Night of the Scoundrel Page 13

  “You’re going to have to choose the moments you want to define you,” Ashland said, and there was a hard edge to his voice that King had never heard before. “The ones in the past or the ones yet to come. You deserve happiness, but you must choose it.”

  “I—”

  “Yer purse or yer life!” A rough voice cut off whatever King might have said. At the same time he became aware of the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his lower back.

  A movement behind Ashland betrayed another thief, this one no doubt holding a similar weapon on the duke. King’s jaw slackened. Goddammit, this was intolerable. His distraction had kept him from noticing these two fools approaching, and his inattention had left him and Ashland exposed.

  King shifted, the anger that had been absent earlier suddenly rising with a potency that made him light-headed. It was bad enough that these cretins should dare accost him here, in a place he considered sacred. But the anger directed at himself was something else altogether.

  He’d been standing in this churchyard drowning in regrets and self-pity because he’d been a coward. Ashland had been right. King had let the woman who saw him, who completed him and who was his equal in every way that mattered, walk away. No, not walk away. He had cast her away because he couldn’t bring himself to admit that in the end, she had been right too. She did make him vulnerable and afraid.

  But she had not made him weak. At his side, she had only made him stronger.

  “I said, yer purse or yer life,” the thief repeated, and this time there was a wild note of desperation in his demand. He jammed the pistol into King’s back again. “I’ll shoot you right here, don’t think I won’t.”

  His accomplice, just visible over Ashland’s shoulder, nodded vehemently, his eyes wide below unkempt hair. “Yer money. Or I’ll shoot ’im too.”

  King shifted and grasped the silver handle of his walking stick. With his other hand, he gripped the ebony staff.

  The Duke of Ashland caught his eye and winced. “Please don’t do anything rash, King.”

  “I believe we’ve had this conversation before, Ashland,” King said through gritted teeth.

  “Bloody hell.” The duke sighed.

  “Stop talking an’ give us yer fecking money.” The pistol at King’s back wobbled.

  In a swift movement fueled by fury and practiced many times over, King drew the blade hidden in his walking stick and spun, slashing at the offending pistol and then driving the silver handle of his weapon into the thief’s horrified face.

  He heard bone crunch as the man collapsed in a pile at the foot of Evan’s grave. The tip of the needlelike sword came to rest at the man’s throat. King glanced at the thief’s hand, only to discover that what he’d thought was a pistol wasn’t a pistol at all but the blunt end of a short shovel. It now lay next to the gasping, whimpering man, the rusty tool dull in the moonlight.

  Grave robbers. Who had thought to try their hand at fleecing living victims instead. Jesus, this night was getting better and better.

  King glanced behind him and found that Ashland had also disarmed his would-be attacker. The man was facedown on the cold ground, and the duke had a boot planted squarely across the back of the man’s neck. He was tapping the blade of a small but lethal knife across his gloved palm.

  “I’m glad to see a duchy hasn’t rendered you completely helpless.”

  The duke rolled his eyes.

  King returned his attention to the thief at the end of his sword and increased the pressure at the tip fractionally. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said.

  The man’s eyes bulged, blood streaming from his nose. “Didn’t mean it,” he babbled. “Were goin’ to just dig around some but then we saw you an’ yer fine clothes and thought—”

  “Yes, I know what you thought.”

  “We jes’ made a mistake, is all.”

  “You did,” King agreed coldly. “I do not like being threatened, and I do not suffer fools. I suffer fools who threaten those I care about even less.”

  The man under the duke’s boot writhed helplessly. “Please don’t kill us,” he croaked. “I beg you.”

  “No one is killing anyone,” Ashland said with a pointed look at King.

  “It would make me feel better,” King growled.

  The thief whimpered.

  Ashland snorted and glanced down at the hapless man. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s having a wretched day.”

  “What?” the man wheezed against the frozen ground.

  “He’s in love,” the duke informed him rather smugly. “With an assassin.”

  The grave robber sprawled on Evan’s grave hiccupped loudly. “Oh, sweet Mary, we’re goin’ to die.”

  King scowled fiercely at Ashland and tightened his grip on his blade, anger and frustration and regret still singing through his veins. The urge to lash out at the imbecile who’d dared threaten him only to spare himself the effort of digging among the dead for a few coins or baubles—

  King froze. “Give me your shovels and I’ll let you live,” he said, his mind racing.

  “What?” The man’s throat worked convulsively under the point of King’s blade.

  “Or I can simply slit your throats and take your shovels. Your choice.”

  The ragged man eased out and away from King’s blade, and, when he found himself still alive, scrambled to his feet. He kicked the shovel in King’s direction and backed away. “They’re all yers,” he panted.

  “Take your friend with you. And don’t ever return to this churchyard. I won’t be so charitable next time.”

  The man shook his head and, without waiting to see if his accomplice was following, turned and fled. The duke released his thief, and King watched both men scramble frantically over the church wall.

