Scandalous Again Page 15

  From somewhere behind her, a door slammed.

  She dropped the candle, quickly searched the floor, found and pocketed it. She heard men’s voices, lifted in argument, and reassured herself with the touch of her hand on her pistol. Light shone through the door, getting closer. She ducked down beside the table. She held her breath, and hoped no one heard the pounding of her heart.

  “I’m telling ye, all day yer guests ‘ave been sneakin’ around, lookin’ in the windows, tryin’ the doors, an’ I saw someone come in the house.”

  Big Bill. Madeline recognized that voice, although his tone had changed from cocksure to fawning.

  “The door was locked. Everything’s secure.” Mr. Rumbelow sounded sharp and cold.

  Madeline’s eyebrows rose. The door was locked? She hadn’t locked it behind her. How had that happened?

  “I’m tellin’ ye—”

  “I believe you.” They moved closer, and by his tone it was clear Mr. Rumbelow was displeased. “But why don’t you know who it is? It’s your job to watch the safe.”

  “I ‘ave been! Me men are out ’ere night an’ day, but we’re not supposed t’ make ourselves known t’ yer fancy lordly guests.”

  “So you would rather mingle with them.” Mr. Rumbelow didn’t contain his impatience. “They’d abandon the house and the game if they knew who you are, and demand their ante back, too.”

  “Stupid cows,” Big Bill muttered.

  The men entered the room. The light of Mr. Rumbelow’s single candle seemed far too bright, and Madeline lowered her head.

  “I’m not interested in excuses. If you expect your part of the take, you’ll do better than this. Take a guess. Who was it?” In the dark, Mr. Rumbelow sounded less aristocratic and more like . . . Big Bill.

  Big Bill sounded surly. “It’s a man.”

  A man? Was there a man in here, too? Which in light of the open doors made sense, but he also added an element of yet more danger.

  Mr. Rumbelow must have made a face, for Big Bill snapped, “I couldn’t see nothin’ else. In case ye ‘aven’t noticed, mate, it’s darker than ‘ades out there.”

  “We’ll have to search the house. Get the men out around the perimeter. I’ll sweep upstairs and move down. Have someone watch the doors and catch him as he runs out.”

  “Shoot ‘im?” Big Bill asked.

  “Let me talk to him first. He might just be one of those idiotic noblemen trying to fix the game.”

  Big Bill gave a hoarse laugh. “Like that’ll matter.”

  Mr. Rumbelow chuckled, and said in a genial tone, “Yeah.” Then Madeline heard a thump, a choking sound, and Mr. Rumbelow snarled, “Or he might be making real mischief.”

  Madeline peeked up over the edge of the table. Mr. Rumbelow held Big Bill by the throat, up against the wall, his arm like a bar over Big Bill’s throat. The candlelight gave Mr. Rumbelow’s handsome face a demonic twist . . . or was it his expression, his intention? “Don’t ever underestimate these bastards. Some of them are smart. Some of them are honorable. Some are even both, but most of them would rob me and brag about it from a safe distance.”

  Big Bill gagged.

  Mr. Rumbelow let him go, and Big Bill slid down the wall.

  Mr. Rumbelow hadn’t dropped his pistol. He pointed it at Big Bill’s nose. “Never forget who’s in charge here.”

  “Nay,” Big Bill gasped. “Won’t.” Though he still held a rifle tucked in his arm, he looked like nothing more than a thug.

  Madeline had dealt with plenty of those on her travels. They were risky, but they could be handled. It was the men of intelligence, vicious men like Mr. Rumbelow, who proved treacherous.

  Who was Mr. Rumbelow? What did he have planned? The questions had never seemed more important.

  As they moved into the corridor and the light from Mr. Rumbelow’s candle faded, she slowly stood up. She needed to discover what was happening here. But first she needed to get out of here, and with men watching the doors, that would be—

  Someone grabbed her by the arm. She gasped, but before the sound escaped a man’s hand covered her mouth.

