With This Kiss, page 173
He grabbed up a napkin from the table and began scrubbing at Charlotte’s face, to no avail. “Damnation!” he cried, much to Perry’s amusement and the guffaws of the others.
“Playing papa to the hilt, are you, Gareth?”
“So much for your days of debauchery!”
“I say, next thing you know, he’ll be changing napkins—ha, ha, ha!”
“Sod off,” Gareth said, realizing how much he had not missed their immaturity. He was in no mood for their silly antics, their teasing, nor Chilcot, who had grabbed Charlotte’s rattle and was shaking it in his face with relentless obnoxiousness. He seized Chilcot’s wrist and all but ripped the rattle from his fingers. “What are you all doing here, anyhow?”
“Why, we’ve come to see you fight tonight.”
“Yes, there are posters up all over Ravenscombe: ‘Will the Scotsman Butcher the Wild One?’ Oh, they’re playing this up big, Gareth. You’re a celebrity!”
Gareth swore under his breath. “Listen,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here because I believe something evil is going on, and I may need your help.”
“What are you talking about?”
Hurriedly, he explained to them what he had learned and what he suspected.
“Yes, but Gareth, you can’t prove any of this—”
“No, I can’t. Yet. But I will. A man has died, and I shan’t rest until I expose the snake who murdered him.”
* * *
Eager to explore the town, the Den members did not stay long, but Gareth at least felt reassured that they were there in Abingdon. Chilcot was a fool, the others thought it was all a big adventure, and only Perry seemed to take him seriously. Good old Perry. He knew he could depend on his best friend.
But damn it, where was Lucien?
It was now just past four o’clock, and the fight was scheduled for six. Gareth had expected the duke to come charging in like death on the back of a black horse, but there’d been no note from him, no acknowledgement of the one he’d sent, and worse, no Lucien. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
He went to the window and stared out over the river, his hands in his pockets. In the distance, the pastoral hills off toward Culham, opaque with haze, rose blue-green against the sky.
Come on, Lucien. Where the hell are you?
A sharp knock sounded on the door downstairs. He heard Juliet—who, thank God, had decided the beetroot stains were not worth killing him over—crossing the floor to answer it. A moment later, he heard Becky’s distressed voice.
“Gareth!” It was Juliet calling up to him, her voice urgent. “Come quickly!”
He spun on his heel and took the stairs three at a time. In the foyer stood Becky and her younger brother, Tom. Becky looked pale and shaken, her eyes red from crying.
“What’s this, now?” he asked, gently putting an arm around the shoulders of each and ushering them into the sitting room. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”
“Oh, Lord Gareth—Tom’s got somethink awful to tell ye!”
And as Tom, rubbing the back of his head, began to speak, it soon became apparent why Lucien had not come. Tom had not even made it out of Abingdon when something—or someone—spooked his horse. He remembered falling, then someone charging up on him in the darkness—and nothing more than that. Next thing he’d known, he opened his eyes to find himself lying in a back street of Oxford, bound, gagged and nursing a headache a hundred times worse than any hangover. It had taken him the better part of the day to free himself and find his way home.
“And what happened to the letter I gave you?” Gareth pressed.
“Gone, m’lord. Me mare was waitin’ for me back ’ome, but the saddlebags, they was gone.”
Gareth swore and, running a hand through his hair, met Juliet’s eyes from across the room. She was as white as the starched mobcap that crowned her glossy curls.
She shook her head very slowly, from side to side. “Gareth, you cannot fight tonight. Someone now knows what you know, and your life could very well be in danger.”
“But Juliet, I have to fight.”
“No. You do not have to fight.”
“There are people coming from all over England! There are thousands of pounds being bet on this! If I don’t fight, I shall never live this down, never be able to hold my head up again, because everyone will think I’m a coward—why, we’ll have to leave the country, for God’s sake!”
Her expression had gone stony. She raised her chin, hugged her arms to herself, and stared defiantly at him from across the room. “Gareth, I beg you not to do this fight.”
