With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection
Page 162
And then, holding him thus, she turned and faced them all, her eyes hard and angry.
Not a person moved.
“My husband, was, after all, told that we wouldn’t be interrupted,” she said to the glowering abbess. “Not only does he have a temper but also a sense of honor that would put the most chivalrous of knights to shame. Your little peep-show was enough to make that combination lethal. You only got what you deserved. Shame on you, all of you.”
“He destroyed my door! My painting is ruined! I had it imported from France, do you know how much it cost me?! It’s priceless! My carpet is ruined, my wall cracked, my reputation will never recover from this!”
Gareth straightened up, raking his hair back from his face, feeling a little sick to his stomach. “Look, Lavinia, I’ll pay you for the picture,” he muttered, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just tell me what it costs, and I’ll pay you for it.”
Lavinia Bottomley, however, was inconsolable. “It’s priceless!” she shrieked, stamping her foot in rage. “Don’t you understand? Priceless!”
“My husband said he would pay you,” Juliet ground out, knowing there was a price for everything. Her arm was still around Gareth’s waist, anchoring him, controlling him, when the great brute who lay unconscious on the carpet could not. “Send the bill to de Montforte House. I’m sure His Grace will see that you are reimbursed for all damages.”
“Damn right he will! Now get out of here, you and that screaming brat, before I have you all thrown out on your ears! Mario! Mario!”
The Italian, confused and dismayed by this turn of events—not to mention wary of Gareth’s deadly fists—took a doubtful step forward.
“No.” Gareth put out a hand, staying him, not wanting to have to hurt him. “There is no need to exert yourself over me, my friend. There’s been trouble enough here for one night.” He pulled Juliet close, so fiercely proud of her for defending him, for standing by him, that he felt near to bursting. But when he turned to the abbess, his eyes narrowed, and anyone who knew the de Montfortes would have recognized the dangerous threat in that lazy blue gaze and shuddered with dread.
“We’re leaving, Lavinia. And if word gets out that we were even here tonight, I’ll make sure that none but the lowest scum in London ever again frequents this house. I’ll make sure that no person in polite society will ever come near this place again, that you’re closed down for lack of the right patronage. Do you understand, Lavinia? In short, I will ruin you.”
The abbess, one hand on her bosom, took a step backward, her face as white as paste.
Gareth let his icy gaze sweep over the lot of them. He pulled his wife close and escorted her back into their room, where they silently gathered their things and wrapped up Charlotte against the chill of the night.
Then, silent and tight-lipped, they made their way down the stairs, Gareth’s hand resting on his sword hilt in case anyone challenged them further.
Not a person spoke as they filed past.
And neither of them saw the sly, silent figure who slipped outside after them.
Chapter Twenty
The door shut behind them, and they were alone.
Cast out into the street, into the darkness, into the mercy of the night and all the dangers it held.
It was raining. Hard. Water poured out of the black sky in gusting torrents, one moment vertically, the next at a stinging angle, peppering the puddles, running in twisting, meandering rivulets down the uneven cobbles and into the gutters in hundreds of mad little races. Wind tore at their hair, whipped Juliet’s skirts around her ankles like a loose sail, flung the odors of London into their wet faces: coal smoke and filth, the dirty river, wet stone, mud, dung, and despair.
Standing there with his small family, Gareth felt like the most hopeless failure in the world. Charles would never have done this to her. Charles would never have got them thrown out of warm, dry shelter. Oh, what must Juliet think of him? His fury that he’d let his temper destroy what had been a safe, comfortable night was nothing compared to his shame at letting them all down.
Beside him, his wife gave an involuntary shiver, drawing her cloak around herself in a pathetic effort to shield the infant in her arms from the rain. Gareth swore beneath his breath. It was chilly, as English evenings often are after the sun goes down, and no night for a woman and baby to be outside. Hastily, he doffed his surtout and laid it over Juliet’s cloak, wanting only to keep his two ladies as dry as he possibly could.
