A Regency Duo

by Carole Mortimer

  There wasn’t a single thing common about Eliza. “It’s a long climb down.”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  So she had. But only with him helping her.

  At the window, Eliza gave him one last angered glance, and then was over the ledge in a heartbeat.

  Stubborn little hellion.

  He inched off the mattress. No way could he let her scale the palace side on her own. In fact, he shouldn’t have even ever told her about the damn secret escape route.

  The bedroom door slammed open behind him.

  Freddie turned around.

  “The prime minister has been killed,” his brother, Edward, said, crossing the threshold, black top hat firmly on his head, walking stick in one hand.

  “Throat slit,” Harry added, showing up with their other brother, Vic. Both, he noted, were dressed as if ready to go out, coats and all.

  “And this is supposed to matter to me how?” He glanced at the window. Since Eliza had disappeared from view, he hadn’t heard a single peep carry in from outside. Hopefully she was scaling the wall without incident.

  Edward stepped up to the bed and rested his hip against one of the four velvet-draped mahogany posters. “We’re forming our own group, Freddie. Taking charge of this whole anti-monarchist movement before the Northern Territories ignite it full blast.”

  Between Countavia’s ongoing battles with their northern neighbor, and Napoleon’s war, he had to admit the kingdom’s troops were spread thin. Creating a personal fighting force to attack the anti-monarchist movement probably was for the best. And as the princes of the realm, he and his brothers were suited for the task. Though he doubted seven men would be enough to truly do the job. “Are we including any of the cousins?”

  “In time,” Eddie answered. “We have plans to expand, but we have to do it wisely, take in only those we can trust.”

  The whole thing sounded like a scheme Edward would cook up as he was the brains of the seven. “I think we might need even more than just us and a few cousins.”

  Eddie nodded. “Alex and Leo both mentioned a few possible peers to consider as well. From there, who knows what will happen.”

  “Where are those two, by the way?” Funny how all six brothers knew about this dreaded news ahead of him finding out.

  “They went over to parliament. Lord Blue was murdered in the Upper Chamber.”

  He’d been home for over an hour and not once during that time had one of his brothers come up to his apartments. Of course he was glad of that, or they’d have discovered Eliza. But still… “Just tell me, was it your idea to include me, Eddie? Or Kit’s?”

  “Mine,” Kit said, entering the room in his typical superior swagger, one only a crown prince could walk, a scowl on his face.

  “Why?” He had to know.

  “For the love of God, Freddie. You are our brother and while you may not think you count in father’s eyes, you do in ours.” Kit crossed his arms. “And while we’re on the subject, father doesn’t know a damn thing about what we’re discussing.”

  He had to admit keeping this venture secret from their father was a huge hazard for Kit. Countavia wasn’t like other European countries. Their father had absolute power, and while previous generations of Baines adhered to the next-in-line rule based on male birth order, it was not a given. Any one of his brothers could become king if their father so deemed it, though the notion hadn’t ever been discussed. And breaking tradition hadn’t ever happened in the entire history of Countavia. But still, it was a high risk Kit was taking.

  “Are you in or not?” Kit asked.

  Freddie glanced once more at the open window, a whiff of violet perfume wafting in on the breeze, the scent coming off the fluttering drapes. If he checked on Eliza, he’d expose her as having been here. Something he doubted his brothers would accept and something he knew for fact his father wouldn’t. No. He couldn’t risk destroying Eliza’s reputation. She deserved more.

  He reverted his gaze back to his four brothers.

  “Freddie?” Edward quirked one black eyebrow.

  “I’m in.”

  Chapter 2

  Two years later…

  October 1811

  The Wharf

  City of West Landon, Kingdom of Countavia

  The hard barrel of a firm object jabbed at her back.

  A pistol.

  Lady Eliza Littlefield gripped the wicker handles cradled in her fingers and froze midstep, the babe in the basket at her side her only concern. She knew the seedier end of West Landon—commonly referred to as The Wharf by the pirates and other degenerate seafarers who spent their landbound days in its taverns and brothels—was no place for a newborn. The area courted danger enough during daylight hours. Never mind at night. But urchins and orphans in need of rescuing didn’t live on High Street or within a stone’s through of the Palace. They also didn’t choose their hour of need. And unfortunately, most of those calls came at nightfall, like the note found slipped under the front door of Haven House two hours ago.

  She kept still.

  A warm breath reeking of whiskey and the remnants of days-old mutton pie fanned her cheek and snaked under her nose as the beast behind her drew closer.

  “Shout and I’ll kill you,” the ruffian said.

  She thought back to her days of helping Freddie clean up the area, and to the tactics she’d used on those occasions when she’d end up in a bit of trouble. “I have no money. So if that is what you’re looking for, go on your way and leave me be.” She lied, but it was her only defense.

  “It’s not money I crave.”

  Of course it wasn’t. The men who stalked this rat-infested district of the city possessed a bevy of sinful desires, money probably being the least of them. Especially once their minds were addled with drink. And by the smell of it, her assailant had excelled exceptionally well in that vice tonight.

  The faintest of whines lifted from the basket.

  Eliza held her breath and prayed Little Charlie settled down.