  She swung hard with her elbow, catching the fellow in the ribs.

  He grunted. Then, in a fierce whisper, Gabriel demanded, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Madeline caught her breath, the thought flashed through her mind—she almost preferred Mr. Rumbelow and his pistol. Prying Gabriel’s hand away from her mouth, she whispered, “I came to . . . um . . .” Then it occurred to her—she didn’t owe Gabriel an explanation. “What are you doing here?”

  Still holding her arm, he pulled her across the corridor into another room, darker yet than the gaming room. She heard the faint clicking of his flint, saw the sparks and at last a candle sprang to light.

  He did it more easily than she did, but she had time for only a moment of faint resentment before seeing his furious face.

  And he was furious. He wore a black shirt, black trousers and black boots. His lips were a thin hard line, his eyes were narrowed and shiny hard.

  She experienced a faint spasm of pity for Mr. Rumbelow; if he thought he could win against Gabriel, he was in for a sad surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” Gabriel demanded again.

  She should stop pitying Mr. Rumbelow and start worrying about herself. She’d seen Gabriel look like this only once before, and that was during her disgraceful scene at Almack’s—and the results had been disastrous. For her body, which had learned so much so quickly. For her mind, which had known scarcely a moment’s peace since that night.

  She toyed with the thought of lying, but no. She was the future duchess of Magnus. Yes, she had broken her word. She would not add another lie. “I’ve come to steal the tiara, and do you think it’s a good idea to light a candle with Mr. Rumbelow searching the house and his men outside?”

  “Damn it, woman!” Gabriel took the candle and with it lit three different candelabras with four candles each.

  After the unrelieved darkness, so much light left Madeline feeling exposed and nervy.

  She and Gabriel stood in a bedchamber, small but luxurious—probably the dowager’s, whoever she might have been. For all the gaudiness of the rest of the estate, this room was well appointed, with rich, old-fashioned, airy furniture. The walls were painted gold, and heavy emerald-colored drapes covered the windows. A few cut-glass bottles cluttered the polished surfaces, and the four-poster bed was made and ready for an occupant.

  Gabriel nodded as if well satisfied, then caught Madeline and whirled her so her back was against one of the foot posts. He gathered her close.

  “What are you doing?” She pushed at his arms.

  “There’s no way out of it. We’re going to get caught. The trick is to make them think they caught us doing something that we want to hide. Something they’ll be in the position to blackmail us about.”

  She knew very well what he meant. She wasn’t the kind of female to pretend she didn’t. She even knew that it didn’t matter who Mr. Rumbelow’s men had seen or whose fault it was she and Gabriel were in this position. What mattered was escaping without being caught, without having to explain to everyone who she was and why she had taken on this disguise—to escape without becoming one of Big Bill’s victims. With brisk motions, she removed her bonnet and cast it toward a chair. “Very well. Kiss me, and make it look real.”

  He stared down at her, and he smiled. Not that slashing grin of amusement and derision, but a smile that looked almost fond, almost admiring. “I will. But not yet. Rumbelow isn’t close yet.”

  Meaning Gabriel wouldn’t kiss her until he had to?

  He murmured, “Did you get close to the safe?”

  “I had just touched the lock when I saw Mr. Rumbelow’s light.” She was willing to answer Gabriel’s questions, but she would demand he answer hers. “Did you follow me?”

  “No. Has anyone seen you?”

  “No, but apparently they sa
w you!”

  “Bad luck all around.” He lifted his head as if listening. Feet tromped overhead, but nothing else moved. Looking back down at her, he asked, “Do you remember that night we met? You gave me two dances in a row and your audacity caused a horrible ruckus, but by the time the evening was over, everyone knew we were destined to wed.”

  Why was he speaking to her like that? That tone, low and sexy, made her edgy—and she didn’t want to be edgy. Not when he could feel every breath and every tremor of her body. “Obviously, they were wrong.”

