Not Max’s brother. But Nicholas remained convinced Simon Leeming was behind it. “Where was this?”
“Two miles east of here, near the fork in the river where the willows grow.”
Nicholas took up the reins. “My thanks, Vano. Safe travels.”
He bent his head in his peculiar half bow. Nicholas suspected it was beneath him to defer to anyone, but perhaps he considered he owed Nicholas a modicum of respect. Or maybe he had an eye on his next visit. His following words confirmed it.
“Next year, then, milord.”
Nicholas turned his horse’s head. “Goodbye to you.”
He and Warren rode away. Once they were out of earshot, Warren said, “My father cursed the gypsies. Drove them off his land. Thieves they are.”
“I find it better to remain on good terms with them. Vano isn’t such a bad fellow. You respect them, they respect your land, at least most of the time.”
Warren looked doubtful.
Urging their horses into a canter, they rode on.
A short time later, they’d eased their mounts into a trot when Nicholas pulled up. He pointed ahead of them. “The place Vano spoke of is a half-mile or so beyond those trees.”
When they got as close as they dared, they dismounted and tied the reins to a branch.
Nicholas pulled out his gun, cocked it, and crept forward. Warren followed. The men’s two horses grazed near the river.
As they edged closer, loud voices reached them.
Nicholas signaled to Warren.
They covered the distance in a half-crouch and took cover in a thicket of trees. Nicholas spotted the camp through the branches. A stone’s throw from the riverbank, Simon and his French friend, Bettencourt, sat on a log, tearing off pieces from a loaf of bread and drinking from a bottle. The two men were involved in a heated argument.
Nicholas turned to Warren and held a finger to his lips. He gestured and moved behind the thick trunk of a dead tree to hear their conversation.
“You’re a fool. If I’d meant you to attack the house, I would have said so,” Simon yelled. “I instructed you to find the boy’s bedchamber and deal with him. Make it look like an accident had befallen him. Now they’re on the alert for us.”
“They expected something to happen. I couldn’t get inside, so starting the fire was the only option,” Bettencourt said. “They’d planted guards around the house. It was then or never. Should the house have burned down, your worries would have been over.”
“But it didn’t. And if it had burned down, who’s to say if the boy would have died? This has been a clumsy effort from the start,” Simon snarled. “I told you to entice Caroline into the garden at the ball where we could have taken her hostage. What happened to your so-called famous charm?”
As he listened, Nicholas gritted his teeth with anger.
“It would have worked if the opportunity had presented itself. She left before I could dance with her.”
“Bah. Now we can’t get within a mile of the house. The gates are guarded. We’re locked out and cannot use the carriage. Forget taking hostages. It’s my bet they’ll keep the boy inside the house. We might as well give up on this occasion and leave before they find us. You can bet Pennington is out searching for us at this very moment. We can wait for another chance. When the boy returns to school will be better. He won’t have much protection and can suffer an unfortunate accident. We should plan for that as soon as we leave here.”
“You are set on this course?”
“I am. I should have been Baron Leeming, and but for that blasted boy, I would have. After Max had two daughters, I thought I had the title within my grasp. He’d been sickly as a child with scarlet fever. Left him with a dicky heart. It was obvious he wouldn’t make old bones.”
Impossible now to silence his mounting rage, Nicholas stepped out from the trees, the gun pointed at Simon’s chest. “You were right about one thing, at least. Throw down your guns.” A speculative look in his black eyes, Bettencourt held on to his pistol. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Nicholas warned. “On your feet, both of you.”
With a curse, the Frenchman tossed his gun away.
“You’ll never get us back to the house,” Simon yelled. “You can’t shoot both of us. It’s two against one.”
As he spoke, the Frenchman reached into his boot, and jumping to his feet, raised his arm, a knife flashing in his hand.
Warren fired from the bushes. The man cursed and clutched at his arm, the knife clattering onto the stones.
