down the street, and she waved it down. “You’ve done enough for England. I won’t put you in danger again so you can help me.” He tried to grab her skirt, but she stepped nimbly inside. “Thank you for understanding. You’re the only one who does.” She shut the door in Harry’s face.
“Bloody stinking ’ell!” In a fury of frustration, he watched the cab drive away. He had been going to say he would go with her and keep her out of trouble. He should have known keeping that lass out of trouble took more than an aging, legless old sailor.
In fact, he wished Huntington luck handling
her
.
With his fingers in his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle and settled down to wait. In less than five minutes, although it seemed more, a skinny girl, one of the city’s pickpockets, dashed up.
“What do ye want, Harry?”
Harry gave her the message to go to Throckmorton. “It’s got t’ go fast and it’s got t’ go right, and if ye do that, there’ll be an extra reward in yer cap tonight. Now repeat it back.” When he was sure the lass had every word perfectly, he said, “Looks like rain, so step lively. Ye don’t want to be caught in the downpour.”
He waved her off. She grabbed the back of one of the passing cabs and made herself at home as it drove down the street.
And Harry, with a lot more effort, did the same on a cab going in the opposite direction. He just hoped he got to Whitefriars in time to help Huntington, because Miss Ritter was chomping at the bit, and that dagger was no toy.
Jude hoped he didn’t die there. He had found the warehouse with its square courtyard stacked with old barrels and littered with debris. At once he understood why the Moricadians had chosen this spot. It was on the river, their escape route. It was situated so that they had a view of anyone who approached. And it definitely looked uninhabited. As Jude dismounted, he wondered how the elegant de Guignard enjoyed living in a dusty hovel with broken windows and a healthy infestation of river rats.
Were they still here? The tide was going out within two hours. Their ship would sail on it. But Huntington prayed they hadn’t boarded yet. If they had, they took the chance of being cornered, and these men were too wily for that.
So he had to stall them long enough for Throckmorton’s men to get there. Overhead, clouds had begun to blow in, covering the sun, then whisking away…if the rain would hold off, Throckmorton would make better time.
Jude planned to go in as the foppish Lord Huntington and see if he could engage them in talk. The approach was the tricky part; if they decided to shoot him right away, all of his planning was for naught.
“Go home, boy. Go find your oats.” With a sharp slap on the rump, he started his horse out of harm’s way. Pulling a bright scarf from his pocket, he waved it above his head as he walked into the warehouse’s courtyard. “Comte de Guignard! Monsieur Bouchard!” He called, “I received your invitation too late, and I’m so sorry I missed you, but I talked to Miss Ritter, and she said you were here!”
Silence answered him.
Did they believe him? Were they intrigued?
Well…he wasn’t dead yet, and he counted that as first-class news.
“Comte de Guignard! Monsieur Bouchard! Miss Ritter sends her regrets.” Jude saw the flash of a rifle in a broken window. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. They were there, and God, he was glad, but he’d been shot before, and the suffering had been unbelievable. He didn’t want to go through that again, but for Michael he would bleed…and for Caroline, he would live. “Miss Ritter wishes she could have come here, too.”
When he was still standing at the end of his speech, he wanted to relax. Another few minutes of life. He had another few cherished minutes of life, and he wanted those minutes. He wanted all the minutes because, yes, he lusted for revenge on Michael’s killers, but he no longer faced life with indifference. He wanted to be with Caroline, to sleep with her, to marry her…he loved her. How could he not? She was everything that was brave and strong and delightful.
Where were Throckmorton’s men?
“Are you alone?” De Guignard’s voice echoed eerily across the abandoned yard.
“I am.” Smiling, Jude spread his arms wide. “I’ve come for the opportunity to shoot with you.”
“Why isn’t Miss Ritter with you?” De Guignard asked.
“She doesn’t like to shoot.” Jude injected surprise into his voice.
From another part of the warehouse, Bouchard asked, “When you came through the city, were there problems?”
“Problems?” Jude had had to pick his route to avoid the rioting, but if he told the Moricadians their plan had failed, they’d have to consider whether they could go home as failures. Prince Sandre did not accept failure lightly. Perhaps they would want to stay and try again. “No, everything is as usual,” Jude said.
