A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  He offered a gentle smile. “Rest assured, Mrs. Cummings, Lord Weston will find her.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Do you really think so?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  Mrs. Cummings turned toward Erin. “It is after one, Miss Lennox. What in the world are you doing out so late?”

  “I was—”

  “She was worried about Lady Alison,” Mister McIntyre cut in before Erin could finish her reply.

  Erin shot him a narrow-eyed look, which he ignored.

  Mrs. Cummings grasped Erin’s hands and squeezed. “You are a good friend, Miss. Lady Alison will be so glad to see you when she gets home.” She jumped to her feet. “Where is that footman with the tea? Leave it to a man to make a simple job difficult. I had better see what he’s up to.”

  She left the room and Mister McIntyre pinned Erin with a hard look. “You allowed me to believe you were Lady Alison.”

  “I specifically told you I was not Alison,” she replied.

  “But then you allowed me to think you were.”

  “Just because I didn’t argue with you? What was I supposed to do, overpower you with my superior strength?” An idea struck. “Alison told me everything,” she said.

  “What?” His brows dove downwards. “Why, you wench. You just told us that you hadn’t seen her in three days.”

  Erin shrugged. “Do you really think Alison’s housekeeper should be privy to your, er, business?”

  He scooted forward onto the edge of his seat. His gaze narrowed and she willed herself not to flinch when he said, “You are to say nothing to anyone of what Lady Alison has told you. Tell the truth. Do you know where she is?”

  Erin hesitated. What might she say to get more information from him?

  “Do not toy with me, Miss Lennox. Lives are at stake.”

  “Alison’s life?” she blurted. His serious tone sent a chill along her spine. “What have you done with her?”

  “What have I done with her?” he shot back. “I was out looking for her when I found you.”

  “We both know why she fled,” Erin lied.

  His brows dove downward. “You speak as if I am to blame for her running away.”

  “What of Lord Weston?”

  “No,” he said, but his expression confirmed his lie.

  “I’m going to call the constable.”

  He drew in a breath. “I cannot allow that.”

  Her heart raced. She glanced at the door. Where was Mrs. Cummings?

  “You are not to say a word to anyone, do you understand?” he demanded.

  Erin snapped her eyes onto his face. Surely, he wouldn’t harm her, not here in the Earl of Weston’s home? Mrs. Cummings would return any moment. If she screamed, half a dozen servants would descend upon them. She glanced at the door again.

  “Forgive me, Miss Lennox, but I cannot allow you to leave.”

  Erin leapt to her feet and lunged toward the door. Strong fingers closed around her arm and swung her around. She crashed into Mister McIntyre, breast to chest. He hugged her close.

  “Release me!” She pounded his chest.

  “For God’s sake, Miss Lennox, cease your screams,” he growled.

  She drew a breath to scream and he clamped a hand over her mouth and crushed her to him. He stared down at her. Tears burned the corners of her eyes.

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Miss Lennox, I am with Bow Street and Lord Weston and I have been commissioned by the king to capture a criminal.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Commissioned by King George?” Erin jerked her gaze onto Mrs. Cummings, who stood in the doorway, a tray of tea in hand. Mister McIntyre released Erin and she took three quick steps back, her eyes locked with his. “You lie,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I assure you, Miss Lennox, I speak the truth.”

  “You are working with Lord Weston?” Mrs. Cummings said.

  Surprise shone on his face. “May I ask who you are, madam?”

  The housekeeper hurried to the table between the two couches in front of the hearth and set down the tray. “I am Lady Alison’s housekeeper, Mrs. Cummings. I accompanied her when he…brought her here.”

  Mister McIntyre’s eyes sharpened. “What do you know of his lordship’s business?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then her eyes narrowed. “I would ask you the same, sir. Who are you?”

  Erin repressed a hysterical laugh when he bowed and said, “James McIntyre, at your service, ma’am. As I just explained, I am with Bow Street.”

