Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  Iona was not only dangerous, she could be deadly if she applied her mind to it.

  And he had no control over her.

  Against his better judgment, he left her in the hands of his aunt and the intrepid ladies of the school.

  Twenty-two

  Fighting the gloom of watching Lord Ives drive away after leaving her at the school, Iona shrieked in delight to discover Isobel waiting for her in the parlor. They hugged and danced around like maniacs to the amusement of the older ladies.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Iona cried. “You need to be safe with Lydia so we needn’t worry about you!”

  “So I can worry about you?” Isobel hooted in derision. “I have been crawling the walls in fear knowing your impulsiveness.”

  “I am not impulsive. I plot very thoroughly.” Iona removed her gloves and allowed herself to be shoved to a seat while tea was served. “I am glad you are here but wish you’d waited a day.”

  “Tell us what is happening,” Lady Agnes insisted. “Perhaps we can be of assistance.”

  Iona let Winifred enthusiastically explain the morning’s events. Lady Phoebe and Lady Dare arrived to join them. At hearing about Mortimer’s gang, they were appalled.

  “This is insupportable,” Phoebe declared. “Just as we’re trying to clean up the slums and restore this part of town, criminal gangs think they can move in? They’ll be taking over the palace before we know it!”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about the palace,” Azmin, Lady Dare said, suppressing a grin at Phoebe’s dramatics. “But we do need to protect the school and the twins if their stepfather is involved with dangerous elements.”

  “I know one of the books I left downstairs had information about the city’s lowlifes. Let us see what information it can provide.” Phoebe stood. “Come with me, Iona, and help me find it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she marched from the parlor. Startled, Iona hurried after her, half-running to keep up with Phoebe’s long-legged strides. They took the stairs down to what once might originally have been a ground-floor business and was now the school’s library.

  “You have a recent book on thieves and gamblers?” Iona asked, unable to hide her doubt.

  “Of course not.” Phoebe strolled through the stacks, caressing their spines. “I could see you plotting. My aunts tend to be. . . perceptive. It’s best not to give them any inkling of what you’re planning. I know this city inside and out. Use me. Do you know where they’re gambling?”

  “I heard the Old Rooster mentioned. But you have a husband at home, and animals that depend on you. I cannot ask you or anyone to help me. I am not at all certain even I can help, except I can smell treachery and perhaps offer warnings.”

  “And Ives are impervious to deceit. Gerard will only think in terms of honor and proper documentation and the like. Fortunately, Andrew understands I go my own way as he does. My husband is the epitome of a very modern gentleman.”

  Phoebe pulled a book off the shelf. “Here it is. I did not lie about the book. It exists. It just won’t help. Were you planning a visit to the Rooster?”

  “Or waiting outside. If Isobel were a little more stable, I’d have her watch the back exit, but I fear she’d faint before she could signal me.”

  “The two of you together would be too noticeable, anyway, as would I or Azmin. We’ve attracted a little too much notice, and those who hide in the dark know to avoid us. But I can wait in a carriage nearby, listening to the minds of my pets for anything untoward. I’ll bring Wolf and Raven to guard outside and perhaps locate another creature or two for inside. You could wait with me.”

  Iona took the book and flipped pages. “I am better stationed where I can smell people as they pass by. Isobel has some of the same ability. Not as strong, I fear. Her gift lies elsewhere and is not useful in this case. Perhaps if she sat with you, though, she might note any strong suspicious scents.”

  “And where will you be?”

  Iona rubbed her palms against her skirt. “I’m hoping to pose as one of the urchins. If I could have your dog with me, that would be perfect.”

  “No, the street urchins all know each other. You’ll have to wear a uniform and pose as a groom or some such. You can linger near the front entrance, and we’ll park the carriage at the alley in back. But if they’re not in that tavern. . .”

  “Someone needs to verify it, yes.” Iona nodded vigorously, delighted to have a partner in crime. “Perhaps your husband or Lord Dare could speak with Lord Ives.”

  “All we have to do is smuggle you out from under my aunts’ noses,” Phoebe crowed happily.

