No, as much as she loved Rosemont, she knew it paled beside his other residences. So why had he gone to such elaborate lengths? What was the reason for his ruse? She frowned, absorbed in thought.
“What are ye doin’ here, missus?”
Arabella turned to see Ned ambling up on a broken-backed nag. He was still dressed in his Sunday finest, a black wool coat that he’d worn to her wedding just this morning. His bony wrists stuck out from each sleeve a good two inches and made him look even lankier.
“I was on my way to meet His Grace. He is visiting someone in Whitby.” She supposed she should call Lucien something less formal than “His Grace,” but to do so would imply a closeness she was far from feeling.
“He’s left the party already, has he?” Ned asked, surprise evident. “I jus’ came from my sister’s house and I saw nary a soul on the road. Mayhap he went that way.” He gestured toward a narrow path that led off the main road and into the woods. “’Tis a shortcut of sorts, if ye know where to turn.”
Arabella nodded and nudged Sebastian down the path, calling her thanks to Ned. Her mind was filled with uncertainty, her imagination rampant as she thought of Lucien’s machinations.
Lost in thought, she rode on. Sebastian rounded a wide turn and pulled to a dead stop. Arabella blinked. There, standing beside a narrow stand of brush stood Mr. Francot, his back to her. But it wasn’t the sight of the solicitor that surprised her. It was his companion. Standing beside Mr. Francot, holding on to a small sack, stood Bolder.
Sebastian whickered a greeting to Mr. Francot’s mare, and the solicitor whirled around. Arabella captured a glimpse of his pale face as Bolder yelled a violent curse and ran for his horse.
“Get her!” yelled Francot, leaping on his mare.
Her heart pounding in her ears, Arabella whirled Sebastian and urged him to a hard gallop. Though the old horse was winded, he responded gallantly. Hooves thundered behind her and Arabella leaned closer, whispering words of encouragement. Please, God, just this once, let Sebastian fly.
Chapter 27
Lucien checked his pocket watch for the fourth time. The minutes slowly ticked by and still there was no sign of Mumferd. Bloody hell, where is that weasel? Stifling a sigh, Lucien crossed to the inn window and lifted the edge of the curtain.
Hastings sat slumped on a bench in front of the stables, dressed in the shapeless coat of a common laborer. Hat pulled low, he braided a length of rope with the ease of long practice.
Other than glancing up whenever a horse arrived in the posting yard, he seemed immersed in his task. Impatient, Lucien dropped a coin beside his mug and went to join Hastings.
The valet remained seated, his hands never slowing as he patiently braided the rope. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“Yes, something has gone wrong. We’ll wait five more minutes. I am anxious to return to Rosemont.” Anxious didn’t begin to describe it. Lucien couldn’t stop thinking about the doubt that had clouded Arabella’s eyes as he left.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, wondering if he dared to tell her the truth about the night in the cottage. Their relationship was still uncertain. Perhaps he should wait until…until what?
Hastings nodded toward the road. “There he comes now.”
Lucien turned as a horse loped into view. Mumferd sat astride a large roan horse, his dark greasy coat flapping open to reveal a pistol strapped to his saddle.
Eyes narrowed, Lucien crossed the yard, a prickle of warning creeping between his shoulder blades. “Where have you been?”
“There was a bit of a turn-up.” At Lucien’s raised brows, Mumferd gave a placating shrug and placed his hand on his pistol in a meaningful gesture. “But all’s well now. We’ve as much at stake as ye do.”
Lucien regarded him narrowly, wondering what kind of a “turn-up” would make them willing to risk losing his participation in the auction. If there even was an auction. The thought tightened his throat.
“Mount up, guv’nor. I’m to take ye meself.”
There was something forced about Mumferd’s behavior. He moved jerkily, his eyes darting here and there.
Lucien turned and tossed a coin at Hastings. “Bring my mount, and be quick about it.”
Hastings bit the coin before stuffing it into his pocket. Rising with insolent slowness, he shambled toward the stables.