More silence. Then: “Empty your pockets,” Bouchard called.
“My pockets?” Jude began. “My good man, why—”
“Do it!” Bouchard’s voice lashed at him.
“Yes, of course, as you wish!” Hidden by his coat, Jude had a pistol strapped to his leg. He had a knife up his sleeve, a small sharp blade he could throw with great accuracy. He wished he had his dagger, but that remained in Caroline’s bedchamber stuck in the arm of a chair…he smiled as he remembered last night, and supposed to the Moricadians he looked like an idiot grinning now. But that was to the good.
Slowly he slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket. “A watch!” he called. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Put it on the ground,” Bouchard instructed.
Jude looked down at the rough cobblestones at his feet and in his most fretful voice, he said, “I can’t put my watch down there. It’s filthy!”
“Put it down!” Bouchard said.
With a huge display of reluctance, Jude obeyed.
“What else?” Bouchard demanded.
“A handkerchief!” Jude waved the white square embroidered with his initials. “Really, Monsieur Bouchard, you aren’t going to ask me to put this fine linen on the ground, are you?” He really, really needed Throckmorton’s men to back him up. Mentally he tried to work out how soon they could get there.
Not soon enough.
“
Mon dieu
, Bouchard, this is ridiculous.” De Guignard sounded impatient, and his voice moved toward the door. “We know what Huntington is!”
“Comte, please, you’re too trusting.” Bouchard was on the move, too, and he sounded frustrated and angry.
“We need to know what’s happening in the city. We need to know whether the populace is angry.” De Guignard stepped into the courtyard, a rifle cradled in his arms. His hair was perfectly combed. Medals decorated his chest. A long sword hung from a sheath at his waist. He looked every inch the foreign nobleman, and Jude appreciated the irony, for de Guignard had done so much that was ignoble.
“Angry?” Jude stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Why would they be angry?”
Bouchard stepped out, holding a pistol pointed right at Jude.
“Monsieur Bouchard! What are you doing?” Jude backed toward the row of barrels behind him, shock and fear etched on his face. It wasn’t hard to do.
“You heard nothing about a Frenchman shooting your Queen Victoria?” Bouchard demanded. “No riots? No Englishmen are tearing the French limb from limb?”
“Please, Monsieur Bouchard, we’re not so uncivilized!” Jude protested, and put his hand on the butt of his pistol. He would roll behind the barrels and come up behind them, shoot Comte de Guignard, then do his damnedest to hide from Bouchard until Throckmorton’s men got here.
“He’s worthless.” Bouchard said with relish. “We get to kill him.”
And as Jude prepared to jump away, a feminine voice trilled, “Comte de Guignard, I’ve come to accept your offer of sanctuary.”
All three men looked toward the street.
Caroline strolled into the courtyard. She wore a dark cloak, her blue merino dress, and a charming smile—and Jude couldn’t believe she was here.
He looked behind her for Harry. She was alone. Damn!
“Why have you come?” Jude asked.
At his horrified tone, Bouchard’s gaze sharpened.
“
Mademoiselle.
” Comte de Guignard started forward. “You are so welcome!”
She tossed her head in a coquettish manner. “What a beautiful rifle.” She batted her lashes. “Are you having a shooting contest?” Her gaze flicked toward Bouchard. “Please be careful, Monsieur, that could accidentally discharge in Lord Huntington’s direction.”
Monsieur Bouchard lowered his pistol, but he stared fixedly at her, his black eyes suspicious, his mustache bristling. “You said you came to accept Comte de Guignard’s offer of sanctuary.”
“Yes.” She smiled meltingly at Comte de Guignard. “I think it would be so charming to join you…er…here?” Her gaze swept the warehouse, and she looked prettily confused.
And even in the depths of his horror, Jude appreciated her flirtatious skills.
“Yet I wonder”—Bouchard pointed his pistol at
her
—“if someone here is lying.”
Blind instinct swept Jude. Drawing his own pistol, he shot, a good fast shot that struck Bouchard in the side.