Noble Intentions

  Gillian stepped back again, but the madman followed. “If she was in love with him…”

  He snorted. “She didn’t know how to love anyone but herself, the coldhearted bitch. No, first he took my Elizabeth, then he took my land.”

  “Your land?”

  A tic started beneath the baronet’s left eye. He rubbed at it absently as he spoke. “The solicitor blamed the gaming debts, but I know the truth. Weston bought him out, forced him to sell my land, my inheritance, forced me from my birthright!”

  Gillian gasped as Sir Hugh screamed the last word. He was staring past her, his fists working, his face livid and twisted with hate. “He had everything. He had it all, handed to him by his dear papa, but still he had to take what was mine. Everything, he took everything.”

  Suddenly his hand lashed out and he grabbed her by her arm, tugging her forward until she could feel his heated breath on her face. She tried to turn away from the horrible sight of his face tortured and knotted with madness, but he pulled her even closer.

  “I showed him, though, didn’t I? Poor Hugh, nothing but a wastrel’s son, they all said, but I proved them wrong, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

  He shook her with the last words.

  “I—”

  “I did, I did and you know it! I even did away with that grasping, greedy bitch Mariah when he came close to tracking her down.”

  Gillian stared at him with blank horror. He killed Mariah? Simply to keep her from speaking to Noble? She swayed for a moment, feeling as if she was going to be sick with the realization of just how mad Sir Hugh was.

  “You cold bitch, you never did want me to succeed at anything either!” he snarled in her face. “I knew what you had planned, you know. I knew how you plotted with McGregor to have me shot in place of Weston.” Sir Hugh barked a short laugh. “I thought you’d learned your lesson the last time, but I see I shall have to punish you yet again, my dear Elizabeth.”

  Gillian tried yanking her arm away from the baronet but wasn’t prepared when his fist shot into her face. Her knees buckled and she fought to catch her breath as mind-numbing pain radiated out from her jaw. She shook her head and tried to keep her heaving stomach contained but ended up retching onto the carpet. When she was finished, Sir Hugh yanked her to her feet and threw her onto the wooden platform. She was too dazed and stunned by the pain to do more than struggle feebly.

  ***

  “What do you think?” Lord Rosse asked, watching through the window as their carriage raced down the drive toward the house. “Are you sure Carlisle was telling the truth? That Tolly’s brought her here? He wasn’t in any shape to know what he was about, what with that big dent in the back of his head.”

  “He knew what he was saying,” Noble said grimly. He flexed his fingers. If what Carlisle said was accurate, Gillian was utterly without resources, believing the baronet to be her friend, not a deadly enemy. He just hoped he got to her in time. If not—he couldn’t face that thought. “Tolly fooled him just as he fooled me.”

  Rosse shook his head. “Carlisle believed everything Elizabeth told him?”

  “Yes,” Noble said, leaning forward in an effort to urge the carriage faster. “He believed every last damned lie that fell from her treacherous lips. She had to have something to explain to her lovers about the marks made by her sick games with Tolly—who better to blame than her own dear husband?”

  Before Rosse could speak, the carriage rolled to a stop, and both men were out and leaping up the stone steps to the door. Noble pounded on it, demanding entrance. Rosse reached around him, tried the doorknob, and threw the door open.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” he told the Black Earl as Noble shot him a surprised look. They pushed their way into the small hall. A scared-looking footman was just scurrying off into another room, but Noble was on him in two steps.

  “Where is she?” he roared, almost deafening the poor witless man. “Where has he taken her?”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Noble shook the smaller man and demanded to be told where his wife was.

  “Here, let me have him, you’re doing more damage than good,” Rosse said, pulling the man out of his enraged friend’s hands.

  “Where has your master gone? Is he upstairs? Is he in the house? Where is he?”

  The man blanched and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know where the master is.”

  “Liar!” Noble snarled. Picking the man up, he threw him out one of the windows next to the door. “You!” He pointed at the slight figure of an obviously terrified footman. “If you don’t want to join your friend there, tell me where to find your master.”

