Prince of Swords

  “Why would you become careless?”

  “Because now I’ll do anything to kill him. And rage makes a man vulnerable.”

  “The bruises will fade,” she said.

  “My anger won’t.” He cupped her face, looking down at her with an odd sort of longing. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. It’s too late now, there’s no escape for either of us. You’ll be ruined, I’ll be dead. It’s like some damned melodrama.” He managed a crooked smile. “Come upstairs with me, Jess. I’ll love you properly, not like a rutting beast. You deserve to be loved, you know. Despite your sharp tongue. I hope you find someone worthy of you.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Come upstairs with me, love, and let me heal your pain.”

  And she put her hand in his, letting him draw her up the stairs.

  Twenty-Three

  When Jessamine opened her eyes, the room was dark and cold. She burrowed deeper under the covers, unconsciously seeking a source of warmth. There was none to be found.

  She didn’t want to wake up. It was still too early, and as long as she lay cocooned in sleep, she wouldn’t have to face what she had done. What she had allowed him to do, knowing he would abandon her once more.

  The light was an odd bluish murk, strange for dawn, she thought, opening one eye reluctantly. From somewhere below she heard the clanging noise, as if someone had knocked into something, and she sat up, suddenly hopeful. And just as suddenly her hopes vanished. Alistair was the most graceful creature she had ever seen. He wouldn’t stumble into anything.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs, and she held very still, wondering if Clegg was coming to finish the job he’d started on her. She had no time to search for a weapon, she could only sit there with icy calm, prepared to meet her doom.

  Her doom was Freddie Arbuthnot. He stuck his head in the door, spied her in bed with the sheet clutched around her, and promptly ducked back out again with a strangled gasp. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Maitland,” he stuttered. “I’ve been sitting here in this demmed house for hours, waiting for you to wake up, and I just thought I’d check on you. Forgive the intrusion.”

  She scrambled out of bed, pulling her clothes on as quickly as she could. “For hours, Mr. Arbuthnot? But it’s not even dawn yet.”

  “It’s past dusk, Miss Maitland. You’ve slept the clock around. Alistair said I wasn’t to wake you, I was to sit here and wait until you were ready to depart, but it’s miserably cold in this demmed house, and I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

  She didn’t bother with her corset, fastening the rose-colored dress with careless haste. “You may come in, Mr. Arbuthnot.”

  He peered around the door doubtfully. “I say, you’re a deal speedier than any female I’ve ever met,” he said. “Are you ready to go home, then? Promised Alistair I’d see you back there. Always mean to keep my promises.”

  “Where is Glenshiel?”

  “Can’t tell you, Miss Maitland.”

  “Can’t?” she said. “Or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” Freddie said promptly. “I haven’t the faintest idea where he’s gone, though I expect it’s far away. He said he didn’t expect to see me again.”

  Jessamine didn’t move. With any luck Alistair had decided to head for the Continent, one step ahead of the Bow Street runners. They wouldn’t catch him, and even though she would never see him again, he would be alive and well.

  Unless, of course, he hadn’t gone anywhere. Unless he’d simply embarked on a task that he didn’t expect to survive.

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut, searching for the face of a card, for a hint, a clue, a tiny ray of reassurance. Only to be rewarded with the same miserably frustrating blankness over everything.

  “You all right, Miss Maitland?” Freddie said with proper solicitude. “Promised Alistair I’d make sure you were settled properly.”

  She managed a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Mr. Arbuthnot.” There was one place she could check. His black thieving clothes were in the cupboard in the far room—if they were still there, then he had truly made a run for it. “I just need to... er... attend to a few matters.”

  Freddie blushed a deep crimson. “Absolutely, Miss Maitland. I’ll wait for you downstairs, shall I? You won’t try to run off on me, now, will you? Alistair warned me that you were a very tricky young woman, but I told him he had maggots in his brain.”

  “Indeed,” Jessamine said sweetly.

