The Rogue (34 page)

“
I
've said for weeks now that if you give a woman a weapon she will use it on you. But you refused to listen, of course.” Viking whipped a fresh bandage from a pile of pristine linens, draped it across the wound dressed with salve, and began to tie it in place.

Saint shoved his hands aside. With one-handed awkwardness, he tied the cloth around his thigh, pulled his drawers and trousers up, and fastened them. The simple task required far too many minutes. Viking watched, face pinched with superiority.

“You take great relish in my injuries,” Saint mumbled. “You know, I did well without a valet for thirty-one years. I am certain I can do perfectly well without one for the next thirty-one.”

“Upstart colonial.”

“Did you just snort like a pig?”

“I do not snort, sir. That was a ‘humph.' I learned it from Mrs. Josephs.” Nose in the air, he gathered his medicines and left the room.

Saint eased himself into a chair and closed his eyes, contemplating his pain and the certainty that if he began drinking whiskey now and continued through the morrow he still would not get drunk enough to pretend it wasn't agony to move. But he enjoyed only a moment of this contemplation before a firm knock sounded upon the door and the Duke of Read entered.

“Forgive me if I don't stand.”

“May I?” Read gestured to the opposite chair.

He sat forward, ignoring infinite twinges of pain. “Has she—?”

“She is still sleeping. Dr. Shaw believes that her body is allowing itself time to heal from the great quantity of the drug that she ingested. He remains confident she will wake within the day. He requested I remind you that the same philosophy of healing applies to you.”

“Isn't it unusual for a duke to act as a messenger boy?”

“No more unusual than it is for a fencing master to wed a noble heiress. Mr. Sterling, when I invited you to Castle Read, I knew that you and my daughter had already been acquainted.”

Saint sat back.

“Jack Doreé told me six years ago,” Read said. “He wrote to me of what Constance had told him, that you behaved with propriety with her at Fellsbourne despite her impropriety, and that you performed honorably in the duel you fought for her honor. He wrote to me because he did not know what to do. He cared for her, and he knew her character well enough to understand that you were not a momentary flirtation. He wanted her to be happy. I advised him to marry her. I had plans for her that he did not know about. As a marchioness she would have had the influence and authority that I required.”

“Plans?”

“To change the law of this kingdom dramatically. To usher in a new era for Britain. After Jack's death I hoped she would wed his brother. When it became clear that she would
not, that she would continue to remain unwed—but in seclusion, far from London—I brought you here.”

“Not to teach her to fence, I gather.”

“To . . . stir the embers, as it were. I hoped that she would finally be inspired to wed. Not to wed you, of course. She forced my hand in that matter.”

Saint bit down on his molars.

The duke frowned. “I knew of your exemplary service during the war. But your comportment in my household, your determination to assist Lord Michaels and my daughter, and your letter yesterday, the instruction you gave regarding your fortune, that it was to be entirely my daughter's upon your death . . . You have been a surprise to me.”

“Have I?”

“Even at this moment, when I believe you would like to throttle me, you maintain your sangfroid.”

“I assure you, my sangfroid at this moment is entirely superficial.” He pushed up from the chair. Drawing the antique rapier from its case, he put it in the duke's hands. “This is not mine.”

“I gave it to you.”

“It was not yours to give.”

The duke's nostrils flared. He understood.

Saint nearly smiled.

Read stood. “Thank you for saving my daughter, Mr. Sterling.” Taking up the rapier case, he left the room.

Sometime later Dylan woke him.

“They are gone! Every blasted one of them.”

Saint began to lift his hand, flinched, and instead lifted the other to rub his eyes.

“Give me that bottle. Who are all gone?”

Dylan uncorked the whiskey. “The members of the Sanctuary. They've all left Edinburgh.”

Only six people had been at the ruins atop Arthur's Seat with Hughes, all hooded. He had not seen their faces. He'd seen nothing but Constance stretched out on that rock.

The whiskey scalded his throat.