  He didn’t.

  “What do you have in there?” The lewd beast peered over her shoulder, his stubble-dressed chin scraping her cheek.

  She couldn’t risk the child. “A small dog. A rather nasty little mutt who has taken a fancy to biting. She rather dislikes men.”

  “Well then, I think we should begin our evening by ditching the bitch, don’t you agree?”

  Not the results she wanted.

  Tightening her hold on the basket, she sucked in a deep breath and with one swift move of her free arm, slammed her elbow against the wool of her cape and then further back until it collided with the solid form of the bastard shadowing her.

  A shot went off.

  Eliza jumped.

  “Bloody hell,” the ruffian said, pulling away and dropping his gun.

  Metal clanked against cobblestone. The weapon skidded several inches before halting, barrel down, in a pool of stagnant water.

  From inside the basket, Little Charlie wailed.

  Eliza hiked the wicker carrier closer to her chest as she peeled her gaze away from the pistol’s jewel-encrusted handle and ran.

  Her heart pounded.

  Earlier in the evening, she hadn’t expected to end up in this situation. In fact, she’d been so confident in carrying out Charlie’s rescue on her own, she’d gone so far as ordering Bosworth and Georgiana to wait in the carriage one street over.

  How’s that looking to you now, Lizzie?

  “Oh, bugger off, for God’s sake!” A conscience was a terrible thing to have when one made a mistake.

  So was an older, domineering brother and unfortunate for her, she had both.

  Archie was going to be sorely pissed about her impromptu visit to The Wharf.

  Unless she made certain he never found out.

  Of course to do that, she’d have to survive tonight and do so without getting caught.

  The sound of gaining footsteps rang out behind her.

  Bloody bast
ard.

  She picked up speed.

  The jeers of drunken sods, along with the aromas of roasted beef and other foods emitting from the taverns lining the street, came at her in passing shouts and whiffs.

  The basket stilled.

  Oh, God.

  She did not need Charlie to stop crying now. The infant could have easily been injured with the way she was toting around his make-shift cradle. Wicker wasn’t bullet proof, nor was it crook proof, snatch proof, or anything else proof, but stopping to check on the child would only give their assailant the lead he’d need to catch them again.

  And then who knew what would become of Charlie? At least with her he had a chance at a decent life. If she could keep them both alive long enough to make it across one more street.

  She ran faster.

  And tripped, landing promptly in the arms of a strong man who not only snatched her by the waist with little care for the basket in her arms, but also scurried her into a dark alley.

  He wrapped one glove-covered hand over her mouth. “Scream and you’ll be dead. Understood?”

  She nodded, a vague familiarity nagging at her brain.

  The rogue removed his hand.

  “You ruffians really need to learn some new lines,” she whispered, the taste of worn leather and exotic sandalwood lingering on her lips.

  Not the usual miscreant. What pirate or mercenary favored a clean-scrubbed body? None she’d ever met. Though a prince she once knew did tend to love his baths. So much so, they’d had many conversations with him in his copper tub and her sitting by the fire out front of said tub. The wheels of her mind started to turn.

  Her kidnapper enforced his hold of her.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “We need to move into the shadows.”

  “Why? I doubt assaulting me in public will matter in this place, it’s not exactly the most noble of areas.”

  A faint curse lingered at her ear.

  What was God thinking when he created men like those who favored The Wharf? Probably the same thing he thought when he’d molded Archie’s and Freddie’s souls, which couldn’t have been much since neither her brother nor the prince ever considered anyone else’s feelings in any given matter, much like the beast who now held her.

  A whimper rose from the basket.

  Thanks be to God.

  At least Charlie was alive, though if she didn’t get him safely to Haven House soon, he’d die of the cold as the thin blanket in the basket surely wasn’t enough to keep a babe warm. He was probably also in need of milk as it hadn’t appeared that the baker who’d originally found him was up to sparing food on a child that wasn’t his. “I have nothing to offer you,” she said to her new kidnapper, “save for myself.” She’d do anything to keep Little Charlie safe, that and the fact this abductor was a lot stronger than her last, so elbowing him and running away wasn’t a plan.

  “I’m not out for a bit of sport, my lady. My presence here has a higher purpose. Now hush or you’ll get us both killed.”

  Definitely not the typical wharf-goer. “Are you a thief taker?”

  “You must drive your husband mad,” the man whispered.

  “I’m not married.” She hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but her captor had an uncanny ability to be charming compared to the pistol-holding cad who’d previously held her up. This one was easy to talk to. Again, a bit like Freddie. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “And you still haven’t followed my request to keep quiet.”

  She noted he hadn’t said order. What kidnapper requests anything of his captive? Her brother could learn a thing or two from this cad. “I’m doing my best to maintain a low voice and not shout. Surely a whisper will not do us in.”

  The man huffed. “I pity your family, my lady. But to answer your question, no. I don’t make a habit of catching criminals. Not officially, at least.” He retained his hold on her waist, his firm body pressed against hers, his enticing heat seeping through her cape and gown, and reaching all the way to her spine.

  She instinctively leaned back and reveled in the warmth.

