“Where are you shot? Mirabelle, where—” His eyes found the rip in her clothing and the burn mark on her rib cage and he swore, low and viciously.
“I’m not shot.” She glanced down and squinted. “Well, maybe a little.”
He ran shaking hands along the wound. “It’s not bleeding. You’re not bleeding.”
“No. I aimed away.”
“You—?” He swore again and, though it was a bit hard to tell, she thought he shook his head. “Where else are you hurt? Mirabelle. Sweetheart, look at me.”
She’d like to, she thought, if only he would be still a moment. But he kept moving, running unsteady hands over her—her arms, her back, her face. And he kept shifting his head to kiss her—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. Because trying to pin him down made her dizzier, she simply wrapped her arms around him and burrowed in.
He followed suit, gripping her so tight she might have protested if it hadn’t felt so right.
“You’re all right,” he breathed. He lifted her up and out
of the carriage, and pressed his face to her neck. “I heard the shot. Tell me you’re all right.”
She nodded against his chest. “I’m all right.”
She felt a tremble go through him before he pulled back and framed her face with his hands. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
He brushed his thumb gently beneath the broken skin of her cheek. “I was late.”
“No, my uncle did that,” she explained, feeling a little steadier. “You were just in time—”
“I was late,” he repeated, and she realized he wasn’t referring to just that night.
“You’re here now,” she whispered. And because he was, and because he seemed to need it as much as her, she wrapped her arms around him a second time.
“I want to go home, Whit,” she said into his coat. “My head hurts. Will you take me home?”
“I will, sweetheart.” His fingers feathered gently through her hair. She felt him tense when he found the knot where the butt of the gun had struck her.
“I am all right,” she assured him. “I just want to go home.”
“And I’ll take you, darling, I promise.” He set her gently on the carriage step. “But I need just a moment. Can you wait just a moment?”
She nodded, expecting him to do something with the horses and carriage. Instead, with rage in his eyes, and his features set in hard lines, he reached inside and grabbed Hartsinger’s weapon. “Stay here.”
She didn’t stay. How could she, when Whit was marching off with a pistol in his hand? She followed him around the side of the carriage, annoyed that she needed to use it for support. In the dim moonlight she could make out someone standing over two men on the road. The first, whom she assumed was the driver, was holding a bleeding arm.
And the second, whining loudly and dabbing at a nasty gash along his shoulder, was Mr. Hartsinger.
“She shot me. The chit shot me,” he trailed off nervously as Whit strode past and retrieved fresh shot from the back of his saddle. “Miss Browning has been legally signed into my care. This isn’t your concern, Thurston.”
Whit loaded the gun and stepped forward to stand over Hartsinger. “Do I appear unconcerned?”
Though Mirabelle found the sight of Hartsinger cowering on the ground gratifying, the uncharacteristically frigid tone of Whit’s voice sent chills up her spine. He didn’t really mean to kill the man, did he?
Hartsinger certainly seemed to think so. “Consider what you’re doing, man! It would be murder! You’ll hang—”
“I’m an earl,” Whit reminded him.
That gave Hartsinger pause. Peers of the realm weren’t sent to the gallows. “You’ll be banished!” he tried instead. “The authorities will—”
“Difficult for a man to report murder,” Whit interrupted, priming the pistol and aiming it squarely at Hartsinger, “with his head stuck on a pike.”
Mirabelle started forward. “Whit, no!”
He flicked a glance in her direction. “Don’t you want his head stuck on a pike?”
Oh, rather.
“But he’s the accomplice.”
“Is he?” Whit asked, but didn’t lower the weapon. “Well then, it’s not really murder at all, is it?”
Hartsinger’s mouth began to work rapidly, though it was a moment before sound came out. “A lie. The girl lies—” he shrieked and ducked when Whit raised his weapon an inch. “A misunderstanding! The lady misunderstood! I implore you—!”
“Whit, please,” Mirabelle cut in, and wondered if she could walk the distance to where he stood without falling. “I just want to go home. You promised you’d take me home.”
For the first time since leaving her beside the carriage, Whit turned and really looked at her.
