“Vanity . . . got the better of you.” The mouth contorted into a grin. “You killed her.”
By accident. A message sent to the duke—Chloe the willing bait to lure Yarmouth to his death—Wyn crouching in an alley after midnight—a steady hand yet a head full of brandy—Chloe stepping through the door first—not the plan.
How the duke had laughed, his mirth bubbling down that dark corridor of hell as he’d strolled away unharmed.
Weeks later, arising from the trough of forgetfulness into which he’d sunk himself that night after Jin helped him find a proper grave for the body, Wyn had written the duke a letter. Then after five years awaiting opportunity to breach the duke’s impregnable fortress, Lady Priscilla had provided that chance, to fulfill the promise he’d made Chloe Martin as she’d lain dying in his arms.
“The horse was another lie, wasn’t it? Lady Priscilla was your ploy to lure me once again to do your bidding. You want to die and end your suffering, but you haven’t the courage to do it alone. For my attempt at defying you five years ago, I am to have the honor of once again pulling the trigger, aren’t I?”
He stared into Yarmouth’s dessicated face and, with a clarity born perhaps of equal parts fury and satisfaction, he recognized at this moment his own misdeed. He should not have hurt Diantha. Ready—eager—to trust him that morning, she might have done what he wished had he explained the danger. She might have listened for once, and helped him keep her safe.
He said quietly, “There is no greater honor than to be entrusted with a woman’s safety and happiness.”
The slightest, smallest gasp like a sigh came from the veiled woman in the chair. But Wyn did not remove his attention from the duke.
“You are a twisted man, Your Grace. You deserve to linger in this misery until your madness takes you entirely. For I will not assist you.” Not now that he had discovered the tragedy in deception. Not now that he had tasted life.
“She fought me.” The words were softly spoken, barely a damp breath from Yarmouth’s lips. “Dear Chloe . . . fought . . . every time.” The mouth shaped into a grimace of pleasure, the eyes bright.
Wyn turned his face away. “Take me from here,” he said to the guard.
Chopper glanced at the cavern of the bed.
Wyn did not know if the duke assented or if his guards could no longer bear their employer’s presence either. They pushed him toward the stairwell, and as he went to his uncertain fate below he thought of Diantha . . . safe. He even smiled.
She would not have listened to him. If he’d told her all, she would not have allowed him to hide her away to ensure her safety—not again, not after the abbey. She would have insisted on helping him and by now she would be here, the duke’s prisoner, just as he. Instead she was safe in Savege’s house, with Grimm keeping watch for surety.
They came to the landing above the basement the moment the door there opened, revealing the Highlander who had promised Wyn the night before that he no longer worked for the Duke of Yarmouth.
And, behind Duncan, Diantha.
Wide-eyed, hair tumbling from a bonnet askew, spots of pink where her dimples ought to be, her mouth tied with cloth and wrists bound with rope, she looked at him and her body went slack.
Duncan caught her up against his side.
“What’s this?” Chopper scowled. “Bringing your fancy piece here, Donnan?”
“Does she look like a fancy piece, ye dolt?”
The big guard slavered. “Share a bit of the fun with us, mate?”
Duncan’s gaze came straight to Wyn. “No, lads. This lass here be for the pleasure o’ His Grace.”
Chapter 29
Diantha gagged. She knew the lie was to throw the duke’s ruffians off their guard, but even the notion revolted. Swallowing down bile as well as the strip of her shift stuffed between her lips allowed, she recovered from the false swoon and struggled to right herself against Lord Eads, fighting not to look at Wyn. If she looked—truly looked—she might actually swoon.
Iron shackles. Blood. Everything inside her screamed to tear out the ruffians’ eyes with her fingernails.
She closed her eyes to slits and groaned then shook her head in weak protest, playing the part as Lord Eads had instructed her in the hired hackney coach while they’d bolted through the streets to this house.
“Goddamn you, Eads.” Wyn’s voice sounded barely human.
The big ruffian looked her up and down like she was dinner.
But the other seemed skeptical. “Listen here, Donnan.” He shook his head. “The duke ain’t—”
And then the tiny landing between two sets of narrow stone steps erupted into a melee of male aggression. Wyn slammed his body against the guard to his left, knocking him off balance to teeter on the edge of the steps. Arms flailing, he scrabbled to stay upright. Lord Eads thrust her behind him, blocking the big guard lunging toward Wyn. She struggled not to fall, unwinding the ropes from her wrists and tugging the gag from her mouth. Lord Eads threw himself at his opponent, and the other guard regained his footing and grabbed for Wyn. She screamed. Iron links clanged. In one graceful movement Wyn leaped over the chain and hauled it high to swing around the ruffian’s shoulders. Lord Eads’s opponent bellowed and fell against the wall clutching his neck, blood oozing through his fingers. The big body thumped to the floor. The other ruffian shouted, then gasped, chains rattling not around his shoulders—his head.
“Don’t kill him!”
“I am not”—grating voice—“going to”—the ruffian slumped—“kill him.” Wyn released his captive, iron links clanking as the guard collapsed onto the stairs. He swung around, fire blazing in his silver eyes fixing on Lord Eads. “But I am going to kill him.”
Diantha pushed away from the door. “He didn’t—”
In the darkness above, a door knocked open against the wall. Both men’s eyes snapped upward. Then they met, blue challenging gray.
“Allou me.”
Wyn nodded and dropped to his knees beside the bleeding guard. The irons jangled. Lord Eads started up the steps.
Diantha surged forward. “But what is he—”
Wyn grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the door. Behind them on the landing the shackles were clamped about the smaller ruffian’s wrists.
The misty night air had turned to fog, the alley behind the duke’s house hazy and sparkling now like a haunted fairyland. Wyn pulled her, his grip digging into her flesh, and she struggled to keep up. She did not protest the brutality. She had never seen such fury in his eyes as a moment ago. She had also never seen a man murdered.
Their swift footsteps were eerily quiet in the alley that ran along the mews. This neighborhood was not like the street near the docks where Tracy took her, rather more respectable from the glimpse she’d had upon hastily disembarking from the hackney coach. She hadn’t known then what they would find inside the duke’s house, if they would find Wyn alive or—or—
She stumbled. He caught her shoulders, steadied her, and in the ghostly dark their breaths swirled mist between them. Somewhere far off, the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels echoed.
“Did you bring a horse? A carriage?”
She shook her head. “Lord Eads dismissed the hackney—”
He grasped her wrist again and jarred her into motion. The fog wavered ahead, showing glimpses of a stone building with a sizable wooden door. Wyn jolted her to a halt, a door rattled as it slid in a track, and he pulled her inside.
It was dark and warm, the scents of horses and straw wonderfully clean. Simple and like home.
He released her to close the door and Diantha sank against the wall, trembling. Wyn’s boot steps receded into the blackness. But he would not leave her—she knew this—no matter how furious. And finally, as she gulped in air, her lungs filled and her body shed its shock, her anger and hurt rose anew.