  The footman stared with an open mouth at the broken window, swallowed hard, and pointed upward. “Second floor, my lord. Last room on the left.”

  Noble and Rosse were up the stairs before John Coachman and Nick even entered the house.

  Noble’s mind was empty of all thoughts but of saving his Gillian. As his foot hit the top stair, a scream ripped through the air, rending Noble’s heart in two. He snarled vicious threats as he charged down the corridor, Rosse hard on his heels.

  “Here,” he bellowed and, trying the doorknob, began to throw himself against the door.

  “Noble, stop a moment,” Rosse pleaded. “Stop a moment before you knock yourself silly.”

  “Gillian…scream…in there…” Noble panted as he threw himself again and again at the door.

  “Look at the door, man, it must be at least five inches thick. You can’t break it down.” He grabbed Noble and shook him until his eyes lost the panicked look. “You can’t break it down, but there has to be another way into the room.”

  Noble stared at his friend, his chest heaving, his eyes clouded with tears. “He’s hurting her, Harry.”

  “I know. We’ll get her out, but you have to use your head.”

  Noble froze for a moment, anguish written into every line of his face; then suddenly he spun around and raced down the darkened hallway.

  Rosse watched him for a moment before turning his attention to the lock. He fiddled with it to no avail. Perhaps they would have to break down the door after all. If so, they would certainly need something stronger than brute strength.

  ***

  Gillian had discovered quite early on that her screams gave great pleasure to Sir Hugh, and a pleased Sir Hugh was a Sir Hugh who did not hover over her with that wicked-looking knife, threatening to do all sorts of unspeakable things to her. He had already carefully sliced off her gown and was now taking enormous pleasure out of cutting great chunks of her shift off as well. She knew Noble would save her, but she hoped he’d hurry. She was quickly running out of shift, and her attempt to delay the baronet with talk was not meeting with great success.

  “Sir Hugh, won’t you tell me, please, why you are doing this? I understand you think Noble has done you a wrong…”

  “Noble,” Sir Hugh growled and waved the knife uncomfortably close to her face. “Your dear husband. Ah, Elizabeth, if only you’d chosen me, but I was a mere baronet and not worthy of you, was I?”

  Elizabeth? This was the second time he’d referred to her as Elizabeth. Perhaps if she humored him… “Certainly you were worthy of me, Sir Hugh, but I fell in love with Noble—”

  “Love! Love? Don’t make me ill, my dear. You no more know what love is than you know what makes up the moon. No, my dear, I shall first punish you for your naughty ways, then we shall continue with our original plan. You will use that lush body of yours to bring McGregor to bay, and then we’ll arrange for your dear husband’s demise.”

  Gillian felt sick, but not as sick as when the baronet began to describe what sorts of “games” he wanted to play with her. Did people really do those sorts of things to one another? And he made it sound as if Elizabeth enjoyed it—how could she have been so wrong about Elizabeth? Did N
oble know about his first wife’s plot against him? Did he know what Elizabeth had really been like? Did he know that Sir Hugh had killed Elizabeth that night so many years ago? Did Noble know that his first wife had taken Sir Hugh as her lover?

  And Lord Carlisle; there was no forgetting him. He had admitted to being Elizabeth’s lover, and it was evident from Sir Hugh that he and Elizabeth had planned to use Carlisle as a scapegoat for Noble’s murder. Gillian’s head began to spin with pain and confusion.

  Secrets and lies, lies and secrets, Palmerston had said. The lies—those were Elizabeth’s words to Lord Carlisle. The secrets—Sir Hugh and Elizabeth and their secret plan to do away with Noble.

  “It’s time, my dear. I haven’t heard your fair voice raised in terror in far, far too long.” Sir Hugh ran a thumb down the knife and stepped toward Gillian’s outspread legs. He had cut the shift off, leaving her exposed almost to her torso. She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer, jumping at the sudden cold feeling of the blade as Sir Hugh ran its flat side up the length of her thighs.

