Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  The man stumbled backward but stayed on his feet. Several other men got up as if intending to become part of the fray, but when Anthony hit Henry again with a combination punch to the gut and jaw, sending the man onto the floor, the men approaching stood still.

  He turned just in time to see Martin with his stool lifted, ready to smash it down on Anthony’s head.

  With his left foot Anthony kicked out, hitting the man in the shin, sending him crashing into a table.

  “You want a round of fisticuffs?” Anthony motioned with his hands for the other men in the bar to approach him.

  “Blimey, he’s mad,” several men in the group said as they returned to their seats.

  Martin stood and helped Henry to his feet. Both looked unsure whether they should come after him again.

  “Damn fool’s mad as a hatter,” Henry grumbled.

  Martin nodded and they both sat at a table, casting him leery glances.

  After Anthony finished his ale, he stood and tossed a few more coins onto the bar top. The alcohol had done nothing to prevent his mind from thinking of Olivia. He stepped out of the pub. The rain had stopped, but lightning flickered in the distance.

  The memory of how he’d been robbed and stabbed when younger flashed in his mind. He glanced over his shoulder to see if any of the men were following him. He pressed his palm over his shirt, above the scar. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to how Olivia had run her finger over the raised skin before pressing her lips to it. He shook his head to disperse the memory. In this part of town, a man needed to stay alert.

  An hour later, he strode up to the front door of Trent House.

  Was Olivia still here?

  Part of him desperately wanted her to be. The other part wanted to rail at her and wished she was gone, since she might be arrested if she remained. As he set his hand on the door handle, he heard a noise. Concerned the men from the pub might have followed him, he spun around.

  He saw no one. Just the fog drifting up from the damp pavement and ground.

  A low groan whispered in the air, causing the hairs on the back of Anthony’s neck to stand on end. His gaze shot to the basement stairwell where low fog hovered. He stepped closer.

  A woman sat on the steps—her body slumped. Her head lolled to the side as if she were a rag doll. Ginger hair, wet and darkened by the rain, trailed down her back.

  Olivia! Good God, what was wrong with her? Terror spiked through Anthony, making his heart pound in his chest. He opened the gate, moved down several steps, and crouched beside her. Her eyes were closed. The coloring of her face resembled Wiltshire chalk, while her lips looked tinged with blue. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, and she visibly trembled.

  Damnation. “Olivia?”

  In response, she moaned.

  He cupped her face. Though she shivered, her cheeks felt hot. He pressed a hand to her forehead. It was as if she sat close to a balefire and her skin could do nothing more than absorb the heat. Anthony scooped her up into his arms and swallowed against the panic rising within him.

  As he moved toward the front door, she moaned and started rambling—incoherent words that were mostly indecipherable, but he comprehended, “Need to leave.”

  She couldn’t go anywhere in this state.

  Once inside the house, Anthony took the steps two at a time. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from Olivia’s face. So pale. Her lips now looked bloodless.

  With his shoulder, he pushed Olivia’s bedchamber door open, then laid her on the bed. After closing the door, he lit the gas lamp and turned the wick up. A yellow arc of light lifted the gloom. The glow made her look even paler. Ashen. Like a corpse.

  Anthony’s hands trembled as he worked the buttons lining the front of her gown from the collar to the waist. Hopefully, once he removed her damp clothing and piled blankets on top of her, she would stop shivering and gain her color back.

  Eyes still closed, she moaned and swatted at his hands. “I need to go.”

  “You need to get warm.”

  She started rambling again. “Police will come. So sorry.”

  “Shhh,” he crooned, unfastening the last button that lined the front of her dress. He tugged her arms out of the sleeves and slipped the garment down her hips and legs. He flung it aside. It landed on the rug with a heavy, wet sound. His gaze narrowed on a bright crimson stain bleeding through her white slip.

  Christ. Not just cold but injured. Heart thundering with such force he thought it might leap from his chest, he untied the ribbon holding the slip at her waist and carefully removed the damp garment. A blood-soaked scrap of cloth was tied around her thigh.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” he asked, as he unbound the fabric.

  Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t answer.

  The gash was a good four inches long. Though it didn’t appear to be bleeding heavily now, the blood on her clothing and the strip of fabric indicated she lost a good deal of blood before she’d stanched the flow.

  Had someone done this to her, or had she cut herself climbing in or out of a window? With no time to think about that now, he moved to the pitcher and bowl set on the low dresser. A slight tremble shook his hand as he poured cold water on a clean flannel.

  When he gingerly set it to her thigh, Olivia whimpered. Yet, her eyes remained closed. Carefully, he washed the skin around the gash, which was red and hot. Anthony knew from the time he’d been stabbed that infection could be deadly. If she was not better in a few hours, Dr. Trimble would need to be called, but could the physician be trusted? The man tended to ask questions.

  Anthony raked his hands through his hair. If Olivia was not better by daybreak, he would need to send for the physician. He removed the rest of her clothes. As he lifted her to help settle her under the bedcovers, she let out a cry.

  “Shhh, you’ll be fine,” he said. Yet, as he looked at her pale complexion, the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. He rubbed at them. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to wait until morning to fetch Dr. Trimble. Trying to rein in his worry, he strode to the door. He’d send someone to the physician’s residence now. He jerked open the door and almost slammed into his grandmother dressed in a green velvet robe.

  “I heard a scream. Has Olivia returned?”

  Returned?

  Sensing his confusion, she said, “I got up earlier and found her in the corridor, suitcase in hand. She said she was leaving. I demand to know what is going on.”

  He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not now, but if detectives showed up . . . “She said she was no longer needed here and wished to find a new position. Outside, I believe she slipped on the wet ground and hurt herself.”

  “During the night?” Grandmother pinned him with a hard stare. “Did you do something to the girl to make her leave so suddenly?”

  Normally the accusation would have upset him, but right now all he could think about was Olivia’s well-being. “No. Of course not.”

  Grandmother pushed past him and stepped into the room. “Good Lord!”

  Even from the doorway, Anthony could see how Olivia’s body trembled. “I need to send for Dr. Trimble.”

  “You better hurry!” Grandmother said, striding toward the bed.

  Anthony left the room and took the steps three at a time. Once outside, he made his way to the carriage house, then up the stairs to where the groomsmen and their coachman quartered.

  He stepped into Dawson’s dim room and grabbed the man’s shoulder and gave it a hearty shake. “Wake up, Dawson.”

  Startled, the man bolted upright. He blinked a few times as if trying to ground himself in his surroundings. “My lord?”

  “Get dressed. I need you to fetch Dr. Trimble on Harley Street. Now.”

  “Yes, right away, sir.” The man scrambled out of his bed and moved to the hooks where his clothes hung.

  Anthony took several deep breaths as he dashed back into the house and up the stairs. He walked in to find Grandmother pressing a wet flannel to Olivia’s ch
eeks.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You going to tell me what really happened?”

  “I don’t know.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He honestly didn’t know how Olivia had injured herself.

  * * *

  After examining Olivia and suturing the cut on her leg, then treating it with linen dipped in carbolic acid to help stave off infection, Dr. Trimble closed his medical bag. He clasped Anthony’s shoulder. “She should be fine. I’ll check on her tomorrow. As you know, it is infection that is the greatest danger to her recovery.”

  Anthony nodded and looked at Olivia lying in bed.

  The physician pointed to the brown medicinal bottle on the low dresser. “The opiates I gave her should help her sleep for a while. If she wakes and is in a great deal of pain, give her a teaspoon. Use care in administering it, my lord. Opiates can be very addictive.”

  “I will. Thank you, Doctor.”

  Looking as if he wanted to ask several questions, the physician opened his mouth, then clamped it closed. Anthony had been rather evasive about how Olivia had injured herself, telling the doctor he wasn’t quite sure, and that she’d been unresponsive when he’d found her. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  As soon as the physician stepped out of the room, Grandmother walked in. She still wore her velvet robe. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Grandmother in any color except black.

