Temptress in Training (30 page)

He didn't dare try to confront D'Archaud on his own, not with those actors in residence. If his quarry had indeed joined his friends at Loveland, Lindley could count on them to put up a fight. There was too much at stake for D'Archaud to give up without one.

He cursed as he abandoned Loveland and went on to Lack Wooton, the last town Tom would have to pass through on his journey from the west toward Loveland. He hoped he would find the boy there. He prayed he would not find trouble.

Really, though, he wished he might find some food.

Unfortunately, the little village of Lack Wooton lacked several things. Any decent place to find a meal, someone who might represent local constabulary, or any evidence of Tom Feasel. Damn that boy, but he seemed to have simply disappeared. Lindley found himself wavering between cursing the boy for his incompetence and worrying that something dreadful must have happened along the way.

Had Tom run afoul of that greedy bastard Fitzgelder or any of his henchmen? Lindley very sincerely hoped not. Then why had the young man not turned up? Lindley had trusted him with delicate information. He needed to know Tom could be trusted.

Well, trustworthy, dead, or not, the boy was simply not to be found. The longer Lindley dawdled here the more chance that D'Archaud would get what he came for and leave Loveland. Lindley had no clue where the man would go from there. He needed to go back to Loveland and watch, waiting for the right opportunity to take the man.

But he could not do that alone. If Tom was not to be found, he'd simply have to recruit someone else. There seemed to be but one place to do that: the only tavern in the village. Well, he had no choice but to make his way inside. He needed food and he needed to find able-bodied men. He doubted he'd find much of either in this place, but it would have to do.

Besides, he had the distinct feeling he was being watched.

Since the minute he'd rolled into town in his fashionable—and noticeable—phaeton he knew he was being, well, noticed. He was used to that. But the longer he was here, making his way through the village until he could find an establishment to leave his carriage where he might be relatively certain it would still be there when he got back, the more he began to feel that he was being watched by someone other than just the curious villagers. He didn't much care for it.

“Lookin' for something 'ere, are ye, milord?”

Lindley glanced up to find a rather dirty little man sidling up to him just before he reached the tavern door. He recognized him. This was one of Fitzgelder's friends, one of the men he'd sent out almost a week ago to assassinate his cousin.

“I'm looking for some food, as a matter of fact,” Lindley said. “But what of you? Weren't you supposed to be, er, taking care of something for Fitzgelder?”

The man smiled. His teeth looked even worse in the bright June sunlight than Lindley remembered from that candlelit hallway. He smelled a bit worse for the wear, too.

“I did my part on that, you can bet I did,” he said. “How could I help it if the two muckbrained coves I hired to do the job ended up getting themselves bludgered to ol' Nick?”

“I see you're horribly distraught over it, too,” Lindley said. “But I'm sure your employer understands that was hardly your fault.”

The man simply shrugged and held the door open for Lindley. “He ain't happy, but he's got more for me to take care of now, and I don't plan on letting him down.”

“Not going to hire the work out this time, are you?”

“No sir, I'm taking charge of this one myself.”

The man patted his pocket, indicating he held something there that was connected to whatever this latest request from Fitzgelder was. He ushered Lindley into the dark, low-beamed tavern and indicated they should move toward a table at the far end of the room. Lindley gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light and then let the man lead the way.

“In fact,” his unkempt companion went on to say, “this time I'm making sure things go the way they're supposed to. I've got me some new help, and this time it's someone I think even you might approve, milord.”

At that the man pulled out a knife and jabbed it up against Lindley's side.

It was a warning, clearly, for had the man wanted to gut him right there Lindley had not been prepared to defend himself. Damn it, but he knew what sort of lowlife this was. Why in St. Peter's name did he let his guard down? If the jackanapes killed him he'd have to admit he'd practically deserved it.

But the man didn't kill him. Likely he was causing untold damage to Lindley's coat, but there was no bloodshed—yet. Lindley allowed himself to be forced down into a chair.