  “While I am pleased you didn’t kill anyone, what the hell was that about?” Ashland demanded.

  King sheathed his blade and set his walking stick aside, picking up the shovel. The seed of suspicion that had sprouted was growing with each passing minute, pieces of the puzzle that was Marstowe’s missing fortune sliding into place.

  He walked past Evan’s grave and stood in front of the smaller headstone next to it. There was no ornate scrolling, no decorative swirls, and no declarations of adoration. Joshua Westerleigh, 1787–1798 was carved into the surface in plain letters.

  “The rector told me that, on the day he visited my father, the old baron asked him to protect these graves,” he said slowly. “Because someone had disturbed this one.”

  Ashland was frowning. “So? Fools like the ones we just dispatched are not uncommon.”

  “True. But even those fools, looking for jewelry and gold, would not ignore the grand graves of barons and baronesses and dig up the resting place of a lowly child.” King’s shovel blade hit the hard earth. It was packed but not frozen.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Digging up my grave.”

  “Because you think someone robbed it?” The duke sounded incredulous.

  “No. I think someone put something in it.” He turned over another shovelful of earth.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you going to help or watch, Ashland?”

  The duke made an exasperated sound but bent and retrieved the second shovel and set to work beside King.

  The box, when they found it, was buried not far below the surface. It was made of wood and smaller than the child-size coffin that presumably lay somewhere below, but larger than a case that might hold a fine pair of long dueling pistols. King dropped his shovel and awkwardly wrested the heavy box from the cold earth.

  Wordlessly Ashland passed him his knife, and King pried open the latch. He set the knife aside and lifted the lid, already knowing what he was going to find.

  “Bloody hell,” Ashland breathed beside him as the moonlight illuminated the contents.

  “Indeed,” King agreed. He closed the lid and rested his hands on the surface.


  The duke pushed himself to his feet. “Well, then. I won’t ask what you’re going to do with them because I know you won’t tell me.” He sighed. “Credible deniability and all that.”

  “No,” King said quietly, looking back at his brother’s headstone. “I will tell you. I will tell you everything because the whole truth is what you deserve.” He straightened and met the Duke of Ashland’s gaze.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I do. Because I trust you. And because you’ve never run either.”

  “Not even when you asked me to dig up your grave,” Ashland said wryly. He retrieved King’s walking stick and handed it to him, his expression becoming serious again. “And what about your assassin?”

  King gripped the familiar silver handle.

  “It would seem I owe her a truth as well.”

  Chapter 16

  The sun was hot on her skin.

  Adeline tipped her face up to that warmth, the rich scents of sun-baked earth and flourishing vegetation mingling on the breeze. She lifted her heavy braid off her neck, gazing at what months of hard work had wrought. While the grand old château hadn’t survived the fiery destruction of the revolutionary mobs, the cellars and equipment sheds had been spared, along with the handful of workers’ cottages that sat on the edge of the property. The important things that were making Falaise d’Argent whole again had survived. Including her.

  Before winter had ended, Adeline had hired a foreman and a dozen workers, men and women who had toiled in vineyards like this one their entire lives. They’d been willing to teach Adeline everything they knew and share what information they could. Including the assurance that, two summers from now, they would be able to harvest their first grapes from the rows of new, tender vines that were now growing under a warm French sun. Adeline’s days became a cycle of hard work, ending only when she collapsed into a satisfied, exhausted slumber at the end of each day.

  Which was what she wanted—no, needed—because there were still too many moments when her hands and her mind were idle that she thought of King. She dropped her head, the loss that she had thought would get better with time still cutting deep. She might have found a home here, a place where she belonged, surrounded by honest, simple work, but she hadn’t been able to forget the man she had left behind. The man to whom she belonged.

  She hefted her basket from the ground over her arm.

  “I hope there’s not a head in there,” a voice said from behind her.

  Adeline set her basket back down, the disorienting surge of emotion that raced through her followed quickly by the irrational fear that she was hearing things.

  “Not today,” she replied. “And that’s a rather macabre way to greet a woman.”

  “Yes, but you’re not just a woman. You are the goddess of retribution, the inescapable, and an avenging angel who wields her weapons as well as she wields her wits.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. Because today I’m just Miss Archambault. Pulling weeds in a hot field.”

  “I will never be disappointed, Adeline.”

  Slowly she turned around. King stood before her, his coat as immaculate as ever, his breeches spotless, his boots polished to a high shine. He was leaning casually on his walking stick, the silver handle gleaming in the sun.

  “I feel a little underdressed,” she said inanely, because she had no idea what was happening. Or why he was here.

  “And by underdressed, you mean you’re not wearing your weapons?” He held up a hand before she could speak. “And that was a question, not an assumption. I don’t know where vintners hide their weapons under their clothes. Perhaps, if I don’t ruin what I’ve come to say, or you don’t run me through for utter stupidity, I might get the chance to ask. And yes, I know you do not enjoy killing stupid men, but there might always be an exception.”