  She lifted a brow. “So ye say. How do we know you are telling the truth?”

  “I see why Hunter chose you as Lady Alison’s companion.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she replied.

  Amusement flickered in his eyes, then he angled his head in acknowledgement and said, “Of course not.” He turned his attention to Erin. “Tell me, Miss Lennox, exactly what do you know?”

  She lifted her chin. “We are not telling you anything. For all we know, you are not who you say you are.”

  He gave a slow nod, then his gaze shifted onto Mrs. Cummings. “Madam, I can only ask that you trust me or, at the very least, remain silent until his lordship returns. He will explain all.”

  Mrs. Cummings grunted. “I warn you, sir, if either of you harm Lady Alison—or Miss Lennox—I will go straight to the constable.”

  Erin stared at Mrs. Cummings, surprised that the housekeeper would protect her.

  “Mrs. Cummings, I imagine that you are aware his lordship has concerns about Lady Alison remaining in her home,” Mister McIntyre said.

  “Of course. Her cousin is not an honorable man.”

  “Henry?” Erin said. “What has he done?”

  Mrs. Cummings and Mister McIntyre exchanged a glance, then Mister McIntyre said, “He is determined to secure his future by marrying Lady Alison.”

  Erin frowned. “Impossible. He couldn’t possibly have designs on Alison. She has been betrothed to Robert for years.”

  “I assure you, Miss Lennox, that would not have stopped him.” He frowned. “Miss Lennox, we should get you back home.”

  Erin barked an unladylike laugh before catching herself. “I am not going anywhere. At least, not until Alison returns.”

  “Do you prefer that your father demand you marry a complete stranger?”

  She hadn’t thought of that. But what did it matter? Her father cared nothing for her, her reputation, or her wishes. As his daughter, he would think only of what she could do for him. If word didn’t get out that Mister McIntyre had taken her in his carriage by force, her father would say nothing to Mister McIntyre. She, however, was another story. He would show his displeasure with the back of his hand.

  “You need not fear my father,” Erin said. “He is more likely to thank you for returning me home than to care one wit that you mistook me for Alison.” She recalled her father’s conversation with the gentleman when she was leaving. “Like everything else in his business, I am a piece of merchandise.”

  “Piece of merchandise?” Mister McIntyre blurted. “Why do you say that?”

  Erin started at memory of the man who had visited with her father that night. “Why would one of my father’s associates care about Lord Weston’s marriage?”

  “What do you mean?” Mister McIntyre said slowly.

  Erin hesitated. She couldn’t imagine the depths of her father’s anger should he discover that she had repeated his business to anyone. Still, curiosity dug deep.

  “A business associate of my father’s told him that Lord Weston had delivered the merchandise, so perhaps they need not worry about his wedding.”

  “By God,” Mister McIntyre swore. He took a step toward her. “Miss Lennox, do you know this man?”

  She shook her head. “Nae. Well, I saw him once before at my father’s home, but I do not know who he is.”

  “When did you overhear this conversation?”

  “Tonight, as I was sneaking—er,
leaving.”

  “Did they say more?” he asked.

  Dare she tell him all? “The gentleman visited my father once before, the day after Alison became engaged to Lord Weston.” Erin ignored the flare of anger at the memory of Alison locking her in the closet. “He—the gentleman—told my father to ‘get Hunter in line.’”

  “Anything more, Miss Lennox?” Mister McIntyre asked.

  She hesitated.

  “Miss Lennox, I realize this is difficult, but I urge you to remember that we are in service to His Majesty. To withhold information—”

  “You do not need to remind me of my duty, sir. But he is my father.”

  Mister McIntyre’s expression softened. “I know, and I am sorry, but I do not exaggerate when I say that lives are at stake.”

  She repressed a strange desire to cry and said, “The gentleman said that if they were discovered they would be hanged.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Mister McIntyre burst out. “This answers much.”

  “Answer what?” Erin demanded.

  “Your father does not know you left his home tonight?” he asked.

  Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “I wanted to see Alison.”

  He smiled gently. “I am not reprimanding you, Miss Lennox.” He paused, his gaze seeming to bore straight to her soul. “You did not plan on returning, did you?”

  A tremor rippled through her stomach. “I thought I might stay with Alison for a bit.” She wasn’t about to admit her true hopes and plans.

  “Can you describe the gentleman you heard speaking with your father?” he asked.

  “Tall, raven hair with a curl coiffured to look as though it had fallen carelessly across his forehead.”

  His eyes lit with excitement. “An elaborate cravat?”

  “What?” Erin replied stupidly.

  “Did the gentleman wear an elaborate cravat?”

  “Oh.” She thought back. When he’d caught her as he left her father’s study, she’d been so distracted she had only noticed his broad shoulders and handsome face—and that hair. She gave a slow nod. “His cravat was very elaborate.”

  “Bloody hell, it has been right there in front of us all along. What fools we were not to see it.”

  “See what?” Mrs. Cummings said.

  He looked at her as if he’d forgotten her presence. “The very thing that will alleviate your concerns, Mrs. Cummings. Ma’am, if I leave Miss Lennox here, can you find her a place to stay until Lord Weston and I return?”

  Mrs. Cummings straightened. “Of course.”

  He nodded and smiled. Erin’s insides melted at sight of that smile. There was something kind behind the dangerous edge she now saw on his face.

  “Very good, Mrs. Cummings. I must ask that if Miss Lennox’s father should demand the return of his daughter, that you stand strong and deny him.”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked.

  “Because her life may depend upon it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Alison stumbled as the brothel’s madame propelled her down the hall.

  “Herold is one of my best customers,” Sarah said. “So ye will be nice to him.”

  “There has been a terrible mistake,” Alison insisted.

  Sarah pushed her up the stairs. Alison stumbled and caught herself.

  They reached the second floor, and Alison spun to face her. “You must see that I am not like—”

  Sarah’s expression darkened. “Not like me?” She raked her eyes down Alison’s dress.

  Alison’s heart pounded. “I did not mean—”

  Sarah seized her arm and yanked her close to her face. “You will do as I say.”

  Alison tried to twist free, but the larger woman dragged her, stumbling, two doors down the hallway. Sarah shoved her inside a small room, scowled, and advanced two steps toward her. Alison fell back a pace, but the woman grabbed her arm and yanked the cloak from her shoulders.

  Alison cried out and lunged for her, but she darted from the room, slamming the door behind her. Alison grabbed the knob and twisted as the lock clicked into place. Alison yanked at the door, but to no avail.

  She pounded with her palms. “Release me!”

  “Quiet,” Sarah hissed. “Or I will tell Herald he can take your maidenhead, my business deal be damned."

  Alison backed up several paces, chest heaving. She whirled and scanned the room. A table with a wash basin sat alongside— Her stomach turned at sight of the sagging bed against the left wall, then she nearly cried at sight of the window located on the opposite wall.

  She rushed to the window and yanked back the dingy lace curtains. The second-floor room overlooked a walled garden ten feet below. Alison flipped the latch and shoved open the window. Cool air washed over her burning face as she leaned over the sill. A ledge barely wide enough for a pigeon led to a small balcony to the right of the window.

  A key turned in the lock. Alison jerked back inside the room and whirled. A short, thick, bearded man entered and closed the door. He started forward as he shrugged from his coat. He tossed the coat across the footboard.

  Alison scooted away from him and flattened her back against the wall. “I do not belong here. I was kidnapped.”

  He gave a nasty laugh and unbuckled his belt as he neared her.

  “I will scream.”

  “Scream all ye like.”

  He was close enough now that she could smell the whisky on his breath. Her stomach churned. Herold gripped her wrist. Alison opened her mouth to scream. He swung the back of his free hand against her cheek. Pain ricocheted through her head as her teeth cut her lip. She cried out and twisted in an effort to break free.