“Juliet, I beg you to understand.”
“There is nothing to understand. Your life is in danger. I do not want you fighting tonight.”
Gareth threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Becky and Tom, who read the unspoken message there and beat a hasty exit. And then, changing tactics, Gareth crossed the room to his wife. He slid his hands up her arms, trying to loosen them. She had no more give than a locked door.
“Dearest,” he said, leaning down to kiss her brow, her temple, putting a finger beneath her jaw to raise her face to his. He lowered his mouth to hers and found it stiff and unyielding. Angry. “I promise you that nothing shall happen to me tonight.”
She tightened her arms, refusing to let him seduce her into agreement. “And I promise you, Gareth, that if you go through with this fight, I’m leaving.”
He pulled back, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I thought you were going to stick by me, support me. Damn it, Juliet, you’ve been saying all along that you have faith in me; here’s your chance to prove it!”
“I’m not staying here to watch you die. I have a little girl to take care of. Go meet the Butcher tonight if you have to, Gareth, but I’ll tell you right now that you’ll be coming home to an empty house—that is, if you come home at all.”
“Juliet!”
“Make your choice, Gareth. Your pride or your family.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left him standing there in the middle of the floor.
All alone.
* * *
“What do you mean, you won’t fight the Butcher tonight?” Panicking, Snelling waved Lord Gareth into Swanthorpe’s lavishly appointed parlor, impatiently gesturing for a servant to bring a decanter of wine and two glasses. “Everyone in town’s talking about this fight! People are coming from three counties to see it! You can’t back out on me now, it’ll be a damned mob scene!”
The young fighter was adamant. “Forget it, Snelling. I am not doing it.”
Snelling’s heart was pounding, then racing, as he tried frantically to think of a way to salvage this emergency situation. Calm down! he told himself, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his breeches. Find out what the problem is and then do what you have to do to get him back on course. “Now, you sit right there and tell me what’s wrong,” he soothed, using the parental tone that had often worked with other nervy young fighters. But he knew he’d taken the wrong approach the moment he saw the sudden coolness in Lord Gareth’s pale eyes; the lad might be confused, possibly even scared, but he was certainly not a boy.
Bloody hell, does he know? He can’t know, only Woodford and I know, he’s just got a case of nerves, that’s all it is!
He began sweating as he thought of how much money he’d wagered on the Scot and nearly keened with terror. I’ll lose everything I own if he doesn’t meet the Butcher tonight!
“I’ve had a bellyful, that’s what’s wrong,” Lord Gareth said simply. “What more explanation do you need?”
That cool blue gaze bored into his.
Snelling began to fidget. The perspiration was already beading on his brow, and he was thankful when the servant arrived with the wine. His hand shaking, he poured two glasses, setting one in front of Lord Gareth—who, he noted, looked at it the way he might a poisonous adder and declined to touch it. Did he know? Did he?
“Ah, so that’s it, you’ve lost your courage, then!” Snelling said. He wiped his brow and managed to find his politician’s smile somewhere down in the abyss into which it had fallen. “Happens to the best of them, you know. And you are the best, Gareth, probably the best in all England. Knew it the first time I saw you fight.” He gulped his wine. “Now, I know you might be a little nervous but that’s understandable, after all, the Butcher’s got a reputation to strike fear into the heart of anyone; but damn, that shouldn’t scare you, there’s not a man in England who can hit like you. Why, look at the two worthies you’ve already defeated! Three, if you count Joe Lumford back in London! You’re a natural, lad. A damned natural. You’ll take the Butcher down by the third round. I’ll lay money on it!”
Lord Gareth only stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his eyes bleak.
“I know, I know, it’s because of what happened to Nails, isn’t it? Now, Gareth, that was an accident. You can’t be blaming yourself for what happened—”
“I don’t.” The pale blue eyes looked at him directly, almost accusingly. “I just don’t want to fight the Butcher tonight. In fact, I don’t want to fight anyone. I am through, Snelling. I’ve lost my stomach for it.”
