The Bride's Necklace Part 9

"I-I think I'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

"I said sit!"

She dropped into the nearest chair as if her legs had been severed at the knee and forced herself to look up at him. He seemed even taller than he usually did, his eyes fierce and dark, his jaw clamped tight.

"I think it's time we talked about the necklace."

Her head swam. For an instant, she feared she would fall right out of the chair. "Wh-what necklace?"

"The one you and your sister stole from Baron Harwood."

Her palms went damp. She smoothed them over her crisp black taffeta skirt. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm speaking of the very valuable diamond-and-pearl necklace that was stolen from Harwood Hall." His jaw hardened. "And there is also the not-insignificant crime of the attempted murder of the baron."

Tory swallowed, tried to look calm when her insides were quaking. "I don't know a Baron Harwood. I have never even heard of him."

"I don't know him, either, but that is hardly the point. The fact remains, according to information I happened to overhear at my club, information that apparently was printed in the newspaper-editions I somehow managed to miss-the crimes were committed and two young women are suspect. One is tall and blond, the other dark-haired and a few inches shorter." He stared hard into her face. "Sound like anyone you know?"

Tory forced an eyebrow up. "You think Claire and I are the women you describe? Why would you believe we had anything to do with it?"

"Because the blond is said to be extravagantly fair of face." A corner of his mouth edged up. "And the brunette is reported to be ruthless in the extreme."

Tory's spine went stiff. "You think I am ruthless?"

His lips curved into what might have pa.s.sed for a smile. It wasn't a friendly smile. "Desperation drives people to do desperate things. You looked pretty desperate the day I met you on the paving stones in front of my house."

She sat up a little straighter in the deep leather chair, keeping her eyes on his face. "If the necklace were as valuable as you say and I had, indeed, stolen it, I wouldn't have been desperate. I would have been quite well settled. That only makes sense."

Lord Brant pinned her with a glare. "Or perhaps something happened to the money you received from the sale. Perhaps it was stolen or you spent it or-"

"Or perhaps I am innocent of the crime. Perhaps I never took the necklace, never sold it, and therefore never had any money at all."

He didn't believe her, not for an instant. She could see it in his face. Her heart was hammering, her cheeks flushed. She wondered if he could tell how terrified she was.

She nervously smoothed a loose curl into the coil at her nape. "These women...they were servants in the baron's household?"

"I presume so." His voice faintly softened. "If you are in trouble, Victoria, perhaps I can help. Tell me the truth. I don't believe you are the sort who would commit these crimes without cause. Tell me what you have done and let me see what I can do to straighten things out."

She wanted to. Dear G.o.d, she wanted to tell him the truth more than anything in the world. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to save her. If she did, if she told him she and Claire were Harwood's stepdaughters, he would be honor-bound to send them back to the baron. She couldn't let that happen.

"I would tell you, my lord, if there were any truth to the tale. In fact, there is none. Claire and I are not the women in question. We are not the ones who committed the crimes."

A muscle tightened in his cheek. "Lie to me, Victoria, and I will see you punished to the very limits of the law."

The blood drained from her face. He would see them put into prison. They would languish there for years, perhaps even die there. Dear G.o.d, it took all of her courage to look into the hard lines of his face and lie to him again.

"I am telling you the truth."

The earl stared at her for several moments more, then turned and walked away. "That will be all," he said harshly, keeping his back to her. "For now."

Legs shaking, Tory rose unsteadily to her feet. As silently as possible, she made her way out the door of the study. She and Claire would have to run again, leave London, find someplace new to hide.

Tears blurred her vision as she hurried down the hall toward the stairs leading down to her room. She would have to tell Claire. She had no idea where they might go, no idea how to get there. Somehow she would have to find a way.

In the meantime, her behavior had to remain completely normal. She would do her job exactly as she usually did until the workday was over.

Tonight she would tell Claire the awful news. Then they would have to leave.

Dammit to h.e.l.l! Cord slammed a hand against the walnut bookshelf in his study. He didn't know if he wanted to throttle Victoria for lying or admire the courage it had taken to stand up to him in one of his towering rages.

Few men had the nerve. Sarah was the only woman who had ever been brave enough, and only because she knew he would never hurt a woman. Victoria had feared him, as he had meant for her to do. Still, she refused to cower and instead found the strength to defy him.

He knew she was guilty. She was a very poor liar. He could see the deceit written clearly on her face. What he didn't know was why she had done it, and as he had said, he didn't believe she was the sort to commit such crimes without cause. He ought to call in the authorities, he knew, but the notion left a bad taste in his mouth. Before he decided what action he would take, he needed to ferret out the truth.

