Sylvia Day - Passion for Him

“Fascinating,” St. John murmured.

“And what of Lysette?” Simon asked.

“Mitchell was my target,” the Frenchman said. “You were hers. The Illuminés do not like to leave anything to chance.”

“Bloody hell.” Colin growled his frustration. “And what of tonight? What role did Depardue play?”

“He was responsible for discovering the truth regarding Leroux’s death, which is a personal matter to the agent-general.”

“So I am still wanted in France,” Colin said, “and someone must pay for Leroux’s death. My predicament has not changed, merely your and Mademoiselle Rousseau’s role in it.”

Jacques smiled grimly. “Yes.”

“And now Depardue is dead.”

“Do not regret that outcome, mon ami. As Mademoiselle Rousseau can attest, he was a far from honorable man. I would never allow you to suffer for his crimes. I assured you of that from the beginning.”

“But you allowed Depardue into my house,” Ware pointed out. “Why?”

“Cartland sent him to find Miss Benbridge,” Jacques explained. “I agreed to assist him, but my intent was not to let him succeed. I had hoped to be the one to ‘discover’ him and kill him, thereby deepening your trust in me.”

“I do not understand.” St. John stepped closer. “Why does Cartland trust you?”

“Because of Depardue. When Mitchell and I were still in London, I searched for Cartland. I found Depardue and told him I was working with Lysette to apprehend Leroux’s killer. Lysette’s involvement made Depardue wary. This created an opening with Cartland, who needed alternate French support because Depardue did not believe him.”

“Where is Cartland now?” Colin asked.

“At the inn, waiting for word.”

Colin looked at Quinn, who stood.

“I will change swiftly,” Quinn said.

St. John rose. “I shall come along, as well.”

“I will stay here with the women,” Ware offered. Then he smiled. “Though I doubt they need my protection.”

Colin left the room and moved toward the library with a rapid, eager stride. Quinn fell into step beside him.

“It appears that your vindication is at hand,” the Irishman said.

“Yes. Finally.” Anticipation thrummed through Colin’s veins and made his heart race. The divide separating him from Amelia still existed, but the scent of their lovemaking clung to his skin and gave him hope. She loved him. The rest would come in time.

He and Quinn parted ways by the staircase, and Colin returned to the library to collect his coats. His fist curled around the empty sheath that normally held his dagger, and his mind returned to the moment when Amelia had come to his aid, defending him to the death. Earlier today he had thought it impossible to love her more than he did. Now he realized he was falling in love with her all over again. With the woman Amelia had grown into.

For the first time, Colin was absolutely certain there was no other man in the world better for Amelia. And even if that were not the case, damn them all regardless. She belonged to him. With perseverance he might convince her to believe that, too.

Resolute and determined, he shrugged into his garments and left the room. Ware was standing at the foot of the staircase, staring down at the location where Depardue’s body had lain not long ago. The scene was tidied now, but Colin suspected the memory would haunt the earl for years to come.

At the sound of footfalls, Ware turned his head, and his gaze narrowed upon seeing Colin.

“If you capture Cartland,” Ware said, “you will have no further business here.” His jaw tightened. “Except for one.”

“Shall we meet at dawn?” Colin suggested. The duel was one more impediment to his future with Amelia. He wanted it dispatched immediately. “We will both have been awake through the night. No advantage for either of us.”

“Perhaps you will fight at length or return wounded,” the earl said grimly. “However, if neither of those conditions applies, dawn will suit me well.”

Colin bowed and hastened toward the stables, spurred by the thought that the sun could rise upon an entirely new life for him. He found St. John waiting with a dozen men. Quinn appeared shortly after.

Within a half hour, a troop of over a dozen riders was on its way into town.

Cartland heard the sounds of many booted feet approaching his room and reached for the gun resting on the table before him. Sending Depardue along with four others had been a gamble he would have preferred to avoid, but sometimes such risks reaped the greatest rewards.

Holding a pistol lightly in one hand, he waited for the knock and then called out for entry. The door opened, and one of his men entered in a rush.

“I cannot be certain,” the man said; “perhaps I am overcautious, but a group of three heavily armed gentlemen entered the tavern below.”

