They scattered, Tony striding off with Tristan, Justin disappearing along Curzon Street with Barton trotting at his heels, Dalziel accompanying Christian back to Grosvenor Square.
She was alone-but this time Christian would come for her.
Letitia lay on her side on the seat of Swithin’s carriage and kept her eyes closed. The horrible stuff he’d used to drug her had left her nauseated, but the sensation was slowly ebbing.
Her faculties were slowly returning.
They were traveling southward; the direction from which sunlight fell through the carriage windows told her that. She recalled hearing that Swithin had a country house in Surrey; presumably he was taking her there.
Or perhaps he intended putting her on a boat to who knew where?
A possibility, but she didn’t think it likely.
She thought he meant to kill her; how, she didn’t know, exactly where, she didn’t know, but if his aim was to halt the sale of the company without saying anything-without letting anyone who knew of his descent into poverty live…then he was going to have to kill her.
Telling her he’d killed Randall, telling her why, even if it didn’t make all that much sense to her, showed very clearly what he planned for her.
Therefore her only goal until this was over was to avoid being killed.
She had to slow him down until Christian came.
Her confidence that he would was, somewhat to her surprise, rock solid. Unshakable, unwavering. He might not have come to save her years ago, but then he hadn’t known she’d needed saving. This time he would know; this time he would come.
She examined that certainty and what fed it. In her heart, locked away though it was, she no longer doubted his devotion to her. Circumstances or fate might part them, yes, but he never would.
And nor would she.
But she hadn’t yet told him that. Hadn’t found the courage or the moment…No. In light of her heart’s certainty, given her predicament, she might as well be brutally honest-she hadn’t found the backbone to set aside her pride, to relinquish the one prop she’d had left to her and openly embrace him and their love again.
To, in the eyes of their world, claim it, and him, for her own again.
Damn!
Pride had twisted Swithin into a murderer. She wasn’t, she vowed, going to let that less than admirable trait deprive her of the one thing she most wanted in life-Christian, and through him, the resurrection of their dreams.
She wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t going to let pride retain any further hold on her.
And she certainly wasn’t going to let a sad case like Swithin take their future-the future they’d waited twelve long years for-from them.
Determined, she carefully cracked open her lids and peered through her lashes. Swithin sat dozing on the opposite seat.
Very carefully, she straightened her legs, seeking to ease her cramped muscles. Only to detect, then confirm, that he’d hobbled her. Her ankles weren’t lashed tight, but they were joined-she could part them only a few inches, not even a foot.
Faintly horrified, she tried to move her hands-and discovered her wrists were tied together. Without moving too much, she squinted down at the knots-and cursed long and vividly, if silently.
Her hands were lashed palm-to-palm with the knots on the outside of her wrists. She wouldn’t be able to ease the knots undone with her teeth; she couldn’t reach them well enough to do so.
More silent cursing ensued; she let herself indulge-temper buoyed her. Gave her untold courage, false though it might be.
At that moment she would willingly embrace anything that gave her strength. If she was going to foil Swithin’s plans long enough for Christian to rescue her, she was going to need all she could get.
Chapter 20
Christian sent his whip snaking out to flick his leader’s ear. The horse responded with a surge of power, drawing his curricle closer to Tristan’s, just ahead.
Behind, Justin kept two horses’ lengths back. He’d taken Barton up beside him; when Christian had glanced back, he’d seen the runner, pale, eyes staring, hanging onto the rail for dear life.
All their passengers were holding the rails, even Dalziel beside him. At the pace they were traveling, it was too dangerous not to; it was just as well Tristan knew the roads better than the backs of his hands.
He’d led them surprisingly swiftly out of London. As soon as they hit more open country, he’d lowered his hands and let his horses have their heads. Christian had been on his heels, with Justin’s blacks breathing down his neck all but literally.
They were rattling along too rapidly to talk. Regardless, he and Dalziel had nothing they needed to say. They both knew the odds, knew that time was ticking away-knew that without some help-not discounting divine intervention-they were unlikely to reach Swithin’s house in time.
Always assuming they’d guessed aright and Swithin hadn’t headed somewhere else entirely.
The paralyzing fear that flashed through him at the thought had him sucking in a breath.
He pushed the debilitating reaction away, bundled it out of his mind; for one of the few times in his dangerous life he began to pray.
Divine intervention wasn’t to be sneezed at.
He hadn’t saved Letitia years before; he’d be damned-literally-if he let her down again.
They swept into the drive of Swithin’s house, all six horses in a lather. Tristan pulled up before the front steps; Christian drew his horses to a stamping halt right behind.
Justin swept past, with a flourish of his whip indicating he was heading around to the stables.
“Good move.” Dalziel stepped down and followed Christian to the door.
As he had in Curzon Street, Christian hammered on the front door until it swung open. A butler stood in the doorway, all but frozen in shock at the sight of the four large and menacing men crowding the front porch.
“Where’s your master?” Christian’s growl suggested-accurately-that he wished to rend said master limb from limb.
The butler swallowed and found his voice. “He’s not here. He lives in London for much of the time-in Curzon Street.”
“We’ve just come from Curzon Street-he left there, apparently for here.”
The butler had caught sight of their steaming horses. “Perhaps he’s still on the road?” He lifted his gaze to Christian’s face. “He doesn’t like rattling along-it makes him ill.”
That was the best bit of news Christian had had all day. Yet even traveling slowly, Swithin should have been there. He glanced at Dalziel, who met his gaze. Neither of them thought the butler was lying.
“All that means”-Dalziel swung back to the forecourt-“is that he hasn’t come through his front door.”
“And if he had a struggling prisoner in tow, he wouldn’t.” Tristan went back down the shallow steps. The others followed; the butler, puzzled, came out in their wake.
Justin came striding around the side of the house, greatcoat flapping, Barton at his heels. A bevy of stableboys rushed past, racing to take the high-stepping horses in charge.
“He’s here,” Justin bellowed as soon as he was in earshot. Halting, he beckoned. “The stableman says he arrived about five minutes ago-with a lady.”
Moments later they all stood in the stableyard, where two carriage horses were being watered.
“The lady wasn’t well,” the stableman said. “Fainting and weak-she could barely stand. The master had to half carry her up to the house.”
“He didn’t go in through the front door.” With the others, Christian turned to look at the house. “The butler hasn’t seen him.”
The stableman frowned. “That’s odd. The state the lady was in, I’d’ve thought he’d have her inside right away.”
From where they stood, the side door of the house was visible. Dalziel pointed. “Did you see him go through that door?”