Lucien shot a hard stare at Mumferd. “I hope this trip is not a waste of time.”
Unease flickered in the man’s murky eyes. “I don’t think ye’ll be disappointed.” His smile was as strained as his expression.
Tamping down his growing impatience, Lucien accepted Satan’s reins from Hastings and swung into the saddle. With a swift glance at his valet, Lucien followed Mumferd.
Once on the road, the horses picked up a brisk canter, their hooves thudding heavily on the packed ground. They traveled for ten minutes in silence, Lucien’s mind filled with foreboding.
Finally he pulled up alongside Mumferd and said, “Tell me about the sale. How many men will be bidding against me?”
Mumferd’s gaze flickered. “Four. Maybe five.”
Or maybe none. “I must admit, I am somewhat concerned why you were delayed.”
“Oh, ’twas nofin’. Someone put their nose where it didn’t belong. We put an end to her right enuff.”
Lucien pulled Satan to a stop, ice clenching his heart.
“Why are ye stoppin’? We’ll be late if we don’t hurry along.”
“You said her.”
Mumferd glanced nervously at a stand of woods just down the road. “Did I? Then ye didn’t hear me right, guv’nor.”
Lucien reached out and grabbed the bridle of Mumferd’s horse. “Who did you put an end to? Tell me now.”
Without warning, the man’s hand jerked toward his pistol. Lucien knocked the gun away with a swipe of his hand. It went flying through the air as Lucien grabbed Mumferd by his muffler and lifted him from his horse, the informant’s feet dangling, his hands clawing for release.
Mumferd’s face turned red as he gasped for breath. Lucien tightened his hold and pulled his face even with his own. “I will give you one chance to live.”
Choking violently, Mumferd’s teary eyes pleaded for release. Lucien threw him to the ground and quickly dismounted. The informant sprawled in the dirt, gasping for air, his hands pulling at his tight muffler.
Lucien yanked his gun free and cocked it, leveling it at Mumferd’s head. “Talk.”
Mumferd’s gaze locked on the gun. He rasped out, “Nofin’ happened to get ye into such a takin’! Someone stumbled on the boss as he was makin’ a payment fer his shipment. B-but don’t ye worry none. He’s a soft spot fer women, he does.”
“Bolder?” asked Lucien incredulously. Nothing he’d heard of the man had indicated a softness of any sort.
Mumferd’s mouth tightened. “I’d not answer to the likes o’ him fer a thousand quid! Bolder answers to me, he does, and a more shifty, no-account weaklin’ I’ve never seen.”
Then who was in charge of the smuggling operation? Lucien pulled the man back up to his feet and rested his gun barrel between Mumferd’s eyes. “Where is Arabella?”
Mumferd took one look at Lucien’s face and started sputtering, “She’s in the cave. They were goin’ to kill ye there, too. The boss, he got the idea that ye weren’t on the up and up.” He managed a shaky, pleading smile. “Please, guv’nor, you has to understand! I jus’ follow orders. I don’t make ’em.”
Hooves thudded on the ground and Hastings appeared on the road, a braided rope looped in his hand.
Lucien lowered the pistol and Mumferd slumped with relief.
“Take him,” Lucien growled as Hastings came abreast.
“They have Arabella and I must reach her quickly.”
The valet slipped from his horse. “I shall tie him up at once, Your Grace. Shall I give him to the local authorities?”
“Yes. Constable Robbins will be pleased to have a real smuggler
resting in his cell. In the meantime, I will need this cretin’s coat and hat.”
Hastings nodded and gestured with his pistol. Complaining loudly, Mumferd complied.
“There, Your Grace.” Hastings rolled the clothes into a ball and handed them to Lucien. “Be quick.”
Nodding once, Lucien wheeled Satan and galloped away. He only prayed he would not be too late.
Arabella awoke slowly, pain flickering behind her eyes like steel pins. She moaned and lifted her head, aware that she sat bound to a pole, her legs curled to her side on a solid cold slab. Clenching her teeth, she opened her eyes to complete and utter darkness.
