Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gavin sat in his father’s study, occupying the same burgundy leather chair the old goat had favored. Reviewing a collection of prints the old man had commissioned many years earlier, he admired the scenes of native wildlife and plants, beauty in its most primitive form. Why hadn’t he ever paid attention to that aspect of his father’s character? When they were together, why had their focus gravitated to the differences that separated them rather than the common ground they shared?
He turned a page in the album. Frozen, he stared down at the sepia image. His sire had been young in the portrait. My God, how had he never noticed how much he resembled his father? The same nose…Roman, his mother had called it. The same hair, down to the unruly wave that defied his efforts to tame it. Eyes so similar, other than the hard glint in his father’s gaze. Even their builds had been alike. How could a son who looked so much like his father be so utterly unalike?
Of course, his father had faced a very different reality during his youth. He’d had to scrap and claw for every shilling. Even after he’d made his fortune, Society’s elite had been only too eager to take his money for some cause or another, but regarded him as little better than the ruffians he’d left behind in Whitechapel. Was it any wonder he’d expected his son to share his passion for the business that had put luxury within their reach?
Another image drew his attention, a pen and ink sketch of father and son. Was that him, seated at his sire’s knee? His father had looked happy then. And proud. Of his son. Of the life he’d provided for his children.
Deep within, Gavin’s heart ached with an unfamiliar pain, a loss he’d never known to feel.
A sudden scream from the direction of the gardens ripped Gavin back to the present. Sophie! Bloody hell, what had happened? He secured his revolver in the shoulder holster he wore beneath his jacket and bolted from the room, nearly crashing into Bertram and his brother rushing down the corridor.
“So, ye heard it, too. Sophie’s in a fix.” Bertram ground out the words. Long gun in hand, he moved with surprising agility toward the door. Fitzhugh matched him, step for step.
A gunshot’s roar reverberated through him, chilling him to the bone. Bertram turned to him.
“Ye’re goin’ t’need a weapon. Those bastards aren’t here to negotiate.”
“A slug from my Webley would cut down Goliath,” he said. “Where the bloody hell is Henry?”
Bertram was the first to open the entry door. “God above, I’ve found the answer to yer question. And a horrible one it is.”
Gavin ran to the portal.
Henry lay facedown, unconscious. From the distance, Gavin couldn’t detect a rise and fall of his chest, couldn’t tell if the young Scot still breathed.
His hand clenched and unclenched. He wanted to pummel something. Anything.
“Wait.” Bertram placed a hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “This could be a trap. We’ll cover ye.”
The brothers took their positions behind sturdy posts, prepared to counterfire. Keeping low to the ground, Gavin ran to Henry’s side.
The Scot moaned. Blood seeped onto the ground beneath his body. The wound appeared to have passed through his upper chest and out his back, sparing his vital organs.
Gavin heaved a sigh of relief, and the tension digging into his gut eased.
“Stanwyck! Get down!” A rifle shot punctuated Bertram’s command. Gavin dropped to his belly. Lying prone, he shifted his gaze to take in the grove behind him. A man lay on his back, limbs sprawled.
“He’s not goin’ to be trouble now,” Bertram muttered, inching closer.
Gavin crouched beside Henry. From this position, he could see the unmoving bastard’s face. Jack. A dark stain spread over his torso and trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“It’s the one from the bridge.” Bertram made his way to the man’s body. “He’s dead. He left me no choice. He had a gun—”
Henry’s lids lifted. “What the bluidy hell—?”
Gavin supported his head. “You’ve been wounded. Where are the women?”
“The lass…shot me.”
Impossible. Surely, the man was delirious.
“Sophie?”
“No,” Henry managed in a weak breath. “Rebecca.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Henry dragged in air, his face white with pain. “Pulled the trigger. Tried to kill me. Sophie…warned me.”
“Where are they now?”
“Don’t…know.”
