Vinnie didn’t know what to say so she held her tongue. Despite the conviction with which he spoke, Trent had not managed to convince her that Emma’s mind was unbalanced. There was something here that they were missing but what?
The drive was long and tense, and the duke did not stop for anything. At one intersection, Vinnie feared that they would hit
another carriage racing at breakneck speed but rather than slow down, Trent sped up, avoiding a collision by mere inches. Vinnie turned in her seat and saw an irate coachman raising a fist at them. She straightened in her seat and held on for dear life. Although her thoughts weren’t quite as tortured as the duke’s—he was busy trying to decide where in Italy they would choose for their home in exile—she
was extremely concerned about her sister’s welfare and her fiancé’s. But she knew now that breaking the engagement was the right thing to do. She had listened to the duke consign Sir Waldo to an early grave and felt nothing in particular. Of course she didn’t want him to die, but then again she didn’t want anyone to die. A wife should care particularly about the welfare of one’s husband.
Though she had no experience with marriage, she knew that much to be true.
After a while Trent brought the carriage to an abrupt halt, which sent Vinnie flying forward in her seat. She expected the duke to apologize, but when she regained her balance she saw that he was already on the ground. A quick survey of the area revealed an inn and two carriages, one of which she positively identified
as Sir Waldo’s. Her heart racing, she climbed down and followed Trent.
The panic Vinnie felt was nothing compared with the duke’s. He tore open the door and quickly swept the taproom with his eyes. It was empty. Only a gray dog whose tail thumped in expectation lay by the fire. He looked to the left. There was a door to a private parlor. He ran to it and threw it open. The scene that met his
eyes was the one that had tortured him over and over again during the carriage ride. Emma was pointing a pistol at Sir Waldo. All he could see was Emma and the pistol in her hand and her finger on the trigger. Some words were exchanged, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Only the trigger and Emma’s finger existed for him. He saw her lift the gun a fraction of an inch. He saw the trigger finger move.
Without thinking he dove into the room and pulled Emma down with him. The gun discharged but the bullet—thank the Lord—missed its mark. It was impossible to tell who was more dumbfounded: his beloved or her victim.
Sir Waldo moved first. The events of the last few minutes, from the second the boy had barged in on him with the bottle of wine to this last incomprehensible turn, made no sense
to him. He didn’t doubt that Emma was on to him. Exactly how much she knew worried him.
How
she could know so much mystified him. He admitted then that he had always grossly underestimated her. That she was wild and a nuisance and a bad influence on his fiancée he knew. That she was clever and dangerous was a revelation.
Since Emma and the duke had yet to regain their feet, he knew that the advantage
was temporarily his. The boy cowering in the corner did not bother him. He doubted that anyone would take that callow youth’s word over his own. It was the Duke of Trent who caused him genuine concern. The duke’s word would be accepted without question. Waldo had not planned to cut his ties with England quite so soon, but there was nothing for it save to kill the peer. Though his involvement
in the spy game was deep, he hadn’t killed any of the upper ten thousand yet—at least not by his own hand. That some of the sons of England’s finest families died on battlefields during the war, thanks to information he’d provided he couldn’t help, but up until then he had limited himself to killing footpads and lackeys. He raised his gun.
Emma fought violently to extricate herself from the duke.
She was angry—she had never been this angry in her entire life—but she pushed it away. She didn’t have time for anger. Now was the time for the clear head she was famous for. She pulled her torso out from underneath Trent just in time to see Windbag take aim at the duke’s head.
“No,” she screamed, kicking the legs out from underneath Sir Waldo. The gun discharged harmlessly toward the ceiling.
Waldo toppled a table as he fell. The loud crashing sound roused the dog in the next room, and he started to bark.
Emma struggled to get to her feet before Waldo recovered his balance. She didn’t have her gun—she had lost that when Trent tackled her—but she had her fists and her righteous anger. How
dare
he try to harm the duke? Why, that worthless little traitorous toad!
