Chapter Sixteen
Covent Garden
Michael was on edge as he escorted Evangeline into the Theatre Royal.
Tonight he would have the opportunity to finally complete his last mission—the only one he’d ever failed at. But now, thanks to his wife, the knowledge that the Jackal would be in the opera house quivered the hairs on his nape.
As he led her through the crowded, narrow corridors, the equally crowded staircase, and onto the second level where Steppingford’s box was located.
“If the crush proves too much for you, I don’t mind leaving the show early for home,” he whispered against the delicate shell of her ear.
Just now, they couldn’t move forward in the corridor due to the milling opera goers.
She glanced up at him, and though her grin was tight, it was there, nonetheless. “I’ll admit, I didn’t realize how anxious I’d feel upon reentering society.”
“Because of me?”
“No, because of me.” The fingers resting on his arm tightened. “So many people staring. It’s making me feel self-conscious.”
Even to his own ears, his chuckle sounded forced.
“I know what that feels like. Try to ignore it the best you can.” He pulled her a bit closer as they slowly made their way along the corridor.
The sweet floral scent of her teased his nose.
“Remind yourself that the opinions of the ton don’t matter to the kind of person you are. ”
Tonight, they would see The Barber of Seville, and at some point, he planned to slip out, find Echerson, and dispatch him. Evvie didn’t need to know what would transpire.
“On the other hand,” she continued in a whisper. “I’m excited, for I’ve never attended the opera before. Marklesfield had no use for it.”
“As I have said before, he was a nodcock.” He made another silent promise to himself that he would give her everything her idiot first husband never did.
Except once the business with Echerson was finished, he would vanish… and leave her free. God, perhaps I am a coward, after all.
Eventually, they arrived at the appropriate box.
“Here we are. No doubt Steppingford is already inside.” As he led her into the shallow room off the corridor where food and drink were prepared or extra chairs were stored, his heartbeat accelerated.
Time drew short. How long would it be before the viscount would make an appearance?
Perhaps at the break before the two entertainments planned for tonight.
Whenever it was, he’d be ready. After all, he’d had three years to prepare for this meeting.
A heavy, red velvet curtain hung at the back of the room, partially open, just as a matching one on the other side did.
Golden trim and tassels decorated the curtain, and when he stepped into the box itself, he immediately glanced about the space, intimate space.
Three rows containing two chairs decorated each side of the box.
As of yet, only Steppingford and his wife sat in the delicate chairs featuring red velvet cushions.
Steppingford turned as they came in. He rose to his feet and greeted them both. “Welcome, Darkemore, Duchess. I wasn’t certain you would accept my invitation.”
“Well, since my wife adores the opera, of course we would be here.” He didn’t think Steppingford knew what he’d planned for the night, but they’d been friends for years, and the other man wasn’t an idiot.
“Ah, Lady Evangeline, you are in for a special treat then.” Steppingford took one of her gloved hands, brought it to his lips, and then kissed the back. “Come and sit next to my wife. Darkemore and I will sit behind you.”
“Thank you.” She threw a glance at Michael. “Such a gentleman is your friend.” Then she waved at the Duchess of Steppingford.
The dull roar of conversation and laughter filtered through the air as opera goers found their seats in the massive theater building.
From somewhere down below, musicians tuned their instruments.
A buzz of excitement flowed through the air, for every performance on the stage was looked forward to with anticipation.
“Yes, he’s quite the paragon,” Michael couldn’t help but respond. At the last second, he stopped himself from uttering a growl, for he didn’t tolerate flirting of any kind with his wife.
His friend laughed at that. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Darkemore.
” Steppingford clapped a hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Ravenhurst and his wife should be along at any moment. When I mentioned at the club last night we were to attend the opera tonight, he was quite keen to do so as well, so I invited him along.”
“The more the merrier.” At least Evvie would have protection. The other two dukes wouldn’t let anything happen to the ladies. He glanced at the still-open curtains. “Quarter of an hour until the opera starts.”
“Don’t worry. Ravenhurst will be here.” Clearly, Steppingford misinterpreted his anxiety. “The man is always prompt.”
“Indeed.” Then he frowned when his wife left her chair and came toward him. “Is something wrong?”
