Wayward One (34 page)

The door of the carriage opened and the step folded down. John the footman waited to assist her. She beamed at him. “Hello, John,” she fairly chirruped.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said. “May I say it’s right fair to have you back.”

“Oh pish.” Sera waved him off. “I wasn’t gone too long.”

She coughed. Apparently she was still putting up facades. On the other hand, perhaps one didn’t owe one’s servants full access to one’s emotions.

The front door stood open, and Hareton bowed in greeting. “Ma’am.”

She handed over her cloak. “Is the master at home?”

He shook his head as he promptly passed her outer garments to another footman to be spirited away. She was glad to see the household hadn’t fallen apart in her absence. Though it sent a little reminder that she wasn’t absolutely irreplaceable, she’d hate the thought that Fletcher had been living in disorder after her departure.

“No, ma’am,” Hareton said. “He’s out on business.”

She consulted the tiny gold watch that hung from her waist fob. “A bit early for him, isn’t it?” she mused to herself, though she didn’t expect a response.

Hareton remained carefully implacable. “As you say, ma’am.”

She couldn’t hold back her grin. “Then I suppose I’ll have to wait on him. Please see to my cases. They’re in the boot of the carriage.”

The hallway was still conspicuously empty. She’d have to replace the artwork soon. Perhaps if she gave him the right enticement, Fletcher would be willing to voice an opinion.

As for where to wait on him…she believed his study would do nicely. It was where he first stopped after any matters of business, to empty his pockets and make notes. Fletcher had a sharp mind that he liked organizing with precise notations and records.

Though if she were wicked, she might be able to get him to forget all ideas of work immediately upon his return.

Her head filled with visions of what could be done on the wide surface of his desk with his delectable mouth, she opened the door to his study.

And drew up short. “Hello, Mr. Raverst.”

Rick Raverst sat in the chair behind the desk, but he wasn’t doing any work. His feet were kicked up on the desk and his hands were curled around a glass of brandy.

Something about the scene was faintly uncomfortable. That he should presume to take on Fletcher’s position perhaps. He looked entirely too at home in a seat that ought to be Fletcher’s alone.

“Mrs. Thomas,” he drawled with a biting sarcasm to the name. He dropped his feet to a more proper position upon the floor as he set down the glass of brandy. “Have you returned to bestow your blessings upon us?”

She shifted a step to the side. All the nervousness that had been absent at the idea of confronting Fletcher came roaring through her. Her blood thumped in her ears and her stomach tossed. Mr. Raverst had been nearly absent from the surrounds after her wedding to Fletcher, but she’d rather assumed the reason had been to give privacy to a new marriage.

“I have returned, yes,” she allowed, choosing to ignore the rest of his insinuations.

“How thankful Fletcher will be,” he said. But if anything, he looked beyond angry. His blue eyes snapped with it.

“I hope so.” She stepped backwards toward the doorway. “If you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. If you see Mr. Thomas before I, please tell him I’m upstairs.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” He was up in a flash. He snatched her by the arm before the panic had a chance to turn her knees to jelly. She’d made it out into the hallway, but no one was in sight. His hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream.

He wrenched her back against his chest. Her feet scrabbled for purchase on the thick carpet. They went backwards into the study.

Fresh fear washed over Sera. She didn’t understand. Her fingers clawed into his hand. Her gloves dulled any bite of her nails.

“You careless, stupid bitch,” he snarled. “I thought I was done with you. But no, you had to come back.”

Somehow being unable to see his face made it worse. His forearm ground into her collarbones with tremendous force that sent pain lancing across her chest.

She shook her head, but his hand over her mouth didn’t leave her much leeway.

He shoved her away. She stumbled until she caught herself on the back of a chair. It clattered into the side table, knocking over a bell jar and the fern within.

Without thinking, she licked her lips. He’d left a residue of alcohol and sweat on her mouth. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her face as she turned.

She tried desperately to keep control of herself. There was no real way of knowing when Fletcher would be back. He kept such irregular hours.

“Sit,” Rick growled, shoving her toward the chair.

She obeyed as slowly as she could. Turning, she saw a gleaming silver pistol in his hand. The barrel was a gaping maw of death pointed straight at her.

He reached behind himself and flicked the key on the door, then pocketed it. She gulped. A tinny sound whined in her ears. Her lungs were doing their best to scrabble out of her corset, and her breathing had gone rapid and shallow.

Her head swam.

She tried to calm herself. If Fletcher had any idea of her situation, he’d rescue her. She had not the slightest doubt. But he hadn’t been expecting her. She’d elected not to send a note, hoping that the element of surprise might help soften him to her apologies.

Apologies she might never get the chance to give.

How deucedly ironic to realize life was too short, only to receive such a clear demonstration.

Rick circled to lean against Fletcher’s desk. He picked up the glass of brandy with one hand, but the evil pistol barrel never wavered from its aim at her midsection.

He sipped as he stared at her.

He’d never get her out of the house. She comforted herself that even if the hallway had been, luckily for him, empty of witnesses, the odds that the rest of the building would remain so were slim to none. She pressed her hands over her stomach, feeling the silent reassurance of her corset keeping her insides aligned. Otherwise she might twist into a tumbled mess.

The moment strung out long and heavy. Still he stared at her.

Finally she could keep her tongue no longer. “Why are you doing this?”

He cocked his head with a contemplative air. “Do you know how often you’ve thwarted me, simply by existing?”

She shook her head. “I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have.” He took another deep swig of the brandy then set down the emptied glass.