  “All, she says,” Iona muttered, but her thoughts were already racing ahead.

  * * *

  “You will not attend, Rainford,” Gerard insisted, shrugging away his valet to tie his own cravat. “You are your father’s sole heir. A dukedom dying out because of a knife fight is simply not done.”

  “I imagine it has,” the marquess said thoughtfully, tapping his walking stick on the hearth. “Duels, swordfights, war, that sort of thing. And there’s always my cousin.”

  “Not done,” Gerard repeated. “Mortimer has taken up the challenge I sent. Blair has offered to attend with me. I think he’s had quite enough of Lady Alice’s arrogance. I only expected her to stay with them a night, but she’s apparently taken a liking to their household and won’t leave.”

  Rainford chuckled. “That was cruel to inflict her on the innocent. We should introduce her to Mr. Winter. That would cure him of his lust for titles.”

  Gerard lifted his chin and allowed Lowell to adjust his collar. “Not a bad idea. Alice’s father could persuade the rich American to contribute generously to some cause of the queen’s, get him noticed, knighted. . .”

  “Dream on. The American is claimed, and just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I don’t know why you’re going to this effort for a female who needs to marry wealth.”

  Stupid bastard the old soldier muttered. Or maybe that was Gerard’s own opinion of himself. It didn’t matter. Five thousand pounds burned a hole in his pocket. He could fix Wystan’s roof before the snow flew. But he knew what was right. He would finish this first.

  “It will give me satisfaction to see a man who has made lives miserable be tossed into misery of his own.” Satisfied with his appearance, Gerard picked up his hat and stick. “Off you go, Rainford. Give my greetings to your father. Choose your bride. I’ll expect notice of an heir this time next year.”

  The very proper marquess made a rude noise and sauntered out after him. Checking his weapons, Lowell locked up. A sharpshooter valet wasn’t of much use in a crowded tavern, but one never knew when one might come in handy.

  Leaving the marquess to go his own way, Gerard and Lowell took a hansom across the bridge to the old side of town. Stepping down at the tavern, Gerard tried to attune his senses to his surroundings as he had the prior night, but his thoughts were too cluttered.

  Why was he really doing this? Surely not for a woman who intended to marry for money and march out of his life? For justice, maybe. Because he was damned bored with his life, more likely. That didn’t mean he should put an end to it by stepping into a den of thieves.

  Undeterred, he took the stairs down to the gambling hell, Lowell on his heels.

  Viscount Drummond and a few of his friends were waiting, as were Andrew Blair and Zane Dare, who preferred to be called doctor and not viscount. Since Mr. White and his penchant for titles wasn’t about, it didn’t matter what Zane called himself. Mortimer was their mark, and he was already there, three sheets to the wind.

  “You stole my daughters,” Mortimer slurred. “I want them back.”

  “And you think winning at cards will persuade them to return to you?” Gerard couldn’t in all good faith trounce a drunk. He’d hoped Mortimer would attempt to stay sober enough to play. “The best you can hope for is to win back the money.”

  “If it weren’t for you, they’d
be back! It’s their mother’s land.” Slouched in his chair, Mortimer glared belligerently through half-lowered lids. “I should swab the floor with you. But I’ll let them fellows do it. They’re not happy with your interference.”

  Gerard felt a chill down his spine. Andrew and Zane straightened and pushed back their chairs. His valet emerged from the shadows, his hand ready on his pocket. Gerard didn’t have to turn around to know the room was clearing—except for the bad vibrations at his back.

  He should have gone to Wystan.

  Judging distance from the tremors of violence, Gerard dropped into a crouch. Using his newly-purchased sword stick, he spun around and swung at the wrinkled trouser legs approaching. Screams of pain drowned in the explosion of gunfire over his head.

  The tavern erupted in fists and cudgels and knives. Cursing, regretting that he’d dragged his friends into this, Gerard focused on his goal—Mortimer. The ship sailed in the morning.