He would, he vowed, pacing over to his desk. He would hire a Bow Street runner, and he knew exactly the man. Seating himself behind the desk, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the pen from its silver holder and dipped it into the inkwell, then scratched out a message for Jonas McPhee, instructing him to discover all he could about Harwood, the theft of the necklace, and the serving women who had allegedly stolen it.

He had used McPhee before and been satisfied with the results. Cord sealed the message with a drop of wax, then rang for a footman to see it delivered to Bow Street. Once the facts were known-a.s.suming he had judged Victoria correctly-he would find a way to help her.

In the meantime, he'd have Timmons keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't try to leave while he was away.

Cord sighed, his mind returning to recent events. Yesterday, Colonel Pendleton had stopped by with the news Cord had been waiting for. The prison escape was set. The schooner, Nightingale, that Cord had hired for the trip would be sailing for France tonight. If all went well, Ethan would be free and aboard the s.h.i.+p sometime tomorrow evening.

As soon as he finished supper, Cord returned to his study. It was dark tonight, not the hint of a moon. A fog had begun to creep in, a thick coc.o.o.n hanging over the streets of the city. A hammering at the door of his study drew his gaze from the window and an instant later Rafael Saunders, duke of Sheffield, strode in, a man as tall as Cord, dark-haired and powerfully built.

"Everything's set, I gather." Rafe walked straight to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

"Everything on this end's ready to go," Cord replied. Rafe had been determined to come along. He was a friend of both Ethan and Cord's, a capable sort of man. If anything went wrong, Cord would be d.a.m.ned glad to have him along.

"We're to anchor in a cove near Cap Gris-Nez, south of Calais," Cord said. "A boat will deliver Ethan to the schooner sometime after midnight. All we have to do is turn round and take him home."

Rafe swirled the brandy in his gla.s.s. "Sounds too easy."

Cord had been thinking the very same thing. "I know."

"Let's just hope we get lucky-or that Ethan does."

Cord nodded. "It's early yet. I've got a couple of things to do. The Nightingale is anch.o.r.ed on the Southwark quay near the bridge. I'll meet you there at midnight."

Rafe downed the last of his brandy and set the empty snifter back on the sideboard. "I'll see you on the s.h.i.+p."

Cord watched him leave, his thoughts on both his cousin and the women in his employ. Over the next few days, he hoped to see both of his problems resolved.

Tory stepped back into the shadows of the hall outside the study and watched the tall, elegantly dressed figure of the duke of Sheffield stride off, his expensive Hessian boots ringing on the black-and-white-marble floor. She shouldn't have eavesdropped, wouldn't have if her situation had not been so dire. But until she and Claire were safely away from London, she had to know what the earl was about.

To her relief, his meeting with the duke had nothing to do with them, but involved Lord Brant's ongoing plan to save his cousin.

A plan that had him sailing to France that very night.

Tory mulled over the news as she climbed the stairs to Claire's third-floor bedchamber. The workday was over. It was time they left the house, got as far from London as they possibly could. Grace would be angry that Tory had not sent word of her departure, but she refused to involve her friend unless there was no other choice.

She knocked on her sister's door. Claire pulled it open. She was already dressed in her night rail, her pale hair plaited into a single braid. Tory stepped into the room and quietly closed the door.

"What is it?" Claire said. "You don't look quite yourself."

Tory sighed. "I'm afraid I am bringing bad news."

"Bad news? What sort of...?" Her face went suddenly pale. "You don't mean they have found out who we are?"

"In a roundabout way, I'm afraid they have. Or at least the earl has become suspicious. We have to get away before he discovers the truth."

Claire's lovely blue eyes filled with tears. "Where shall we go? Oh, Tory, what shall we do? I like it here. I don't want to leave."

"I know you don't, darling, but we haven't got any other choice. We have to leave or we'll be arrested. And I think I know a place where we will be safe."

Claire sniffed. "Where?"

"France."

"France? I thought we were at war with France."

"England is at war with France. You and I aren't at war with anyone. And the earl is sailing there tonight." Tory explained her idea, how they would steal aboard the s.h.i.+p and hide in the hold, then once the s.h.i.+p was anch.o.r.ed in the cove, they could slip over the side and swim ash.o.r.e.

"But I can't swim, Tory!"

"No, but I can." When she was at school, she and Grace sometimes sneaked down to the river in the afternoons. One of the village boys had taught them to swim. Claire had always wanted to learn but had never quite worked up the courage to let Tory teach her. "It won't be that far to sh.o.r.e and I can help you get there."

"I don't know, Tory...."

"It'll work, Claire. We both speak excellent French. No one will suspect we're English. We'll go to Paris. Perhaps I'll find that job as governess that I hoped to find before."