“This time you're a part of the job, milord,” his captor hissed. “And looky who I've got helping me.”

Holy hell, it was Tom.
Tom Feasel stepped out from behind a huge, black beam and smiled sheepishly at Lindley, holding up his gun so Lindley knew it was there.

Well, this was not turning out to be a good day. At all.

“What the devil is going on?”

“Your young friend here,” the man said, pressing the knife uncomfortably into Lindley's side and jutting his chin up to indicate Tom's direction, “tells us you've been traveling with that little whore who's got a certain bit of jewelry what doesn't belong to her.”

“I see my friend has been keeping closer watch over me than I've been of him,” Lindley said, letting Tom see just how disappointed he was in the boy.

“So where is she?” the man asked.

Damn it, but he shouldn't have left Sophie alone there. If Fitzgelder thought for one minute she still had that locket in her possession, her life would be forfeit. Well, Lindley would just have to hope this buffoon was the only one this close to Haven Abbey. Tom clearly would be able to show the man the way, but if Lindley could convince them they had no reason for going there…

“I took what I wanted from her and left her along the way,” Lindley said. “Like any other whore, I found if I paid her enough she'd give up anything for me.”

He had no idea it would bore a hole deep into his chest to speak this way about Sophie. Yet, if it might save her, he'd plow right through every vital organ he had. He looked his uninvited companion square in the eye.

“I took the locket, if that's what you're looking for.”

The man immediately shoved his free hand directly into Lindley's pocket. It was the wrong pocket, fortunately. Lindley shoved him off and was rewarded by the unnerving sound of the finest Bond Street tailoring being ripped beyond repair.
Damned cretin.

“I don't have it on me, you mutton-head,” he said. “With pickpockets and the likes of you prowling about, do you think I'd carry it in such an obvious place as my coat pocket?”

He wished he'd thought a bit more about pickpockets and thugs when he'd tucked it into his coat pocket earlier. Right now he could only hope this man was as easily misled as he was malodorous.

“Ye'd best be telling me where it is then, milord,” the fool said, but he kept his hands out of any more of Lindley's pockets. “It ain't yers.”

“And it won't ever be
yers
either, if you keep plugging that ruddy knife into my side. Now act like a civilized creature and we can discuss this.”

The man seemed to consider it. Lindley was very nearly about to become very uncivilized himself and relieve his captor of the bloody knife—taking his chances that Tom wouldn't actually shoot him—when the man miraculously complied. He stepped away from Lindley and took his knife with him. It was, to say the least, a relief.

“I've got it put somewhere for safekeeping,” Lindley said.

“Then how about if you take us there and get it for us?”

“Why, so you can take it back to Fitzgelder and he can get the treasure?”

This gave the man pause. Ah, so the mention of treasure caught his attention. Tom, however, didn't seem quite so affected.

“What treasure?” the man asked, his grip on the knife going progressively more limp.

“Didn't Fitzgelder tell you what that locket is?” Lindley asked. “It holds the secret to a treasure. No? He didn't tell you? Oh, then I suppose he doesn't intend to share.”

He very much hoped he hadn't made a mistake by mentioning the treasure, especially since he knew little else about it. His information regarding that damn locket was patchy at best. If Fitzgelder knew more—and obviously he did or else why would he have had that locket to begin with—it would be dangerous to let him get his hands on it again.

That locket was Lindley's last link with D'Archaud. Without it he had nothing to bargain with and no hope of tracking him down again. He needed the locket, and he needed to get back to Loveland. And even more, he needed to know Sophie was protected from all of it. This bloody ruffian appeared to be standing in the way of accomplishing any of those goals, unfortunately.

“I'm not giving you the locket.” Lindley crossed his arms in front of himself.

Yes, it made him appear obstinate and selfish—which was exactly the image he hoped to portray—but it might also add an additional layer should this cutthroat decide to shiv him and take his chances hunting the locket alone. If Tom decided to use that gun, however, he doubted crossed arms would make much difference.

