Page 2 of How to Seduce a Viscount (Wed Within a Year #3)

To the public eye, the king had awarded the three brothers titles in gratitude for their bravery and service to their country while subtly thrusting them onto the marriage mart without their consent.

Privately, however, the brothers knew those titles for what they were—a sop for the loss of a brother. As if titles and estates could ever replace what Stepan had been to each of them personally—a brother, a friend and a peacekeeper when tempers flared.

To Luce, especially, Stepan had been the bridge that spanned the gap between a young boy and his older brothers who outpaced him by up to six years.

The difference in ages didn’t matter so much now except to tease Caine, the eldest, that he was about to turn forty.

But when a boy is six and his idol of an older brother is twelve the difference in years seem more like a chasm than a gap.

Stepan had always seen to it that he was never left out and never left behind.

Stepan had even delayed going away to school by a year so that Luce could come with him.

That had been the great compromise. Luce went to school a year early and Stepan a year later so that they could go together.

Now, Stepan was…gone. And Luce was Viscount Waring, in possession of Tillingbourne Abbey, an esteemed but somewhat derelict estate that had survived the Tudors but been conquered by time. Luce was reclaiming it room by room. This place would bear his stamp, be uniquely his alone.

Luce glanced towards the bank of long windows.

Was that a speck? The firelight made it hard to see through the outer darkness.

He set aside his brandy and crossed the room.

Yes, it was a speck. Then there was another and another.

He felt himself smile. It was snowing. For a moment all was right with the world.

He stood for a while watching it come down, the plump flakes growing thicker and denser, before he returned to his chair content to spend his evening with a book, a brandy and the blessed snow.

The cursed snow! Wren slipped, her boot soles sliding on a dark patch of slick ground.

Snow turned everything to ice and wet. She blinked the thickening flakes off her lashes and pulled her muffler up a little higher to ward off the chill.

Snow was nothing but a nuisance at best, dangerous at worst, and that was what it was tonight—dangerous—at least to her.

It was slowing her progress to Tillingbourne Abbey and thus it was slowing the delivery of an urgent message to Lucien Parkhurst, one of the Four Horsemen.

She patted the secret slit in her coat in reassurance that the paper was still there.

The Earl of Sandmore, Lucien’s grandfather, had entrusted it to her and no other.

It was that important the note make it through.

It was not merely a note, but a code, that if broken could offer an advantage to the Greek independence fighters supported by private British citizens if and until the British government officially aided them.

If anyone could crack the code, it would be Luce, the Horsemen’s scholar and resident polyglot.

Delivery of this message was the first stage of a two-part mission. The second stage was to quietly follow a lead that had come to the earl regarding his missing grandson. Someone who matched Stepan Parkhurst’s description and the timeline of his disappearance had turned up in a village by the sea.

Of her mission to find Stepan, she was to say nothing to Luce, do nothing that would get his hopes up or inspire reckless action.

She would deliver the message and go. Both stages of the task required discretion, stealth, blending in without being detected.

Who better to undertake the task than Falcon, the earl’s most reliable emissary for over twelve years?

She’d argued hard for the assignment. She’d wanted to go for both professional and private reasons.

It was to be her last. After that, she was to slip into anonymity, retired.

Because of an error on the road and the risk that someone now might associate her with her nom de guerre —Falcon.

She’d made one mistake in all the years she’d been Falcon and that mistake had cost her.

Most never got to leave the game by choice—not that it had been much of an option in the end.

Retiring her was the earl’s decision more than it was hers.

Now that the earl had handed the reins of the network over to Caine Parkhurst, he wanted to see her settled and safe.

It had been bound to happen, she knew, but she also knew that her slip had expedited it.

As for her, she’d wanted a chance to see Luce Parkhurst up close before she went.

She’d followed Luce’s career, idolised him from afar for years.

She’d envied him the charmed life of the Parkhursts, his doting grandfather—the earl—and the large, loving family that surrounded him.

She’d mourned silently with him when he’d lost Stepan.

If there was a chance to restore his brother, to heal the pain Lucien carried over the loss, she wanted to be part of that.

It would give her an opportunity to make a return on all that the Parkhurst family had given her over the years, even though they knew her not at all.

Wren blew into her gloved hands to generate warmth.

She flexed her fingers attempting to ward off stiffness.

She needed to be able to hold a knife if the three men behind her on the road were who she thought they were.

She’d acquired them after the last village where she’d stopped briefly to warm herself at a crowded pub.

That stop was turning out to be another mistake, understandable as it was on a cold night.

Heat and warmth would always be a practical luxury to her after a childhood of having gone without.

Her hands were dreadfully chilled. Without them functioning, she’d be no use to anyone tonight.

Without her hands, her life might very well be forfeit over the code she carried.

She did not think the men behind her intended to be noticed, which meant they weren’t out for a casual evening journey between villages.

The weather was not conducive for such an outing and men in groups liked to sing as they walked—riotous tavern songs with bawdy lyrics to pass the time.

These men were quiet, silent. She’d only picked them up because of the moon, which hung full and white and damnably bright in the snow-filled sky.

Snow always made the evenings lighter. That was yet another reason to detest it. True, if there was enough of it, snow could muffle sound, but it also stole the chance for stealth. There was nowhere to hide. If she could see them the men could see her. That was not what she was hoping for.

Wren squinted against the snow. There were lights in the distance. The Abbey. She was nearly there. A mile or less to go, across open ground and a gradual incline.

She loosened the knife at her waist. A slim, sharp Italian wrought stiletto.