  “Now, Noble, now is a good time,” she whispered, trying to brace herself against any pain. “Please, Noble, I need you now.”

  “Praying, my dear? You know how futile that is—I shall have to flog the blasphemy out of your soul once we are through with this little game.”

  “Noble!” Gillian’s voice raised to a shriek as Sir Hugh grabbed the edge of her torn shift and ripped it open wide. A sudden explosion of light and sound burst into the hellish darkness of the room as a figure crashed through the window, and then Noble was there, his hands around Sir Hugh’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, lifting the madman off the ground, his hands never loosening their grip. Gillian closed her eyes again, but she still heard the sickening crack as Noble twisted the baronet’s head, snapping his neck.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, and he was there, looking her over for signs of injury, then slicing the leather restraints and carrying her to a chair.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart, I have you now,” he crooned, rocking her as he held her tight. “I have you, my darling, you’re safe now.”

  “Don’t let me go,” she whispered into his neck, trying to stop the shaking that wracked her body. “I knew you’d come, Noble. I knew you would find me, my darling, adorable, beloved husband. But don’t you think you could have found me a little bit sooner?”

  Noble let out a shaky laugh and squeezed the breath out of her. “Wife, you are the only woman I know who could suffer what you just suffered and still have enough breath to lecture me.”

  Gillian pulled out of his embrace just far enough to see those dear, lovely silver-gray eyes with the marvelous black flecks. “I do not lecture, my lord. You lecture. I just listen. Oh, Noble! You are bleeding! Your poor legs are cut! You must let me attend them before you become ill.”

  Noble laughed again, stronger this time, and released her only long enough to drape a bedsheet around her before opening the door. “Nothing can harm me now, love, especially not a few scratches.”

  Rosse stood outside the door with a hatchet, panting with the effort of trying to break it down. “She’s all right?” he asked as Noble pushed past him, Gillian settled comfortably in his arms.

  “Unhurt, just frightened.”

  “And…?” He nodded toward the room.

  “He’s in there. You’re welcome to him. What’s left.”

  Rosse smiled. “I will take great pleasure in cleaning up after you.”

  Gillian took one look at that smile and burrowed her head under Noble’s chin. She didn’t want to think how Lord Rosse intended to “clean up.”

  “Papa?” Nick squirmed out of John Coachman’s grasp and ran up the stairs as Noble carried Gillian down. “Is Mama all right?”

  Gillian untucked her head and beamed at her son. “I’m fine, Nick, just a little embarrassed in the clothing department.” She tipped her head back to look at Noble. “Did you hear, husband? He called me ‘Mama.’”

  He stopped in the middle of the staircase and kissed her as he had wanted to kiss her ever since he laid eyes on her walking across the ballroom with Charlotte.

  “Papa? Papa, you did rescue Mama just like we did you.”

  Noble tore himself from Gillian’s mouth and gathered his wits enough to smile down at his son as he started down the rest of the stairs. “Did we, indeed?”

  “Yes.” Nick jumped down the stairs and pranced around Noble as he headed toward his carriage. “You see? Mama is wearing a bedsheet just like you wore when we rescued you. We did it right, Papa, just like you said.”

  Noble looked down at his wife, so warm and soft in his arms, her curves melting into him, her breath gently splaying across his neck. Her scent surrounded him, filling him with warmth from his crown to his very toes. “Yes, we did it right, Nick. This time we did it right.”

  Epilogue

  “That concludes this, the fifth monthly meeting of the Greater London Mistresses Guild,” Gillian said with a satisfied sigh and closed the brown calf account book before her. She smiled at the eighteen women present. “The emergency fund is growing at an astronomical rate, thanks to Devereaux’s investments, and you all should see some rewards for your involvement in the next few months. Are there any questions as to the holdings of the Guild? No? I believe then, ladies, we have accomplished our agenda for this month. I will be traveling to Nethercote for the Christmas holiday, so I won’t be in attendance at the next few meetings.” She glanced down at her rounded belly. “And probably not for a few months after that, but I will be in contact with Madelyn, who has accepted the role of acting director during my absence.”

