Boudreaux’s Lady

by Smith, Lauren

  “But clearly he didn’t.”

  “No, he didn’t. Despite Sir Hugo’s well laid plans, his lordship and his friends prevailed. When Sir Hugo died, the threat was gone. We’ve had a good peace these last few years, but Lord Lennox has that same worried look about him now. He doesn’t like not knowing where a threat might be coming from or when it might strike next.”

  Guilt gnawed at Philippa. If she only knew why Lord Monmouth had tried to kill her, then perhaps Lord Lennox could sort out the matter peacefully. But Monmouth had vanished and the rumor about town was that he and his son had left for their estate a full two days ride from London.

  “I wish… I just wish I knew what I did to upset Lord Monmouth.” She reached for another napkin, folding it slowly and setting it aside.

  Roger suddenly smiled at her. “Perhaps he got one look at you, fell in love, and knowing he could not have you drove him mad. He wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Don’t be silly. Men don’t act like that around me. You don’t,” she said.

  “That’s because ladies do not turn my head, or my heart,” he answered, though he did not elaborate. It was a dangerous thing to admit to, but Philippa did not pass judgment on such things. Asking a person to control their heart was as pointless as trying to control the weather.

  “I don’t want to be beautiful enough to drive men mad. Besides, the madness in Monmouth’s eyes was not that of lust, I assure you.” She sat back down in her chair, a dark cloud settling upon her shoulders. She didn’t want to be beautiful. It only made men want her and other women despise her.

  “You are and you cannot change it, so you shouldn’t let it worry you.”

  “Easier said than done, Roger.”

  Mr. Beaton entered the kitchen and spotted Roger. “Ahh, there you are. I have an errand for you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beaton?” Roger set the boots on the table and stood up. Philippa rose as well.

  “His lordship is at Fives Court for a boxing match this evening. He wishes to have a message sent to Lord Sheridan at Berkeley’s. You may take the coach.”

  “May I go as well, Mr. Beaton?” Philippa asked. “I would stay in the coach, of course.” She would not be allowed in the gentlemen’s club for any reason, but that wasn’t the point. Getting out of the townhouse, even for a brief period of time, would make her feel normal again.

  The solemn butler considered her request with hesitance. “His lordship was worried about you being alone.”

  “But I would be with Roger and Mr. Lauder.” Lennox’s coach driver was a stout man in his forties who could certainly hold his own in a fight. Roger had told her over a glass of sherry last Christmas that Lauder used to fight in the underground boxing rings. That was where Lord Lennox found him and offered him employment.

  “I’d keep an eye on her, Mr. Beaton,” Roger promised. He tugged on his blue and black striped waistcoat, proud like all servants here were to wear the uniform of the house of Lennox.

  “Very well but have a care. His lordship is still concerned about Lord Monmouth.”

  “Of course, Mr. Beaton.” Roger gestured toward the way out. “Shall we?”

  Philippa was almost bouncing with excitement as they headed upstairs to wait for Mr. Lauder to pull the coach around. She and Roger climbed into the tan and black coach and settled in for the ride to Berkeley’s.

  “You are my favorite footman,” she told Roger gleefully. She peered out of the window as the coach traveled and watched the dust settle over the London streets.

  The evening was shaded in hues of deep gold and purple, coloring the structures of the fine townhouses. Philippa loved London at night; it was a beautiful city where the streetlamps glowed and candles in the windows illuminated the lives of the people indoors like shadow puppets.

  When she was a child, her father used to hang a curtain near her bed and her mother would hold a candle behind it. He used paper cut outs on sticks and acted out amusing stories for her. She loved listening to her mother sing after each performance. She’d had no other siblings and her parents had made her their whole world.

  Philippa bit her lip, a sudden homesickness overcoming her. She had not seen them very much since coming to work here. She was well overdue for a visit.

  Roger nudged her with one of his feet. “You all right, Pippa?”

  She forced a little smile that she didn’t quite feel. “Yes, I suppose I’m just missing my parents. It’s been months since I’ve seen them.”