  Maybe this is what Hannah felt when wrapped in Archie’s embrace, though for the life of her she could never imagine what that intelligent, beautiful woman ever saw in her arrogant brother.

  She sighed.

  Then swallowed, her hands going cold and clammy as her pulse raced.

  There was something definitively wrong with her because any sane female in the same position would be screaming at the top of her lungs, doing whatever she could to get freed. But not her. She was enjoying her abductor’s embrace. Enjoying!

  In fact, she now even relaxed a tad, skimmed her fingers along the assailant’s arm, relished the feel of his skin against hers. While the man keeping her captive may very well be a degenerate—any man to favor The Wharf was—he possessed well-toned muscles and donned the finest wool jacket her hand had ever graced. He obviously worked at a trade or perhaps had won enough money in the gaming hells, as any pirate she’d known, which amounted to precisely one pirate, often couldn’t afford to dress like a king even when enjoying the spoils of his pillaging. Or maybe her captor worked for the Crown doing something dubious. She had to know. “If you’re not a thief taker, then are you a tax collector?”

  “Some may say so, but directly, no.”

  “What does that mean? Either you are, or you aren’t.”

  “Are you always this inquisitive?”

  Before she could answer, a snicker resonated in the distance.

  The gunman.

  Eliza held her breath.

  “Here pretty, pretty,” her former assailant called from the street, the sound of his slurring words filtering into the alley.

  She stiffened. “That’s the man I was running from. He held a pistol to my back.”

  “You’re safe with me. I promise.”

  Putting her trust in a captor was never wise. But what choice did she have? It’s not like she was about to dash out of the alley and back to the bloke who more than likely would have fired that damn gun at her if she hadn’t elbowed him. Remaining with her wealthy abductor would have to suffice.

  She frowned.

  Little Charlie started to kick, sent the basket swinging. He also now reverted to his full, high-pitched wailing.

  Her kidnapper-with-a-conscience pulled them both into an alcove of a bricked-up doorway as attacker number one stumbled past the alley.

  “Good God, please tell me that is not a child you’re carrying?” The man’s annoyed whisper came out clear as day at her ear.

  “It is.”

  “Well, do something to stifle that cry or we’ll all be found out.”

  “You’ll have to release me if I’m to get at the basket.”

  The man hesitated but eventually loosened his grip on her waist.

  Eliza lowered the wicker bundle to the floor, then crouched and retrieved Charlie. Straightening, she held him against her chest and wrapped her cape around his small body.

  The click of horses’ hooves trampling the street glided through the air. “You’re late,” her previous assailant shouted. A second later a carriage door slammed, and the sound of horses’ hooves echoed once more.

  Eliza’s shoulders rounded. At least Mr. Pistol Jabber was gone. Now she only had to deal with her nice abductor, though if she were honest, no kidnapper could really be referred to as nice.

  The man moaned.

  And slumped to the ground, his hands sliding down her body as if he fought to steady himself.

  With her hold on Charlie tight, Eliza spun around.

  She teetered, her knees quickly meeting with cobblestone, but she ignored the pain. Her gaze flew straight for the man’s open black jacket and slashed shirt.

  She gasped. A stain marred the shirt’s white fabric, its crimson color visible even in the alley’s dark environment. “You’re wounded.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Of course you will.” She hated
to lie but voicing her instinctive opinion on the matter would do the man no good.

  Eliza’s gaze rose to the man’s face.

  Freddie. Oh, God, it was her Freddie. And he was on the cusp of death.

  With her free hand, she gently parted the shredded cotton of his shirt.

  Freddie grimaced.

  “Sword or dagger?”

  “You’re quite up on wounds for a lady.”

  He hadn’t yet recognized her, which was probably a good thing considering his condition. “You’d be surprised what a lady manages to witness in her lifetime. Now answer my question.”

  “Dagger,” the man said. “And it was a very fine blade, too. Bore an emerald-eyed snake on its hilt.”

  “Oh, well that makes a world of difference. It’s common knowledge that a lesion inflicted by a blue-blooded weapon festers far more magnificently than one caused by a lowly commoner blade.”

  The man huffed. “And here you had me wondering why a beautiful woman such as yourself had yet to snare a husband.”

  Well, at least he thought her pretty, though he still hadn’t yet called her by her name. Which meant he probably hadn’t even remembered their secret friendship. “One does not snare love. It comes naturally, unimpeded and unexpected.”

  Freddie sneered. “You, my lady, have read one too many novels.”

  “I think you should save your energy, sir. You’re bleeding out quite quickly.” She placed Charlie back in the basket now that he’d quieted down, and then reached for her gown’s hem.

  With a firm tug, Eliza ripped off a wide band of silk and then proceeded to further section it off until she had three swaths ready to be tied together. “This might hurt, but your wound needs wrapping.”

  Her prince nodded.

  She worked the fabric around Freddie’s ribs, twice, and then fastened it on the side.

  Blood continued to seep through.

  She doubted he would survive much longer without the help of a proper surgeon. “I have a carriage one street away. If I can get you to my house, we can send for the doctor.”

  “No. Just go. Save yourself and your child.”

  He really hadn’t recognize her. “He’s not my…”