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Several shots rang out, and Will felt a sharp sting in his left arm followed by burning fire. He watched Fergus stumble and fall, releasing Marian and bumping into Boucher so that her shot went wide. Cursing, the woman turned tail and fled even as another of her men toppled. The last man standing followed his mistress, whi
le Gil, bleeding from his side, began crawling away on all fours.
After a glance back at Jacqueline to be certain she was uninjured, Will lit out after Boucher, pausing only to relieve the wounded Fergus of his gun. “Make sure this man lives—we’ll need him later!” he shouted over his shoulder at Tavistoke. His arm stung mightily, but he could tell it was nothing serious. He’d had far worse. And Boucher was wounded. She wouldn’t get far. His heart pounded with rage as he pelted after the two.
I cannot let her escape.
“Will, wait!” called Jacqueline.
“Go back!” he yelled, not taking his eyes off the retreating pair. They turned a corner, and he dug in, putting on speed. He stopped, however, before following them around, and listened for footfalls. It was hard to distinguish with Jacqueline coming up behind, but he thought he heard two sets retreating ahead. Cursing, he again took off in pursuit.
Desperation spurred him on. If Boucher got away, she would go back into hiding, from where she would strike out at Jacqueline, the girls, and now the real Archangel, until she finally won.
Amazement filled him at the revelation of the Archangel’s true identity. Prior to Tavistoke’s recent nuptials, he’d had the blackest of reputations. Apparently, his bad behavior had all been a clever ruse.
Will’s arm burned, and exhaustion dragged at his feet, but he refused to give in. His quarry turned another corner.
Bollocks!
This time, however, he could clearly hear their shuffling footsteps echoing back. He careened around the corner in time to see them come to an abrupt halt. When he saw why, his stomach clenched.
In their path stood Jacqueline, a pistol in her hand. She’d gone the other way around to meet them head on.
Boucher’s man lifted his gun, and Will shouted, raising his own.
“No, you fool!” shouted Boucher, stopping her man from firing at Jacqueline. “If we kill her, we’ve nothing to bargain with!” She moved, placing the fellow between herself and Jacqueline, and addressed Will. “If you kill me, he’ll shoot your whore right between the eyes,” she gasped, holding a red-stained hand to her side.
“Go ahead,” Will taunted, affecting nonchalance. “She served her purpose. She led me to you. Sorry, love,” he said, directing the offhand apology at Jacqueline as he shifted slightly to the left. The look on her face smote him to the heart. It couldn’t be helped. This had to be played a certain way or they were both dead.
“You’re lying,” sneered Boucher. “Sally told me all about your midnight trysts and longing looks. Good work, whore,” she called out to Jacqueline. “Not only did you escape Fairford, but you managed to seduce your rescuer. Sally seems to think he’s in love with you. If so, it’s a testament to your talent. In retrospect, I should have saved you for better than Fairford. Together, we might have made a fortune. Pity. But there will be others.”
Fairford. He recalled the letter F seared into Jacqueline’s skin. Rage crystallized, hardening him, giving him the strength to do what he must. He let out what he hoped was a convincingly derisive chuckle. “I, in love with that creature? I won’t deny it was fun swiving her—she learned well how to please a man while a harlot—but let us not have any illusions as to my ‘feelings’ for her. She was a link to you, and a willing means of release for me, nothing more.”
The confusion and hurt on Jacqueline’s face made him want to take back the words that instant, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Again, he shifted another few inches to the left. Almost. Jacqueline was almost out of his line of fire.
“Do you take me for a fool?” said Boucher, her tone laden with contempt. “I saw the way you looked at her!”
“You saw what I wanted you to see,” he threw back at her. “At the time, it served my purpose to have you think the whore mattered. Now, I’ve no need. I have what I really wanted—you. Now, let us finish this business so that I may finally return home to my family.”
“Family?” asked Boucher, squinting.
“Yes. I’ve an affectionate wife and several children awaiting my return. I’d like to be home in time for dinner.”
“Ha! Lord Huxton is unmarried,” crowed Boucher, triumphant. “Did you think I would fail to learn all I could about my enemy before confronting him?”
“But I’m not ‘Lord Huxton,’ am I?” He smiled grimly and shuffled a little more to the left. “Go on and ask Raquel who I really am. She’s known all along. She played her part well, and for that she has my thanks—and her royal pardon, should she live, for having perpetrated a public fraud.”
Doubt crept into Boucher’s eyes. “Who are you?”
He moved another inch to the left and raised his gun a little higher, hoping Jacqueline interpreted the motion correctly as be ready. “William Danbury, Officer of the Crown, Westminster Special Constabulary. You may have heard us referred to as ‘Gonson’s Boys.’”
All the color leached from the woman’s cheeks. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ve money, more than you’ll ever see in a lifetime working for Westminster. You can have it all, only let me go.”
His answer was to squeeze the trigger. Two more shots rang out a split second later, almost in unison.
Boucher’s eyes widened with incredulity as she slumped against her employee and slid to the ground, shortly followed by her support.
Will’s gaze flew to where Jacqueline stood, her smoking gun still upraised. “Are you hurt?”