“No, Gareth, you’ll get soaked,” she protested, raising her voice to be heard over the angry drumming of the rain against the pavement, the street, the gutters. Her gaze was caught by his bleeding knuckles as he positioned the surtout over her shoulders and pulled her own hood up so her head would be shielded from the rain. The wind blew it straight back off again, releasing her cloud of dark hair and flinging it across her cheeks and eyes. She reached up, hooked a mass of it with her finger, and cleared it away. “I’ve already got a cloak, and if you give me your coat, you’ll have nothing.”
The way he felt, he deserved nothing. “Now, now. I’ve already played the fool, so now let me play the gallant rescuer,” he said, securing and tying the hood of her cloak beneath her chin. He did up the top buttons of the surtout around the baby so that only her nose and the top of her head peeked out. “I won’t have either of you catching a chill. Now come. I don’t trust that lot of scoundrelly rascals in there, not in the least. It is unsafe to linger.”
Juliet’s trunk, hastily packed, stood on the steps where Mario had set it; Gareth picked it up, easily hoisted it to one shoulder, and, with Juliet beside him, began to slosh through the puddles that stood like oil on the dark, grimy pavement, heading vaguely south. Rain slashed his face. Water streamed from his hair, and pain flared through his shoulders where he’d hit the wall. He felt a dull, pounding ache in his head, though whether that was because of that same impact or his own throbbing fury with himself—and those bastards back at Lavinia’s—even he would’ve been hard pressed to know.
Neither spoke. They hurried through the streets, heads down, walking quickly. Gareth hadn’t the faintest idea where to take them. Back to the mews, he guessed, to collect Crusader, and then—then he’d have to figure something out. Soon. He couldn’t have his wife and baby out on a night like this. Danger lurked in each alleyway they passed, in the darkened, miserable streets, in the shadowed doorways. And now the rain was coming down harder, drenching his face, his hair, the back of his neck beneath his cravat, soaking through his clothes and chilling his skin. It did nothing, however, to dampen his fury with Lavinia and her lot, and as Gareth stole a glance at his wife, hurrying along beside him with her head bent over Charlotte to protect her from the rain, he fought the impulse to go back to the brothel and take out his wrath on not just the one who’d happened to be nearest, but each and every one of the vulgar louts who’d been spying on them. If they’d received the privacy they were promised, none of this would’ve happened—and they’d be safe and warm instead of walking the dangerous London streets after midnight in the pouring rain.
He glanced sideways at Juliet, hurrying along beside him. She had barely spoken to him as they’d dressed and packed. He knew that she was not angry with him for fighting and getting them thrown out of Lavinia Bottomley’s. No, it wasn’t that. It was that she was dreadfully embarrassed about their session on the bed, and everything about her carriage—from the way she could not meet his eye to the way she seemed to huddle protectively within herself—told him so.
Bloody hell.
The mews were only a few minutes away. He would get Crusader and bring his family to a hotel, that’s what he’d do. He’d spend the money and take them to the finest one in London to make up for what had happened back at the brothel. If frugal Juliet complained of the expense, so what. It was their wedding night. He cursed himself for not taking her to a decent establishment in the first place, as he’d wanted to do all along.
His hand went automatically to his sword.
Juliet faltered, shooting him a concerned glance. “Is something wrong?”
“Keep walking, Juliet.”
“What is it?”
“I think someone’s following us.”
She was no silly, vaporous female who was likely to go into hysterics. She hugged Charlotte even tighter and did as she was told.
They hurried through the rainy darkness of New Bond Street, walking quicker now, neither speaking, Gareth’s surtout flapping around Juliet’s slight body. Puddles splashed underfoot. The rain beat down, and the wind gusted through the streets as though alive. Gareth glanced over his shoulder, seeing something that might’ve been a shadow.
Something that was no shadow at all.
Hell and damnation. The mews were still a good distance ahead, and so was Berkley Street, Piccadilly, his club on St. James. Safety.
“Faster, Juliet.”
