The hack slowed as they reached the familiar neighborhood of Ravenscroft’s townhome. In the darkness with only the glow of the street lamps, it looked more imposing than it truthfully was. Her heart hammered in her breast. Home, she thought.
“We’re here,” she informed the hapless footman, waving her pistol at him. “You alight first. I’ve no desire to cause you harm, but if you attempt to stop me, consider this fair warning. I can shoot an apple off a man’s head from fifty paces.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d used that threat. Very likely, it wouldn’t be the last. The footman blanched and did her bidding, preceding her out of the conveyance. She paid the hack driver, a grinning fellow with more black space in his mouth than teeth. If the sight of a lady brandishing a weapon and forcing a servant inside his conveyance had alarmed him, he still didn’t show it. The coin she’d given him prior to their departure had certainly helped to ease any concerns he may have had.
She hurried to the front door. It was answered in two swift knocks. Osgood appeared, his ordinarily imperturbable countenance brightening into an expression of genuine relief. “My lady! You’re home.”
“Of course I am. Please see to it that this young man has a nice meal and a warm bath.” She gestured to the footman with her pistol, which she perhaps ought to have hidden, given the startled look that raced across the butler’s face. Belatedly recalling the trappings of civility, she tucked the small weapon back into the pocket in her skirts. “I’m afraid I’ve given him quite a fright this evening. Where is his lordship?”
The redoubtable butler frowned. “He isn’t with you, my lady? He left a short time ago. He’d had word from the Whitney residence that you’d disappeared. His lordship was extremely concerned, as you might imagine.”
“Oh dear.” Perhaps her escape plan hadn’t gone as well as she’d imagined after all. Firing the pistol had, in retrospect, been a grievous error. “Have you any idea where he was headed?”
“I’m afraid not, my lady,” Osgood said gently, apparently recovered from the sight of her waving a pistol about like a common street criminal. Much to his credit. “He didn’t advise as to his plans as he was in quite a rush.”
Well, this was certainly an unexpected predicament of her own foolish making. She could either go back into the night in search of Julian or await his return. She hadn’t intended to cause such a frenzy with her departure. It seemed she’d never cease landing herself in scrapes.
Rather than continue to chase her husband all over town, the best course of action would be to stay in one place, she reasoned. If he’d rushed out at word of her disappearance, then his destination was likely her father’s home. “Osgood, would you please have a note sent to the Whitney residence to let them know I’ve arrived here safely and that I’ll await Lord Ravenscroft’s return?”
“Of course, my lady,” reassured the competent butler. “And may I say that I’m heartily relieved your ladyship has returned to us?”
She smiled, touched by the thawing in his ordinarily frigid hauteur. “Thank you, Osgood. I’m equally relieved to be back.”
Now if only her husband’s welcome would be as warm. She made her way to his study, intending to wait for him in its comfortable confines. But she wasn’t prepared for the disaster that greeted her upon her entrance. Books had been flung, their spines cracked. Glass shards littered the worn carpet. The entire room smelled heavily of spirits. Several dark stains marred the faded wallpaper. Chairs were overturned.
Good Lord, it looked as though a regiment of marauding soldiers had ransacked the chamber.
“Oh Julian,” she whispered as she took in the evidence of how much it had devastated him to send her away. The door closed softly at her back and for the briefest flash, the sensation that she wasn’t alone overcame her.
Before she could react, a voice sounded behind her.
“Lady Ravenscroft, we meet again.”
Clara’s entire body froze, her skin going instantly clammy, her breath hitched and shallow, her mouth dry as sand. Fear curled around her chest in a crushing grip. The last time she’d heard that voice, there had been a pair of large hands wrapped around her neck.
By the time Julian returned to his home and was instructed by a relieved Osgood that Clara awaited him in his study, he felt as if he’d been to the bloody gates of hell. First, a paralyzing dread had snared him in its unforgiving maws as he’d raced to Whitney’s house, desperate for news, any clue as to what had happened or how he could possibly find Clara. He’d been conferring with an extremely tense Jesse Whitney when word had arrived that the wayward minx was alive, thank God, and safe, waiting for him at home. Relief had come next, swift and searing. Following closely in its wake had been an almost unholy rage as the remainder of the succinct message had been read aloud.
Lady Ravenscroft escaped of her own volition.
No one had abducted her. She hadn’t been shot. Hadn’t been killed. However, shehadput her life in jeopardy. He’d done everything in his power to send her from him, had stripped his soul bare to secure her safety, and instead of seeing reason, she’d defied him and her father both. Not to mention that it appeared she’d somehow taken a servant along with her, after firing a shot at the poor fellow.
Julian had found himself torn equally between anger and reluctant admiration for the entirety of his ride back. One moment, his blood thundered through his veins, his temples throbbing with suppressed anger, that she would be so bloody foolish. That she would not stay where no one could harm her and seize her reprieve from marriage to him with both hands.
The next moment, he couldn’t help but appreciate her audacity and determination. Some lack-witted part of him, the part that loved his maddening wife to distraction, felt buoyed by hope that her actions carried a far greater significance than her mere willfulness. That she loved him, enough to foolishly risk all to stay with him.
Buffeted by his turbulent emotions as a ship in a storm-tossed sea, he crossed the threshold of his study, expecting to find his wife awaiting him, tucked into a wing chair. Or perhaps even standing, color staining her high cheekbones in her dudgeon. What he did not expect, as the door closed almost soundlessly at his back, was to see Clara, beautiful and stricken, her face wet with tears, trapped in his brother’s arms. The barrel of a gun was pressed to her golden curls.
“Jesus, Edward.” His eyes were only for Clara at first, drinking in the sight of her. She didn’t appear to be harmed, thank God. His gaze went to his brother, a sickening sense of realization hitting him straight in the gut. He’d thought with such certainty that an enemy from his past—some cuckolded husband or jilted lover—had attacked him and Clara both.
But it had been a different sort of enemy from the past altogether. His very own flesh and blood. Betrayal tore through him like a gunshot, swift and ravaging in its aim. Edward had tried to kill him.Edwardhad attempted to strangle Clara. How the hell could it be?
His shocked brain attempted to make sense of the scene before him. He wanted to believe that the man holding Clara against her will was a stranger. But his eyes didn’t lie. Edward had inherited their father’s short, bullish build and plain features. Ten years had worked some change upon him—his body was stockier, his dark hairline receding as the former earl’s had, grooves marking his forehead—but the man facing him now with murderous intent etched into the hard lines of his face was none other than his brother.
“Edward,” he said again, his thoughts whirling with how the hell he could get Clara to safety. Perhaps he could overpower him, disarm him, at least tear her from Edward’s grip. He stalked forward. “Is it you?”
“Don’t take another step or she dies.” Edward’s tone was flat and emotionless. Menacing.
Some instinct deep within Julian cried out, forced him to continue. Another step. Two.Mine, he thought grimly.I protect what’s mine.And no one else in the world belonged to him the way Clara did. The way he belonged to her. She was his wife. His love. He’d do anything to save her and protect her. Even if it meant offering his own life. Especially if it meant that, for a life without Clara in it was one he didn’t want to live.