  The black clothes were in the far room, lying in a pile at the bottom of the cupboard. She picked up the shirt, staring at it. It smelled of soot and fire, and her hands were black when she dropped it. Once more she closed her eyes, searching for an answer. There was none.

  Freddie was pacing the kitchen, and his kind, foolish face brightened when she appeared. “Knew I could count on you, Miss Maitland,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve called for a carriage. It won’t be but a moment.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot.”

  “Now, Miss Maitland,” he chided. “Don’t sound so sad. I’ll miss the old boy just as much as you will, but he’ll be back, I’m sure of it. Not that he ever liked London much. Always told me if things had been different, he’d prefer to live in that plaguey cold house of his up in Scotland. Can’t imagine a civilized person wanting to do anything in Scotland other than hunt. And I can’t abide hunting.”

  “Maybe he’s gone back there.”

  “Doubt it. Said he’d never go back. Still, he’s a damnable fellow, Alistair is. You know what he had me do this week?”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said faintly.

  “Took me to the Tower of London. Can you imagine such a thing? Told me he wanted to see the crown jewels. I told him they were great trumpery things, and why should we bother. It ain’t like in the old days, when you could actually try the demmed things on, don’t you know.”

  Jessamine froze. “He took you to see the crown jewels?” she said in a strangled voice.

  “He did indeed. Typical of Alistair’s luck. That very night there was a fire in Martin’s Tower, and they had to put the jewels in storage until they could repair the place. If he’d waited one day, he wouldn’t have been able to see them. But then, he seemed more interested in the room and the bars than in the jewels themselves. Alistair’s a strange fellow, but the best of all chaps, don’t you know.”

  She didn’t need to close her eyes. The card flashed in front of her, the Tower of Destruction. Flames and fire and disaster, and Alistair was in the midst of them.

  He was going to steal the crown jewels.

  “We can’t wait for your carriage,” Jessamine said, flinging her cloak around her and heading for the door.

  Freddie stood still, dumbfounded. “Why not?”

  “Because I have to get to the Tower of London. Immediately!”

  “Not you too,” Freddie moaned. “I tell you, those things aren’t worth looking at. Too gaudy by half. Besides, it’s after hours and no one would be allowed in. Damned drawbridge is probably up. And didn’t I tell you there’d been a fire?”

  “You told me, Freddie,” she said, dispensing with formalities. “I’m still going.”

  “I promised Alistair I’d see you home,” he said stubbornly, blocking the door.

  He was a slight man, a foolish, well-meaning man, but he was big enough to stop her if his limited mind was set on it. And it was. The Fool danced through her mind, one foot over a precipice. She wanted to push him.

  “You don’t understand, Freddie,” she said with perfect reasonableness. “I live at the Tower of London.”

  “Oh. That’s different. I thought Alistair said you lived in Spitalfields, but I knew he must have been mistaken. No lady would live in that area. That explains it!” he said, suddenly excited. “He must have been looking for you. He certainly wasn’t that interested in those blasted jewels.”

  “Wasn’t he?” Jessamine said. “I’m going to Tower Hill, Freddie, and I’m going now. You can come with me if you want.”
r />   “Promised Alistair,” Freddie mumbled resignedly. “Always keep my promise.”

  Domestic bliss at the Brennan residence lasted for exactly sixteen hours. Until Robert Brennan stepped outside his door to find Samuel Welch’s body stretched across the landing, his throat slashed from ear to ear.

  “Get back in the room,” he ordered Fleur, blocking her view of the grisly sight. “Stay there, and don’t come out.”

  It took less than a moment to ascertain that poor Samuel was well and truly dead. He’d been killed elsewhere—there wasn’t enough blood on the landing for it to have been done there. Besides, Brennan would have heard the struggle; Samuel would have put up one hell of a fight. Unless, of course, the knife came from the hands of a trusted friend and colleague.

  He rose, looking down the narrow stairs to the street below. Clegg was long gone—he’d left his warning like a taunt. One that he knew Brennan wouldn’t ignore.