And lowered the gun. “So I did. Tie them up, Christian. See McAlistair gets them.”
Unsteady, Mirabelle reached behind her to grip the carriage. “McAlistair?” She took a second look at the tall man standing beside Whit.
“Christian?”
“I’ll explain—” Whit broke off at the sound of approaching horses. “That would be Alex,” he commented and striding to her, lifted her off her feet into his arms. “With any luck, he brought a second carriage.”
Alex had, as it turned out, and in short order Mirabelle was tucked warmly next to Whit and on her way to Haldon.
The carriage rocked gently beneath her, lulling her into a lethargy that fear had earlier kept at bay. She stared unseeing out the dark window, longing desperately for sleep. But her mind refused to settle. Everything had changed. Her plans, her future, her hopes—all had been dashed in the course of a single day.
“Mirabelle?” She felt Whit’s hand move from her shoulder to brush at her hair.
“He took my dowry,” she said softly. “My uncle, he stole it.” She looked to him. “I don’t know what to do. I had it all planned. Now I don’t know what to do.”
When the tears came, he simply gathered her in and held on.
H
aldon was a riot of noise and activity when they arrived.
Nearly every servant had descended on the front hall looking for a way to help. Kate, Evie, and Sophie surrounded Mirabelle and bustled her off to her room. William Fletcher appeared from the library looking harassed, followed by Lady Thurston who looked to be doing the harassing.
Mr. Lindberg returned from a second trip to the baron’s, carrying the contract that assigned Mirabelle to St. Brigit’s. And with the news that the baron had babbled an extended confession within minutes of being left alone with McAlistair. Lord Eppersly claimed to have been blackmailed by Mr. Hartsinger into using the bank notes after attempting, in desperation, to pass several off in payment to the asylum for Mirabelle’s future care. He denied all knowledge of a printing plate, and when asked how he’d come about the counterfeit notes, would only answer that it was meant to be a grand joke.
Assuming that no other information would be available on that score until McAlistair’s return, Whit made his way upstairs and for the second time in a fortnight, found himself standing outside Mirabelle’s room, anxiously waiting for news. He refused offers of food and drink, and demands for explanations alike. The thought of eating made his stomach churn, and he couldn’t provide answers he didn’t have.
The physician, paid handsomely to be available to the Cole family at a moment’s notice, arrived within a half hour. He spent what seemed to Whit to be an exceedingly
large amount of time in Mirabelle’s room before finally emerging to announce that Miss Browning’s wounds were not life-threatening, though she would likely have a very unpleasant headache and a very unattractive black eye by morning. The physician then provided a list of instructions for dealing with a blow to the head that Whit passed on to Mrs. Hanson with the express order that every member of the house hold was to memorize its contents.
Then he went in search of William. He found him once again in the library, and once again, apparently, being harassed by Lady Thurston.
They stood in front of the fire, and barely spared him a glance when he entered.
“You said she was safe,” Lady Thurston accused William in a voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Nothing of this sort was supposed to happen.”
Whit came to a stop in front of a small reading table and glared at the pair. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, and was roundly ignored.
“I never would have suggested the ruse if I thought for even a moment her safety would be compromised,” William replied defensively.
“What ruse?” Whit demanded, for all the good it did him. Neither his mother nor William even flicked their eyes in his direction.
“Mr. Lindberg and Christian should have informed us of the potential danger—” Lady Thurston began.
“Neither have ever reported the baron becoming violent in their presence,” William cut in. “And none of us suspected Hartsinger’s involvement.”
“How did you know of Mr. Lindberg—” Whit tried.
“Have they had blinders on for all these years?” Lady Thurston snapped.
“Lindberg and Christian are outstanding members of my—”
“Enough!” Whit slammed his fist on the table. “That is bloody well enough!”
His mother drew herself up. “Whittaker Vincent, I will not tolerate that sort of language in my house.”
“Lady Thurston, it is
my
house, and at the moment, I don’t give two damns for your tolerance.
Sit down.
