Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Time to go.”
Brat didn’t move. He wasn’t the slightest bit concerned he was going to die—he had too much to live for. But it would do to be too foolhardy—the man was a professional, albeit an incompetent one, and he held the gun in his meaty hand.
“Get up,” the man growled, and Brat heard the ominous cocking of the pistol.
He opened his eyes, slowly, and surveyed his would-be killer. This time, the man wouldn’t miss, he was counting on his payday and he wouldn’t make any more mistakes. It was time for Brat to make a move.
He rose, slowly, keeping his body loose and ready for action, trying to look as harmless as a six foot four man could. “Are you absolutely certain you want to kill me? I could pay you more not to.”
“I’ve got me professional reputation to consider. Much as I’d like to oblige you, word would get out that Rob Tweedles can’t be trusted to fulfil his bargains, and then where would I be?”
“Honor among thieves, I suppose?” Brat said casually.
“Hey, I ain’t no thief!” the man said angrily.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” Brat said. “Listen, Tweedles, surely your reputation could withstand one small blemish? I’m very rich.”
“Sorry, guv’nor, but it can’t be. Now you just come along with me all nice and easy, and I promise you I’ll make it fast.”
“But I don’t wish to die.”
“No one ever does,” Tweedles said solemnly.
“I’ve just fallen in love. Surely you can sympathize.”
“Women are the very devil. I’ll be doing you a favor.”
“I’d rather you didn’t—”
The door to the outbuilding was flung open, and Jenny stood there, bundled in that awful maroon dress and a shawl, looking like the wrath of the furies descending on him.
“There you are!” she cried, coming into the room, not even noticing the gunman in the shadows.
“Have you been so afraid to face me that you’ve been hiding out here?
I’ll have you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of—I’m not going to make a scene or demands or anything.
Your mother is worried about you, and you missed your part in the pantomime, and I—”
“Move!” Tweedles thundered, and Jenny froze, turning to stare at him.
“Who are you?” she demanded, only slightly cowed.
He was going to shoot her, Brat realized with sudden horror.
He’d lowered the weapon and aimed it right at her, he was past talking, and Brat didn’t hesitate.
He leapt, shoving her out of the way as he felt a punch in his arm, followed by a burning pain.
He was on top of the man before he could realize what happened, and Brat proceeded to beat him, ignoring the pain in his arm, his mind a red haze of fury as he pounded on the man.
It was only when he felt Jenny yank at his arm that he stopped, realizing the man was unconscious. “You don’t want to kill him!” she cried, pulling at him.
“Yes, I do!” he said, but he got to his feet, towering over her. Tweedles lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, and he turned and looked down at Jenny to ensure she wasn’t hurt.
She was so pretty in her hysteria, he thought dazedly, and told her so.
“You’ve been shot!” she cried. “He was going to kill me and you got in the way.”
“Can’t have my wife shot,” he said vaguely, swaying slightly. “Shot, you say?” He looked down at his arm, the blood streaming over his dark coat. A moment later, he was down again, just as he heard the voices from outside the building. The Rohans had come to the rescue.
But he needed to look after Jenny. She was on the ground beside him, cradling him against her breast, murmuring all sorts of breathless, angry, loving things. She loved him. And all it had taken was a bullet. Smiling, he passed back into darkness, and all was right in the world.
The old gentleman stepped into the silent house, glancing around the plethora of decorations with amusement.
His wife followed behind him, arguing with her ancient maid as she usually did whenever Meggie tried to pamper her, and he turned back to look at her.
His wife was a beautiful woman in her eighties, her silver hair a crown on her well-shaped head, and he paused, waiting for her to reach him.
“Where is everyone?” Charlotte demanded breathlessly.
“You know they’re a slothful bunch. Miranda will be up.”
“But I wanted to surprise them,” she said plaintively.
“You will, don’t worry,” he reassured her.
“Do you suppose they were right in the village, that Brat got shot?”
“The shooter was in gaol, and of all my grandchildren, Brat is the most likely to be shot,” Adrian Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, replied.
“I thought he was your favorite,” Charlotte protested.
“He is. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be shot. I’m very fond of myself, but I should have been shot when I was young.”
“I’m glad you weren’t.”
“You could have been like Miranda and shot me yourself.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Miranda didn’t shoot Lucien, she clubbed him on the head. And anyway, I liked you too much.”
“What in heaven’s name are you two doing here?” Miranda demanded from the doorway. “You were supposed to be in Paris!”
“I missed the grandchildren,” Charlotte said as they embraced. “I haven’t spent time with the new one.”
“Baby mad,” Adrian said wryly. “Speaking of mad, did a Christmas bomb explode inside your house? I’ve never seen so much greenery.”
“I like Christmas,” Miranda said defensively.
“You always did,” Charlotte said fondly. “You were my little Christmas child.”
“Not to change the subject, but I gather your son received a bullet wound last night? How is he? Recovering nicely, I hope.”
“How did you know? Oh, you must have stopped in the village. He’s as grouchy as a bear and I’m keeping everyone away,” Miranda said.
“Who was it? A cuckolded husband?”
“James doesn’t interfere with married women. It was something about a man who killed himself, but I don’t quite know the details. Lucien assures me that as magistrate, he has things well in hand.”
