When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,111
like a common tinker.”
Gideon raised his brows. “I told you I couldn’t risk moving him.”
“Show me the proof.”
Keys looked nervous.
“As promised.” Gideon led the duke out of the library with Keys trailing uncertainly behind.
They made their way downstairs and to the hall that led to the kitchens.
“Your servants?” Windemere asked sharply.
“I’ve given them the night off,” Gideon said levelly.
He should be on his toes, alert to any danger, but he found it impossible to care.
He led the way through the kitchens and to the low entrance to the cellars, stopped, and jerked his head to the door. “Down there.”
Windemere looked between him and the door. “Show me.”
Gideon gritted his teeth and lit a candle. “Mind the steps.”
The stairs were shallow and wound around a central pillar, the way confined and slippery. Gideon kept his light high, and shadows loomed on the old stone walls of the cellar.
At the bottom the space was divided by crude wooden shelves, all but fallen down.
Gideon walked to the first shelf and halted.
The duke continued just past him, peering into the small space.
Gideon raised his candle so he could see.
Julian Greycourt lay crumpled facedown, the entire back of his head shining with blood. The sight was enough to turn a normal man’s stomach.
Not Windemere’s.
He began laughing.
Gideon stared in disgust for a moment before he motioned to Keys. “We’ve already drawn up the papers with an amendment to your earlier promissory note. We but need your signature.”
“Of course.” The duke continued to chortle to himself.
Keys had brought a flat wooden travel desk, and he held it steady as the duke signed the papers.
Windemere handed the papers to Gideon, a hideously triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Here’s your money, and cheap at that for a man’s blood.”
“Well,” drawled Greycourt as he turned over. “A pig’s blood, anyway.”
For a second the duke merely goggled at his nephew as the younger man stood and began brushing dust from his coat.
Then Windemere whirled on Gideon, his teeth bared. “You lying thief! You’ll not see a farthing of that dowry because—”
“Because you want this murder plot spread far and wide throughout London?” Gideon asked, head cocked.
Windemere’s eyes narrowed. “No one will believe you! No one.”
“Oh, but I’ve witnesses,” Gideon said as Quintus and Lord Rookewoode emerged from the dark farther back in the cellar.
Rookewoode brushed a cobweb from the shoulder of his exquisitely tailored coat. “I say, Greycourt. This is better than the pantomime.”
Windemere was staring at the earl, the color draining from his face. One thing to accuse a member of his family of lying.
Quite another to question the word of an earl.
“Are you really going to risk it?” Gideon asked.
The duke stood glaring. He slowly turned his head to Greycourt, staring at him almost hungrily. “I’ll have you. One of these days find your soft spot and then I’ll have you.”
Greycourt cocked his head and drawled, “But not today.”
Windemere had little else to do but leave the cellar after that, his face reddened with rage.
“Is that it, do you think?” Quintus asked.
“No,” Greycourt said. “Not at all. But for now he’s had his cannons spiked.” He looked at Rookewoode. “Thank you for coming on very short notice, my lord.”
Rookewoode smiled. “Anything for a friend.”
Greycourt nodded and turned to Gideon. “I think I owe you, brother-in-law, for warning me of my uncle’s plans.”
Gideon shrugged tiredly. “You helped me secure Messalina’s dowry. I think we’re even.”
Footsteps came running down the cellar stairs, and Gideon braced himself. Far too easy for Windemere to simply walk away. If the duke had come back to—
But it was Lucretia who appeared, panting.
“Where’s Messalina?” Gideon barked before she could speak.
Lucretia inhaled. “In the carriage. Out front. We were coming back to you and—” She shook her head, interrupting herself. “Never mind that. Mr. Blackwell has gone insane. He shoved his way into our carriage and sent me to say that he wants to speak to you.”
Gideon frowned. “What—?”
But Lucretia wasn’t done. She took a desperate gulp of air and blurted, “He has Messalina at gunpoint.”
* * *
Messalina stared at Will Blackwell across the carriage. Beside him was a hulking man Messalina remembered from the attack outside the theater. Mr. Blackwell held two pistols—carelessly, but she wasn’t so foolish as to think that he wouldn’t use them.
He’d already killed the driver of Freya’s carriage.
Thank God he hadn’t been interested in Lucretia. Thank God her sister had been sent outside to safety.
Messalina licked her lips and said with a firm voice, “Gideon won’t come out.”