Part 2 (2/2)

Tempest didn't know if it was her own thought or a prompt from a guardian angel, but she moved as if she, too, were on fire. She skirted around the room, keeping the large tables between herself and her enemies. When she reached the door, Ledford was still dancing about, shouting at John.

”Put it out! Put it out!”

Big John noticed her then. He shook his head as if in warning. But why would he be warning her? He turned his attention back to his master, finally pushed the man to the ground, and began beating him with his coat.

Tempest pushed the door and ran outside and through the small garden, spurred on by her stepfather's screams. If the flames were out, Big John would be right behind her.

She shouldered her way through the rear gate and turned left. Each choice, each turn, would be the opposite of what she had planned, just in case her stepfather knew all. It was dark, but the evening was young. There'd be far too many witnesses of her every move once she made it to the street. She'd have to hide for a few hours. With the busy road in site, she stopped and pushed at a pain in her side, then prayed for inspiration.

To her right, a small gardener's shack stood just inside the gate to the Osbournes' garden. A perfect place for hiding! She only hoped she could get inside, and that John wouldn't notice the small roof when he came by.

She glanced behind her and reached for the gate, but it opened of its own accord and a grubby dark-skinned man emerged.

”Beggin' yer pardon, mum.” He looked up and down the alley, then back at her. ”How may I be of service?”

Tempest had no time to compose a story and hoped the truth might suffice. She was brief. Less than a minute later, she was tucked up nicely inside the shack, a st.u.r.dy stool beneath her, a dim lantern at her elbow, and a relatively clean blanket around her shoulders, which she hardly needed on such a moderate evening, but she appreciated it all the same. The hero gardener vowed to keep watch all night if need be and would not be dissuaded.

Once the door was closed, Tempest counted her blessings and waited for Big John to come looking for her.

Only he didn't come.

It wasn't as if she'd run for miles. He couldn't have tired and given up. And he was hardly a quiet man in spite of being mute. No one that size could have come searching down the alleyway without her hearing at least his large footsteps.

Tempest considered that her stepfather might have been more badly injured that she'd suspected. But she refused to fret over the monstrous man's health. Besides, the fire couldn't have done too much damage with all the dancing he'd done. Like as not, John's great coat did the most harm, since the more sincere screaming began after the big man had knocked Ledford down.

She tried to think Christian thoughts about the man's current state, but failed. She hoped it hurt like h.e.l.l. If only his face would have been affected instead of his leg, he'd not be so easily able to woo future widows into his lair.

Growling echoed through the walls of her sanctuary and she deduced her hero had fallen asleep with his back to the shack. Surely an hour had pa.s.sed. The noises from the roadway had diminished considerably. A bit longer perhaps, then she'd go.

Why hadn't John come looking for her? Was he lazy? Had he shaken his head to discourage a footrace?

No. She remembered it clearly; it had definitely been a warning.

A warning of what? Retribution? What retribution could match the horror of her stepfather's plans for her? The auction was likely taking place at that very moment. If Ledford had to cancel due to her escape, would he be so humiliated he would hunt her down and kill her? Nonsense. Her stepfather never suffered from humiliation. Anger? Yes. Humiliation? Never. And his anger would fade once his next scheme commenced brewing in his greedy little mind.

She'd seen the man at his worst, when he'd learned he wouldn't inherit all her mother had. He'd murdered no one then, though perhaps he'd begun to invent the scenario that now led Tempest to a gardener's shack in the middle of the night.

But why hadn't John come?

If Penny had sent for a doctor, John would be free to search her out- Penny! Hilde and Maude! She'd seen none of them since lunchtime!

John hadn't come because he knew she'd come back...to help the others.

He'd warned her not to go. Did he worry what might happen to the other women if she escaped? Was there something warm and alive in that large soundless chest after all?

She should find out...since she was going back anyway.

At half past midnight, there was a knock at the door. Tempest gave up trying to guess what might happen next.

The doctor was already with Ledford. John acted as butler. Tempest sat on a chair in the hallway, waiting for her stepfather to grant her an audience. She had to discover what he'd done with the servants and what she must do to ensure their safe return and continued employ.

It was all pretense of course. She knew precisely what he would demand.

John led two men up the stairs, held up a hand to indicate they should wait in the hallway, and entered Ledford's bedroom.

The first wore spectacles and carried a red book as if it were the pillow for the Crown Jewels. When he noticed Tempest, he bowed his head politely, then choked, then blushed profusely. By the low light of the lamps, he appeared purple as he shook and sputtered and stepped away from her-as if she'd brought on his personal plague. The reverence he'd shown the ledger was gone. The book disappeared behind the man's back.

Then she knew.

The auction. The results of it were no doubt contained within the pages.

She considered retiring to her room, but thought better of it. Who was she to be embarra.s.sed by the lurid actions of men? Let them be mortified.

She lifted her chin and looked the man in the eye. Or, rather, she would have if he were again capable of looking in her direction. Instead, he cowered behind the second man, who was confused by the actions of the first until he noticed Tempest's presence. Instead of blus.h.i.+ng and looking away, he strode over to her, took her hand, and bowed as if just presented to the Prince Regent.

”Miss MacIntyre, I presume?” He gave a warm smile, as if truly pleased to have stumbled across her in the hallway.

”Yes. I am.”

”I am...hmm.” He frowned at the floor.

Had he forgotten who he was?

”I am...Mister Gordon, miss. Keep a stiff upper, that's a good la.s.s. Nearly finished with all this nonsense-”

The first gentleman cleared his throat rather pointedly.

Mister Gordon dropped his chin to his chest and gave the other man what could only be called an evil eye from beneath his white brows.

The first man shook his head and turned expectantly to the door.

Gordon gave her fingers a little squeeze before stepping away.

What an odd man. And if his business with her stepfather had anything to do with the auction, why would he not be embarra.s.sed to face her?

Had the Duke of Stromburg been wrong? Was there really to be a wedding after all? Did she indeed have an appointment to meet her intended the following evening?

If she dared hope, if she dared believe such a thing, wouldn't it be wonderful if this warm man was in her intended's employ? Surely this kind gentleman wouldn't work for a monster.

The door opened. John stood back to allow the doctor to exit the room.

”How is he, Doctor?” Tempest's concern was real, but it wasn't for her uncle.

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