She complied. The footsteps behind them kept pace. Sensing her mother’s tension, Charlotte began to whimper from within the heavy folds of Gareth’s surtout.
“Juliet?”
She glanced at him, her face a pale oval beneath the dark hood of her cloak. Another woman would have showed fear, but not her. In her face was only a mother’s anger that someone was threatening her baby, her husband, all that she held dear.
He bent low toward her ear as they all but broke into a run. “Can you shoot a pistol?”
“Of course I can.”
He kept his voice low. “Mine is in my belt. Push aside the tails of my frock coat and retrieve it—as unobtrusively as you can. If we are attacked, I want you to take it and run whilst I hold the blackguard off. Nothing matters except getting you and Charlotte to safety.”
She shot him a fierce look. “You think I’d run off and leave you?”
“My dear, I can assure you, I am well able to take care of myself. Now, take the pistol.”
She did, hiding it within the voluminous folds of Gareth’s surtout.
Their pursuer was closer now, splashing through the puddles behind them, his shoes hitting the pavement with increasing rapidity. Gareth turned right onto Bruton Street, pulling Juliet abruptly with him. Immediately, he set down the trunk and flattened himself against the wet stone of the corner building. As his unsuspecting pursuer also turned the corner, Gareth’s hand lashed out, seizing the man by the throat and flinging him against the wall with such violent force that his breath came out in a startled whoosh.
Gareth drew his sword, the blade scraping from its scabbard with a raw, ugly sound that drained the blood from the other man’s face.
“I do not like being followed,” Gareth snarled, tightening his hold on the man’s necktie and throat and bringing the point of his sword up against the underside of his jaw. He gave the cravat a savage twist, until the man, bug-eyed and gasping, flung up his hands in surrender. “Are you alone or are there others?”
The man coughed, gesturing wildly that he needed air.
Gareth yanked him forward then shoved him roughly back against the wall, his sword still held at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see Juliet standing in the rain, the baby cradled in one arm, the pistol in her opposite hand.
The man put a hand to his throat, coughing. “I am alone, I swear it.”
Gareth was not taking any chances. He stepped back, glanced quickly down New Bond Street, saw it was empty save for a few carriages moving off through the rain. And then he cuffed his wet hair from his eyes and, lowering his sword, glared at the stranger.
“I recognize you,” he said coldly. “You were at Lavinia’s, weren’t you?”
“I was.” The man was calmly adjusting his cravat, relaxing now that he realized Gareth was not about to kill him. “Though I’m surprised you noticed, Lord Gareth. You seemed quite involved with what you were doing.” He smiled politely, disarmingly. “Never have I seen a man fight as well as you did! They’ll be talking about it all over London tomorrow, I dare say.”
“Don’t flatter me. What do you want?”
“Why, merely to talk to you, my lord. But please, not in the rain. Can we go someplace drier, perhaps?”
“It depends on what it is you wish to talk to me about.”
“An opportunity that might benefit us both. One that could be quite lucrative, if I do say so myself.”
Gareth narrowed his eyes. The man was of middle age, a tall, gaunt-faced fellow with close-set eyes, a long, narrow face, and a carefully dressed wig whose rolls were already drooping in the rain. His clothes were fancy to the point of garishness, his shoes boasted fine buckles, and his sword—still in its sheath—had an elaborately worked hilt. He was obviously a man of some affluence. But breeding? Gareth’s every instinct told him he was no gentleman, only one who pretended to the rank by an excess of trappings.
“If you had something to say to me, why didn’t you say it back at Mrs. Bottomley’s?” he demanded.
“Certainly it wasn’t the time, nor the place. And by the time I had the chance to approach you, you were gone. Which is why I followed you. I am sorry.”
“Very well then, I’ll hear you out.” He motioned impatiently with his sword for the man to move. “Get in front of me where I can see you, and start walking.”
The man shrugged. “Fair enough.”
With a deferential smile that was almost mocking, he stepped away from the building and began moving down Bruton Street. Gareth kept his sword tip poised just inches from the man’s back, Juliet following quietly beside him.