“It seems Hughes was the only truly bad apple in the bushel,” Dylan said.

“Westin hit me in the head with a board.” He swallowed another burning mouthful. “I would say that counts as bad, if not entirely rotten.”

“I say good riddance to them all.”

“You're in fine spirits. Miss Edwards must be well.”

Dylan's brow puckered. “She's with her family. She says Reeve treated her unexceptionably. Gave her plenty of books and fine food, and assured her she wouldn't be harmed. He only tied her up a few times, said it was for her
protection
, and apologized when he returned to untie her. I think the fear was the worst for her.” His mouth crept into a smile. “But she's said she loves me, and Edwards has promised that we can marry.”

“I am happy for you, Dylan.”

“Now, all we've got to do is await Constance's awaking, and everything will be just as it ought.”

Saint's smile lasted only until Dylan departed. Alone again, he unearthed the packet of papers his brother's solicitor had given him in London, and finally read them. They revealed nothing new. At the bottom of the packet he found a note addressed to him in Tor's bold scrawl.

Saint,

You will have discovered already that a portion of my fortune has been tied to the Duke of Loch Irvine's through several ventures. If you do not need the funds in the Edinburgh account, leave them be. As always, brother, I trust you.

—T. S.

Daylight had disappeared from the room. Saint forced himself from the chair, lit a lamp, and for the first time since he had carried her into the house and laid her on her bed he went into his wife's bedchamber.

Dozing in a chair in the corner of the room, Mrs. Josephs awoke with a jerk.

“She has not stirred. Do go rest, Mr. Sterling. I will alert you to any change.”

He stared at his wife's golden hair, neatly plaited, at her strong, capable hands now motionless on the counterpane, at the gentle rise and fall of her chest. And then, finally, at the bandage stretched across her beautiful face.

Dragging his gaze away, he returned to his bedchamber and the bottle of whiskey.

A
T HALF PAST
eleven o'clock the following day, Viking appeared in the ballroom doorway and said, “She is awake, sir.”

Saint ran up the stairs three at a time and nearly collided with Mrs. Josephs.

“The footmen have carried her to the parlor,” she said.

“Just now?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” She glanced at his bandaged hand. “When she awoke.”

“Why—” He halted his words. Twenty minutes ago. Before they told him she had awoken. So he would not try to assist her.

They were six years too late.

The sun cast soft rays upon the woman lying on the divan with her face toward the window, blankets draped over her like mists upon a specter. His footsteps sounded on the floor but she did not turn to him. Her breaths were even and slow, her body relaxed. Asleep again, it seemed.

He lowered himself to the chair beside her, folded his broken hand into the other, and bent his head.

“Constance,” he said. “I have not been honest with you. I once told you that an impervious heart makes a man invincible. It isn't true. The deeper you sink into my heart, the stronger I become. Filled with you, I could fight the armies of hell and win.”

It was an hour, perhaps, before she stirred. Her hand clutched the blanket.

“I am here,” he said.

Her body remained motionless, too still, as though she held her breath. He waited, but she said nothing. Momentarily she relaxed into sleep again.

When dusk fell, he went to his bedchamber to change the dressings on his wounds, and after some minutes heard movement beyond the closet. In her bedchamber he found Dr. Shaw laying her upon her bed. Her eyes were closed and her face turned to the side.

He followed the doctor into the corridor. “What did she say to you?”

“She has said nothing to anyone.”

Dylan appeared on the steps.

“How is Miss Edwards today?” the doctor said.

“She's well, given all.” His chest expanded. “The banns are to be read this Sunday.”

Saint clapped him on the shoulder. The doctor smiled.

“A drink then, to toast my happiness?” Dylan said. “P'raps, cousin, you and I can take the opportunity to convince Shaw here to tie the knot someday too. Don't know what you're missing, doctor, what?”

Dr. Shaw chuckled. “You do not yet know what I am missing either. But I will toast to you. If you don't mind it, Sterling.”

“Of course not.” He wanted to return to her side and remain there until she spoke. Until she looked into his eyes and smiled again.

