The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(57)

Caroline seized her bonnet and cloak from their usual place, ignoring the foolish ache as she glanced along to the study door. Alert for sounds of Richard’s return, she dashed into the drawing room and scribbled a note to Javan. There wasn’t time to write much. Richard clattered down the stairs and the clop of horses’ hooves heralded the speedy arrival of his curricle in front of the house. In the end, she wrote only,

My dear Sir,

Forgive me, I have gone to Scotland. Please assure Rosa I shall return in a few days. My apologies to you and to Miss Benedict.

Yours humbly,

Caroline Grey.

She barely had time to fold it and prop it up on the mantle shelf before she ran out to join Richard. In no time, she was seated beside him, her familiar, battered carpet bag on her lap, while Richard, with a practiced flick of his wrists, set his spirited team of horses into motion.

As she drew away from Haven Hall, she had the peculiar fantasy that her heart was being ripped from her body.

*

Marcus Swayle was barely awake when the villainous but useful Mr. Miller—Killer Miller to his friends—was brought before him. From his bed, propped up on pillows, Swayle regarded his most recent henchman with disfavor.

“They’re on the move,” Miller informed him.

“Who are?” Swayle demanded testily. He wasn’t at his best before his morning cup of tea.

“Folks at Haven Hall. Two of ‘em at any rate.”

When no further information was forthcoming, Swayle snatched his tea from his valet and glared at Miller. “Which two?”

“Benedict and the young lady.”

Swayle paused with his tea half way to his lips. “Indeed?” he said softly. “Now you interest me, my friend. And…er…where are they on the move to? Blackhaven?”

“No, sir, they took the north road.”

Swayle almost choked on his tea and hastily set down his cup. “Truly? Then they are eloping? This is wonderful! He’s got so angry that she engaged herself to his cousin that he’s dragging her to Gretna Green!”

Miller scratched his head. “Glad we’re pleased by the turn of events.”

“We most certainly are. Now you must hurry, my man. Ride after them, and on a quiet piece of road, shoot her.”

Miller blinked. “Shoot her? Got no call to go shooting women! I thought it was this Benedict we was out to get?”

“Idiot, sirrah! We do get him! The world thinks he shot her, just as he killed his wife, my sainted Louisa. At best, Benedict’s hanged for it. At the least, he loses what’s left of his reputation and is furious besides at losing his latest toy.”

“Toy?” Miller said, bewildered.

Swayle scowled. “The governess, whom you will have shot.”

Miller’s low brow tugged further down his face as he stared at Swayle. “Can’t go around killing gentlefolk,” he said at last, with a trace of regret.

“She isn’t gentlefolk, she’s the governess!”

Miller appeared to be considering this while he stroked his unshaven chin. “Very well,” he pronounced. “One thing you might not have considered.”

Swayle almost laughed in his face. The very idea that the brutal imbecile Miller might have thought of something Swayle hadn’t was really quite exquisitely humorous. But Swayle was in a good mood now. “What might that be?” he inquired with patience.

Miller let his grubby hand drop from his face. “Not entirely sure which Benedict it is. What if it’s the cousin?”

Swayle’s mouth dropped open. “The cousin? Richard? Don’t you know?”

“No. Couldn’t skulk in their stables, now, could I? They look the same over the kind of distance I was at.”

Swayle finished his tea and rattled the cup against the saucer for more. As his valet obliged, pouring from the pot, he glared at his henchman, reminding himself that he wasn’t called Killer Miller for nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. He opened the bedside cabinet and took out a monogrammed handkerchief. It bore the initials JB, lovingly embroidered by some dead Benedict no doubt. Swayle had taken it long ago, with many other things, when he’d lived in Javan’s house. “Leave this close to the scene. It will be enough to prove Javan Benedict’s presence there. He might just as well shoot the girl for eloping with his cousin. The important thing is she gets shot and Javan Benedict gets the blame.”

Miller pocketed the handkerchief with a smooth, speedy movement that spoke volumes for his previous career as a pickpocket.

“Well, I will shoot her,” he agreed at last. “But I ain’t killing her if I can help it.”

Swayle cast his eyes to heaven. “You have to kill her! Otherwise, she’ll inform against you!” Or, at least, claim Javan’s innocence, which didn’t suit Swayle at all.

Miller looked back at him with unexpected contempt. “You’d better pray she don’t. Because if I get collared for this, so do you.”

With that, Miller sauntered out of the room. Swayle waved his hands urgently at his valet to follow and make sure the disreputable assassin left the hotel by the back stairs.

*

Javan was surprised by a morning visit from his daughter before he had even left his bedchamber. Dressed in his old walking clothes, he was gazing out of the window, contemplating a long walk with Tiny to strengthen his injured leg, when Rosa burst in with barely a knock. She looked as if she were about to cry.