“Next street on the right, then left into the mews,” Gareth snapped.
The man nodded and obeyed.
Moments later they were in the mews, surrounded by cold stone walls and the scent of hay and horses. The big animals moved about, munching their feed in the gloom while the rain beat down outside.
“Right,” Gareth said, trying to study the man in the shadowy darkness. “State your name and your business. Now.”
The man bowed deeply, but there was something in his manner that set Gareth’s teeth on edge. Something that marked him as an opportunist, a flatterer, a fellow who did not know his place and aspired to one to which he was not born and could never pretend to belong. “I am Jonathan Snelling, of Swanthorpe Manor in Abingdon, Berkshire.” He watched Gareth’s face, his eyes sly behind his overly-polite smile. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it, my lord?”
Gareth allowed no evidence of his sudden shock to pass over his face. Swanthorpe Manor. Of course he’d heard of it. In fact, if history had played itself out slightly differently than it had, he would know it quite well. The estate, once part of the vast ducal holdings now owned by Lucien and occupying many acres of good, fertile ground along the River Thames, had been lost by his grandfather over a card table before Gareth was even born. It had been years since he’d heard its name, and the suspicion and distrust he already felt for this sneaking dog of a fellow increased tenfold.
“You know I know it,” he growled. “It once belonged to my family, before my grandfather lost it gaming.”
“Indeed. My uncle was the man playing cards with your grandfather that night. When he died, Swanthorpe passed to me.”
Gareth eyed Snelling with fresh dislike. “So. How did you know who I am? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The man shrugged. “Everyone who’s anyone knows of the de Montfortes, my lord. You and your brothers—not to mention your friends—have cut quite a swath through London. Besides, if I had any doubts about your identity, I had only to ask Lavinia to confirm it. You can rest assured that is precisely what I did.”
Gareth tightened his grip on the sword, his eyes narrowing. He did not trust this man, did not like him, did not want him anywhere near his wife and daughter.
“Go on.”
Snelling’s eyes gleamed in the faint light, and Gareth realized that
he was studying him as keenly as he was studying Snelling. “Tell me, Lord Gareth are you as good with fine steel as you are with your fists?”
Gareth raised a brow. “Are you challenging me?”
Snelling laughed. “Not at all, my lord. Trust me, I wouldn’t care to be on the receiving end of either your fists or your sword. I was just thinking, that’s all—thinking that I could provide a man like you with a venue to turn that speed and strength into sterling.”
“I am afraid I don’t understand.”
“Two months ago, I saw you fight a duel with Lord Lindsay in Hyde Park. And rumor has it that you’re a bit down on your luck right now.”
“Is that so?” Gareth asked coldly, wondering which of his so-called friends had let slip that information.
“Come now, my lord! Everyone in London has ears, and a mutual acquaintance of ours—the Viscount Callowfield, that is—overheard your friends discussing your fate down at your club earlier this evening. I understand they even placed a few wagers in the betting book about you. Oh, no need to look so angry, my lord. Word does get around, you know!
“In any case, the man you knocked senseless tonight—the big fellow, not the other one who happened to step foolishly into the way—happens to work for me. I guess you could say I rather well, own his contract. His services. Have you been to the fights lately, Lord Gareth? If so, you’ll know him as Joe ‘The Slaughterer’ Lumford, the undefeated king of the London boxing scene.” Snelling chuckled. “Undefeated, that is, until you laid him out cold on Lavinia’s carpet tonight. I say, what ever will poor Joe think when he comes to?”
Gareth said nothing, watching this man distrustfully.
Snelling folded his arms. “Anyhow, I was just thinking, that maybe you’d consider doing a few swordfights for me. You know, a few county fairs, local matches, that sort of thing. You’ll draw big crowds. And you can make a lot of blunt off this, I’ll tell you that right now. Just to make it all the more appealing, why, I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. We’ll split the proceeds fifty-fifty, and I’ll give you and your family free room and board at Swanthorpe. What do you say, young man? Sound like a good deal, eh?”