  His grip around her waist was gentle, yet so firm she knew she could never move away. And where would she go? Her spine rested against the bedpost, the door was miles away, Gabriel moved with that deceptive swiftness and a man with a gun prowled the corridors. She was, she assured herself, helpless. But . . . “If we’re not going to kiss now, why do we have to stand so close?”

  “Because I want to.” Gabriel’s voice sounded as warm and comforting as a crackling fire on a winter’s day—and just as treacherous. For fires burn as well as give warmth, and in this mood, Gabriel possessed a wildness that boded ill for their pursuers . . . and for her. “Maddie, do you remember when we sneaked into the garden at Lady Crest’s party?”

  “Reminiscing, Gabriel?” She mocked, but she did remember. “I thought you disdained memories of me.”

  “Disdained? Not a man breathing would disdain the memory of you. You came alive in my arms.” That smile still played around his mouth, sending uneasy chills up her spine. “For all that you were young, you were brash and beautiful, so sure of yourself, I expected to discover another man had taught you how to love.”

  She moved restlessly. “No!” And cursed herself for admitting the truth when she never had before.

  “I knew.”

  So it didn’t matter.

  “I knew when I kissed you. You were so eager and so awkward.”

  She remembered that, too. She had wanted to show him, at once, that she was his, but she didn’t comprehend even the basics. She kissed with her lips puckered and tight, and she’d been quaking in her leather slippers.

  Now she knew—he recognized her ineptitude. “What a fool I was.”

  “No. Just very young. Youth is always cured by time. Nothing cures foolishness.” Pressing her head onto his shoulder, he offered a moment of comfort. “When I think back, I remember that great, arrogant sense of triumph that I would be the first.”

  She pushed back from him, rejecting solace. Rejecting him. “What an ass you were. Are.”

  “Yes.” He admitted it without a bit of shame.

  Two could play that game. In a mocking tone, she asked, “Who was your first, Gabriel?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Stroking the back of his fingers up his cheek, he twisted them into her hair and brought her face up to his. “You were my last.”

  Her heart leaped at his declaration.

  Then he kissed her, and she didn’t have time to consider pride or dignity. Gabriel took possession of her mind as he took possession of her lips—hungrily, tasting eagerly, biting lightly, treating her mouth like a feast laid particularly for him.

  For a moment. When she didn’t respond, he withdrew.

  Maybe he didn’t really want to kiss her. Maybe all this reminiscing was his way of working himself up to a distasteful deed.

  She laughed softly. No, he still wanted her. Wanted her off balance, wanted her enough that he hung over her like a great wolf savagely wooing its mate. His eyes glittered, but his voice was soft as he asked, “Do you remember that time in Lord Newcastle’s library when we were kissing and you pushed me down on his desk?”

  Yes, she did, and now beneath her hands he felt different, yet the same—firm, strong, with a heat that simmered beneath his skin. Her fingers slid along the breadth of his shoulders, seeking out the contour of muscle and bone . . . seeking out the man she’d known with such intimacy. He was here, but different, bigger, tougher, with an edge of cruelty not sensed before. Right now—perhaps never—that cruelty wasn’t directed at her. But sometimes, with a glance, with a sneer, this man frightened her.

  At one time she would have said nothing had frightened her. She wasn’t so foolish now. Men with guns, men with violent pasts, men inured to death and suffering—Mr. Rumbelow and Big Bill—frightened her. She didn’t underestimate the danger of her current situation. Only Gabriel, the man she’d jilted, stood between her and death.

  Gabriel would save her. But Gabriel had reason to want revenge on her. She stared into his face, lit by soft candlelight but still angular and tough. “Will they shoot us?”

  His arms tightened. “I wish you’d thought about that sooner and stayed in your bedchamber.”

  “I would have if you’d promised to win the tiara without demanding such an iniquitous payment.”

  “Iniquitous? To demand that you lie with me in return for the queen’s tiara?” His hands unhurriedly smoothed down her spine. “Not at all. A laborer is worthy of his hire.”