Claire nervously moistened her lips. "Do you really think it could work?"

"I'm sure it will. Now, you get dressed and pack your satchel, then come to my room downstairs."

As she left Claire's bedchamber, Tory thought of the earl and wondered if he might have instructed someone to watch them while he was away. She was beginning to know how he thought. She wouldn't put it past him. Timmons would be the logical choice. She would have to make sure the butler didn't see them leave.

The wheels of the hackney carriage whirred into the tense silence around them. Finding a conveyance for hire had not been easy, but in the end, Tory had been able to flag down a hackney about four blocks from the house. According to the conversation she had overheard in Cord's study, the Nightingale could be found near the bridge at the Southwark docks. It was an unsavory section of town, scarcely a place for a pair of young women. They would have to be careful, go straight to the s.h.i.+p, and pray they could sneak aboard without being caught.

"Are we there yet, Tory?"

"Soon, darling."

"How will we get aboard?" Claire asked, speaking the question Tory had hoped to avoid.

"Don't worry, we'll figure out a way once we get there." And the fog would definitely be of help. It grew thicker as the hackney approached the dock.

"The Nightingale is supposed to be down by the bridge," Tory told the driver, growing more nervous by the moment. "Can you tell which one it is?" A sea of s.h.i.+ps' masts bobbed along the quay. In the heavy fog, how on earth would they find the right one?

"Harbor master'll know where 'tis. I can stop and find out if ye like."

She felt a wave of relief. "Yes, please."

A few minutes later, they were on their way again, headed for the Nightingale's berth in the spot the harbor master had indicated.

Tory thanked the driver, gave him a little extra for his trouble, and she and Claire climbed out into the misty dark night.

"I think I see it," Claire whispered.

Tory read the name on the stern. "Yes, and there are only a couple of crewmen on deck and they appear to be quite busy." Tory reached over to adjust the hood of Claire's cloak, making certain it covered her sister's bright hair, then adjusted her own. Gripping her sister's hand, they started toward the s.h.i.+p.

Chapter Eight*.

The deck of the Nightingale rocked pleasantly beneath Cord's feet. He had always loved the ocean-its beauty and its vastness, the salt spray in his face and the cry of the gulls overhead, though his pa.s.sion couldn't compare to Ethan's, who lived and breathed the sea, had loved s.h.i.+ps and sailing since he was a boy.

It was natural that Ethan, the marquess's second son, had joined the navy as soon as he graduated Oxford. Cord wondered how he would take the news of his older brother's death while he was in prison and that he was now the marquess of Belford, a man with an entirely different set of responsibilities. Fortunately, the family also had s.h.i.+pping concerns, so Ethan wouldn't feel entirely a fish out of water.

a.s.suming he was still alive.

Cord paced the deck, listening to the creak of the tall spruce masts, the clatter and clank of the ropes and pulleys in the rigging. The night was as black as the devil's den, the sea an endless dark phantom rolling beneath them. A sharp breeze built as they headed east. Soon the surface of the water would be frothy with whitecaps that would remain unseen in the inky blackness.

Cord inhaled the damp, salty air, listened to the sound of the waves as the s.h.i.+p plowed through the water, and prayed their journey would not be in vain.

Claire squeezed Tory's wrist. "Did you hear that?"

Tory s.h.i.+fted in the darkness in the bottom of the s.h.i.+p. "It's just the timbers creaking in the hull."

"I think it's rats. I hate rats, Tory."

Since the snuffling sounds probably were being made by the furry little beasts, Tory made no comment, just leaned back against the wooden planks that formed the side of the s.h.i.+p.

Getting aboard had been easier than she had imagined. The two sailors working on deck were busy loading supplies into the galley. A lantern had been burning on the forward mast, guiding them to the ladder leading down into the hold. Another lamp hung at the bottom of the stairs, dimly illuminating the interior. Hurriedly, they had surveyed the contents of the hold, then hidden behind a stack of heavy bags of grain.

But one of the sailors had come down and snuffed the lantern and it was pitch black in there now.

"We won't be down here long," Tory said. "As soon as the boat anchors in the cove, we can sneak up on deck and slip over the side of the boat. We'll just have to be strong until then. Think of it as an adventure."

Claire had always liked adventures-at least pretend ones.

"Yes, I suppose that's what it is. I've never been on a s.h.i.+p before, and once we reach France, we'll be safe."

"That's right, darling." All they had to do was elude Lord Brant and the captain and crew of the Nightingale; then get safely to sh.o.r.e, make their way across a completely unknown landscape-avoiding the dangers on the roads-and try to find a village that might provide gainful employment.