  “That’s the hardest part of being in service. I became a footman at fourteen and I admit, only to you, that I might have shed a tear or two in those first few months of being away from home.”

  “I’ve been here almost two years. I shouldn’t still feel like this, should I?” she asked.

  Roger’s brown eyes softened. “You’re never too old to miss your family, especially if you come from a loving home.” Philippa looked at his attractive features that were so pleasing to many who visited the Lennox house. Yet he would always be alone. More than ever, she was grateful to have Roger as a friend.

  She reached over and patted his knee, earning a soft smile from the footman. “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She peered through the coach curtains again as they stopped in Berkeley Square.

  “Stay here. I’ll just be a moment.” Roger removed the sealed letter from his pocket and headed into the gentleman’s club.

  Philippa watched the entrance for minute then looked out the other coach window to watch the people in the square.

  A white face, framed frighteningly in the window suddenly appeared before her. She gasped and fell back just as she heard Mr. Lauder yell.

  “Oi! Get away from there, you scoundrel!”

  The face vanished and the coach door was flung wide open. A man lunged inside and sought her with his hands. She kicked out, screaming as he wrapped his fingers around her ankle. She managed a good heel to the brute’s face that sent him sprawling onto the ground.

  “Mr. Lauder! Help!” she shouted as she opened the door behind her. The man she’d kicked lumbered back into the coach. She managed to escape out the opposite side, but she found no freedom there. Instead, she fell right into the arms of a second man with a smile as cruel as his face was handsome.

  A scream left her mouth as the man’s hand roughly covered her lips. Philippa raged and fought, biting the man’s gloved hand in the process. When he dropped her, she tried to run, but a viselike grip on her arm spun her back to face him. The last thing she saw was the man’s fist headed straight for her face.

  * * *

  Beau sat in a comfortable old armchair by the fire with a glass of brandy in one hand. He studied the amber liquid and puzzled over the night’s events. He’d visited Daniela a few hours before and handed her a handsome set of diamonds as well as the deed to a quaint little townhouse he’d bought for her. She would have a lovely home for the rest of her life. Then he’d told her it was time to go their separate ways. She’d been saddened by the news, as had he. With one last chaste kiss goodbye, he’d left. Daniela had been more than a mistress; she’d been a friend. She’d looked upon his face when they’d parted with a bittersweet smile.

  “You’ve changed, my love. You need more than I can give, yes?”

  He hadn’t wanted to agree with her, but something had changed within him. Ever since he’d spoken to St. Albans at the ball, he’d felt as though he’d be trapped forever if he didn’t move forward. But move forward to what? He didn’t know.

  He only knew that something called to him, demanding that he end this way of life, not that he could say why. Still, he’d never ignored his instincts before.

  Now he was at his club alone, drinking and lost in worrying thoughts. He couldn’t get the painting of St. Albans’s daughter out of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the woman’s flashing gray gaze, the dark lustrous waves of her hair and her devious smile that promised a man endless pleasures of the body and also the mind. But that woman
was dead and gone. It was no wonder St. Albans was still haunted by grief two decades later. His daughter must have been peerless.

  “Now there’s the look of someone quite Friday-faced.” A voice pulled Beau from his thoughts. He glanced at the man who’d settled into the chair beside him.

  “Evening, Sheridan,” he said in greeting and turned back to the fire. Cedric Sheridan was only a year older than Beau; they’d gone to Cambridge together. The viscount was also one of Ashton Lennox’s close friends. He was a cheery sort of man who loved horse races and any outdoor sport a man could indulge in. It was difficult not to be in a good mood when Sheridan was around.

  “Ash said you planned to buy a shipping company based out of New Orleans in the Americas?”

  The talk of business was a welcome distraction. “Yes, Lennox has quite a knack for buying and running such things and I meant to join him in the endeavor. He’s offered a fifty percent partnership for three years and the chance to buy him out at eighty percent of the market value of the shares’ cost. Rather a good deal, I would say.”

  “Indeed,” Sheridan grinned. “He’s wishing to be more at home now that the children have come along. Crossing the Atlantic isn’t as easy once family becomes involved. Lord knows Anne would kill me if I left her with the twins for that long. Those little devils run the household.” Sheridan’s delighted smile told Beau those the little devils were well loved.