  He tossed her onto the bed. Alison bounced twice, then rolled onto her knees and scrambled to the far side of the mattress. One foot hit the floor before he seized her from behind and shoved her against the headboard.

  He mashed his mouth against her neck. She struggled against his weight, trying to lift her knee into his groin, but her dress tangled in her legs. Alison wildly scanned the room for a weapon and spotted the water basin on the table beside the bed. She grabbed the basin and crashed it against the side of his head. Herold crumpled onto the mattress.

  Blood oozed from a deep gash just above his temple. A deep scratch along his jaw trickled blood into his beard. She edged along the headboard to the end of the mattress and scrambled onto the floor. She backed up. Herold remained motionless. God help her, had she killed him?

  She whirled, rushed to the window, and leaned out. Could she balance on the ledge leading to the balcony? Footsteps sounded outside the door. Alison faced the room and stared at the door until the footsteps passed. Her heart thundered. She had to get out. But how? She could tie the bedsheets to—to what? The only furniture were the table and bed. She spotted Herold’s coat on the footboard and lunged for it.

  She shoved hear arms into the sleeves, then crept to the door. Heart thundering, Alison eased the door open. Sarah stood three feet away talking with a very large man. Two other women wearing corsets and stockings leaned against the banister near the stairs. Alison closed the door. Tears pressed the backs of her eyes. If only Lord Weston would find her.

  Alison hurried to the window and studied the ground below. She glanced back at the bed. Herold lay unmoving. Her stomach turned, but she yanked her skirt thigh high, swung one leg over the sill, then the other until she sat on the sill. The wood bit into her bottom, but she inched her legs farther out the window, then twisted and grasped the window sill. Slowly, she turned until her stomach pressed the sill and her legs dangled over the edge.

  With care, she lowered herself over the side. By the time her whole body dangled from the window, her arms ached with the strain. Alison craned her neck to see how far the ground lay beneath her feet. The distance couldn’t be more than five feet. Her arms shook, but she hung there, knowing she had to let go.

  A thump sounded above her. She began to tremble. Had Herold woken? Her fingers burned. Alison let go.
She was weightless for an instant, then she hit the ground—hard. Her knees buckled, she tumbled onto her backside, and rolled onto her back. She stared at the open window for the length of a single breath before she scrambled to her feet and stumbled away.

  The halfmoon cast enough light that she could see no rear or side gate in the stone wall that surrounded the yard, then she realized there were houses on each side of the brothel. Of course, there would be no gate leading into a neighbor’s gardens. But there had to be a servants’ or delivery entrance. She spotted the top of a curved gate on the rear wall.

  Alison dodged a dilapidated flower bed and raced to the gate, but her heart fell when she grasped the latch and found it padlocked. She wanted to scream. This couldn’t be. Panic weakened her knees. How would she escape? She turned and looked up at the window from which she’d escaped, then back at the yard—and caught sight of a bench to the far right of a rear door.

  She hurried to the bench and dragged it to the rear wall. Alison climbed onto the seat, then stepped onto the bench back as she grabbed the top of the wall. With a leap, she managed to pull her stomach over the top of the wall. She held on for dear life as she scanned the deserted lane. She prayed no one would look out a window or pass by as she struggled to swing her right foot to the top of the wall while pivoting on her belly. She succeeded—then began to fall. The stone cut into her fingers as she lost her grip.

  Her feet hit the ground first and she fell against the wall then crashed to the ground on her side. Her arm ached, but she was free! Alison yanked up her skirts and began to rise. A large hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her hard against a muscled body.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cameron banded an arm around Alison’s waist as she twisted and clawed at the hand over her mouth.

  “Be still, you little fool,” he hissed.

  Alison froze. Then spun in his arms. “You—but what— We must go. Now. A constable. We must find a constable.”

  "Were you harmed?” he demanded in a whisper.

  She shook her head. “Nae, but the women are inside. We must rescue them.”