Cartland tucked his weapon into his waistband and reached for his coat. “Better to be cautious than foolhardy.” He caught up his small sword and moved swiftly toward the door. “Are the others below?”

“Yes, and two in the stables.”

“Excellent, come with me.”

Moving with long, rapid strides, Cartland made his egress by way of the servants’ staircase. Straight ahead was the rear exit, but he turned left instead and went through the kitchen to the delivery door. It always paid to be careful.

The door was ajar, allowing the cool night breeze into the hot kitchen. Cartland saw nothing but darkness beyond the small pool of spilling light, but he rushed outside to the alley in a near run to give himself a better chance of escape if a trap was set.

Once he was shrouded by the enveloping moonlit night, he felt safer.

Until he heard the pained grunt of the lackey who ran just behind him.

Startled, Cartland stumbled over a loose bit of gravel. He spun, pulling his gun free as he did so, his gaze wild and seeking.

“So good to see you again,” Mitchell called out.

The light of the moon illuminated the narrow alley and the prone body on the ground with the knife hilt protruding from its back. The lackey groaned and writhed and was absolutely useless to Cartland.

“You!” he sputtered, unable to see the man who hunted him.

“Me,” Mitchell agreed from the shadows.

The echo created by the surrounding buildings made it difficult to determine where Mitchell was.

Meanwhile, Cartland was out in the open.

Brandishing his firearm, Cartland said, “The French won’t believe that I am at fault. They trust me.”

“Allow me to worry about that.”

There was a thud to the left, and Cartland fired in that general direction. When a large, round rock rolled down the shallow incline to rest against his booted foot, he knew he’d been tricked. Had he not been so panicked, he would have known better. His heart sank into his gut, frozen by terror.

Mitchell’s laughter filled the night. Then the Gypsy appeared in a flurry of a swirling cape like some phantom apparition. In each hand was a weapon. One was a pistol, which left Cartland with no options beyond death or surrender. His useless, smoking gun fell from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the alley floor.

“I can help you,” he offered urgently. “I can speak on your behalf and clear your name.”

Mitchell’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Yes, you will-by returning to France and paying for your crimes.”

Amelia jolted awake just before dawn. Her heart was racing as if she’d run a great distance, but she could not discern why.

She lay abed for a long moment, blinking up at the canopy above her. Her bleary gaze lingered upon the gold tassels that framed the edges, and she attempted to regulate her panting by concentrating on every breath.

Then she heard an unmistakable noise that filled her with dread-the sound of swords clashing outside.

For a moment, she feared the men had not succeeded with their early morning capture of Cartland, but the lack of shouting and mayhem dispelled that thought.

The duel!

She called out for her abigail as she leaped up from the bed. “Anne!”

Hurrying to the window, she threw the drapes wide, cursing under her breath to see the pale gray-and-pink sky.

Amelia rushed to her armoire and pulled out a shawl. “Anne!”

The door opened, and she turned in an agitated flurry. “Why did you not wake me before-Maria!”

“Amelia.”

The note of sympathy in Maria’s voice caused gooseflesh to flare across Amelia’s arms. “No!” she breathed, rushing past her sister to the gallery.

“Poppet! Wait!”

But she did not. She ran with all the strength she had, nearly crashing into an industrious chambermaid before skittering around the corner and stumbling down the stairs. As she approached the lower floor, the unmistakable ring of clashing foils iced her blood. Amelia was nearly to the French doors that led to the rear terrace and the lawn beyond that when she was caught in a crushing embrace and restrained. She attempted a scream, but was gagged by a massive hand over her mouth.

“Sorry,” Tim muttered. “I can’t let you distract ’em while they’re fighting. That’s ’ow men are killed.”

She shuddered violently at the thought of either man being injured. Struggling like a madwoman, Amelia fought for freedom, but even grown men could not best Tim. As the sounds of fighting continued, tears welled and coursed freely. Every clang of steel clashing against steel struck her like a blow, causing her to jerk repeatedly in Tim’s arms. He cursed and pressed his cheek to hers, murmuring things meant to soothe, but nothing could alleviate her distress.

Then…silence.

Amelia froze, afraid to breathe in case the sound would overpower the heralds of whatever was transpiring outside.