“Of all the gall,”
she mumbled, jumping on Waldo and sending him back to the ground. She punched with more enthusiasm than accuracy, but she managed to get one right in the groin. While Waldo was distracted by pain, she tried unsuccessfully to grab his gun. He held on to it with force and vigor and before a few seconds had passed he had it pressed against Miss Emma Harlow’s head.
The entire episode passed in less
than thirty seconds, and by the time Vinnie got to the door, the major struggle was over. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, horrified by the sight of her fiancé holding a gun to her sister’s temple. “Oh, my God.”
She looked at the duke, who was standing across from Waldo and her sister with brown eyes blazing with murderous intent. It was the most awful expression she’d ever seen in her life, and she
felt a tingle of fear, even though it was not directed at her. Sir Waldo might be holding all the cards now, but in a few seconds or a few minutes or even a few hours he would be at the duke’s mercy. It seemed to her a terrible place to be.
“Let her go,” the duke growled in a low voice. It hardly sounded like him.
“You must be joking, your grace. Let my ticket out of here go because you said
so? Really, what kind of a player would I be if I handed over my ace in the hole?” he asked, as his breathing returned to normal.
Emma tried to move her head a fraction of an inch, not so much to escape the gun as to get away from Sir Waldo’s hot breath, which was brushing her cheek. “See, Vinnie,” she said, trying to sound normal, “I don’t want to gloat, but I did tell you he was a villain.
My instincts about these things are never wrong.”
“Sir Waldo,” said Vinnie mimicking her sister’s calm demeanor, “I must end our engagement. It’s not because you have a gun pointed at my sister’s head—although that’s of course a factor—but because I don’t think we’ll suit.” She took off her diamond engagement ring and tossed it at him.
The Harlow sisters’ conversation, more in line with the
drawing room than a hostage situation, made Sir Waldo nervous. Why weren’t they more afraid? What did they know that he didn’t? He looked out the window. Was there a legion of Runners outside waiting to overtake him? He cocked his gun. That would not happen.
“One false step and she’s dead, do you understand?” he said, his attention entirely on the duke. “One false step.”
Emma could tell that
her relaxed attitude rattled Windbag, and she decided she wanted him rattled. “Vinnie, I don’t know how you stayed engaged to this man for so long. His breath is horrid.”
“I encouraged the eating of mint leaves, my dear. It’s known to help some.”
“Shut up,” shouted Waldo, the sweat beginning to trickle down the side of his face. “The two of you just shut up and let me think.”
“Mint leaves?
Do you grow those in the conservatory?”
Sir Waldo pulled on Emma’s hair and tugged her head back hard. “I said shut up!”
“Emma, for God’s sake!” exclaimed the duke, who had been listening to the interchange between Emma and her sister with astonishment. She really was amazing, his darling. A gun at her temple and not a trace of fear.
“Don’t worry, Trent. He’s not going to kill me just yet.
He still has work to do, and he needs a hostage to ensure it gets done. He knows that if he shoots me here and now, you will tear him limb from limb with your bare hands. It’s all over his face, isn’t it, Windbag?” she asked. “He’s wearing one of those hunt-you-down-and-kill-you expressions that I’ve never actually seen before. Look at those eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so
black in my entire life. Have you, Windbag? I’m sure you don’t take comfort in it, but I do. Even if we walk out that door and you kill me, it’s all right because I know that the duke here won’t rest until you are as dead and buried as I am. Or perhaps not. I’m not very good at reading these terrifying expressions. Perhaps he doesn’t intend to see you buried. He might leave your corpse out to be picked
over by vultures. So you might want to think carefully, Windbag, before you make your next move. You might even want to leave me here and run for your life. I won’t follow you, I promise. All I wanted was for my sister to break her engagement to you and voilà, it’s done. My hard feelings toward you end right here. I hold no grudges.”
Emma didn’t think that her reasonable speech would bear fruit,
but it did give her an opportunity to get one long last look at Alexander Keswick, Duke of Trent. She had never seen a more magnificent sight than he there with his eyes blazing and his jaw firm. She would get out of this if for no other reason than to feel his hot, sweet lips on hers again.
“Now Miss Harlow and I are going to leave out the front door. Lavinia, come here.” She was still standing
by the doorway and stepped inside the room at his command. “Stand next to the boy on the floor. You too, duke, over there where I can see you. Drop the gun and keep your hands in plain sight.”