  He was no longer a runner, but he still had a duty he couldn’t ignore. Clegg was going after the Cat, and for some reason he wanted Brennan in at the kill.

  Brennan would face two bad men that night—the Cat and the Bow Street runner. And he had no doubt as to which man was truly evil. Which man he most needed to stop.

  But where were they? What could a renegade aristocrat be planning to steal that would be considered an insult to all of England?

  The answer was blindingly simple. The Cat stole jewelry. And there were no more fabulous jewels than those belonging to the royal family. The nefarious Earl of Glenshiel must be after the crown jewels.

  Fleur was sitting by the fire, her face pale. “I want you to go back to Spitalfields,” he said abruptly, searching for his pistol.

  “You’re sending me away?” Her voice was low and stricken, pulling him out of his temporary absorption, and he crossed the room in two wide strides, pulling her into his arms.

  “Only for a day, lass. To keep you safe. I’ve a criminal to stop. A man to kill. And I need to know that you’re out of harm’s way while I do it.”

  She pulled herself out of his arms. “You’re not going to kill the Earl of Glenshiel!” she said, horrified.

  “If I have to, I will,” he said.

  “My sister loves him.”

  “Your family has strange taste in the men they choose to love,” Brennan said wryly. “If I can, I’ll let him live. But it might not be up to me.”

  “But you said you had a man to kill.”

  “Josiah Clegg.” His voice was grim. “His time is long past due.” He kissed her hard and briefly. “Don’t look so worried, love. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll stop his thieving lordship, and I’ll put a halt to Josiah Clegg’s wickedness. And then I’ll teach you how to be a farmer’s wife.”

  Doubt and hope danced in her beautiful blue eyes. “I would like that, Robert. Above all things, I would like that.”

  It was rather like being impotent, Alistair imagined. No matter how far one went, to what extremes one was willing to go, it was more and more difficult to get it up.

  He was finding the heist of a lifetime to be, in fact, a dead bore.

  For one thing, it was too damned easy. Setting the fire had been outrageously simple, and the idiot guards had simply jumbled the various royal headgear and weaponry in a large wooden crate tucked in the back of storeroom. Heaven only knew what else resided in that cavernous space, but he’d already espied a pile of moldering dull red uniforms, the mummified corpses of several rats, broken pieces of armor, and even a few instruments of torture and execution, including thumbscrews and a nasty-looking headman’s ax.

  The lock on the door had been abominably flimsy. Obviously the keepers of the royal treasure seemed to think no one would dare attempt such a combination of treason and sacrilege. They’d forgotten Thomas Blood’s ill-fated attempt less than a century before.

  But Alistair meant to get away with it. The only problem was, he could no longer remember exactly why.

  At first it had seemed the final remedy to boredom. The ultimate challenge to his reiving skills, and a fitting crime for the descendant of William Wallace and generation upon generation of Scottish rebels. It was merely a more sophisticated variant of border thieving, and his great-great-grandfather would be duly proud of him.

  But he’d never been interested in politics, and his family had intermarried with the Sassenachs so often that half the time he didn’t know whether he was Scots or English. His father had supported the Pretender in his fight for the throne, but discreetly enough that in the ensuing debacle he’d still managed to retain his lands and his fortune. And Alistair, watching the workings of political maneuverings from a cynical distance, had nothing but contempt for both sides.

  Snatching the crown that Bonnie Prince Charlie had so coveted was an amusing notion when he’d first thought of it. But by the time he stood alone in the darkened storeroom at the very edge of Tower Green, the torch in his hand illuminating the bright gold of the jewels, he was beginning to find that nothing amused him at all anymore.

  Several of the crowns were already denuded—as if a magpie or a discerning thief had been there before him. He’d heard rumors that some of the jewels were merely hired for the occasion, and this seemed to prove him right. He picked up a particularly delicate crown studded with pearls and great empty places that should have held sapphires at the very least. He dropped it back into the crate, then picked up another, a jewel-studded coronet that had probably sat atop German George’s wig. He grinned at the notion, slipping it into the bag at his feet.

