A Question for Harry

by Angeline Fortin

  “Don’t think this means anything,” he warned Fiona as he handed her up into his carriage minutes later. “I still think this might be the most thoughtless thing you’ve ever done.”

  “Incredible,” he whispered again in awe as the flickering image of the boats being rowed down the Thames moved across the white curtain hung across the front of the theater.

  He had photographs framed around his home, of course. Older daguerreotypes of his parents and dozens more recent vignettes of his family, his sister, and even his childhood hound. However, never had Aylesbury imagined that they could be strung together to express such movement as this cinematograph. “Incredible.”

  “You said that,” Fiona whispered teasingly by his side, though her eyes too were glued to the captivating motion of the men pulling the oars through the water.

  “It bears repeating.”

  “Yes it does,” she agreed, laughing aloud when the wake trailing behind the boats lapped against the edge of the moving image, drawing shocked cries and exclamations from the viewers in the front row as if they expected to get wet.

  Fiona turned to look at him as he joined her in laughter, her eyes dancing with laughter, pure enjoyment for the spectacle.

  “Thank you for letting me come along,” he whispered, squeezing her hand affectionately.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Not that you left me any choice.”

  Though her mouth opened to offer an apology for not asking him to straightaway, nothing emerged as her eyes slid over his shoulder and widened. Quickly, she turned back to the screen but her shoulders had tensed, her smile fled.

  “What is it?”

  Fiona chewed her lip nervously. She was as rattled as Aylesbury had ever seen her. For what reason? “Fiona?”

  “He’s here,” she choked out.

  “Who? Ramsay?”

  “No, that fellow from the other day. From Harrowby’s,” she clarified shakily, her suddenly cold hand clenching his. “Not three rows behind us. He’s watching me. Don’t look!”

  He didn’t need to. He believed her. Nothing else could have frightened her so. Still, never had he imagined that the villain seeking to kidnap Fiona would have tailed them the entire way across town and into a crowded theater. Also, there had been no sign of them along the way. Analyzing their options, Aylesbury made a quick decision. “Come with me,” he whispered, cupping his hand beneath her elbow and propelling her along with him as they quickly worked their way through the protesting spectators to the side of the theater opposite the would-be kidnapper.

  As they made their way to the aisle, a quick glance over his shoulder revealed not only the ruffian from Harrowby’s but also two others making their way across the crowd. Bloody hell, three of them. Aylesbury fumed silently, cursing inwardly. He might have been able to take on a pair but was admittedly outnumbered with the addition of a third. As it was, he was unarmed and outnumbered. His mind scrambled for a solution as they exited the theater.

  He had sent his driver off for a pint and instructions to pick them up at the Café Royal on Regent Street in two hours, anticipating a long stroll and intimate tea with Fiona after the short film. There were no cabs out front waiting to be hired, no carriages nearby or other vehicles beyond the occasional horse cart.

  Aylesbury did a quick mental tally of the surrounding area. Nothing. Nothing but theaters, taverns, gambling houses and others businesses of ill repute.

  No bobbies. No one to call on for help other than vendors hawking wares of oranges and meat pies, and newsboys calling out the news of playwright Oscar Wilde’s recent conviction on charges of gross indecency. His sentence of two years hard labor was nothing compared to the punishment Aylesbury wanted to inflict on the bastards chasing them.

  Once he had Fiona safe, that was.

  Taking Fiona by the hand, he tugged her along with him, setting off at a brisk pace to the west. Their best chance for assistance would be that way, toward Piccadilly Circus and the café where his coachman awaited them beyond. Still, it was nearly a dozen streets away.

  “What do we do, Harry?” Fiona asked, her voice laced with the onset of uncharacteristic panic as she panted along beside him. A panic that might cripple their chances of a neat escape. He couldn’t have that.

  “You feel up for a bit of a race, my dear?”

