Page 42 of Wicked Wager

She had no idea of the extent of Lane's personal income. If Bayard really had conspired to harm-or even remove-her, he might have promised Lane a share for turning a blind eye to his maneuvering.

Still, if Lane hoped to entice her to marry, surely he would think that an easier means of getting his hands on her fortune than by conspiring with his cousin in some risky scheme that would win him, at best, only half of it.

Damme and blast! she swore silently, almost wishing Nelthorpe had never made her privy to his suspicions. She didn't like delving into this shadowy world of evil deeds and intentions. Just thinking about it made her head ache.

All the more reason to bring pressure to bear on whoever might be involved, ending this anxiety of doubt by forcing the culprit into further action where he-or she- could be dealt with.

Perhaps later she would visit Bayard himself.

Her head pounding in truth, shortly after midnight Jenna bid Aunt Hetty good-night and headed to her chamber.

Lady Montclare's musicale had been as insipid as she'd feared. In addition, she'd endured Aunt Hetty's sotto voce grumbling between each musical selection that Jenna and Lane's tardy appearance had made them miss the food and conversation of the preperformance reception.

Afterward she'd had to turn aside Lady Montclare's questions, naked curiosity cloaked in irritatingly playful tones, about Colonel Vernier's intentions and whether his potential courtship had caused Jenna to dismiss Nelthorpe-who, she'd heard, had taken his rejection badly and was still haunting Fairchild House, bothering the servants.

As Jenna climbed the stairs, annoyance faded and a sense of anxiety returned, stronger than any that had thus far gripped her.

Was she being reckless, insisting on remaining at Fairchild House? Was Bayard really a danger to her?

Had he been present tonight, she might have asked Nelthorpe's opinion, but not surprisingly, he had not been among the crowd of guests.

As she hesitated with her hand on the door latch, her stomach fluttering, she realized that by now, Lady Charlotte should have returned from her dinner engagement.

For a moment, she was consumed by the temptation to wheel around, march past a doubtless astounded Manson and take a hackney straight to Mount Street. But she'd look ridiculous, fleeing to her friend in the middle of the night over nothing more threatening than a bad case of jitters. Setting her jaw, she made herself enter the room.

What would Garrett have done if he 'd suspected someone had conspired to kill their child?

The question calmed and steadied her. For she knew without doubt that her husband would have searched to the ends of the earth and faced any risk to find the truth.

How could she do any less?

Perhaps it was good that she'd given that display of nervousness before Lane. If he were involved in some way, he'd have notified his accomplices that she was suspicious, making it more likely they might move against her.

Her adversaries in London had never known her as the colonel's daughter. If this led to a confrontation, they would anticipate her being frightened and helpless. They would not expect armed resistance.

They'd not expect her.

Taking a deep breath, she rang for Sancha and took out her pistol.

Sometime after she'd fallen into a restless sleep, a weapon at her side and Sancha dozing at the foot of her bed, she awoke with a start. Trying to still the sudden racing of her heart, she sat up slowly and strained her ears to listen.

She heard it again, the slow, stealthy pad of footsteps in the corridor. Forcing down a momentary sense of panic, in the moonlight from the window Sancha had purposely left uncurtained, she slid to the floor and took up her pistol, motioning the maid to silence.

If she were to be attacked, she would meet the danger straight on, not cowering in her bed, she thought as she noiselessly crept to the door.

Easing it open, she spied Bayard's valet a few paces away, his hands laden with a heavy tray that bore a single candlestick and several covered dishes.

"Frankston!" she hissed.

The valet started, nearly knocking over the candlestick as he whirled to see who'd hailed him. "L-Lady Fairchild!" he exclaimed.

"What are you doing skulking about in the middle of the night?"

"Was so sharp-set I couldn't sleep, m'lady, so's I went to get some victuals from the kitchen. Sorry I disturbed ye." He gave her a quick nod and stepped away.

And then halted again, his eyes widening, as she pulled the pistol from behind her skirts and leveled it at him. "Were you hungry, you would have eaten in the servants' kitchen-not brought food up here on a silver tray. Would you care to try your explanation again?"

"Lord, ma'am, put down that popper 'for it goes off and ye raise the house!"

"I'm more likely to level you. From this distance there's no chance that I would miss. The truth this time, if you please, Frankston."