The men were letting her get awfully close to her destination.

That concerned her and made her re-think what they were after.

The message certainly. But they could have tried to waylay her far sooner than this.

Three to one on a lonely road were much better odds for them if they’d only come for the message.

She was starting to suspect they’d come for more than that.

Cold knowing spread through her. They were after the message and a Horseman. They’d waited this long on purpose. They were following her to get to Luce Parkhurst in retribution for the Horsemen’s dismantling of Cabot Roan’s arms empire in the autumn.

Stepan was already lost. The remaining three Horsemen were vulnerable. She would merely be collateral damage to these men when she was done leading them to Luce’s very front door. This was how wolves hunted. They stalked, chased, ambushed. She swallowed. At least now she knew when they’d strike.

She doubted if she could lose them in this light.

But she could possibly outrun them if the snow didn’t play her false.

She was fast and fleet under normal conditions and she had those conditions tonight if one did not count the snow.

She wore trousers and a coat. No unnecessary frills and full skirts to get in the way.

If she could beat them to the Abbey, she’d have the advantage of a few precious minutes in which to warn Luce.

Her heart pounded irrationally at the prospect of seeing him when it ought to be pounding with fear, with the anticipation of the fight to come.

This was not how she’d thought she’d meet him— Good evening, I’m from your grandfather and there are three men coming to kill you.

Instead, she’d had images of being invited in. Of being offered a tea tray beside the fire in the library his grandfather mentioned he’d been restoring. They would talk about books they’d read, of Horsemen business, the message she’d brought. Perhaps he might even ask her to help with the cipher.

To work with the brilliant Lucien Parkhurst would be a divine experience. It might still happen, she consoled herself. If they both lived through the night. If she wasn’t smart, this might be her last mission in a different sense than it had been intended.

She felt, more than she saw, a movement on her left flank. The wolves were closing ranks. If she didn’t bolt now, there’d be no distance to spare between them. Wren gathered herself and began to run, aware that somewhere behind her, the men had begun to run, too.

The end game was in motion. She was flying, light and nimble over snowy ground, her body fuelled by the thrill of the chase, of leading them on.

She’d never been caught. They were falling behind, the gap between them widening.

She let out an exultant crow as she turned down the drive to Tillingbourne Abbey, the final leg.

She was in an all-out sprint now, her concealing cap long gone, her hair streaming out behind her bright in the moonlight, life itself coursing in her veins.

In these moments, she was alive! This was what she was made to do. To court danger and then outrun it.

She reached the door, pounding hard with her fists in her urgency before she turned and drew her blade. She heard the men panting before she saw them, spilling from the drive, heavy and winded. They were not as far behind as she’d hoped, but she’d tired them and she could use that to her advantage.

Blades flashed in their hands as they approached. ‘We want the message. Hand it over and no one gets hurt.’ The thickset man in front opened negotiations, his chest heaving with his exertion.

‘I don’t do business with liars.’

She knew they couldn’t let her live. What if she’d seen the message? Even if it meant nothing to her, she could still relay it to others perhaps. They couldn’t take that chance. They were here for containment.

She flourished her knife and smiled when it stopped their advance. They weren’t close enough to strike. Yet.

‘If you wanted the message you would have tried for it long before this. Why walk all this way?’

She hoped someone would open the door soon. She was practical about her odds here. She’d take one of them, maybe hurt a second one badly, but she’d not take all three. They were too big. Their sheer size would overwhelm her if they rushed her all at once—a wolves’ ambush.

‘Kill, maim or live, which one do you think it will be for you? And you?’ she bantered, brandishing her blade one more time, letting them know she’d read their thoughts and they matched her own.

Each knew she’d likely kill one of them and gut another. Each were weighing the odds they’d be the one to walk away unscathed. They had to act soon. The longer they waited, the more likely it became that it wouldn’t just be her they would have to face on the doorstep.

The thickset one snarled. It was all the warning she had before they came. The outcome of this doorstep skirmish would be decided in a matter of seconds now.

The thickset one reached her first. She thrust hard, feeling the sharp blade stab past layers of muscle and fat.

The force of it vibrated up her arm but she held on, withdrawing the blade and whirling to face another as he fell.

She wielded the knife up high in fencing fashion to parry a thrust, but she’d left herself open.

She wasn’t quick enough. She felt a blade slice her side.

Felt the warmth of blood and the sting of pain.

Ignore it her mind cried. She had to protect the message, had to protect Lucien Parkhurst.

One of the men grabbed for her and she kicked out at him.

He stumbled, losing his grip on his knife in the process and she staggered forward, her blade dealing damage with the last of her strength.

The man gave a groan, his eyes wide with shock at his misjudgement.

She pushed him away and he slumped in the snow.

One more to go and she hadn’t the strength.

He lunged for her, grappling for her knife, his hand encircling her wrist trying to shake the blade free.

She’d be no match without it. She kicked and fought, feeling her power ebb.

Her shirt was wet. It must be soaked through now.

She was dizzy and the world was starting to spin.

The front door opened at last, light spilling out like a benediction.

A blessing, a farewell…and a form with it.

Lucien . She’d know those dark waves and dark eyes anywhere.

Ferocious and feral, his features were fierce as he charged the third attacker and pulled the man from her.

She felt his weight leave her, felt her own weight leave her, and then it seemed that life its very self followed.

At least she’d made it. Lucien would find the message. He would search her coat. She’d not failed the earl or the Horsemen. But oh how ironic, she thought, to have come this far, gotten so close, only to die on the doorstep of her desire at the very last.