  Dodging cudgels, fighting dirty and landing crippling blows with his stick and any body part that sufficed, he finally reached the fake earl and bunched the cad’s waistcoat in his fist. Staying low, he yanked Mortimer out of his chair and down to the filthy floor. The drunk attempted just enough of a fight to justify breaking a fist against his jaw. He slumped.

  A knife slashed downward, but sensing the motion, Gerard rolled from the blow. He whistled at Lowell, who ducked and sidestepped and joined him in grabbing Mortimer’s coat.

  Zane and Drew flanked them, protecting their backs with fists. More scoundrels blocked them.

  “Dammit, why can’t anything be easy?” With a sigh, Gerard stood up abruptly, smashed the knob of his stick against a whiskered jaw, and jabbed the knife end at a dirty trouser leg.

  * * *

  The enormous wolfhound at Iona’s side came to attention at the crack of a gunshot.

  Uncomfortable in her ill-fitting boy’s clothes, she straightened from her post in a doorway to study the lamp-lit street. Gunshots weren’t good. She had only the small knife Azmin had given her.

  Phoebe’s raven screamed a warning overhead.

  Iona opened her senses to the wind. She’d already identified a carriage waiting down the street as Viscount Dare’s. Several of the men entering the tavern stank of hunger and a scent she could only call vile—not exactly deceit but worrisome. But she really needed to be closer to smell more.

  Leaving her niche, she edged nearer to the stone cellar stairs leading down to the tavern, close enough to hear the shouts and groans. Heart in throat, she debated descending. Her meager gift wasn’t of much use indoors—and apparently not much use at all if she didn’t recognize the scent of violence.

  To Iona’s disgust, Isobel ran from her hiding place around the corner. She’d insisted on accompanying Phoebe over Iona’s strident objections. Just as she appeared, men from the cellar began pouring up the narrow tavern stairs in a great hurry.

  “Phoebe’s rats or mice or whatever say there is a tremendous brawl in the tavern. The rodents are apparently getting drunk on spilled ale. What do we do now?”

  Panic? Iona pulled them both flat against the wall in the doorway where she’d been hiding and pointed down the street. “That’s Lord Dare’s carriage. Stand near it until we know what’s happening. I may need to send Wolf into the tavern, and it would be good to know you’re nearby to back me up.”

  Isobel was a bookkeeper with a mind for money. Warfare was beyond her understanding. She nodded agreement and retreated to safety.

  Iona steeled herself to go inside—until the fight burst through the door. In the shadows, she couldn’t discern villains from heroes. In the melee of torn coats and flying fists, she could only sense Gerard’s fury.

  If she was not mistaken, that was him dragging Mortimer up the stairs.

  She didn’t have Phoebe’s ability to give Wolf orders. He was only there to protect her. She hadn’t planned for a brawl where she couldn’t separate one man from another. She winced as a blackguard attempted to jerk Gerard back down the stairs. The earl had to release Mortimer to swing his fists. She could almost feel his pain.

  He was hurt!

  “C’mon, Wolf, let’s smite a few rodents.” She ran toward the melee, determined to pry Lord Ives from disaster.

  Throwing punches over an insensate Mortimer on the stairs, the damned earl didn’t even notice as she and Wolf grabbed her stepfather’s coat. Gerard’s unprepossessing valet dodged flying fists to add his strength. Together they dragged the sot up the rest of the stone stairs, while the earl clouted and kicked the hirelings back down. Iona was grateful for her boy’s clothes. No one gave her a second look.

  Once they had Mortimer sprawling on the cobblestones well away from the entrance, Lowell dived back into the fray, attempting to part Lord Ives from the throng.

  Gerard was now fighting his way back into the melee. “Drew and Zane are still in there!” he yelled at his servant over the noise of the fracas.

  Well, rats, Phoebe wouldn’t like that. Neither would Azmin. As more men spilled up the stairs, flinging fists and cudgels and knives, Iona began to hum under her breath. She just needed Gerard out of there. . .

  She tugged Wolf’s collar, causing him to yip. A moment later, he howled—Phoebe was telling him something.