“I would assume he would,” Adrien said. “What else has come to pass while we’ve been enjoying the City of Lights?”
“He’s getting married.”
Charlotte’s face lit up. “Great-grandbabies,” she said with a sigh of satisfaction.
“I imagine he’ll see to it,” Miranda said. “But they’re my grandbabies first, Mama. You’ll have to share.”
“That’s all right, there are babies right here already. Who’s the girl?”
“Charles and Annis’s governess.”
“Then she knows how to suffer. How are the twins?”
“Thriving. You’ll see them all soon enough. Do you want to freshen up first or would you prefer breakfast?”
“Breakfast,” Adrian said promptly.
“And you can tell us all about the young lovers,” Charlotte added. “I like love stories almost as much as I like babies. He does love her, I presume?”
“Madly. Come along. I’ve lots to tell you.”
She wasn’t glowing today, Jenny thought as she stared at her wan reflection in the mirror.
She had barely slept last night, tossing and turning as she remembered the paleness of Brat’s face when he keeled over at her feet.
She’d held him, weeping and wailing until they’d dragged her off him, and Brandon’s wife Emma had set to work with a medical expertise that would have awed Jenny under any other circumstances.
It was just a flesh wound, she’d pronounced, albeit a painful one, but all Brat needed was rest and bandaging and he’d be fine.
She didn’t believe her at first. Brat was going to die, she was sure of it, and she’d spend the rest of her life mourning him. But he woke up as they carried him back to the house, and if the sound and the content of his shouted profanities was anything to judge by, he was going to be just fine.
It was time for her to leave. Fortunately, Charles and Annis had announced their intention to depart the next morning, much to the girls’ protests, and Jenny took it at a sign.
She would leave while Brat was too ill to notice, and then it would be done, a clean break.
Not that it would be a break on his side—he would be relieved that his indiscretion was neatly disappearing.
But Jenny could leave with her pride intact, and make plans for the future.
There was just one thing she had to do. She had to thank him.
He’d almost died for her, something she still didn’t understand.
That horrible man was aiming his pistol directly at her, and then Brat had leapt in front of her, taking the bullet himself.
He could have been killed, or injured, or a great deal worse, and all for a woman who was an unfortunate misstep.
It was probably a case of simple good manners.
One didn’t shoot a guest in the home of the Scorpion.
It had absolutely nothing to do with what had passed between them the night before.
Damn it, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
She savored the curse word, angry with herself.
She had learned to live without the pleasure of the marriage bed, but now all her hunger for touch had been aroused again, and the very thought of Brat’s dark eyes and hard, deft hands made her face flush and her stomach clench.
She’d get over it. She’d gotten over the loss of Josiah, though what they’d shared in bed was a great deal more subdued than her night with Brat. But she’d get over it. It just might take a bit longer.
Her bags were already neatly packed—she hadn’t waited for a servant—and now all she had to do was wait until her employers were ready to leave. She sat on the unmade bed, then bounced up again. She should thank Miranda for her kindness and hospitality. It was the least she could do.
She found her in the breakfast room with an elderly couple, regaling them with some tale that had them all laughing, a laughter that silenced when Jenny walked into the room.
She almost turned and walked back out again, but she’d always been a stickler for good manners, and she advanced down the room.
“Ah, good, you’ve come for breakfast,” Miranda said with far greater cheer than a woman with a wounded son should display. “Let me make you known to my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Haverstoke. This is Miss Jenny Lancaster. The woman I told you about.”
“Good morning, Miss Lancaster,” the elderly gentleman said, eying her with an amusement very like Brat’s.
Clearly he was as mad as the rest of his family. She simply nodded. “I wished to thank you for your kind hospitality. You made me feel quite at home.”
“Of course,” Miranda said airily. “But why are you in your travelling clothes?”
“We’re leaving. Didn’t Lord Charles tell you?”
Miranda’s smile vanished. “They’re leaving. I persuaded him to let the girls stay on through Christmas. I assumed that meant you would be staying as well.” She looked at her closely.
Jenny shook her head. “My term of employment has come to an end. I’ll be going to spend time with my aunt in Yorkshire.”
For some reason, Miranda looked distraught. “Have you told James?”
“Lady Emma said he needed rest. I thought you could tell him goodbye for me.”
“Coward,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?” Jenny said, shocked.
“He’s awake, though angry as a bear with a sore paw. Tell him yourself.”
The elderly couple were looking greatly amused at this peremptory order, and Jenny wanted to flat-out refuse. It would be so hard to see him again, knowing she couldn’t have him. But in truth, she should say goodbye, so she nodded.
“Of course,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”
Miranda rose, striding around the table. “I’ll take you to him.”
So she wasn’t going to have a chance to escape. She turned to Miranda’s parents. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said, dropping a perfect little curtsey.
“Welcome to the family,” said the Marquess with a twinkle in his eye. More madness in the family, Jenny thought uneasily.
The house was still and silent in the early morning hours as Jenny trailed after Miranda, trying to get her emotions settled.
She would be calm, unemotional, and if Brat was uncomfortable seeing her again, that would be his problem.
She could carry off the difficult leave-taking. Tomorrow she could weep.