“But there is one matter, Saint,” Dylan said more soberly now. “Chloe says she's got something to tell you and Constance. After the police left today she said she did not tell them everything. From what I'd told her about Hughes and your arrest, she didn't like the idea of sharing it all with them. But she's eager to tell you and Constance, if Constance is able.”

The following morning, she was. Seated in the parlor, wrapped in a voluminous shawl, the bandage stark across her face, she looked at no one but Chloe Edwards as she told them the news she had withheld from the police investigator.

“The day before you came, Mr. Sterling,” she said, her eyes wide, “a lady came into the room.”

“A lady?” Dylan said. “Lady Hughes? Mrs. Westin? One of the Sanctuary group?”

“No. I never saw any of those people. I didn't even know they were there until you told me. This lady would not tell me her name but she said that she was a friend, and that she would make certain I was freed soon.”

“Why didn't she free you?” Dylan exclaimed.

“Oh, she wished to! But I think she hadn't expected to find me there. She said if she were caught in the house all would be ruined.”

“What was her appearance?” Saint asked.

“She had gorgeous fiery hair tied back, though very hastily, it seemed, and bright green eyes, like springtime. She was young and quite pretty really.”

Not any member of the Sanctuary he had seen.

“And she wore an old cloak,” Chloe continued, “with that symbol drawn on it that everybody was talking about all winter, the symbol on Haiknayes Castle. I must have exclaimed when I saw it because she said I was not to worry, that they are both alive and well.”

“Who?” Constance's voice was a mere rasp.

“Cassandra Finn and Maggie Poultney.”

“Good God!” Dylan exclaimed. “Alive and well, after all!”

“Did she say anything more?” Saint said.

“We heard a noise, and she left straight off and did not return. It was that very night that you found me.” She smiled sweetly at him.

Dylan pulled her hand possessively into his.

Holding back his grin, Saint shifted his gaze to his wife. Her eyes were upon him, her beautiful lips curved in a small smile.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
in a light drizzle Miranda Hughes descended from a carriage before the house. Draped in a gown of brilliant pink, a pale smudge of a bruise on her brow powdered over, she did not move to greet him.

“Will you
ever
forgive me for being such a widgeon?”

“Because of you Miss Edwards is reunited with her family.” He walked to her. “Are you well?”

“I am wonderful! I loathed him, you know. And now he is rotting in prison, and of course”—her voice dipped—“
incapacitated
in the most fitting manner. How clever of darling Constance to know precisely where a man least wishes to be struck with a dagger.” She grasped his good hand. “I did
not
know about those horrid rituals. He never told me. Do you believe me?”

“I do. How is Mrs. Westin?”

“She is at our darling little house. Someday we will repay you, I promise it. Westin won't,” she said with a twist of her lips. “He told Patience that he is going to Paris where no one knows his unnatural wife. He intends to get himself a scandalous French mistress to impress everyone. Poor man. I think he is afraid of her. Of my sweet Patience! He has positively no spine.” She went onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Do you know, Patience wants to name my baby Frederick. I told her that I prefer Evan. Perhaps we will use both. You do have a
frightful
lot of names, darling.” She kissed her fingertips and blew across them. “Give Constance my love.”

Several hours later, Saint entered his wife's bedchamber to find Eliza Josephs alone. She awoke with her usual birdlike blink.

“Is she in the parlor?” he asked.

“I thought she was with you.”

“With me?” His throat tightened. “No.”

Constance was not in the family's parlor. Nor was she in the drawing room or formal parlor, or the ballroom or anywhere else. He stood in the foyer as everyone in the house ran this way and that and his heart beat at a hard gallop.

Fingal appeared, dragging his cap from his head.

“Sir, I've juist noticed my leddy's horse be out o' the stable. An' I be wonderin'—”

Saint sprinted to the mews. Elfhame was gone. Paid stood in the stall in which he had deposited him after
nearly riding him to death up a mountain, ears cocked in curiosity.