Chapter 15 #2
He stepped forward and set the tray on the nearby table.
Lily sat back on the settee, still holding the print she had picked up.
One glance at it and a laugh escaped her lips.
It was a caricature of the peers in their coronation attire, absurd striped trunk hose and ballooning breeches rendered in the most unflattering light.
A gaggle of spindly legs marched awkwardly across the scene like marionettes in a farce.
Wesley paused, uncertain whether she was laughing or had gone quite mad.
“It is the coronation attire,” she explained, holding up the image for him to see.
“My family was thoroughly entertained when my father descended the stairs dressed just like this. Lord Saunton insists the King orchestrated the whole affair as an elaborate jest to make the entire peerage look ridiculous.”
Wesley tilted his head to better view the print, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It was difficult not to react when I saw the baron.”
Her heart stuttered mid-beat, and her breath stalled. But outwardly, Lily allowed no reaction to break across her features.
When I saw the baron?
She gave another light laugh—too quick—and shifted her gaze toward the door, eyes flicking to where John remained posted.
“Quite absurd!” she said, rising in one graceful motion. She moved toward the door, her steps measured though her nerves prickled beneath the surface. From the corner of her eye, she caught Wesley’s sudden tension—his attention fixed, not on the caricature, but on her.
Time seemed to slow. He realized what he had said. And he realized he had just revealed far too much.
She stepped faster.
Wesley darted forward.
“JO—”
It was too late. He had seized her by the waist, dragging her backward against his body.
One arm crossed her chest and rose higher, pressing uncomfortably beneath her chin as he lifted her off the ground.
The strength in Wesley’s hold was shocking, coiled like iron beneath his livery, unforgiving and cold.
First John had spun at her shout of alarm, charging into the small drawing room.
“STOP!”
The command rang out with the force of a musket blast, echoing through the tension like the crack of thunder. First John froze at the threshold.
“I will break her neck like kindling if you take another step.”
Lily gasped, her hands flying up to claw at the crushing pressure beneath her jaw.
“Cannot … breathe,” she rasped, vision beginning to narrow.
Her lungs screamed for air, her limbs flailing in protest. The pressure eased, just slightly, and she drew in a shuddering gasp as her toes brushed the ground.
He was lowering her, but the threat remained.
His arm held firm, angled tight across her, his breath grazing the crown of her head.
She felt him leaning forward, and the dread deepened in her stomach.
First John stood braced at the ready, his body coiled to act, but he could not.
“Back up. Out the door,” Wesley commanded, his tone void of warmth.
Whatever First John read in his eyes must have convinced him, because he slowly stepped back into the hall.
Lily’s throat ached beneath the unyielding restraint.
This. This was what Brendan had warned her of. Wesley, frightened and desperate, had reached the edge and taken her with him. She might not walk away from this. And in the silence that stretched between moments, her heart spoke louder than fear.
She wished—oh, how she wished—she had spent the night in Brendan’s arms.
She wished she had told him that their wedding day had been the most precious of her life. That though circumstance had entangled them, she had never doubted that he was her heart’s true choice. That she loved him.
She had not said it. She had not said any of it.
And now, teetering on the brink of a terrible unknown, Lily wanted to live. Not just to escape, not just to survive, but to love fully. Fiercely. Foolishly, even. To feel the highs and lows, the aching beauty of loving someone who made the world feel whole again.
Brendan had been standing at the wrought iron gates to the square for some time. Finally, he straightened his shoulders with resolve. He could not allow Lily to leave without him. That was not his desire—not now, not ever—and it was time he proved it. He would no longer let silence speak for him.
He supposed he ought to be tracking down more names from his ever-growing list of potential conspirators, but this—she—came first. His wife deserved more than evasions and half-measures.
With new determination, he set off for Ridley House.
He would take Lily to Baydon Hall, where they belonged.
Together. He would settle the misunderstanding between them and send for his trunks, as he had intended before Harriet’s sudden arrival had torn the moment apart.
When he reached home, Michaels answered the door at once.
“Where is Lady Filminster?”
“I believe she is in the small drawing room, milord.”
Brendan nodded and strode past him, crossing the foyer with urgency that bordered on haste. His heart thudded as he turned down the corridor. He would speak his heart. He would not lose her.
But as he neared the doorway, he faltered.
First John was stationed just outside the drawing room, his hands raised, palms outward in a placating gesture. His posture was tense, eyes fixed on something within.
“I assure you I will not enter!” the guard called out.
Something was terribly wrong.
Brendan rushed forward, boots slipping slightly on the polished floor as he reached the threshold—and froze.
Inside, Wesley held Lily against him, his arm braced tightly beneath her chin.
Her chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, and fear radiated from her like a storm wind.
Her wide brown eyes locked with his, luminous with desperation.
In that instant, she looked straight into him, as if she had always known he would come.
“Do not enter, milord! I will kill her if you do!” the footman cried, wild-eyed.
Brendan’s instincts roared, but he held them back with iron restraint. Raising his hands slowly, he mirrored John’s posture. “Do not panic, Wesley. We can speak as men. There is no need for rashness.”
From the corridor behind him, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed—Michaels. They halted abruptly just out of sight, and Brendan knew the butler had assessed the tension in the air.
“What is the meaning of this, Wesley?” came his deep, steady voice. “Has something happened?”