“You'll give me that locket or I'll ruin this pretty cravat by making you bleed all over it,” the man growled.

Now the knife was more or less aimed at his throat. What sort of establishment was this that knife-wielding patrons could partner with gun-hoisting youths and harass the nobility? Aside from the three of them, the tavern seemed to be completely empty. In a small town with only one such facility, Lindley had to credit this to forward planning by Fitzgelder's man. So they had expected him all along, had they? He'd walked right into their trap.

Well, he could play their game. He'd come entirely too far these last three years to be thwarted now. And he was in a foul, foul mood just now.

“I've been hunting that treasure for myself,” Lindley said, practically spitting the words. “I'll be damned if I hand it over to you and this…this traitorous pup.”

“You will hand it over!” the man said, shoving his knife yet closer.

“You ought to do as he says, milord,” Tom suddenly piped up. “He ain't one to tease with. Mr. Fitzgelder said we've got to get that locket, so we've got to get that locket, over yer dead body or not, milord.”

“Well, if my body's dead, then who's going to be telling you where to find that locket?”

Now the man with the knife smiled at him. “There's a pretty little whore what might do just that. With a wee bit of persuading.”

Lindley's blood heated at the very mention of it. These two lobcocks might just be foolhardy enough to kill him, then not even bother to check his pockets before they ran on to find Sophie. And Tom, damn him, would know right where she was.

“No. Leave her out of this.”

“Ah, so ye've taken rather a liking to the handy moll, have ye?” The odiferous man pressed in closer on Lindley. “She must have some fine talent indeed. I wouldn't mind finding out about that myself.”

“Very well. I'll give you the locket.”

Now Tom seemed surprised. Lindley hoped the other man wouldn't recognize this. He'd given in too quickly. He should have put up more of a fight, since that was clearly what Tom expected. Truthfully, though, Lindley hated fighting. It mussed the clothes and wasted a good deal of time. Besides, if he had any hope at all of keeping Sophie safe he could hardly do it dead. Any idiot knew one unarmed man against a thug with a knife and a boy with a pistol did not represent fair odds.

He was simply biding time until he might even these odds just a bit.

“Very well. I'll take you to the locket,” Lindley announced.

“So ye've come to yer wits.” The thug chuckled as if it had been his clever bullying that convinced Lindley. “Let's go. Take us where ye've hid it.”

“It's this way.”

Lindley began to lead them back toward the door they'd just entered through.

Tom coughed. “Er, Hutch, don't you think we'd be safer to go out the back? We might've paid off the staff in here, but ain't there bound to be some bodies walking around out there he might call out to for help?”

Damn the clever boy.

“Hmm, yeah, there might be at that, my boy,” the thug said, his knife coming up to poke Lindley just below the chin. “Good thinking. Come along, milord. We're going out the back. And if ye think ye can raise a scene, ye'd best think again. I've gutted better men than ye and gotten away with it, I have. Don't think I ain't above doing ye right where ye stand in broad daylight.”

“And what proof do I have that you won't
do me
right where I stand one second after I give you the locket?”

“Ye've got my word.”

“Ah, strangely enough, I'm not reassured,” Lindley said. “How about if we find a compromise? You put that knife down, and we'll go get the locket together. Just the two of us. Unarmed.”

“Ye're bloody looby if you think I'll agree to that!” Hutch-the-thug appeared honestly insulted by his suggestion.

“Very well, bring the knife, but leave the boy here.”

“The knife
and
the boy are coming.”

“Then you'll not be getting that locket.”

“Then ye'll be getting a bright red necktie!”

“Hutch,” Tom said, interrupting at a rather convenient time. “It's a small place here. We go sticking his spoon in the wall and someone will know. That won't help get us that locket, and Mr. Fitzgelder ain't going to be pleased.”

His words seemed to have the right effect. Hutch stopped raging, and the knife stopped pressing into Lindley's skin. Thankfully, he could almost breathe again. He didn't want to, though. He was too busy listening to Tom, trying to decide where the lad was going with this.