In My Wildest Dreams

  Kinman shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “His valet?”

  “Certainly possible, sir, but we never caught sight of him. To tell you the truth, sir, I scarcely remember what he looks like.”

  “The best sort of spy. He fades into the background,” Throckmorton said. “What happened with Stanhope?”

  “We thought they were going to kill him. Since we wanted to question him, we jumped into the fray.”

  Throckmorton realized what had happened at once. “During the fight, Stanhope slipped away.”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Throckmorton.” Kinman looked sheepish as only a man of his size and disposition could look. “He disappeared. We believe he boarded the ship and sailed. They’ll put in at Cape Town. We’ll send a swift ship, and with God’s help, we’ll have men there to meet him.”

  Throckmorton didn’t reprimand Kinman; Kinman hadn’t reached his current position without comprehending how very badly he had mucked up. But Throckmorton said, “I would not be happy if Stanhope escaped again.”

  “No, sir.”

  Throckmorton considered. Right now, he could do nothing to bring Stanhope to justice. However, he could find Celeste and tell her the marvelous news. His love was the only piece missing from his marriage proposal. Celeste would be happy. She would accept him gladly. So he said, “I have urgent business, so—take care of everything. Keep me abreast of what’s happening.” He strode on without waiting to hear Kinman’s agreement.

  When Throckmorton stepped out into the gardens, he saw the undergardeners gathered around Milford, who towered above them. Everyone turned in unison to look at Throckmorton. Then Milford started toward him.

  Throckmorton met him on the stairs. “Milford, I’m looking for your daughter.”

  In his slow, steady manner, Milford answered, “She’s on her way to Paris, Mr. Throckmorton.”

  Shock held Throckmorton immobile. “To Paris. Now?”

  “Yes, sir.” Milford lifted his ham-sized fist. “And you’re on your way to the stars.”

  Earlier in the week when Throckmorton had secured Celeste’s travel itinerary, he had taken care when he’d picked the inn. She was a young, beautiful woman, thus the inn had to be clean, respectable, and located on the rural outskirts of London so she would not be bothered by the dandies and bullies who frequented London public houses.

  Now Throckmorton squinted as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine of outside to the dim interior of the Ram’s Horn Inn.

  In the common room, the ceilings were low, the timbers heavy and dark. Rifles and shotguns of every kind hung on hooks over the doors. A great ram’s head hung over the fireplace, and the walls were thick with mounted ducks and pheasants. A very manly sort of inn, was the Ram’s Horn, but the floors were swept, the windows sparkling, and a delicious smell emanated from the kitchen.

  The innkeeper, a gregarious fellow of elderly years, hurried forward to greet Throckmorton. “I’m Mr. Jackman, sir. An honor t’ have ye, Mr. Throckmorton, sir.” He checked at the sight of Throckmorton’s face. “Been in a bit of a dust-up, then, sir?”

  Throckmorton touched his bruised and swollen eye. “My gardener handed in his resignation.”

  Mr. Jackman laughed uncertainly.

  “I’m seeking Miss Milford,” Throckmorton said.

  “She’s back in th’ private parlor, just as ye requested, sir. I’ve done everythin’ ye requested, sir. Gave her th’ best bedchamber in th’ house, made sure th’ parlor was free fer her, had me wife serve as her maid. Truth t’ tell, I’m grateful fer th’ business, sir. Summer is our slow time. Now, when ‘tis fall an’ th’ ducks are flyin’, ah, then we’re stuffed wi’ hunters all seeking a shot at them.”

  “If you could direct me to Miss Milford?”

  Recalled to his duty, Mr. Jackman said, “I’ll take ye, sir.” He led the way down the short corridor to the back of the inn. “A comely lady, an’ so pleasant-like. Settled right in. Came down an’ ate a good lunch. Then she sat down by th’ window t’ read. Said she sails tomorrow. Anxious t’ get back t’ Paris, she says, an’ go t’ work.”

  Throckmorton’s eyes narrowed as he considered the kind of work she would seek. “Is she?”

  “Not many girls these days want t’ work. Younger generation, sir, all gone t’ ruin. Here ye are, sir.” Mr. Jackman indicated the door, then waited with interest for Throckmorton to knock.