  Her fingers flexed against her cane. “I want answers.”

  God knows, the old woman wouldn’t like them. If he told Grandmother the truth—that all along they’d been harboring the thief London called the Phantom—she might suffer some type of apoplexy. Worse, Grandmother had bought Olivia gowns and brought her to Lord and Lady Dayton’s ball. It was best he didn’t reveal the truth. Better for the old woman and Olivia. But if Olivia had been seen, everything might be revealed in only a matter of time.

  Anthony released a heavy breath. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

  “Do you think she was robbed while leaving?”

  If things weren’t so dire, the question might have been laughable. Olivia was the robber. Most likely she’d been injured leaping from the roofs or scurrying off one of them.

  “London is full of rabble. It’s possible. There is nothing you can do. Go to bed.”

  Grandmother nodded and left the room.

  Anthony strode to the basin and pitcher and poured cool water into the bowl. After dipping a clean flannel into it and wringing it out, he stepped up to Olivia and removed the one folded over her brow. She didn’t even stir when he set the new compress against her forehead.

  * * *

  As the sky turned from dark gray to a lighter shade, Anthony settled into the corner chair and leaned his forearms on his thighs, while he peered at Olivia. For the most part, she’d slept soundly. A few times she’d restlessly tossed and turned, but never fully awakened.

  While tending to her, he’d tried to make sense of her actions. They didn’t add up. When he’d gone through her valise, looking for a nightgown to put on her before Dr. Trimble arrived, he’d found nothing of great value, only the money in the pockets of her wet trousers. Money he presumed she’d taken from the Duke of Wharton. But she’d robbed several other men. What had she done with that money? And when she’d left, she’d not taken a single item that had been purchased for her from Madame Renault’s shop. All the expensive gowns still hung in the armoire.

  Even the garments she possessed in her suitcase were old. Obviously, a servant who is trying to deceive those around her would not wear costly gowns, but he’d found stockings that had been mended several times. So, where had the money she’d stolen gone?

  He’d also found the pocket-sized notebook with the names of all the men she’d robbed. All with a checkmark beside their name except the Duke of Wharton. She’d not been afforded the time to mark his name off her list. All the evidence pointed to a plan. She’d not robbed randomly but had set out to only steal from these men. Why?

  Most were not men he associated with. He’d heard terrible things about a few of them. Lord Hamby was a letch. A man who gave a bad name to other members of the nobility. Talbot’s father, the Duke of Wharton, was a cold bastard. What was the connection between these men?

  He wondered if his grandmother could shed some light on that question. The woman seemed to have a direct link to every scandal, whether common knowledge or not. Grandmother would grow suspicious if he started asking questions about the men the Phantom had robbed, but he doubted she would ever draw the connection between Olivia and the thief. If he hadn’t seen Olivia dressed like a man, he would never have believed it.

  Anthony rubbed at his tired eyes. A voice in his head told him he should sleep while Olivia did, but restlessness coursed through him.

  He released a heavy sigh and glanced out the window. The rising sun had almost obliterated the night’s shadows. Would detectives from Scotland Yard show up in a few hours?

  He prayed to God the answer would be no.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Olivia’s lips felt dry and cracked. Her mouth felt as if someone had stuffed wads of cotton into it. And her head felt as if it were submerged under water.

  Muffled voices came to her ears.

  She tried to force her eyelids open, but as if weighted down, they wouldn’t lift.

  A man she didn’t know spoke.

  Has he come to take me to prison? She tried to move. A sharp pain stabbed at her thigh, and she heard her own whimper, louder than the voices.

  Perhaps she was already in prison.

  Oppressive fear settled within her. Ignoring the pain in her thigh, she thrashed about, trying to release herself from the dreamlike state that clasped onto her.

  A cool hand pushed the damp hair off her brow. “Shhh,” a softer, gentler voice said.