“She saw,” Wesley snapped. “She noticed something … a slip. She knows I was involved in the baron’s murder. I am afraid she must be my leverage now.”
Brendan’s pulse thundered at the sight of Lily in such peril, but he registered, dimly, that some of the wild panic had faded from Wesley’s face the moment Brendan had stepped back from the room.
Heaven have mercy! He should have sent Lily away the morning he had discovered his chambers ransacked. If anything happened to her now, he would carry the guilt for the rest of his days. And worse, he would lose the woman he loved.
Love.
The word resounded through him with painful clarity. He had fallen irrevocably, helplessly, in love with his wife. It had happened the night of their wedding, though perhaps the seed had been planted even before. There had been no stopping it, no slowing its bloom.
And if she were harmed, even the smallest, most beloved inch of her, it would shatter him.
Brendan dragged a hand through his hair, trying to push the storm of panic aside. He had to think. He had to talk, to keep Wesley engaged, and find a way to free Lily before it was too late.
“Did you kill the baron?” he asked, voice tight but calm.
Wesley’s face twisted with fury. “Of course not!”
“But you know who did?”
Hesitation. Then, a stiff, sullen nod.
“Was it someone in this household?”
Wesley scowled, clearly offended by the question. “Why would a servant wish the baron dead?”
Brendan pressed on. “Then someone outside the household paid you to remain silent?”
Another reluctant nod.
“Then why are you still here?”
“I was promised more coin if I could find a letter the baron had written. They needed someone within the house to search for it.”
Brendan inclined his head, heart pounding as he tried to devise a plan. “I will pay you double.”
“I am not a fool!” Wesley snapped. “My only chance now is to flee … and take the baroness with me. That way, you won’t risk apprehending me.”
Brendan shook his head, lowering his voice to a coaxing tone, though it cost him dearly to speak so evenly. The mere thought of Lily being taken away twisted something sharp and primal in his chest. He wanted to roar, to tear down the walls. Instead, he reasoned.
“If you take her, we will pursue you without rest or mercy. Perhaps …” He swallowed, wincing at the idea even as he voiced it. “Perhaps I could pay you what I have now, and you could … tie us up. To make your escape.”
It was a wretched suggestion. If they gave up their freedom, Wesley could do anything he pleased. And if the man was lying, if he was not desperate but deranged, then Lily might be in even greater danger.
His wife must have had the same fears. Though she stood captive and terrified, Lily shifted slightly, trembling against Wesley’s hold. Her eyes—those vast, brown eyes—met his with a spark of fierce clarity.
“No!” she choked out, her voice barely more than breath, yet unflinchingly firm. “You will not risk your safety for me. Do you hear, Brendan Ridley? If he must take me, then you must allow it … so long as you remain unharmed!”
Wesley glanced down at her, clearly startled by the sudden burst of resolve from the fragile form he held. But Brendan was not surprised.
Of course she would say such a thing.
That was who Lily was. Brave. Selfless. Infuriatingly noble.
But he could no more let Wesley leave with her than he could stop breathing.
If something happened to Lily, if she were lost to him because of his misjudgment, then Wesley need not strike a blow. Brendan would already be destroyed.
“Take me instead!”
“No!” Lily cried out at once.
Wesley scowled. “Are you jesting? I should take a grown man rather than this small girl as my hostage?”
Grudgingly, Brendan conceded the point. The reprobate had the upper hand …
for now. He prayed Michaels might summon a Bow Street Runner or some other aid, because he was fast running out of options.
All he could do was keep the footman talking.
Keep him thinking. Because desperate men made rash choices, and Lily’s life was a thread stretched to snapping.
“I will give you everything I have in the house,” Brendan said, voice tight with desperation. “You may lock us in any room you please. But I beg you … do not harm the baroness.”
As if conjured by thought, the concealed door behind Wesley inched open. A shadowed figure slipped into view—Michaels. The butler’s eyes scanned the room, and Brendan’s mind whirled.
What was he planning?
Michaels was older, smaller, and certainly not a soldier. But still, he moved with the quiet purpose of someone unshaken by fear. Brendan knew he must not look toward him—any shift in attention could alert Wesley even as every impulse in him screamed at him to stop the butler.
He focused instead on Wesley’s face, speaking to keep him distracted.
“Who killed the baron?”
The question dropped like a stone into still water.
“That … is my secret. The killer will have to pay me. I will demand passage from England, and they will arrange it to hide their identity.” Wesley’s voice was hesitant when he finally responded.
He was not certain he would receive help, Brendan realized.
There was an opportunity to negotiate and strike a deal.
In the background, where Brendan resolutely refused to look in the event he alerted Wesley to Michaels’s proximity, the butler stepped out from behind the door.
“I do not care about the baron’s murder as much as I care about my wife. I will pay you to release her and allow you to leave without hindrance, Wesley. On my word.”
That was the moment when Brendan noticed Michaels was raising a rifle to his shoulder. Brendan wanted to shout out for him to stop, that Lily could be hit, but before he could react, the butler cocked the hammer and then pulled the trigger.
It was as if time stood still, the musketball firing from the barrel with a loud bang and belting of smoke, and Wesley crumpled to the floor, dragging Lily down under him.
“Lily!” Brendan ran into the room, dropping to his knees to pull the large footman off his wife. He wrenched Wesley aside with brute force, breath ragged with dread as he reached for his wife.