”
“Well,” she huffed. She straightened her shoulders, indignant, but looked about her, found a chair to her liking, and sat on the edge primly. “Well.”
William followed suit, taking a seat next to her, though his posture was of a man resigned, not offended.
Whit stifled the urge to pace. “I want answers. William, you start.”
“Yes, yes of course.” William reached up to tug at his cravat, but finding it already undone, yanked it off instead. “Your mother and I felt…No, no, I should start from the beginning, shouldn’t I?” He heaved a great sigh. “Seventeen years ago, I made a deathbed vow to the late Duke of Rockeforte. I was tricked into it, to be honest, but nevertheless—”
“What vow?” Whit cut in.
William shifted in his seat and the slightest trace of a blush rose to his cheeks. “I promised…I promised to see that his children…found love.”
Whit scowled at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” William responded with a scowl of his own. “As he was—though I suspect he’s laughing over it even now—the blighter.”
“His children…” Whit repeated, and remembered the strange mission he and Alex had been assigned nearly two years ago. Alex had been given the task of wooing Sophie in the hopes of catching her and her cousin in the act of spying for the French. They’d been only marginally successful in that regard, and it’d been a damn odd way to go about the business.
“Were you responsible for Sophie and Alex meeting?” he asked.
“Yes, and I should like to point out that although this particular mission hasn’t gone quite as planned, at least you haven’t found it necessary to fight off a pack of would-be assassins.” William perked up a bit. “I believe I might be improving.”
Whit ignored his mother’s derisive snort. “Improving in what, exactly? What has any of this to do with Mirabelle, or me? Neither of us are related to Rockeforte by blood.”
“No,” William agreed. “But you were his children all the same.”
“He loved you,” Lady Thurston said quietly. “Though you were too small to remember well, he loved each of you as if you were his own. In some ways, he was more of a father to you than your own.”
Because he did remember, Whit only nodded and turned to William. “You thought to bring Mirabelle and me together.”
“That was my idea,” Lady Thurston admitted. “I had hoped…no, I knew, from the very start, that the two of you were meant to be. It was fate.”
Whit allowed that statement to sink in before answering. “Mother, I love you, but that is the single most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”
“Not at all,” William argued. “I saw it as well, clear as day. Well, once she pointed it out to me. I’d never seen a girl more suited to you.”
Whit happened to share the opinion, but he couldn’t stop from asking William, “Why?”
“Because, my boy, she
bothered
you.”
“She bothered…
that’s
your qualification?”
William smiled in fond memory. “Should have seen your face the first time she came to Haldon. I’ve never seen a boy of thirteen look so utterly confounded, nor so angry about it.”
“Mirabelle is the only person you have ever lost your head over, Whit,” his mother said gently.
“Yes, and look what it’s cost her.” Angry with himself, with them, with the whole ugly affair, he gave in to the need to move. He strode to the firelace to glower at the flames.
Lady Thurston watched him, a line of concern forming across her brow. “Mirabelle’s injuries are not of your doing. The fault lies with her uncle and Mr. Hartsinger, first. William and me, second.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Whit murmured with a shake of his head before looking to his mother. “You knew of the counterfeiting operation?”
She winced. “I did, though I hadn’t thought it particularly dangerous for Mirabelle. She was protected, and she’d been attending her uncle’s parties for years. I thought it an excellent opportunity for you to see that the time she spent there was unpleasant.”
“You
knew?
”
“Only that she was unhappy there,” she was quick to explain. “But that alone was hardly argument enough to convince you to attend one of the parties. Particularly in light of the past the two of you share. I did not realize that she was in physical jeopardy.” Her voice faltered. “Do you think I would have allowed her to go otherwise?”
William leaned over to pat soothingly at her hand. “After the duke died, I had Lindberg charm his way into an invitation through one of the other guests. He’s kept an eye on her during the parties. His reports indicated a notable…lack of manners, shall we say, among the other guests. But he felt confident in his ability to protect her.”
“He was wrong.”
“He managed the job for considerable amount of time,” William argued.
“Neither here nor there,” Whit said, shaking his head. “What of Christian?”