She immediately recognized the impenetrable black of an underground cavern. Waves slapped the stone slab and she could sense the tide surging against it. Perhaps she was in her own cave. She leaned against the ropes that held her and gasped in pain.
Her arms, bound tightly behind her, were completely numb. She tried to wiggle her fingers but could not. Whoever had tied her had wanted to be certain she would not escape. Forcing herself to ignore the agony, she twisted at the bonds, tears running down her cheeks.
Time crawled by, and she felt she must have been in the dark for hours before she heard the unmistakable sound of a boat. She almost sobbed in relief, straining her eyes against the darkness. Please, God, let it be Lucien.
Suddenly a lantern swung on the bow, the light blinding her. She squinted against it, her body trembling with cold and fear. A man climbed out of the boat as it reached the ledge, and with a swell of despair, Arabella recognized her captor.
Mr. Francot tied off the boat, then picked up the lantern and came forward. He bent his face to hers and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Are you feeling better?”
“No,” she managed to whisper through parched lips.
“My head hurts.”
He frowned and his fingers traced the bruise on her brow. “Bolder got a little carried away.” The pale blue eyes met hers. “Never fear. I punished him for you.”
Arabella shivered at the calmness of the statement and she felt an instant sympathy for Bolder.
“Are you cold?” Francot immediately shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
“Mr. Francot—”
“Please. Call me Steven. I have always wanted to hear you say my name.”
She swallowed. “Steven.” The name stuck in her throat like congealed porridge, but she managed a weak smile. “Why am I here?”
“Because you saw what you should not.”
“All I saw was you talking to Bolder.” She leaned as far forward as her bonds would allow. “Mr. Fran—Steven, I would never tell. I swear it!”
“Unfortunately, I cannot take that chance. How do you think I’ve been so successful? I am very cautious and I trust no one.” He lifted a finger and ran it down her cheek.
“Not even you.”
“But I’ve been smuggling, too. It wouldn’t make sense for me to turn in someone who could identify me. And Bolder could do that.”
“I know all about the smuggling at Rosemont. Who do you think supplied you with all that wonderful cognac your aunt loves?”
“You’ve…you’ve been helping?”
“As much as you would allow. Of course, I had to keep a close eye.” He frowned. “People are apt to cheat an innocent female.”
He set the lantern on a nearby barrel. Now that Arabella was no longer alone in the pitch-black cave, her spirit strengthened. She leveled a stare at Francot. “While I thank you for your seeming generosity, I did not need your interference.”
“So Bolder told me, after that unfortunate incident when you relieved him of a very important cask.” Francot’s eyes glittered. “I was not happy to discover that you were involved so directly.”
She clenched her jaw at his tight expression. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Ah, that is an excellent question. You, my dear, are about to witness an execution.”
She could only stare at him, horrified.
“Don’t look like that; I would never let someone harm you.” He pulled a barrel beside her and sat facing her. “You look a mess. Let me remedy that.” He carefully brushed dirt from her cheek and chin and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “There, that is much better.”
It was all Arabella could do to sit still. “Thank you,” she choked out, trying to focus on her surroundings, on anything that could help her escape. “If I am not to be executed, then who is?”
“It would be best if I—” He tilted his head to one side.
“Ah, here he is now.”
Francot stood as a dinghy passed through the mouth of the cave and began to cross the small lake. A man rowed steadily, his cap pulled low over his eyes, a greasy coat stretched across his shoulders. On the seat in front of him, Arabella could just make out a sack, filled with what appeared to be the outline of a man. Her whole body froze, her heart thundering in her ears.
Arabella recognized the fine black coat that showed beneath the sack. She turned wide eyes to Francot. “Lucien.”
“I’m afraid so. He stole from me, you see. I cannot allow that to go unpunished or I would lose the respect of my men.”
Fear congealed in her throat. “Your men?” she whispered. “Have you many?”
He smiled, a singularly sweet smile that terrified her worse than any threat. He leaned down and placed his hand on her knee, his heavy face only inches from hers. “After this next shipment, I will have money and power beyond your dreams, Arabella.”