The duke complied, never taking his eyes off Emma. From the moment he had risen from the floor to see the gun at her temple, he had not taken his eyes off her.
“Very good, duke,” Waldo said from the
doorway. “I’m pleased to see that a man of your rank can take orders. Here’s another one. Stay where you are. You are to remain at this inn for at least twenty-four hours. If I even hear horses’ hooves approaching then she’s done for. Do you understand?
The duke nodded abruptly.
“Very good. I won’t say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t all bad.” He nodded and pulled Emma through the door and
out of sight.
The duke kneeled at Philip’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone brusque.
“I’m fine. Emma saved me, but this is all my fault,” said Philip, the shame and fear equal in his voice. “She wanted to move cautiously, but I jumped right in and got myself shot.”
“No,” corrected his top-of-the-trees cousin, “I am to blame. Emma had everything under control until I burst in.
Tell me quickly, is it all true. Is Windbourne a spy?”
“Yes, he’s meeting someone near Dover to reveal the names of English spies who have infiltrated the French army. If he succeeds, Napoléon could escape and France attack.”
The duke shook his head, almost incapable of digesting it all. “I am a fool,” he muttered, “a damnable fool.” He stood and took Vinnie’s hands in his own. “Please forgive
me, my dear, for putting your sister’s life at risk.”
The regret was etched on his face, and Vinnie could not bare to look on it. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, running a comforting hand down the side of his cheek. “You thought to save her soul, Alex.”
Trent laughed harshly. “Save her soul? But who will save mine if she dies?” He shook off the mood and strode to the door. “You will
look after things here while I’m gone? Send for a local doctor and get a room. Philip’s wound is a clean one and should heal with little trouble. I will return in a day or two.” He stuck the gun into his pocket and strolled out.
Vinnie raced after him. “What of his threats? He will hear you approach and kill her.”
“Then I shall be silent and he’ll never hear a thing.” At Vinnie’s unconvinced
looked, he said, “Don’t worry, I will return her safely. I promise you that. I am a skilled huntsman and know what I am doing. I will not lose her, Vinnie, not now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as they
left the inn, Windbourne adjusted the position of the gun so that it was no longer pointing directly at Emma’s temple and was now aimed in the vicinity of her kidney. He walked closely to her, holding one arm as a gentleman would and hiding the pistol in the folds of her skirt.
Windbourne’s coachman noticed nothing odd about the arrangement, which must have
surely look bizarre. His employee had arrived alone and was now leaving with a beautiful young woman on his arm. Emma had hoped to find an ally there but the coachman’s ready acceptance tempered her optimism. She was on her own.
Emma did not have a plan, but she wasn’t worried about that yet. She had been a hostage for only ten minutes, and that hardly seemed enough time to grasp the situation
let alone devise a way out of it. Windbourne sat next to her with his gun pressed to her side, which was a small relief. At least she didn’t have to stare at his beady little eyes and tiny features. Windbourne was nervous, she could tell from the way the gun shook and the way he kept looking outside to make sure that Trent wasn’t following them.
Although he had no reasonable expectation of seeing
the duke two paces behind, Windbourne could not help but check and double-check. His threat had been genuine, he did intend to shoot her if he caught wind of a chase, but he was beginning to realize that all pursuits were not preceded by thundering hooves. Emma’s speech had not been all exaggeration. The look in the duke’s eyes had been deadly; it had indeed been of the hunt-you-down-and-kill-you
variety. In those few seconds, Windbourne’s plans had changed radically. He would not be able to return to England until the French won the war. Then he would once again walk the streets of London, as a victor this time and not a lowly impoverished baronet. The French would need people like he, willing, educated Englishmen, to help the transition to go smoothly. He was not playing a part when
he talked to Vinnie at length of his political ambitions. He planned to rise either in his own government or another’s. And he would need a wife, a gentlewoman who would devote her career to the advancement of his. He had been willing to take Miss Harlow with all her faults, but that was not to be. After the war, he would have to find another woman to marry.