  “A race?” she asked in confusion, resting a palm across her flat stomach, drawing his eyes to her narrow waist. Bloody hell, she was bound into that appealing hourglass figure by a steel cage. It limited not only her movement but also her ability to draw even a deep breath.

  “I’ll wager you ten pounds that I can best you in a footrace to the Café Royal,” he challenged, hoping to rouse her competitive spirit.

  Or her anger. Either one would do. “There’s no chance you could win, of course.”

  “A race? How ridiculous, Harry. How can you…”

  Too late for games, Aylesbury thought looking over his shoulder to find the three toughs wending their way through the crowded sidewalks. “Devil take it, Fiona. Run!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  From the diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh – Apr 1893

  I’m never sorry for much. And I abhor admitting when I’m wrong about something. I’m not saying that I was, of course, just that I hate to admit it.

  Responding to the urgency in his voice, Fiona thankfully didn’t think to question him but sprang into a sprint, lifting her skirts high as she went, but with her parasol also clutched in one hand, her petticoats kept slipping from her grasp. “Drop the bloody parasol, Fiona!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Aylesbury snorted and quickened his step and she kept pace with him as he accelerated, testing her limits. “Good girl.”

  She didn’t speak but merely tossed him a dry look before she leapt ahead of him like a gazelle, daring him to keep up. God bless that love of the outdoors, Aylesbury thought, as they gained ground and distance. Fiona’s natural athleticism and a life on the Highlands outstripped the endurance of the Londoners who had done little more than breath in the stale air of the city their entire lives.

  A glance over his shoulder showed their pursuers losing ground but despite her competitive spirit and the urgency of their situation, Aylesbury could feel Fiona’s energy flagging as their feet pounded against the cobbles.

  “Can’t… breathe…” she panted and Aylesbury cursed the corset that bound her. Grabbing her hand, he jerked her around the corner at the next street. Choosing a door about half way down the street, he pulled her to a halt and thrust her into the small shop. With any luck, when their pursuers finally made the street they would assume Fiona had already turned the next corner and continue on.

  He drew her away from the windows, watching and waiting.

  If luck were not on their side, they would need to keep moving. Loosening the constricting tightness of his tie, Aylesbury drew a deep breath and wished he could do the same for her. Fiona’s hand was pressed against her narrow waist as she sucked in one slow breath after another as deeply as she could while she paced deeper into the store.

  She was a true athlete, he thought proudly. A real goer. He couldn’t have loved her more than he did in that moment.

  “What a lovely little shop,” she said between breaths. “Did you see these gloves here, Harry? Aren’t they just divine?”

  “We’re running for our lives here, Fiona,” he reminded but couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice.

  “Nonsense,” she replied, her wide grin flashing in bright contrast to her flushed cheeks. “I’m running for my life. You’re simply tagging along.”

  “Can I help you, my lord? My lady?” a sales clerk asked from behind them. Even in their sweaty, bedraggled state, he clearly saw them for what they were. He eyed Fiona with perhaps more appreciation than the marquis, but Aylesbury thought that was understandable. Dewy with a light sweat, Fiona was fairly glowing and the clerk flushed when she turned to the clerk, ble
ssing him with a bright smile. “I beg your pardon, but is there a back door perhaps?”

  “Of course, my lady, it’s in the back.” The clerk pointed to the rear of the building without taking his eyes from her.

  “Of course it is,” Fiona smiled ironically, but produced a dimple for the besotted clerk as she unpinned her hat and smoothed her hair. “You have a darling shop and I would love to come back again another time but we’re in a bit of a rush. Do you mind?”

  “No, no,” he hurried to assure her. Moving a stack of crates to the side, the clerk cleared a path for her. “This way, my lady. Right this way.”

  “Thank you …?”

  “Thomas, my lady.”

  The dimple flashed again and the clerk nearly tripped over his own feet. “Thomas, thank you,” Fiona cooed so flirtatiously that Aylesbury wanted nothing more than to knock Thomas’ teeth through the back of his skull … after he throttled his lady for flirting so. “You are so kind to help.”