  Anthony? Yes, she knew his touch. She stilled. Relaxed.

  Warm liquid touched her lips, then surrounded her tongue. She swallowed it, then drifted back into a state of mindless oblivion.

  * * *

  Sunlight filtered through Olivia’s eyelids. She forced them open.

  This time they lifted.

  She blinked against the sun streaming through the open windows in the bedchamber she’d occupied at Trent House. She glanced around the room. The under curtains billowed inward, lifted by a breeze. How had she gotten here? Perhaps she’d been dreaming about robbing the Duke of Wharton and hurting her thigh. A nightmare of sorts.

  She tried to push herself up into a sitting position. Pain shot through her thigh.

  Not a dream.

  She had robbed the Duke of Wharton.

  She had cut her leg with the letter opener.

  She had been seen, and Anthony knew the truth and hated her.

  The latter realization made her want to weep. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. How had she ended up back here? She remembered leaving, but little else.

  A noise caused her to jerk her gaze to the other side of the room.

  Anthony sat in a chair. Sleeping. His legs stretched out. The white shirt he wore looked wrinkled as if he’d slept in it for days.

  His eyes opened. “You’re awake.”

  He stood, strode to the bed, and pressed his cool hand to her forehead. “Your fever has broken.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I found you in the stairwell outside. You were slumped over.”

  She remembered that now. Remembered how the cool concrete had felt like a soothing balm against her warm cheek.

  Anthony walked over to the low dresser, lifted a pitcher off a tray, and poured water into a glass.

  The sight of the crystalline liquid caused her mouth to salivate.

  He handed her the tumbler. “Don’t drink it too fast. Dr. Trimble said you should only take small sips at first.”

  A physician had tended to her? She didn’t remember that.

  Even as angry as Anthony was with her, he’d brought her back inside and called a doctor to tend t
o her. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Two days.”

  Had he stayed with her the whole time? The wrinkles on his clothing implied the idea wasn’t so far-fetched.

  He picked up a wooden chair and set it next to the bedside. As he sat, she noticed the dark smudges under his eyes. “You’ve been on opiates to help you sleep.”

  That explained a lot. “Has anyone from Scotland Yard inquired about me?”

  “Not yet.” Anthony craned his head to the side and rubbed the back of his neck.

  It was only a matter of time till they tracked her down. She needed to go. Anthony had been good to her. She tossed the blankets off and winced when she tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He stood.

  “I need to get to Southampton or the docklands and find a ship.”

  “Yes. I agree. But not today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Somehow, her foolish heart had hoped he’d say stay. But that was impossible. He might have helped tend to her, but he wanted her gone. Understandable. Having the Phantom arrested at the Trent family’s home would cause a scandal.

  “But what if they come today looking for me? It’s better I leave now.”

  “You’re too weak.” He strode to the door and grasped the handle and hesitated. He pivoted around and removed a small notebook from his trouser pocket. She recognized it right away as hers. It listed the men she had robbed and all the information she’d gathered while here and at Lady Winton’s house. Times. Dates. “Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t do it to line my pockets.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “Damnation, Olivia, then why? Why these men?”

  “Because they are monsters. They deserve worse than losing money.”

  The smooth skin on his brow creased. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think of myself as a benefactor trying to right several wrongs. Each one of the men I’ve stolen from fathered a child with an unwilling servant in their household. They did not think of what would befall their offspring or the women they had wronged. What is a poor maid to do when her belly grows round with a child and she is sacked by the monster who placed her in such a situation? These men see what they have done and feel no remorse. They toss these women out. Pregnant. Their families shun them for immorality. The child is placed in an orphanage or worse. Do you know what it is like growing up in an orphanage? Of course not. You were raised in this house.” With a wide sweep of her hand, she motioned to the opulence of the bedchamber. A guest room that was like nothing she’d ever seen before, not even in Lady Winton’s residence. “You do not know what it is to be cold and hungry. To have lice scratching at your head. To be struck with a birch rod for the most inconsequential things.”