He cast a fearful glance down the hallway toward Lane's door. "Please, ma'am! I dare not wake Mr.

Fairchild."

"Then you had best speak softly and fast."

"The victuals be for my master. He, ah, sometimes fergets to eat during the day. Gets involved in his experiments, you know, ma'am, and-"

"Frankston," Jenna interrupted, "you try my patience. Your master dines with us at every meal. Perhaps it would speed matters if I wake Mr. Fairchild." Keeping the pistol aimed at the valet, she took a step toward Lane's door.

"Nay, ma'am, please!" he cried in an urgent undertone. "I'll tell ye everything. Only don't be waking that one." After another quick glance down the hallway, he continued, "The tray is for my master. He's so caught up in his work, he don't notice much when he eats, so I try to feed him summat between mealtimes, so's he won't eat as much then. You see, I takes care of his supplies, and over the last months, I been noticing some of his chemicals disappearing. And my master, he's been having powerful pains in his stomach ever since your husband died. So I've started fixing him food with my own hands."

That instinctive foreboding tightened in Jenna's gut. "Just what are you implying?"

"I don't know nothing fer sure, my lady-and what court would listen to the likes of me speaking against a nob? But Mr. Fairchild there-" he jerked his chin toward Lane's door "-he didn't never like my master, and since Mr. Bayard's come into the title, he likes him even less. A cold, calculating man he is, that Mr.

Fairchild. I wouldn't put it past him to be poisoning my master, just so's he can be viscount instead."

The implications of having Lane possibly scheming to do away with Bayard made her dizzy. Taking a deep breath to clear her head, she motioned Frankston away. "Very well, you may go now."

"Thank'ee, my lady. You be careful of Mr. Fairchild."

She nodded, then watched as he scuttled down the hallway and disappeared into the darkness, the candle casting an eerie flickering glow as he went. Slowly she backed into her room, heart pounding and hands shaking.

"Did you hear, Sancha?" she whispered after she'd closed and relatched the door.

"Si, mistress," the maid replied. "Sit here. I will get you sherry."

After lighting a single candle, she poured a glass and brought it to Jenna, who gratefully sipped its fiery warmth. "What does it mean, do you think?" Sancha asked.

"I'm not sure-I shall have to consider all the details." But even as she took another sip, she recalled a number of occasions upon which Lane had demonstrated a thinly disguised contempt of his odd, self-absorbed cousin, who seemed to have neither interest in the title nor, in Lane's opinion, the manners and bearing to make him worthy of carrying so great an honor.

Was his contempt virulent enough to prompt him to attempt murder?

And if he had committed himself to so heinous a course, would he not hasten to remove any other impediment that might stand between himself and the prize- including her unborn child?

The testimony she'd forced out of Frankston provided no more actual proof than she and Nelthorpe had already accumulated. But whether Lane was correct in warning her against Bayard and Frankston, or the valet correct in warning her against Lane, she now had enough circumstantial evidence to feel justified in leaving Fairchild House.

Under the guise of assisting Lady Charlotte in her Christmas preparations, she and Sancha would quit her cousin's house tomorrow morning.

After finishing the sherry and briefly explaining to Sancha what she intended-a decision of which Sancha heartily approved-Jenna went back to bed, the pistol once more on the pillow next to her.

Heavens, she thought with grim humor, and she'd thought upon the end of the war to have left behind her forever the days of sleeping with a weapon by her side!

But when in danger on the continent, she'd had Garrett to consult with and assist her. Resolutely she banished the ache of missing him-and a longing for the dark-haired, gray-eyed man who'd succeeded him in watching over her.

Her sleep no more restful than before, it seemed she had hardly shut her eyes when once again, some muffled sound jerked her awake.

This time, the footfalls were more purposeful-and they stopped just outside her chamber. Before she could do more than grab her pistol and pivot toward the entry, a thin metallic noise rattled the lock and the door swung open.

*CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO*

Tony had to insinuate himself into three ton parties that night before he finally tracked down Lucinda Blaine. He'd been warmed that Jenna seemed concerned for his safety-even if, he admitted with a sigh, that concern probably stemmed more from not wanting his death or injury on her conscience than any exceptional fondness for his person. Not wishing to add to her worries, he'd let her think he'd agreed to her request that he not pursue the countess. But with Jenna's safety still in jeopardy, he intended to ruthlessly track down every potential foe.

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