“I seem to have lost my fan. It might have slipped from my wrist in the crush of the corridor.” She held up her left hand. Though the emerald bracelet he’d given her sparkled in the candlelight, the red and gold fan that matched her gown wasn’t there. “Perhaps it’s just outside the box.”
He nodded. “I’ll check.” Then the Duke of Ravenhurst entered the box along with his wife, along with another man, and greetings distracted him.
“Ah, Darkemore, how lovely to see you tonight.”
The other man was unknown to Michael, but Steppingford introduced him. “Mr. Trent, this is the Duke of Darkemore and Ravenhurst. Gentlemen, Mr. Trent is my man-of-affairs. I knew my box wouldn’t be full tonight, and since he was in Town, I extended him an invitation.”
Evvie waved a hand. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a twinkling.”
He narrowed his gaze on Mr. Trent, a middle-aged man with graying brown hair and an unassuming manner.
“Welcome.” Then his view of his wife was temporarily blocked as greetings went around the people in the box once more.
The ebb and flow of conversation had a soothing effect on his ragged nerves, and by increments, he relaxed.
It was a short-lived state, for seconds later, a feminine scream cut through the cacophony, and he was immediately thrust into an alerted state.
“Evvie?” As soon as he took a few steps toward the curtains, his wife entered the box, but she wasn’t alone.
Viscount Echerson stood behind her with the nose of a pistol pressed into the side of her neck and an arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her immobile and close to his body. “Shit.”
From somewhere behind him, Steppingford huffed. “What the devil is the meaning of this, Echerson?”
Time seemed to slow for Michael as he stood briefly frozen with his gaze locked on Evangeline’s face. His pulse hammered in his temples and rushed through his veins while icy fingers of fear played down his spine.
“Let her go, Echerson.” He didn’t raise his voice and he didn’t make demands; now was not the time, for he would kill the viscount. That was a certainty. “This is between you and me. It doesn’t concern her.”
“Oh, but it does, in an indirect way.” The sarcastic insolence in the other man’s voice scratched across Michael’s nerves. “Actually, perhaps in two ways, and you are at the heart of both of them.”
“How do you figure?”
Echerson shrugged. “First, you married her, which prevented me from doing the same. Marklesfield left her quite an inheritance and I desperately need that funding.” His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “I’ll admit, fucking her would prove lovely as well.”
Rage built within his chest. “And the second reason?” He spit the inquiry out from around clenched teeth.
A cold laugh escaped his enemy’s throat. “You made her care for you, and in doing that, you’ve become even more dangerous.”
Terror reflected in Evangeline’s eyes and expression. Her lips, those lovely, delicious lips he’d kissed countless times, trembled as she implored him to do something.
Risking a quick glance behind him at the others in the box, he met Steppingford’s concerned gaze then focused once more on the viscount. “Let her go. I’ll come with you willingly, and you can have at me all you want once we’re well away.”
“No!” Apparently, that didn’t sit well with Evangeline, for she renewed her struggles against her captor. “Don’t let Echerson manipulate you.”
“Shut up!” After raising the hand with the pistol, the viscount brought down the butt on the side of her head.
With a whimper of pain, she crumpled in his hold, not unconscious but stunned.
Increasing white-hot rage barreled through Michael’s chest. “Let her go.” This time, there was a specific demand in the utterance, and anyone who heard it would be a fool not to heed it. “Then we’ll settle this.”
“I think not.” Echerson gestured with his chin. “I’m taking her with me. If you think you’re man enough to follow, do so, but we both know you are a coward at heart. A failure. An embarrassment to the Crown.”
“While you kiss the Regent’s arse without him being clever enough to understand that you are the Jackal?” As he spoke, Michael edged toward him. “If you think to bring down his government out of shame, think again. He’s done plenty of stupid things already.”
“Traitorous talk, Darkemore.”
“You would know.” Before he could do or say anything else, Mr. Trent stood up from his chair. Perhaps he was out of his mind from fear or perhaps he thought to play the hero; no one would ever know, but he uttered a cry.
“Enough!”
Everyone froze. Echerson frowned, eyed the man askance, then he raised the hand with the pistol, leveled it, and fired.
Bang!
In horror, Michael turned about in time to see Mr. Trent clutch his chest where the red bloom of blood seeped between his fingers. Shocked reflected in his eyes. He staggered backward, but before Ravenhurst could reach him, the unfortunate man tumbled over the wall to plummet to the seats below.