  “You’re not a laborer. You’re a—” She hesitated for a crucial moment.

  “A gambler, you mean to say.” Leaning close enough to speak into her ear, he said, “Or perhaps . . . an earl from an ancient and well-respected family. Or perhaps . . . your former fiancé.” With each word, his voice deepened. “Or even . . . your lover.”

  She shoved at his chest. “Only once.”

  “Only one night,” he corrected. “I did offer to win you the tiara if you would leave here, but you refused. Now it’s too late.” Then, as his hands wandered, his expression grew astonished. “My God, Maddie, what’s this?” He lifted the weight of her pistol from her waist.

  “A gun.”

  “I know that,” he said testily. “What are you doing with it?”

  “I brought it for my protection.”

  “One pistol? One shot? Against these men?”

  “If I carried ten pistols, my reticule would be too heavy to carry.” Absurd man. “Besides, what do you have for your own defense?”

  “A knife in my boot and my sleeve.” He examined the quilting that gave the holster richness and strength, the way the inside was shaped to hold the gun securely and the outside was shaped to conceal the contents. “Very elegant. Very practical.”

  She didn’t like to, but she basked in his admiration. “Thank you.”

  “No one would ever know you were carrying a pistol.”

  “No one expects a lady to, anyway.” She allowed him to remove the pistol and the holster.

  “Why not in your reticule? Or in your muff?” He placed them under the bed.

  “I’ve used both, but sometimes I want both my hands free, as I did tonight.”

  Mr. Rumbelow was right over their heads now. They gazed up at the ceiling as if they could see him—or he could see them. They were in trouble. They knew it; they just didn’t know how grave the trouble would prove to be.

  Gabriel gathered her into his arms again.

  Her pulse speeded up—probably the sound of Mr. Rumbelow’s footsteps frightened her. “Do you always carry the knives?” she asked Gabriel.

  “Always at least one.”

  Fascinated by this new side of him, she asked, “Did you before, in London?”

  “Always. In case of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Footpads. And now . . . the French. Do you keep your gun with you all of the time?”

  “If I feel the need, and if it’s possible to carry it without anyone noticing.”

  “It would be good if you carried it with you, as much as possible, for the rest of the house party.”

  When she would have asked more questions, he put his finger over her lips. “We need to concentrate on our dilemma. We’ll have to convince Rumbelow and his cohorts that we’re lovers.”

  Her heart hurried and tripped. “I can’t do that.”

  He smiled again, but this time she saw that smile she’d become so familiar with these last two days. That to
othy smile, that savage smile. “Not even if the alternative is death?”

  “You have a way with words.” He had a way with fear.

  “We’ll fool them. Remember the scandals we almost caused? I feared poor Eleanor was going to collapse, trying to keep up with us.”

  “For good reason.” Madeline wiggled, trying to loosen his grip.

  “Be still.” In a low, intense voice, he asked, “Do you remember what I said when I left you that morning?”

  Remember. She hated that word. She did remember, and he carried her away on a wave of memories.

  Leaning over the bed, he gazed into her eyes. “Next time, you’ll come to me.”

  As daylight crept into her bedchamber, a sense of defeat choked her. “No, I won’t.”

  His low voice vibrated with intensity. “You’ll come because you’ve got no choice. Because I’m part of your body and your soul, and you need me just as you need the air you breathe and the wind in your hair.”

  He frightened her, not because she thought he would hurt her, but because she feared he was right. “No!”

  “Believe what you like. You’ll come to me.”

  So she had put herself out of temptation’s way, fleeing to the continent in an unprecedented act of spinelessness—or wisdom.

  He lifted his head and listened, then bent himself over her like a male trying to protect his female. Like a lover trying to protect his mate. “Rumbelow’s at the top of the stairs.” Gabriel had the oddest expression on his face—not that shark-bright smile nor the affectionate smirk, but an anticipatory smile that made her try to take a step backward. “Tonight, I’ll protect you. But about the bargain—you need to make a choice.”