  Beau nodded, though he didn’t agree. Having no wife or children of his own made it difficult to imagine being bound by relationships. In fact, the prospect of traveling to America seemed rather exciting to him. He longed for an adventure like that. Perhaps this was the change he’d been searching for.

  “Ash takes too much on his shoulders as it is,” Sheridan said as he played with a silver-knobbed cane. “The poor bloke hasn’t left his house in three days.”

  “Because of his wife and children?” Beau shuddered at the thought that a man’s daily activities could be so restricted by the domestic sphere.

  “Lord, no. He’s worried about his upstairs maid, you see.”

  “His maid? Sheridan, I’m not following you.”

  Sheridan chuckled but the laugh faded in the nearly empty drawing room.

  “I’m being rather indirect, aren’t I? I suppose the matter had been on my mind so long, I assumed everyone had heard. Someone attacked one of his upstairs maids. Nearly killed her.”

  “What?” Beau sat up, abandoning the remnants of his brandy when he set the glass on the table between them. “Who?”

  “Lord Monmouth. Do you know him?” Sheridan leaned, speaking in a hushed tone.

  “By reputation, but we’ve never been introduced. Though I am good friends with Lord Monmouth’s father-in-law, the Duke of St. Albans.”

  “Nice fellow, St. Albans. Too bad Monmouth is anything but.”

  He shifted forward in his chair. “What did Monmouth do?”

  Sheridan glanced around the room, then whispered, “He showed up for an appointment to talk business. Ash was in the evening room when he heard the sound of screams. He ran into the corridor and found Monmouth with both hands around a young woman’s neck, trying to strangle her. Ash got in a good a punch and Monmouth let the maid go, but while Ash tended to her, Monmouth escaped. The poor girl was barely breathing.”

  “Good God,” Beau muttered.

  “Ash feels like it’s his fault, only he can’t figure out why Monmouth wanted to hurt the girl. The girl has no idea, either. So, until he solves the mystery he’s been at home, a proverbial pistol at the ready in case Lord Monmouth returns.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  Sheridan shrugged. “It depends what Monmouth’s motives were. We’ve learned to assume the worst in such situations.”

  The door to the room opened and a man in Lennox’s livery stood in the doorway, a letter in his gloved hands.

  “Pardon for the interruption. I have a letter for Lord Sheridan from Lord Lennox.”

  Sheridan’s brows rose. “Speak of the devil.” He stood as the footman handed him the letter. Sheridan cracked open the seal but was interrupted when a commotion came downstairs in the club entryway.

  “Help! A man’s been hurt!” Someone shouted.

  Sheridan shoved the letter into his waistcoat and rushed out of the room. Beau followed behind, and the two of them peered over the edge of the stair railing.

  “What happened?” Beau demanded.

  “The Lennox coach. A gang of ruffians set upon it. The driver was hurt.”

  “What?” Lennox’s footman paled and bolted down the stairs, almost reckless in his desperation to reach the coach outside.

  “Come on,” Beau told Sheridan as they both rushed down after him. A small crowd had gathered outside the club, most of the gentlemen still holding cigars as they looked on in confusion.

  “I say, what the devil’s happened?” Freddy Poncenby demanded. The dandified gentleman looked ready to parade about in military fashion, which was ridiculous given his pink and white striped trousers and blush colored waistcoat.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Poncenby,” said Sheridan.

  The footman was on his knees on the sidewalk by the driver. “Mr. Lauder!” The middle-aged man was clutching his forehead. Blood trickled between his fingertips.

  “They took her, Roger. Took her before I could stop ’em. One of the bastards hit me with a kosh. I couldn’t even get a blow in.”

  “It’s all right, Lauder.” Roger replied, but the ashen look on the man’s face worried Beau that something very grave and terrible had happened.

  “Who did they take?” Beau stepped close, Sheridan shadowing him with a dark frown over his usual amiable face.