“But”—
Lord Gareth stood up. “I am taking my family and going home.”
A torrent of raw, uncontrollable rage blew through Snelling, nearly blinding him. His hands trembled with the effort it took to remain calm, and he knew, wildly, that if he’d had a gun, he would’ve pulled it out and shot this arrogant young rake dead in his tracks. But he had no gun. He had only the terrifying knowledge of how much money he’d put on the Butcher tonight—and how much he would lose if Lord Gareth did not fight.
“You can’t leave me like this!” he all but shouted. “Damn you, de Montforte, we had an agreement!”
“And I have a wife and daughter. I don’t want them ending up like Nails’s family if something should happen to me. I don’t want my wife mourning me, nor my little girl growing up without a papa.” He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. “Goodbye, Snelling.”
Snelling shot to his feet and raced around the table. “My, oh, my,” he said, flinging all caution to the wind, “I never thought that you, of all people, would turn out to be such a lily-livered coward. You, a de Montforte!”
Lord Gareth paused, and Snelling was reminded of how very tall and formidable this young man actually was. How powerfully muscled he was beneath that loose shirt—and how very foolish he himself was for provoking him so. He caught his breath, fearing he was going to be the next person to feel Lord Gareth’s fist—but no, the Wild One had himself tightly under control, no longer the impulsive hotspur he’d been that night at Mrs. Bottomley’s. “I would call you out for such a remark,” the younger man said evenly, with a cool smile that only made the coming insult worse, “but I make it a practice to duel exclusively with gentlemen—not those who aspire to be. Good evening, Snelling.”
“Wait!” Snelling tossed back his wine and leaped over the sofa, desperate to reach the door before Lord Gareth did. Gasping, he flattened his back against it and gazed up at his fighter with panicked eyes. Lord Gareth merely stared right through him and kept coming, and for a moment Snelling thought he was simply going to pick him up and throw him out of the way. “Listen,” he said, grinning broadly and spreading his hands in supplication. He knew he was begging, but he was desperate, unable to help himself. “I’ve put a lot of money and time into promoting this match between you two. I’ve given you a home, a livelihood, and a name for yourself. And this is how you think to repay me?”
“I don’t owe you a damned thing, Snelling. Now, stand aside.”
“But—”
Lord Gareth simply reached around him, found the latch, and pushed the door open. Snelling stumbled, nearly fell. And now Lord Gareth was striding past him and down the hall, his footfalls echoing off the walls and high ceiling.
“Wait!” Snelling cried, knowing he would give ten years of his life to possess that elegant, bred-in-the-bone grace; another ten for that cool, aristocratic arrogance—
And everything he owned if only he could get the young rakehell to fight tonight.
“Lord Gareth!”
The tall figure was almost into the foyer now.
“Lord Gareth! What will it take for me to get you to do this fight? A thousand pounds? Two thousand? Name your price, Gareth, and if you win, you shall have it!”
His words reverberated through the hall.
The young man paused at the threshold of the open door, looking out onto a hundred acres of wheat, rye and barley, and some of the most fertile ground in Berkshire. Above his head was Swanthorpe’s gorgeous leaded fanlight; beneath that, the de Montforte coat of arms, forever enshrined in the stone.
Lord Gareth’s fair head tipped back as he, too, looked up and saw his family’s arms above the door. He stood there for a moment, just gazing at that carving in the stone. And then, very slowly, he turned. His face was perfectly calm, his gaze almost triumphant.
“Very well then, Snelling,” he said. “I want Swanthorpe Manor.”
* * *
Snelling was in need of a stiff drink after Lord Gareth left. His heart was still pounding, though shaky relief was already beginning to spread through his veins. He poured himself a shot of brandy and sank back into the sofa. Thank God he’d found a way to get the lad to do the fight, after all. For a harrowing moment there he’d thought all was lost.
Very well then, Snelling I want Swanthorpe Manor.