“I once thought you such a nice man.” A surprisingly wistful pang settled her nerves momentarily. “It was you who delivered money to Mama at the end. We would have been evicted the next day if it weren’t for you.”

He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Sweet Christ,” he muttered. “This was not my best planned moment.”

“I don’t understand.”

He raked his fingers through his sandy-blond hair so that it stood on end and gave him the air of the madman he seemed to be devolving into.

“Listen, you.” He waved the pistol at her. She flinched back in her seat, as if that would save her from the blast if he tried to shoot. “Just listen to you go on. You don’t even know what you’re saying, do you?”

She swallowed her fear down. “To be perfectly honest, I’m trying to remind you of a time when you were a better man. To remind you it’s not too late.”

“I was
not
a nice man that day,” he snorted with disgust.

“You were,” she insisted. “You gave Mama an advance on the money she would earn from going back to Mr. Thomas. It’s something he’d have never done.”

He rolled his eyes. “I was giving her an advance on monies due from me. For helping me to kill that bastard.”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible for her blood to have run colder, but it did. Everything inside her froze. “Pardon?”

He heaved a sigh, as if he were the wounded party in this situation for having to deal with her lack of understanding. “Mac wouldn’t hire her back, but he’d been willing enough to take a round or two of slap and tickle. So I paid your ma to get him smoked but good on some opium, then let me into the room. But the stupid bitch wouldn’t go through with it.”

“So you killed them both,” she whispered. How cruelly perfect.

He shrugged. “I thought Fletcher might be easier to run around. But it turns out the bastard has quite the noble streak. Even at that age he had a surprising sack of ballocks on him.”

Her poor mama. Not only had she never got the love story she wanted, she’d been murdered for keeping hold of the scraps of her conscience.

Sera pushed away the realization. She had to keep her wits about her. “You do realize you’ll never get me out of this house.”

A wrinkle pulled his brows together as he thought. “I’m not sure I need to.”

“I don’t understand.” Despite that, she was terrified. There was something about the cold way he said it that struck fear through her.

“That’s fine.” He pushed up from the desk and moved to the door. “You don’t have to understand. Only I do. Now mind, I’m going to unlock this door. Can’t have the setup I need if Fletcher breaks it down. Remember, I’ve still got this gun on you. Scream or try to run and I’ll shoot you dead before anyone can run to your rescue. Then I’ll pick them off one by one until I’m out of rounds.”

“You’d hang.”

He shrugged again. “That’s fine too. At this point I am so bloody angry at your willing stupidity that I don’t much care.”

The temptation to scream when he unlocked the door was an ache behind her teeth. She kept them clenched against the threatening sound. In her heavy skirts and corset, she wasn’t fast enough to outrun a man. She had no doubt he’d follow through with his threat. The death of whomever came through the door would be on her head.

No matter how dead that head might be.

The minutes slid by like warm marzipan, ticked out by the clock on the mantle. A quarter of the hour, then a half. Three quarters naturally was followed by a full hour.

Despite the long stretch of time, neither of them relaxed. Sera’s spine pressed back against the chair until her muscles trembled with strain.

Rick’s only sign of weariness was transferring the gun from one hand to the other and wiping his free hand down the side of his pants. He left a dark shadow of sweat behind.

A quiet footfall sounded in the hallway. Sera sat up straight. Her hands grappled with the arms of the chair. She’d scored tiny half-moon indentations in the wood over the hour they’d waited.

Rick slid behind the door, the better to conceal himself when it opened.

Sera bit her lip. He waggled a finger at her.

The risk was so great. If the footsteps were only a servant, screaming would get her killed. If it were Fletcher, she might gain him a split second of warning—and still get herself killed.

She had too much to live for.

The door swung open. She saw a hand and part of an arm, but she’d know his strong wrists anywhere. “Fletcher,” she screamed. “Duck!”

He obeyed at the same instant a shot rang out. The gun swung back toward her, filling her vision. Fletcher swept a cane low across the ground, around the door. The weight slammed into Rick’s ankles. He fell to his knees.

But he didn’t stop firing. She threw herself out of the chair. The shot went wild somewhere over her head.

Another shot cracked through the room—this one different. Higher somehow, with a little less power to the sound. But it did the job anyhow.

Rick dropped his gun. His hands clapped over his chest. His mouth gaped open and his eyes went wide. A second later, bright red blood seeped between his fingers.

He slumped back against the wall until she couldn’t see him anymore.

Fletcher was before her, running his hands over every inch he could reach. “Are you well?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”

She seized his lapels, then buried her face in his neck. He smelled like he always did, lemon and warmth and comfort.

She shook her head against his skin. “I’m fine. I’m well.” But her voice cracked.

His strong, warm arms banded around her. He curled over her, her bulwark against the unpleasantness on the other side of the room. “I’d kill the bastard all over again if I had the chance.”

The laugh that burbled out of her was nearly hysterical. Her rough prince didn’t hesitate at violence. Where once she’d have been appalled at that, now she was fiercely glad.

When it came to Rick Raverst’s life or hers and Fletcher’s, there was no choice.

“Come along,” he said roughly. He gathered her in his arms, one scooping under her knees and the other around her back, before standing.

Sera’s stomach was nearly left behind in the rush. Fletcher paused by the door to issue brusque orders to staff. Hareton he put on guard at the door. John he sent running to the magistrate.

Through it all, Sera kept her face carefully tucked into the clean linen of his shirt. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she didn’t wish to see any more than she had to. It would have to be enough that she remembered the red, red blood seeping through Rick’s fingers.