  His grin vanished at the scraping sound coming from the far end of the room. It might possibly be a live rat. It might also be the human variety.

  He rather hoped so. This was all dismally tame, and he found himself wishing he’d stayed in bed with Jessamine. Not that she would have let him. He’d managed to get past her defenses twice, but it was unlikely he’d manage it again.

  “You don’t really want to be doing that, your lordship.”

  Robert Brennan stepped out of the shadows. He had a small gun trained at Alistair’s heart, and Alistair had no doubts about his ability to use it.

  “Call me Alistair,” he said blandly. “There’s no need for formality.”

  “Put the crown down nice and easy. You don’t want to be damaging a bit of England’s heritage, now, do you?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it England’s heritage,” Alistair drawled. “After all, none of this is much more than a hundred years old. Cromwell had all the old stuff melted down.”

  “I remember my history, your lordship.”

  “How did you happen to find me? Not that I made it that difficult, but the thief-takers have been alarmingly obtuse during my short, colorful career. I was expecting much more of a challenge from you all.”

  “You weren’t my concern,” Brennan said. “Someone who pilfers baubles from people who can well afford to lose them isn’t likely to cause me to lose any sleep. But when you threaten the very treasure of England, and murder a good man in the bargain, then I have to take notice.”

  He’d managed to jar Alistair out of his mocking complacency. “I didn’t murder anyone!” he snapped. “Unless you’re talking about Isolde Plumworthy’s majordomo, but I’d consider that more of a boon to society than a crime.”

  “I’m talking about Sammy Welch. A good friend of mine.”

  “I didn’t murder your Mr. Welch,” Alistair said haughtily. “I’d have neither the stomach for it nor the reason.”

  Brennan peered at him for a moment, then nodded. “No,” he said. “I didn’t really think you had. But I wanted to make certain. You’ll be coming with me, your lordship. Sir John would like a word with you.”

  “Told him I was coming, did you? How’d he take to the notion of hanging a peer of the realm?” He picked up one of the heavy ceremonial maces, fondling it affectionately.

  “I haven’t had a chance to speak with Sir John. He doesn’t know who you are.”

&n
bsp; Alistair lifted the heavy mace, holding it in both hands. “Then I still have a fighting chance,” he said. “If I killed you, no one would know what I’d been doing. I could get away with it. And I must confess, my friend, that I do very much want to get away with it. To prove to myself that I can walk away from the Tower of London with one of the royal crowns in my satchel.”

  “You could try to kill me,” Brennan said. “Though I should tell you I’m not a man who’s easily killed. And my wife wouldn’t like it above half. Nor would her sister.”

  “I hadn’t realized you were married.”

  “Today, sir.”

  “I offer you my felicitations,” Alistair said politely. “Who’s the lucky bride?”

  “Fleur Maitland.”

  “Oh,” said Alistair. He glanced at the mace. It would be a simple enough matter to fling it at Brennan’s head and then duck to avoid being shot. Whether he could manage to duck in time was questionable, but it might be worth a try.

  However, then he’d have to finish off the Bow Street runner. And Brennan was right, Jessamine would be most displeased with him. For some reason, Jessamine’s pleasure seemed of utmost importance.

  It was probably because he’d made the very grave, unthinkable mistake of falling in love with her. Trapped in a cavernous storeroom with a gun trained on his heart, he was suddenly unable to avoid that wretched conviction any longer. It was difficult to lie to yourself when you were staring death in the face.

  “Then I suppose I can’t kill you,” Alistair said pleasantly, dropping the mace back into the crate with a loud crash.

  “I’d advise against it, sir.”

  “Pity,” he murmured. “This theft would have been a glorious escapade. A fitting cap to my criminal career.”

  “Your escapades are done, my lord.”

  “I rather suspect you are right,” Alistair said sadly. There was a shadow against the far wall, behind Brennan. A shadow that was definitely moving. “Then again, you might possibly be mistaken.”