  His curiosity would, Throckmorton was sure, carry him into the parlor to watch the reunion. So Throckmorton tipped him, thanked him, and watched until the innkeeper had regretfully bowed and backed out of the corridor altogether.

  Satisfied he and Celeste would be alone, Throckmorton knocked decisively on the heavy wood timbers. For a long time, there was no answer, and he worried she had somehow found out who stood on the other side. He knocked again and in his sternest command voice, called, “Celeste, open this door at once.”

  The latch clicked. The door opened, but very slowly and just a crack.

  Celeste’s reception of him was everything he feared. She stood dressed in a serviceable brown traveling gown, and she observed him with unwelcome dismay. Some might even call it horror. She blocked the doorway. With peculiar emphasis, she said, “No, I thank you, I don’t want anything else to eat.”

  He had already decided on his strategy. He would be firm, but honest, even if it hurt them both. So he answered, “I’m not offering you anything, I’m telling you what you’re going to get.” Pushing the door back, he settled his hands on her waist, lifted her out of the way, and strode into the private parlor, a room of modest proportions, comfortable seats and a plethora of shotguns and antlers. “Celeste, we’re going to get married. Not because I’ve compromised you, not because it’s the proper thing to do, but because . . . I love you.”

  She looked meaningfully toward the door. “No. Go away.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?” He’d been expecting . . . well, he’d been expecting her to throw herself into his arms, or at the very least pretend to consider before throwing herself into his arms.

  This was harder than he expected. “You have to hear me out. I love you, adore you, will do anything for you. You must come back with me and become my wife and save me from a life of lonely duty.”

  “No, Throckmorton, listen to me—”

  Going to her, he took her hands. “Why not? You said you loved me. Is that not still true?”

  Seemingly of its own accord, the door creaked, then slammed shut.

  Stanhope stood against the wall, a shotgun pointed at them.

  Hatred, sharp and hot with betrayal of friendship, flared within Throckmorton.

  In a mocking tone, Stanhope said, “She might still love you, although if she does I doubt her taste, but I believe she’s trying to indicate that you’re in danger.”

  Shock held Throckmorton still for a moment. Then he unhurriedly stepped in front of Celeste, careful not to alarm Stanhope whose battered face and trembling hands bespoke a violent agitation. “Stanhope. You didn’t get on the ship.”

  “No, I didn’t get on the ship.” Stanhope mimicked him savagely. “I wasn’t climbing a gangplank in full view of all your men and those damnable Russians, too.” With the barrel of the rifle, he indicated the two of them. “A touching scene, Throckmorton. I’m grateful love has addled your senses. You forgot the very precepts of caution you taught me.”

  “So I did.” The window that opened onto the pasture and woods stood wide, a breach large enough for a man to get through. Throckmorton hadn’t noticed.

  “He wants money, Garrick.”

  Celeste had eased herself out from behind him, Throckmorton realized. Blast the woman, she surely understood the danger she faced. He slowly but surely moved to stand in front of her again.

  “He took the bank draft and the tickets from me. Give him your pocketbook and he can leave.”

  Stanhope laughed, a harsh activity that made his split lip open and bleed. “Isn’t she a sweet dr
eamer, Throckmorton? You would never let me go, and I would never let go of you. You ruined me. You ruined me, you and Celeste, with your translations and your lies.”

  “My lies, not hers,” Throckmorton said, glib enough to exonerate Celeste. “I used her.”

  “I knew!” Celeste protested. “I just didn’t tell you, Garrick.”

  Throckmorton turned on her. “Would you be quiet?”

  She was sliding away from his protection again.

  He glared and pointed to a spot behind him.

  She flicked him a glance and kept moving.

  Stanhope didn’t seem to hear either of them. “You’re not leaving here.”

  Celeste drew an audible breath.

  “Either of you,” Stanhope added. “You love each other so much, you can die together.”

  Perhaps that threat would make Celeste realize the danger they faced. Or perhaps she already knew, and suffered from an excess of courage. Another reason to love her; a good reason to shout at her. Instead, Throckmorton focused on Stanhope. “What about you? You won’t escape.”