  The room of demireps all nodded understandingly, and smiled benevolently at Madelyn.

  “No further business? Very well, then. I wish you a happy Christmas and a very prosperous New Year.”

  Gillian levered herself out of the chair, hugged Noble’s ex-mistresses, and wished them a particularly nice holiday, then made her way out of the small house in Kensington to the coach waiting outside.

  “Home, Crouch.”

  “Aye, m’lady. As fast as the ’orses will take us.”

  She smiled at him as he handed her into the carriage. Hands from within reached out and pulled her inside into an embrace. Lips—warm, soft, passionate lips—nipped and kissed hers, until she parted them with a little laugh.

  “Noble, what on earth are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like knowing what went on with the Guild.”

  The lips kissed their way over to her ear. “I don’t, but I’ve learned to live with it. You do remember your promise?”

  Gillian slid her hand up the hard length of his chest and around his neck into his hair. “I remember. It’s only until the Guild gets off the ground.” She tugged until his lips were almost touching hers.

  “According to Devereaux,” Noble said with a groan as her other hand went exploring, “the Guild is growing richer each day. It’s time for you to step down, Madam Director.”

  Gillian didn’t answer, at least not with words. Her Lord of Love wouldn’t let her. He had other plans for her lips, and she wasn’t about to dispute them.

  ***

  “Noble,” Gillian said later that evening, when they had separated at last, their bodies coated with sweat, their minds and bodies sated and happy and warm. Noble grunted and hauled her over until he could wrap an arm about her swollen belly. He had felt the baby kick a few days before and hoped it would happen again. His mind drifted with pleasant thoughts of home and family, and he wondered that he could ever have felt cold and alone.

  “Noble, might we invite your godfather for Christmas? I would dearly love to see him again, and I think he would enjoy Nethercote. Nick would like him, too, I think.”

  Noble opened one eye and looked at the flushed figure of his delicious, delectable, wonderfully warm wife. “My godfather? You mea
n Lord Palmerston?”

  She frowned and snuggled closer to him. “I knew he was a lord. He wouldn’t tell me that, though.”

  “Tell you? Gillian, what are you talking about? My godfather’s been dead for several years now.”

  Gillian sat up and stared at him with a horrified face. What had gotten into her now, talking about Palmerston? And how had she found out about him?

  “Dead? He’s…dead? But he can’t be dead. I’ve spoken with him!”

  Sometimes she got the strangest notions. Noble smiled to himself. Fancies. He’d heard about them from other men with children. Wives who were expecting often had strange fancies. Ah, well, he had learned to live with her heedless method of attacking life, he had learned to enjoy the chaos that dogged her every footstep, and he had reveled in the blinding passion that characterized her concern for others. He’d learn to live with this particularly charming quirk of her imagination, too. He sighed happily and pulled her back into his arms, close to his heart where she belonged.

  “You’re not an ordeal by fire after all,” he murmured sleepily. “You’re my saving grace.”

  Gillian smiled into his chest despite her confusion, then gave a little shrug and snuggled down for sleep. So they had a family ghost. Didn’t all the best families boast a ghost or two? She made a mental note to mention it to Palmerston the next time she saw him, and let herself drift off into sleep as she felt her heartbeat slow and match that of Noble’s.

  Downstairs in Noble’s library, the small, wizened figure of a very old man sat back in Noble’s favorite chair and rubbed his gnarled hands together as he chuckled wheezily to himself. Saving grace, yes; the boy had it right this time. Gillian was Noble’s saving grace. He wondered if he should visit Noble and warn him that his children would bring even more chaos and joyous confusion into his life, then decided against it. Noble was going to earn every single gray hair those young’uns would be giving him—why have him worry about it in advance?

  Palmerston chuckled again. He was looking forward to the next forty or so years. They promised to be very entertaining.