God above, they’d had a Judas in their midst. How much intelligence had the woman passed on to the bastards who’d come after Sophie?
And where was Sophie? What had they done to her?
“A coach,” Henry whispered. “Black. With a crest.”
Hellfire and damnation, likely the same carriage he’d spotted the night the blighters had come after Sophie. Talons clawed at his insides. He had to find her.
Fitzhugh came forward, weapon at the ready. “There’s no sign of anyone lurking about. But I spotted something…over there…by that tree,” Fitzhugh said, his voice grim. “I’ll cover ye, Bertram.”
With stealthy steps, Bertram approached the massive oak. He waved his brother closer.
“Thank God it’s not our Sophie,” Bertram announced, his relief palpable. His expression solemn, he turned to Gavin. “It’s Miss Beddingham. Someone’s broken her neck.”
“The bastards,” Gavin bit off between his teeth.
Bertram came to his side. “If I might make a suggestion—if we can move Henry into the house, Fitzhugh can see to his care while we start a search for Sophie.”
“Excellent idea,” Gavin agreed.
The three men carried Henry into the house and up the stairs to his chamber. Seeing his friend’s weakened state, Gavin fought against the waves of anger and misery bombarding him. This was his fault. His responsibility. He’d been so confident he could protect Sophie, convinced this place would afford a safe haven. Instead, they’d been betrayed, and now, Henry and Sophie were paying the price.
“Bluidy hell, Stanwyck, there’s no call to play a dirge yet. I’m not pounding…on death’s door.” Propped against the headboard, Henry had regained a bit of his strength.
“The bullet’s through and through,” Fitzhugh said with an air of authority, the product of years in the medical corps of the Queen’s Army. “If ye trust me, I can patch it up. It’ll hold ye until we can get ye to a proper physician.”
“I’d be in yer debt.” Henry sank back against the pillow. He cocked his head toward Gavin. “Go after her. Now.”
Gavin ground his teeth in frustration. “They could’ve taken her back to London. God only knows where they’ve gone.”
Bertram charged into the chamber, his lanky body quaking with agitation. “She’s not in London. We have to go after her.”
“How do you know this?” Gavin said. He needed to keep a cool head. But it was damned near impossible when every instinct demanded he leave these four walls and find her.
“The bastards are here. On the grounds.” He handed Gavin a folded leaf of paper. “Whoever killed Miss Beddingham placed this in her hand.”
We propose an exchange. Your life for the woman. Come alone to the bell tower. The choice is yours.
God above, the killers had taken her to the tower in the old chapel, a centuries’ old place of worship. What would possess the evil curs to conduct their dirty business on holy ground?
Think, Gavin! He needed weapons. What would be most effective for one against many?
Bertram stepped forward. “I’ll come with ye. Fitzhugh will stay with Henry.”
“I cannot take that chance, neither with your safety nor Sophie’s life,” Gavin said.
Bertram shook his head. “Ye cannot do this alone. I’ll let ye go in on your own, but bloody hell, you’ll need backup.”
“Very well,” Gavin agreed. “You can serve as a lookout. At the least, keep the jackals from adding reinforcements.”
Fitzhugh pressed a sheathed dagger into Gavin’s hand. “Take this. The sgian dubh is a fine weapon. Strap it to yer leg, beneath your trousers. I would not be caught without mine. It’s a stealthy defense, one the curs aren’t likely to suspect.”
“Good enough,” he agreed, quickly securing the dagger to his left calf with a leather strap.
He studied the message. Had Miss Beddingham penned the very note her killer used to lure him in? Quite fitting.
He went to Henry’s chamber. The young Scot remained pale, but his eyes had regained a bit of their spirit. Evidently, Fitzhugh’s whiskey elixir had taken an edge off his pain.
“I will return with a physician. In the meantime, I trust you’re in good hands with Fitzhugh.”
“Watch your back, Stanwyck.” Henry shifted against the pillow, letting out a groan. “And…kill the bastards.”