  “Probably not. The English are after me. The Russians are after me. The money is gone, vanished, damn you.” Stanhope fingered the shotgun’s trigger.

  Bitterly, Throckmorton knew he had no assurances to offer Celeste. Stanhope was deadly because Stanhope knew Throckmorton. They’d fought together. They’d survived together. Stanhope knew every strategy. He knew that, even now, Throckmorton was plotting to vanquish him. The only advantage Throckmorton had was Stanhope’s ongoing rage and the beating he’d already suffered, and that advantage was balanced by Celeste. When the fighting began, would she flee?

  No, of course not. And he wanted her out of the range of that shotgun. This close, buckshot would kill a man—or a woman.

  So with his most scornful edge, Throckmorton smiled at Stanhope. “You’ve ruined yourself, Stanhope. If you hadn’t decided to sell your soul for a few pieces of silver, you would still be at my side.”

  The bruises on Stanhope’s forehead and around his eyes darkened in a rush of rage. He stepped forward, the swollen barrel of the gun quaking. “At your side? Nothing more than your secretary! Never given credit for my brilliance, never—”

  Throckmorton raised his voice. “Credit for your brilliance, indeed! What brilliance is that? The brilliance to fail as barrister, to devastate my estate, to—” In mid-spate, he leaped forward, slapped the shotgun sideways, grabbed the stock.

  Stanhope was prepared. He didn’t release it, but swung the barrel up into Throckmorton’s face. The metal struck under his chin. Throckmorton’s teeth snapped together. He staggered, losing his grip, falling backward, hitting the floor.

  Off-balance, Stanhope staggered back, too.

  With narrow-eyed intent, Celeste shoved a chair under him.

  Stanhope stumbled, lurched and went over hard, landing on his back.

  Driven by fury, Throckmorton leaped up and jumped on Stanhope with all his weight. Stanhope rolled. The shotgun slid away from them, but neither of them noticed. The shotgun no longer consumed their attention.

  The desire for vengeance, hot and pure, burned between them.

  Throckmorton smashed his fist into Stanhope’s mouth. Blood spurted.

  Howling, Stanhope caught Throckmorton’s hair, holding him still for a forehead slam. Pain exploded in Throckmorton’s nose. Rage exploded his gut.

  Stanhope rolled on top of Throckmorton and pummeled him. Right and left, he punched Throckmorton while Throckmorton blocked and swayed, wanting nothing more but to win, to beat Stanhope within an inch of his life for daring to commit treason. For annihilating their friendship. Most of all, for daring to threaten Celeste.

  He retaliated with a flat-handed slap to both of Stanhope’s ears. For a moment, Stanhope’s eyes rolled back in his head. Throckmorton kneed him, came up on top, and slammed his fist beneath Stanhope’s chin.

  Stanhope hit his head on the stone floor and with a gasp, went limp.

  Livid, Throckmorton hit him again, and again.

  Something caught his arm, and he swung around, enraged.

  Celeste looked down at him, her eyes stern. “Stop. Garrick. Stop! That’s enough.”

  She’d been saying that for a while, he realized. Saying that while they fought. She held the shotgun in one hand, and he thought that was a good thing. While she kept the rifle, he wouldn’t be tempted to commit murder.

  “He’s unconscious.”

  He’d heard that tone before. His tutor had sounded as stern that last time Throckmorton had lost his temper.

  “If you continue, you’ll kill him,” she said.

  He allowed her to draw him to his feet. She was so beautiful, and Stanhope had wanted to kill her.

  “I’ll call the landlord. I’m sure he heard the fight.”

  Throckmorton swayed, all his concentration on her. She was alive. He had saved her.

  Her voice softened, and she stroked his arm as if calming a maddened beast. “The landlord didn’t know Stanhope came through the window. With the noise, the poor man is probably mad with curiosity.”

  The intensity of Throckmorton’s rage became the intensity of passion. Tugging her into his arms, he held her. Just held her. She was alive. Breathing, talking. Holding him. All her intelligence, beauty, defiance, laughter, saved by him, for him. In his arms. Alive.

