Page 96 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
The newcomer stood just beyond the light of Rayne’s discarded lantern.
“Your lady needs you, Tipton,” he urged. “The weapon.”
Reluctantly, he opened his hand and allowed the pistol to drop. He did not need it. He was angry, desperate, and just mean enough to dispatch this man with his bare hands. “Where is she?”
Laughter came from the darkness, drawing closer as the man stepped into the light. “Close. Real close,” Oz Lockwood promised, the barrel of a pistol peeking out from his greatcoat. He correctly read Rayne’s thoughts. “I have not dropped this one. Is Devona’s life worth risking to prove the condition of this weapon?” There was a hard edge to his mocking smile. “I thought not.”
Disgusted, Rayne wiped the mist from his face. “She never realized you were dangerous. Hell, she probably invited herself along on her own kidnapping.”
“You have come to understand our reckless Devona very well. So beautiful and a spirit to match. If there was a lady to breach your defenses, I wagered she would be the one to succeed.”
“Do not attempt to convince me that my wife conspired against me, Lockwood. I will not believe it. What puzzles me is the why of it. I do not know you. I have led a quiet life in London,” he mused, keeping his gaze on the pistol aimed directly at his heart. “If you encouraged Devona to seek me out, then it cannot be for her affections. So why?” Brock and Sir Thomas would come across them soon. All Rayne had to do was keep him talking.
“You are a creature of fate, are you not? An illness, death, a miraculous resurrection and the discarded second son became Viscount Tipton.”
He could not help smiling at the ridiculously brief account of his life. “There was pain, grief, loss, and redemption, too,” he dryly added. “You seem remarkably obsessed and informed about the details of my life.”
Oz shifted, redistributing his weight. “We have never been formally introduced. You might recognize me by my full name: Osmund Lockwood Rawley.”
Despite the poor lighting and rain, it was obvious that the man expected some reaction to his revelation. Rayne purposely kept his expression blank. Oz had taken so much from him; he refused to give him one more damn thing. “Under our present circumstances, do not expect me to be pleased to meet you.”
Oz faltered; the lack of recognition seemed to stun him. “My name. Rawley. Do you not know it?”
“Should I?” he asked, barely concealing a yawn. The moment Oz Lockwood Rawley became careless he was a dead man.
“The title was mine, you resilient upstart!” he shouted. “There had been talk of you dying in India—”
“A few close calls,” he modestly admitted.
“Then you returned to London, prepared to live out your life scoffing at the title I would have killed to possess.”
Rayne watched the barrel pointed at him waver. His muscles coiled, readying for a sudden attack. Oz, noting his intense concentration, readjusted his aim. “You already have—killed, that is.”
Determination hardened the man’s jaw. “A few. Doran Claeg for one.” Oz nodded his head, satisfied that he had managed to surprise his nemesis. “Ah, I see you did not expect my little confession. Poor Devona. She was beside herself when she learned her childhood friend was not off exploring the world as her husband had sworn. She found him half-starved and chained like a wild animal in the bowels of an old ruin.”
Rayne flinched, the truth of why Devona left him battering at his self-control. She thought he had lied to her about Claeg. For a time, he had emerged as the real monster polite society whispered about, and she hadbelievedit. “Naturally, as a concerned friend, you helped her escape the fiend she married?” The urge to strangle the man consumed his thoughts.
“She came to me,” he boasted. “I planned it brilliantly. I sent an anonymous note revealing your misdeeds. Devona insisted on traveling to the mentioned locale and I could not in good conscience allow her to journey alone.” He sighed. “She was heartbroken when she found out that the information about Claeg was true.”
Rayne’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. He was so focused on Oz that he matched him, breath for breath. “So, Cousin, you covet my title? Come and take it.”
“Why do I have to take it when your delightful mother offered it to me?”
The news that his mother played a part in this scheme did not surprise him. “When?”
Oz shrugged. “The first time I heard from her was when she was arranging to commit you to the asylum fifteen years ago. She had inquired, and realized I was next in line after you. That lady loves her pretty house, and the money that goes with it.”
“She contacted you when I returned, I assume.”
With Oz passionate about his triumph, the pistol’s aim shifted and bounced at every gesture. “I have always been there, Tipton. Why do you think Foxenclover has been stripped of its treasures? You may be cheeseparing, but you provided enough funds for the care of your mother and sister. Unfortunately, you did not account for my requirements.”
He blinked at the audacity of the man. “You blackmailed her.”
Oz’s teeth clenched as if he was recalling what he had endured dealing with the dowager. “Being denied my birthright was costly for Jocelyn. When you returned, she was so terrified of you that she finally agreed that a fifteen-year-old mistake needed to be corrected.”
Brock came stalking out of the surrounding blackness. His clothes were rain soaked and smeared with mud. Blood dripped from a wound at his temple. “Fart-catching cully,” he muttered, swinging the shovel in his hands.
Bloody hell. Bedegrayne was going to get one of them gut shot. Rayne moved at the same time Oz twisted around to confront Brock. The flat side of the shovel struck Oz in the face as his finger reflexively pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening. Rayne hit him from behind and the action also took Brock to the ground.