  “Miss Wilson.” The footman said. “Lord, we never should have let her leave the house.” The young man’s face was stricken with rage as he looked at the darkened streets. There was no sign of another coach or the young woman.

  “Who is Miss Wilson?” Sheridan asked the footman.

  “A maid in Lord Lennox’s house.”

  “Wait, not the maid?” asked Beau. “The one Lord Monmouth attacked?”

  Roger nodded. “It’s my fault. I never should have let her leave the house.” The young man tugged at his hair.

  “Easy, lad.” Beau clapped a hand on Roger’s shoulder and looked to the driver. “Was Monmouth among the attackers?”

  “T’weren’t no Lord Monmouth.” The driver muttered as he lifted his bloody face to Beau, Sheridan and Roger.

  Are you sure, Mr. Lauder?” Roger asked.

  “Quite sure. T’was a tall pale-faced man with a long scar on his brow and another one… Too pretty. I recognized that one. It was Lord Sommers.”

  “Sommers. You’re sure?” Beau tensed at the mention of the dangerous young rogue’s name, a name that scared half of London and enraged the other half. Whether it was a drunken duel or a forced seduction, he did as he pleased without care to the consequences. And it didn’t help that he had the money and resources to avoid such outcomes with alarming regularity.

  “It was him,” Lauder confirmed. “I’ve seen that bloke before in the boxing rings.”

  “Christ.” Beau growled. “What does he want her for?”

  “Nothing good, that much is certain.” Sheridan looked at Roger pensively. “Why was she even here?”

  “Mr. Beaton decided she could come with me in the coach,” the footman said. “She’d been feeling a bit down after being confined to the house the last three days, and Monmouth is said to be out of town.”

  Sheridan looked now to Beau. His expression was grim. “Convenient, isn’t it? Sommers must have been watching the house. I need to go to Ash at once.”

  “But the girl,” Beau said. “Someone has to go after her.”

  “We don’t know where he could have taken her. We’ll need to compile a list of Sommers’s known haunts and spread out to search.”

  “There isn’t time for that,” Bea
u said. “I have a guess where he might go.”

  “Where?”

  “An old property on the outskirts of London. The old Castleton Abbey. His family owns it.” Beau had been there once, years ago, foolishly thinking it might be amusing to join the Devil’s Own hellfire club. It hadn’t at all been what he’d expected.

  “You’re sure he’s there?”

  “If I’m wrong, you and Lennox search his townhouse here in London. Bring the Bow Street runners.” Normally a man couldn’t simply search another man’s house for evidence, especially if he was a peer, but with the help of Bow Street, Sheridan and Lennox might have luck getting inside.

  Sheridan grabbed Beau’s arm as he called for his coach. He handed him his cane. “You’ll need a weapon. Twist it counterclockwise and pull.”

  Beau twisted the silver knob and pulled, revealing a silver blade.

  “Thank you, Sheridan.” Beau nodded at him and waited for his groom to bring his horse around.

  He tried not to think about the head start that Lord Sommers had, or what he might do to the girl before Beau could reach them.

  Beau gripped the cane tightly, wondering what Sommers wanted with Lennox’s maid. The two men weren’t enemies, nor were they friends. So what was the connection? Maybe it had nothing to do with Lennox. What if it was on behalf of Lord Monmouth, while he was out of town? Or perhaps he intended to ransom her, either to Monmouth or back to Lennox? No, that seemed unlikely. But if he had taken the woman to the Abbey as he feared, he might intend to use her for a Devil’s Own ceremony.

  Lord help the girl if that was the case. London had seen many hellfire clubs come and go over the centuries. Most only feigned at devil worship and were really excuses for drunken revelries with willing women there to entertain the members. But the Devil’s Own was different.

  The one and only time Beau had attended, Sommers had taken some poor girl and bound her on top of the old stone altar in the Abbey. His intent had been to take her in front of all the other men, but Beau had boasted that only a real man could take a woman when he was flat drunk. Sommers’ ego had risen to the challenge. He and the other men got completely inebriated and during their drunken distractions, Beau had cut the girl loose from her bonds and taken her home.