He tipped her face up until it was even with his, his eyes clouding, the lines about his eyes deepened by the shadows. “Had you waited, it would have been yours, too.”
“I—I didn’t know—”
“You will not reap the bounty of my wealth now.” His hand tightened on her chin cruelly, his fingers bruising.
“You have forsaken me and I cannot forgive that.”
“You can’t just kill him. He is a duke. Someone will look for him.”
“Yes, he is a duke. And you care so much for that, don’t you?” Francot sneered and he dropped his hand from her face. “Had I a title, you would have welcomed my suit. I thought I had put an end to that despicable duke’s existence once. But he outmaneuvered me.”
“Before…” Realization dawned and she gasped. “You set the fire in the shed!”
A grimace marred his features. “I had no idea you were in there as well, or I never would have blocked the door.” He stooped until his eyes were level with hers. “I was in agony when I heard you scream. I never would have hurt you.”
“You are hurting me now.”
Francot’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “But you are no longer Arabella Hadley, are you? You sold yourself for a title.”
“I don’t care anything for titles.” Only for Lucien. The thought jerked her gaze back to the boat and she pulled at her bonds.
“Don’t waste your time attempting to get free. You will only hurt yourself.”
“What do you care?”
“Care? What do I care?” His voice rose, stiff with fury.
“I even offered to buy that pile of rocks you love so much, and all for what?” The solicitor placed a hand under her chin and jerked her face back to his. “Why would I do that? To watch you marry another man?”
“No,” she said, trying to channel her fury into cold, logical thought.
Francot’s eyes burned in his pale face, his lips quivering. “Why did you do it? Why did you marry that cretin?”
Because I love him. The truth bloomed through her heart, warming her instantly. She would have married Lucien without the title, without the money. She loved him.
“You could have come to me,” Francot said. “I would have saved you. But you didn’t.” He sighed and shook his head. “And now you will have the pleasure of watching your beloved duke die.”
Arabella drew herself up, the cords cutting into her arms. “Don’t, Steven
. Please, leave him alone.”
“Sorry, my dear. But I will see you a widow before the night is through. And then…” He leaned forward and rested his cold cheek against hers. “And then I will have you myself.”
She jerked away, her distaste as bitter as bile.
He snarled and sank his hand in her hair, holding her face toward his own. “Don’t ever turn away from me!”
Lucien gritted his teeth against the instinct to whip out his pistol and shoot the bloody bastard from where he sat in the boat, but Arabella was too close.
He rowed faster, hoping no one noticed that Mumferd’s foul coat fit him much too tightly. When he reached the ledge, he looped the rope through the mooring, leapt out of the boat, and walked into the light from the lantern, keeping his head down and his face shadowed. But there was no disguising his height.
“What’s this?” Francot’s voice raised in surprise and he half rose from the barrel. Lucien broke into a run, his gun now drawn, but Francot yanked a knife from his boot and scrambled behind Arabella. With a vicious swipe, he slashed her bonds and yanked her to her feet. She gave a cry of pain as blood rushed into her arms. Cursing, Francot jerked her in front him, his blade to her throat.
“Drop the gun, Wexford. Or your wife will die before your eyes.” Francot’s eyes gleamed with malice.
Lucien tensed, his body aflame with the need to leap to Arabella’s aid. But he dared not. Carefully, so as not to discharge the weapon, he placed his gun on the cavern floor.
“Lucien,” Arabella gasped. A drop of blood welled at her throat and fell to her bodice.
Lucien clenched his hands. “Don’t talk, Bella. Don’t…” Emotion choked him. He would give everything he had to free her—his fortune, his lands, his very life.
He swung his gaze to Francot. “What do you want, you bastard?”
Francot smiled, his teeth yellow in the dull light. “The jewels. Now.”
Lucien reached very slowly, very carefully into his pocket and pulled out the bag of jewels.
“Throw them over here.”
Lucien tossed the bag so that it landed halfway between the two of them.