  At the sound, Gerard glanced over his shoulder. She prayed he recognized the wolfhound. From his scowl, she gathered he did, but he didn’t see her. He returned to beating off attackers. Was that a sword at the end of his stick?

  She couldn’t think curse words and concentrate on humming.

  To her relief, the mob finally pushed his lordship back to street level.

  Sensing a confusion of fury and. . . blood thirst?. . . approaching, Iona swung around, still humming. More men spilled out of the alley. To her utter dismay, at the sight, Isobel crumpled beside the carriage. Telling herself it was just her sister’s reaction to fright, Iona released Wolf and prayed.

  The dog eagerly leapt to guard her against the new ruffians rushing toward the tavern entrance.

  To Iona’s relief, the rather large Mr. Blair and the professorial viscount finally emerged looking bloodied but determined. Blair held a smoking pistol and appeared prepared to commit murder. But the three gentlemen were completely outnumbered.

  And Mortimer was climbing to his knees, reaching for his pocket.

  Twenty-three

  Gerard breathed in relief as Zane and Blair fought their way out of the hole, both appearing to be mostly in one piece. If he were a gambling man, he’d wager the big Scot inventor had brawling experience. The good doctor, however, merely possessed an instinct for survival and a wicked temper.

  Sensing the vibrations of blows before they landed had Gerard ramming his stick backward while swinging his fist and his boots to clear a path for his friends. Clutching a villain by the throat, he received a vibration so violent that he had to glance behind him—to see a band of hoodlums hoisting Mortimer to his feet.

  The pistol that Iona’s stepfather held was waving in Gerard’s direction. Behind him and on his other side, he sensed more pistols being drawn. Bullets aimed at him would hit the cellar stairs and quite possibly his companions.

  A woman screamed—in fury. Iona. He’d recognize her voice anywhere.

  Well, hell.

  Acting on what his senses told him—that they were outnumbered and targets—Gerard dived headfirst down the stairs, arms stretched to shove everyone backward. Just as he landed in the midst of the fracas, a barrage of bullets hailed over his head.

  He stiffened as pain dug into his shoulder, but he scrambled to prevent breaking anyone’s head. Another pain scorched across his scalp, and he lost the power to fight, collapsing into the tangle of bodies at the bottom of the stairs.

  Through the ringing in his ears he heard someone shout “Bees!” And then police whistles shrieked.

  He glanced up just enough to see a cloud of bees swarming through a halo from the streetlight. At night. In the cold. His vision was
blurring. Perhaps he hallucinated.

  As someone cursed and attempted to lift him, he could swear he saw bees covering every inch of the ugly coat Mortimer had been wearing. The shrieks of the thugs attempting to drag the twins’ stepfather away were music to his ears as darkness closed in.

  * * *

  The exertion of calling that ancient, enormous nest of nearly dormant bees left Iona staggering. But she’d seen Gerard fall. She had to reach him while driving the bees in the opposite direction—after Mortimer.

  Wolf snarled and snapped and prevented the shooters from going near the cellar stairs. Iona slipped around him as police whistles sent most of the crowd fleeing into the shadows. A few lingered helplessly near the shrieking figures of men covered in bees, but they, too, melted into the darkness as policeman ran down the hill.

  Iona had almost reached Gerard when someone grabbed her from behind.

  “You can’t lift him. Go home with your sister, my lady. Let us handle this.” Strong hands lifted her and shoved her toward strangers.

  Mortimer’s screams had died out. The bees streamed after two figures fleeing down the alley. Her stepfather didn’t flee with them.

  Iona thought she recognized Rainford’s ice-blond hair and lean form descending after Gerard and the others as she stumbled backward in the hands of strangers. The marquess was a physician and healer, she vaguely recalled. Of course, Dare was a physician too, but he was down those stairs. . .

  Her heart screamed to stay, even as she was carried away. With the bees buzzing in her head, she had no ability to fight.

  “Never saw anything like it,” one of her protectors drawled.

  “It was if he had eyes in the back of his head,” the other replied, sounding bewildered. “He swung before they did, and clipped the ones behind him at the same time. Then dived before the bullets flew. Ain’t possible.”