he’d checked. He knew only too well what was about to befall Cordell.
And there wasn’t anything Temple could do if he wanted to live to save Diana.
“The last room down the hall,” Cordell said impatiently, not paying attention to the shifting movements above him, too intent on gathering the last of the coins into his greedy hands and stuffing them back into the pouch and into his pockets. He rose and faced his conspirators. “To the left when you get to the head of the stairs.” He gave the bag an appreciative shake. “Give her my love.”
“We’ll give her more than that, monsieur,” Marden said, pulling out a pistol and firing a shot straight into Cordell’s heart. “We’ll give her your condolences.”
The viscount staggered back several steps, his mouth open and moving, but no words came forth.
Temple stood rooted in place, impotent rage seething through him at his own inability to come to the man’s aid. What could he do with his pistol back at the inn and Diana’s destiny so uncertain?
In truth, the viscount had sealed his own fate the moment he’d become embroiled in this treacherous affair.
Now it was his undoing.
The man clutched at his coat, where already a red stain spilled across the pale yellow wool. He looked down at his own ruin and then back at his murderer. “You dirty, conniving—” His strangled words ended as he fell over dead.
Marden shrugged. “ Adieu, monsieur.” He tucked his pistol back inside his cloak, then said to one of his henchmen, “Retrieve the gold before we go fetch our bride. He has no use for it now.”
There followed some low, rough laughter.
The bride . Temple glanced over his shoulder, where he could barely discern the lights of Geddington. Diana! Her name shot through his shocked thoughts like a howling wind.
In the meadow, a French curse tainted the air. “He won’t let go of the pouch.”
Temple wanted to smile. Even in death, Cordell remained a greedy, grasping bastard.
“Then cut off his hand, you fool. Just get the money,” Marden ordered.
Backing away from the horrific scene and the complaints of the horseman, Temple made his way out of the woods as quickly and silently as he could. If the French discovered him, there would be no one to protect Diana from whatever they had planned for her—since he knew only too well what they were capable of.
But before he cleared the trees and could hit the road in a dead run, the horsemen thundered past him and into Geddington.
His heart sank. He’d never reach her in time.
Oh dear God, Diana. I’ve failed you yet again.
Elton sat in the peace and quiet of the empty stable yard, smoking his pipe and glancing occasionally at the sky. The moon hung far overhead, just a faint silver whisper that offered little in the way of light or guidance through the darkness. Stars, taking advantage of the reluctant moon, sparkled and twinkled, radiating their own glory without the competing light from their brighter, much larger sister.
Ah, he mused, puffing on his pipe, it was a night made for the roads. He could almost hear the sound of a coming carriage, feel the restless movements of his horse beneath him as it too sensed the coming fray. Then he’d dash out in front of the driver, pistols in both hands, and say…say…
By gads, he couldn’t remember what it was he used to say.
“Get a good night’s rest, you old fool,” he muttered to himself. He sighed and tapped out his pipe. He’d given up that profession the day the hangman had put a noose around his neck and pronounced his final punishment.
If it hadn’t been for the marquis’ intervention…well, he owed Lord Templeton his life, and he certainly couldn’t start indulging in old ways just because a perfect night tempted him to ride the roads again.
Yet…it was as if he could hear the pounding hooves calling him, coming closer.
“Ye’re getting batty,” he said, wondering at the lure the road still held over him. He should go
And there wasn’t anything Temple could do if he wanted to live to save Diana.
“The last room down the hall,” Cordell said impatiently, not paying attention to the shifting movements above him, too intent on gathering the last of the coins into his greedy hands and stuffing them back into the pouch and into his pockets. He rose and faced his conspirators. “To the left when you get to the head of the stairs.” He gave the bag an appreciative shake. “Give her my love.”
“We’ll give her more than that, monsieur,” Marden said, pulling out a pistol and firing a shot straight into Cordell’s heart. “We’ll give her your condolences.”
The viscount staggered back several steps, his mouth open and moving, but no words came forth.
Temple stood rooted in place, impotent rage seething through him at his own inability to come to the man’s aid. What could he do with his pistol back at the inn and Diana’s destiny so uncertain?
In truth, the viscount had sealed his own fate the moment he’d become embroiled in this treacherous affair.
Now it was his undoing.
The man clutched at his coat, where already a red stain spilled across the pale yellow wool. He looked down at his own ruin and then back at his murderer. “You dirty, conniving—” His strangled words ended as he fell over dead.
Marden shrugged. “ Adieu, monsieur.” He tucked his pistol back inside his cloak, then said to one of his henchmen, “Retrieve the gold before we go fetch our bride. He has no use for it now.”
There followed some low, rough laughter.
The bride . Temple glanced over his shoulder, where he could barely discern the lights of Geddington. Diana! Her name shot through his shocked thoughts like a howling wind.
In the meadow, a French curse tainted the air. “He won’t let go of the pouch.”
Temple wanted to smile. Even in death, Cordell remained a greedy, grasping bastard.
“Then cut off his hand, you fool. Just get the money,” Marden ordered.
Backing away from the horrific scene and the complaints of the horseman, Temple made his way out of the woods as quickly and silently as he could. If the French discovered him, there would be no one to protect Diana from whatever they had planned for her—since he knew only too well what they were capable of.
But before he cleared the trees and could hit the road in a dead run, the horsemen thundered past him and into Geddington.
His heart sank. He’d never reach her in time.
Oh dear God, Diana. I’ve failed you yet again.
Elton sat in the peace and quiet of the empty stable yard, smoking his pipe and glancing occasionally at the sky. The moon hung far overhead, just a faint silver whisper that offered little in the way of light or guidance through the darkness. Stars, taking advantage of the reluctant moon, sparkled and twinkled, radiating their own glory without the competing light from their brighter, much larger sister.
Ah, he mused, puffing on his pipe, it was a night made for the roads. He could almost hear the sound of a coming carriage, feel the restless movements of his horse beneath him as it too sensed the coming fray. Then he’d dash out in front of the driver, pistols in both hands, and say…say…
By gads, he couldn’t remember what it was he used to say.
“Get a good night’s rest, you old fool,” he muttered to himself. He sighed and tapped out his pipe. He’d given up that profession the day the hangman had put a noose around his neck and pronounced his final punishment.
If it hadn’t been for the marquis’ intervention…well, he owed Lord Templeton his life, and he certainly couldn’t start indulging in old ways just because a perfect night tempted him to ride the roads again.
Yet…it was as if he could hear the pounding hooves calling him, coming closer.
“Ye’re getting batty,” he said, wondering at the lure the road still held over him. He should go
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