  “Not at all, my lady!” Thomas stammered, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

  “And if I might ask, if you would be so kind to… shall we say, misdirect anyone who might come in looking for us?” she continued, batting her lashes as they reached the door. “Oh and would you mind holding back those darling blue kid leather gloves as well?”

  “I shall be happy to, my lady.”

  “You’re very sweet,” Fiona added, patting the young man’s cheek as she passed.

  “And you’re a veritable minx,” Aylesbury whispered in her ear as he took her hand in his and led her down the alley behind the shop.

  “I said nothing that wasn’t true!” Fiona protested with a grin, clearly pleased with his jealous pique. “It was a lovely shop, the gloves would match one of my habits perfectly, and I would like to come back another time.”

  “If you’re alive,” he pointed out.

  “Well, it would be difficult otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

  She looked remarkably cheerful as she said it and Aylesbury was hard put to recall the seriousness of their position. “Show a little respect for the peril we are in, won’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said penitently.

  Aylesbury pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh in a move Fiona was beginning to recognize that signaled the outer periphery of his patience. Funny that seeing him hovering on the brink of intolerance had somehow become rather endearing.

  “My God, you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Fiona eyed him from head to toe, loving the way his usually neat hair was tousled from their mad dash. His blue eyes were as bright as beacons and she could see the pulse pounding at the base of his neck through his open collar. Involuntarily she reached out and ran a finger down the pulsing line. “Well not the bit that prompted us to flee in any case but … Well, I haven’t run in an age. It’s quite rousing, isn’t it?” she whispered, surprised at the huskiness of her voice.

  Aylesbury must have been as well though he recovered quickly enough. His eyes darkened, focusing on her parted lips and Fiona’s tongue darted out to moisten them prompting a low groan from him. “Now you look at me like that?” he asked throatily, taking her hat from her hand and tossing it aside.

  Shoving his fingers into the thick mass of her hair, Aylesbury grasped her head in his hand and pulled her forcibly to him, lifting her against him as he bent his head to take her lips in a hard kiss. Fiona parted her lips, inviting him in as she wound her arms around his neck. “Oh my, Harry,” she gasped against his lips when his hand closed over her breast, kneading fervidly.

  Trembling with the force of the hot lust that streaked through her, Fiona knew that she wouldn’t have cared a bit if Aylesbury tossed up her skirts right there in the alley and took her up against the brick wall. Primal satisfaction pounded through her veins. She had never felt so alive, so victorious … so ready to surrender.

  Aylesbury must have sensed it as well. He growled triumphantly low in his throat, the turgid evidence of his arousal pulsating at the apex of her thighs as he lifted her against him. “God, I want you, Fiona,” he whispered gruffly. “You have no idea how desperately.”

  If her own desire was any indication, Fiona rather thought she did. Kissing her again more tenderly, Aylesbury eased her away with a long-suffering groan. “This is not the time.”

  “I know,” she nodded with a blush.

  Stroking her cheek tenderly, he brushed one last kiss across her lips. “Don’t be self-conscious with me, darling girl. Ever. I love your passion. And in a time of danger, it’s normal. It’s exciting. You feel incredibly alive, yes? I feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Aylesbury smiled down at her as she nodded, brushing back the hair at her temples. “Now you know exactly what I feel each time I look at you.”

  Fiona gaped at him, a poignant ache seizing her heart. “Oh …”

  “Take heart,” he rushed on with a roguish grin. “At least you aren’t left sporting the evidence of your ardor for all the world to see.”

  Fiona looked down involuntarily, noting the bulge straining against the front of his trousers. She blushed again, this time from resisting the overwhelming urge to touch him.

  He must have guessed her thoughts for Aylesbury exhaled shakily. “You’ll drive me to Bedlam one day, mark my words.”

  Amusement returned and Fiona grinned up at him. “I promise to visit you.”