Snelling cursed out loud as he recalled Lord Gareth’s words. That wasn’t all the arrogant young nob had wanted. He wanted his friend Lord Brookhampton to be his second for the fight instead of Woodford. He wanted Snelling to give Nails’s widow enough money to allow her to live comfortably for the remainder of her life. And, not content to trust Snelling’s word, he wanted Brookhampton to witness the impromptu agreement the two of them made regarding the terms of the match.
“Otherwise, I’m not fighting.”
Bloody hell. Snelling had just poured himself another shot when Sanderson, his butler, announced that he had a visitor.
“Woodford!” He smiled in relief. “Where the hell have you been?”
“It’s de Montforte.”
Snelling’s smile vanished. “Shut the door.”
Wordlessly, Woodford went back and pushed it closed. He glanced nervously around, then pulled up a chair opposite Snelling. “He’s on to us.”
“What are you talking about?”
For an answer, Woodford reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded vellum. “Creedon the gardener caught Tom Houghton trying to take this to the Duke of Blackheath late last night.” He tossed the note onto the table before his employer. “The idiot just brought it to me now. I thought you’d better see it immediately.”
Snelling hurriedly read, his face going purple with rage. “Damn that de Montforte for a clever, sneaking rogue!” he snarled, crumpling up the vellum that, had it actually reached the powerful Duke of Blackheath, would’ve had Snelling swinging from the nearest tree, so damning were the words. He shook the thing in Woodford’s face. “He knows everything, damn his eyes!”
“Yes, I figured he was on to us when Osgood, the chemist, mentioned he’d been snooping around and asking rather strange questions, so I paid Creedon to keep an eye on him. When Creedon saw him ask Tom Houghton to carry this note for him, he knew something was up. He followed the lad, bashed him over the head, and took the saddlebags—which contained the letter.”
“Why the hell did it take him so long to get the letter back to us?”
“There was also a flask of gin in the saddlebags.”
“Bloody hell.”
Woodford put both hands on the table, shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, and leaned close. “What are we going to do, Jon?”
Snelling held the damning letter over a candle, watching as it dissolved into a black, writhing curl. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” He flicked the ash from his fingers. “Lord Gareth knows too much. He must be dealt with—before he can tell Blackheath everything he knows. Christ, if that happens, I’m a dead man.”
Woodford drew himself up. “Fine. I’ll go take care of him now. Did you say he’s gone into town to find Brookhampton? I’ll just waylay him as he’s coming back through the Meadow, stick a knife in his back, and toss him into the Thames—”
“No, no, that won’t do at all. I’ve sunk enough money into de Montforte; I’m not going to waste it all by throwing him into the damned river.” He rose and poured himself another drink, his jaw working furiously as he sloshed the liquid around his mouth and swallowed. He turned to Woodford, his eyes blazing. “No, Woodford, we’ve made a staggering amount of money off of him but that will be nothing compared to what you and I are going to make off of him tonight.”
“And how are we going to do that? He’s on to us. He’ll be expecting us to drug the Scot so that he’ll win yet again, and then all he’ll have to do is denounce us right there in front of everyone—”
“Don’t be a pillock, Woodford. I am not going to drug the Scot. I didn’t wager all my money on the Butcher just to see him lose.”
Woodford raised a heavy brow.
“Lord Gareth is English,” Snelling continued, “and I can tell you right now, every Englishman at that fight tonight is going to back him—no matter how big the Scot is, no matter how likely it is he’ll make pulp of our young Wild One by the end of the first round. We’re talking about national loyalty here.”
Woodford, all ears, rubbed his jaw and listened.
“Everyone will be betting on Lord Gareth,” Snelling said, his eyes gleaming. “But my money—every penny I own—is on the Scot. And do you know why? Because Lord Gareth is going to lose tonight.”
Woodford shook his head. “Really, Jon, if you think he’s stupid enough to drink anything you offer him before the fight, you’ve got another thing com—”