  Adeline found herself wanting to grin, a terrifying sense of hope daring to rise. “I’ll restrain myself for the time being.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said suddenly. “Beautiful and happy.”

  “I’ve discovered that I like growing things and that I’m reasonably proficient at it. I’ve discovered I like teaching reading and writing and fencing to the children who live here. I want to build a school as soon as I am able. I like working alongside others toward a common goal with dirt under my fingernails and the sun on my skin. These are all things that make me happy.”

  “I’m glad.” He smiled, the corners of his ice-blue eyes crinkling. The sight took her breath away. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to come. I had some affairs to put in order first.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, unable to help herself any longer.

  “I came to find you. You left me.”

  “You told me to go.”

  “Yes. And that is the profound stupidity of which I speak.” King set his walking stick carefully against a trellis.

  Adeline stared at him.

  He reached into his coat and withdrew the locket that had once housed a Spanish sapphire. He held it out to her, the heavy locket swinging on its black ribbon. “You were right. I was afraid. Terrified, in fact, to allow myself to be vulnerable.”

  “King, I should never have—”

  “Open it.”

  Adeline took the locket from his hand, careful not to touch him. She tried to ignore the way her fingers were not quite steady. With some effort, she managed to release the catch. Nestled in the interior was not a blue sapphire but a ruby pendant on a delicate gold chain, the deep crimson burning like fire from within. She put a hand to her mouth.

  “What have you done?” she whispered.

  King moved forward and took the pendant and chain from inside the locket. “Turn around.”

  Adeline did as she was bid. He lifted her braid over her shoulder, and his hands brushed the sides of her neck, sending currents of awareness crackling over her skin the way they always had. Her eyes fluttered closed. The pendant slid from her throat to rest at the tops of her breasts, his fingers working the catch of the chain at her nape.

  “There.” His breath was warm against her skin. “That’s where it was meant to be. It looks much better on you. I was telling the truth when I said that I never did care much for the setting.”

  Adeline turned, her eyes searching his. “This was a gift to you from your brother—”

  “And now it’s a gift from me. I want you to have it. Evan would have wanted you to have it.”

  “I can’t accept this.” Her throat had closed, making speaking difficult.

  “Yes, you can. You took the worst moment in my life and helped me find a measure of…”

  “Justice?”

  “Healing. Peace.”

  “But I—”

  “You also can’t refuse because you’ve stolen something from me.”

  Adeline recognized the words he had uttered a lifetime ago. “What?”

  “My heart, Adeline. You’ve stolen my heart and my soul, and I don’t want them back without you. I need you, Adeline. With my entire being.”

  Adeline blinked, the backs of her eyes burning.

  “I understand now that needing you never made me weak. It made me stronger. I know that I am not the man you might have imagined that you—”

  “Would fall in love with?” she asked.

  His breath stilled.

  “I love you,” she said. “All of you. The dark parts and the light parts because they match mine too. You’ve always seen me, King.”

  “Joshua. Call me Joshua.”

  Emotion flooded her heart, joy spilling over.

  “I left King behind in England. He’ll certainly still be useful in business matters, but here, with you, I am Joshua.”

  Adeline stepped into his arms, and he caught her tight, claiming her lips with his. It was a messy, passionate kiss, the world around them dropping away so that only the two of them existed.

  “You are the most magnificent woman I’ve ever known,” he said prese
ntly, not releasing her. “I love you. And I should have told you that a long time ago.”

  “Thank you for your trust,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened around her. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  They stood like that for a time under the sunlight, until Joshua drew back. “I was thinking of traveling to Italy,” he said. “But only if you might consider joining me. In the winter, of course. I once promised a beautiful woman I’d take her to the Uffizi.”

  “I remember,” she replied, tipping her head back with a slow smile. “Are you asking to court me?”

  “No.” He brushed a piece of hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m asking for more than that. I’m asking for your days and for your nights. I’m asking to be the partner you deserve.”

  Adeline could barely breathe. “Yes,” she managed.

  Joshua kissed her softly.

  “Where would we live?” she asked.

  “England. France. Italy. All three of those places or none of those places. Anywhere you wish, really. My home is with you.”

  “What about your business in London?”

  “The best art and the best wine are not in London,” he said. “Which made me think that perhaps I need to expand my business. And as it turns out, I have a newly procured fortune that requires investing.”

  Adeline started. “You found the missing Marstowe money.”

  “Of course I did. Again, nothing is truly lost. One need only know where to look.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Do you remember what Lady Angelique told us? That before his death, my father was seeking out Portuguese captains in the London dockyards?”

  “Yes,” she replied slowly.

  “It bothered me, that seemingly incongruous remark. But it got me thinking. Aside from what little spice trade the Portuguese cling to, they still import another commodity that is highly desirable.”

  “What?”

  “Diamonds. From Brazil, through Goa. I find it almost humiliating that it took me as long as it did to come to such a realization, given I deal in diamonds often. Easy to transport, easy to conceal, and accepted as payment the world over.”