  Aylesbury groaned and joined in her laughter. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  “Home, ye say?” a thick Cockneyed voice said. “But I was jus’ beginnin’ to enjoy the show.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  From the Diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh – May 1895

  Long ago, I might have once mentioned my views on being wrong about anything. I’ve rarely admitted it and even if I were in the wrong, I cannot recall ever regretting it even so.

  Well, today I was ever so wrong about something. I thought I could thumb my nose at the world without consequence. Today I’ve realized just what those consequences might be … and it would not be worth it.

  Fiona stared at the thug at the end of the alley, torn between the mortification of knowing her passionate exchange with Harry had been witnessed and the alarm the sight of her pursuer inspired. Short but thick and muscular, he held a knife in one hand and a short cudgel in the other. Luckily, he appeared to be alone. The brutes must have split up to look for them. Looking around, she searched for a weapon or an escape.

  “Oi, yer not goin’ to run from ol’ Crumpky again, are ye poppet?”

  “Mr. Crumpky, really,” Fiona said coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course we intend to run.”

  Next to her, Aylesbury made a choking sound that might have been incredulity or laughter. “Stay back, Fiona,” he murmured, holding out his arm in front of her as if the barrier might protect or restrain her. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Fiona blinked in astonishment. “You can’t think to fight him, Harry! He’s armed. What are you going to do, throw you’re A-levels at him?”

  Aylesbury grinned at that. “Do you think that would work?”

  “Humph! Now who’s enjoying themselves?” she muttered but Aylesbury was already walking slowly toward their assailant, his empty hands held out slightly from his sides. Had she truly missed the devil may care side of him?

  “Crumpky, is it?” Aylesbury drawled. “Tsk, tsk, what an unfortunate name. Well, Crumpky, old chap, we’re at a bit of an impasse here, are we not?”

  “An impasse?” Crumpky tested the word. “Wot’s that?”

  “A stand off. A stalemate, if you will. You see, I cannot allow my fiancée to be dragged out of an alleyway.” The marquis wandered closer. “And yet you want to drag her away. You do know you would have to? She isn’t one to go quietly.”

  “All ready noted, gov. Bloodied my nose, she did.”

  “Then why not let us pass?” Aylesbury asked amiably, s
till sauntering closer. “You return to your band of merry men, pretend you didn’t see us. You’ll never get a cent from her in any case.”

  “Sorry, gov,” Crumpky said, rotating the cudgel in his hand. “I ain’t lookin’ to ’er for me nickel. Now stay back there.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that.” Aylesbury waited until Crumpky lifted the cudgel to strike and dodged in, grabbing the ruffian’s wrist and twisting him about while arching back out of the range of the knife as it swung about. The blade caught his jacket, tearing through it with an audible rip.

  Pulling Crumpky’s arm up as he rotated, Aylesbury wrenched his wrist and forced the cudgel from his hand. Palming it, he lunged forward, slamming the butt end of the club into the thug’s gut and upward into the bottom of his jaw when Crumpky doubled over from the blow. His head snapped back, his chest bowing outward. Aylesbury wrapped his fist around the cudgel and threw a right cross with it into that broad target.

  Crumpky fell to the ground, gasping for air with a hand pressed to his chest. Stepping down on the man’s wrist, Aylesbury jerked the knife from his hand and pocketed it as Crumpky continued to wheeze. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Aylesbury asked pleasantly. “You never would have thought that a fellow could learn as much in the dormitories at Cambridge as you do on the streets, eh?”

  “Harry! Are you all right?” Fiona asked, rushing to his side.

  “I am,” he assured her. “Our friend here is having some trouble breathing though. We need to secure him so that he can’t follow when he recovers.”

  “Let’s cut off his legs below the knee,” she suggested, glaring down at Crumpky.

  “Perhaps something a little less extreme?” he countered, looking around the rubbish scattered through the alley for inspiration.

  “Chop him into wee bits?”

  He grinned, every bit the old Harry that she remembered. “What a bloodthirsty lass you are.”