  Through no fault of her own. He gritted his teeth so hard he could scarcely speak. “Blast you, Celeste, how dare you try to help me?”

  “You needed help.”

  He had no interest in her commonplace tone and prosaic answer. “Why didn’t you run when we started fighting? He could have killed you.”

  “He could have killed you, too.”

  She still didn’t seem to realize her folly. “You could have died.”

  In a voice muffled by his chest, she said, “It made sense to present two targets rather than one.”

  “Do you have no brains? Do not ever try to—”

  A scraping sound. Behind him. Incredulous, he pushed Celeste away. Whirling, he saw Stanhope, beaten, violent, desperate—on his feet.

  And Stanhope saw him. In a burst of speed and strength, Stanhope ran and jumped at the window. His body slammed into the frame. He broke through the crossbars, shattered the glass. He fell onto the grass behind the inn, got up, ran as if death itself was after him.

  It was. Throckmorton dove after him. The copse of trees at the edge of the property offered sanctuary; Throckmorton leaped through the breach.

  Still holding the rifle, Celeste ran to the shattered window. In the endless hour Stanhope had spent with her, he had threatened her. He had threatened Garrick. Most of all, he had confessed to being the wits behind Penelope’s kidnapping.

  Without a qualm, she lifted the shotgun to her shoulder.

  But she couldn’t shoot yet. Garrick ran after Stanhope, right in the line of fire. “Swerve,” she urged as if he could hear her. “Swerve.”

  At thirty paces, Stanhope stumbled.

  Garrick swerved to avoid him.

  Celeste pulled the trigger.

  29

  Celeste tossed the sheet back from Garrick’s bare body, and smiled as she looked down at the expanse of Garrick’s back and buttocks, marred by the half dozen small, round, red holes left by the wide spray of buckshot. Fondling the sharp point of the scalpel, she said, “Those certainly look painful.”

  Facedown on her bed at the inn, Garrick turned his head to glare at her. “I will wait for the doctor.”

  “The doctor is here, but he’s taking dozens of pellets out of Stanhope’s hide.”

  “Stanhope is a prisoner. He can wait.”

  “He doesn’t have to.” Garrick had been caught by the periphery of the blast. A few swollen wounds amounted to nothing more than minor discomfort for Garrick . . . and retribution for her. Sweet retribution. “You have me, and I wouldn’t want you to suffer longer than necessary.”

  “It would be reassuring to have someone
who had previous experience with gunshots.”

  He had quite a gorgeous, long, muscled back. Taken with the length of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders, and the muscled backside, he made quite a handsome package. “I do have experience. When I was a governess for the Russian ambassador, the older children were teasing the youngest daughter. She grabbed a pellet gun and shot little Laurentij in the cheek.” Leaning over one of the wounds on his shoulder blade, she squinted. She could see the pellet, and with the point of the scalpel, she flicked it out.

  “Ouch!”

  “Very passionate people, the Russians. Given to bloody acts of revenge.” Holding the pellet down by Throckmorton’s face, she showed him the round, shiny, lead shot. “There’s the first one.”

  He stared with the outraged gaze of a cantankerous patient. “That hurt!”

  “That was easy. Wait until I start cutting.” She swabbed the wound with whisky.

  “Ow!” Lifting himself on one elbow, he turned toward her—although he took care not to display his lower body.

  Idly she wondered what that meant. He couldn’t be aroused in these circumstances . . . could he? Surely he couldn’t be thinking about fornication when she stood over him holding a scalpel . . . could he?

  And why should she care, anyway?

  She knew the answer. Because although he was naked and furious, and suffered a swollen nose, a black eye and a split chin, he looked absolutely appealing.

  The bruises on his face were rapidly turning darker. His black hair fell around his face. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” he accused.

  “Mmm . . .” She pretended to consider. “Yes.”

  “You’re still angry at me.”

  “Very astute of you.”

  “I came for you, didn’t I?”

  “I was depending on it.”

  “I rescued you, didn’t I?”

  “Except for that part where I brought the villain down.”

  Garrick flopped flat on his stomach again. “And shot me.”

  “You’re welcome.”