“As I have made clear to you on more than one occasion, Mrs. Leigh– … er ... Miss... I never reveal my client’s secrets.” His exasperated reply made her feel like a scolded child, but she’d needed the reassurance.
He again stopped walking and faced her with an expectant look.
“First, you should know my real name. It’s Lawton. I’m Wendal Lawton’s daughter.” It was gratifying to see she had again surprised him. He always seemed so sure of himself.
“Then why the Mrs. Leighton?”
“I wanted to come to London incognito. Monsieur said that for a young, unmarried woman, it would be difficult to rent a place to live. He thought it would be best to pretend I was married and that my spouse was away on prolonged business. He chose the name saying it was close enough to my real name so I wouldn’t inadvertently give away the pretence when the name ‘Leighton’ was called by others.” She sighed, wishing she didn’t have to reveal all of her machinations. “I also wanted my presence in London to remain a secret from my family, so it seemed the best way to proceed.”
“I see.”
She was relieved to see no judgment or disapproval on his face. Just the same, inscrutable aspect as usual.
She continued before she lost her courage. “At the art exhibit, the other day, I discovered…” She explained about her paintings being sold. “Monsieur and I were going to choose a male pseudonym for me to use, but when I arrived in London, he was gone. And now my paintings are being sold with my father’s signature on them.”
“That’s fraud.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Now, she was the impatient one. Did he think her a complete ninny! “But, in the circumstances, I don’t know what to do about it?”
“You don’t think Moreau fled because he was afraid your arrival would uncover his scheme?”
“No.” She was confident she was correct in this. “I have faith in him.”
Mr. Mason had begun striding again and she was once more having trouble keeping up with him.
She stopped abruptly. He kept on going, before realizing he’d left her behind and retracing his steps back to her.
“Yes?” he inquired in a long-suffering, yet courteous tone.
“You walk much too fast for a lady to keep up, sir,” she complained. “A woman’s attire is an impediment to racing about at such speeds.”
His face reddened. “Forgive me. I tend to walk faster when I’m preoccupied.”
She patted his arm to let him know she didn’t hold it against him, then continued answering him as if nothing had happened. “I don’t think Monsieur is involved in those events. I know it may not seem reasonable to you, but you don’t know him like I do. The truth is — I’m worried about him.”
Mr. Mason walked at a deliberately slow pace for several moments. “Perhaps we should solve one problem at a time.” In response to her silent question, he added, “Mr. Gordon’s identity first?” He looked for her agreement.
“Yes. Once he goes home, it should be easier to resolve the rest.” She was almost convinced Reed was no threat to her physically. On the contrary, he was protective of her.
But that was without his memory, that little niggle of doubt persisted in saying.
She couldn’t help wondering how protective he’d be upon recovering his memory and realizing that, not only was she not his wife, but she was the one who had shot him!
* * *
It was good to be out and moving about, Reed reflected. Even if he was worried about meeting someone he should know but didn’t.
Talia was in her studio painting and there had been no sign of Mr. Mason. The perfect occasion for another venture. He’d already had enough of walking safely in the park. It wasn’t helping him recover his memory any faster. Today, dressed like a gentleman, in what he assumed were his own clothes, he’d taken the bold step of walking along Oxford Street perusing the shops, keeping a wary eye out for anyone who might recognize him.
Not that it had borne any fruit. His perfect day had suddenly turned bitterly cold and he’d met less and less people as the afternoon advanced. And, presently, dusk was darkening the sky. His stomach growled in protest and he realized he’d had nothing to eat or drink in hours. Now, he was tired and anxious to get home.
To make matters worse, he had the distinct feeling he was being followed. He made a rapid decision to slip down the next lane. It was the same one he’d tried on his way here. He recognized the commercial buildings that backed onto it. It should get him home faster, but his real purpose was to lose whoever was tracking him.
The instant he entered the enclosed space that was little more than a wide path, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. An unnatural silence assailed him. He halted on the spot. Warily, he glanced around. Suddenly, men seemed to come at him from everywhere. They looked like no English men he’d ever seen and appeared to be pouring out of the cracks in the walls — big ugly knives and wooden bats in their hands — all converging on him!
This was not good. He didn’t like his odds. Whoever had shot him obviously intended to finish the job. For a moment, he considered turning around and running. But it was too late.
Facing the onslaught, he decided that if he was going down, he was going to go down fighting. He wasn’t ready to die. He had Talia to live for. Their whole future lay ahead of them. A surge of anger swept through him at the idea that these thugs wanted to take all that promise away.
Keeping a steady eye on them, his breathing stilled, his mind quieted. Now that he was calmer, he saw that there were less than he’d first thought. More than four, less than seven, perhaps. He waited for them to make the first move. It was uncanny. As if he had inner knowledge he hadn’t been aware of until now. He widened his stance, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loosely bent at his side, hands forming flat fists. He felt prepared… right.
Suddenly, giving an eerie war cry, two of the men charged him. The others watched. Triumphant, evil leers on their faces, certain of their power, their ability to crush him.
Big, beefy hands grabbed him from the behind.
Without turning his head, Reed’s elbow leapt back from his side to jab hard into the man’s stomach. At the same time, his foot kicked a lethal-looking knife out of the hand of the cove approaching from the front. His momentum allowed him to continue spinning around to kick the man behind him, who had recovered from Reed’s first foray, in the bollocks. Crouching he reached up and behind him to grab the now knifeless foe, who was about to get him in the back, and bring him over Reed’s head to slam him onto the ground. In less than sixty seconds, the two assailants lay on the ground, one lifeless the other moaning and gasping for breath.
He was stunned! Where had his astonishing skills come from?
He hadn’t time to dwell on it, because another brave, or perhaps foolhardy, fellow rushed forward. Reed let him come in close. Then he knocked the brute’s wooden club away and grabbed his collar, pulling him right up against him. This unexpected move threw his opponent off balance, giving Reed the opening to bend low and drive his good shoulder into the man’s stomach. Using the thug’s forward momentum, he straightened his legs, twisted his body and heaved the scoundrel over his shoulder, catapulting him onto the ground, where he lay motionless.
That instantly wiped away the evil smirks on the faces of the remaining assassins. Darting a quick glance, Reed saw their shocked stares.
He moved his back closer to the wall on one side of the lane and twisted a fraction to face the next wave of men advancing on him, heavy sticks and large blades in the air, yelling, making a unified run at him. They looked even nastier, now that their friends had been vanquished. But their mistake was in coming at him together. Alone, they might have had a chance. Together, in the confined space of the lane, they were unable to swing their weapons freely, without endangering their fellow henchmen. Because of this blunder, he was able to deal one-on-one with each of them.
Instinctively leaning forward onto the balls of his feet, he was
ready when they struck. The first one came too close… for him! Reed was able to catch his arm and, using a similar maneuver to the last one, he threw the assailant head first into the wall. He stepped sideways to confront the next one and just managed to dodge the evil-looking machete about to come down on his head. Shooting out his foot, he tripped the miscreant and kicked him in the back of the head, rendering him unconscious. He wheeled around quickly, expecting to face another attack, but all he saw was their backsides as they ran away, terrified.
He bent over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. His legs were like putty! He’d been sure he was about to die. That made him think. He should be getting out of there, now, instead of recovering his breath here! Straightening up, he strode rapidly to the other end of the lane. Before walking out onto the sidewalk of the main street, he paused to pull his cuffs down and push an unsteady hand through his hair.
Damn! He clutched his shoulder. His wound was burning again. Not surprising, after engaging in that battle. He was lucky to be walking out of there alive!
He took a last look at the men still sprawled there unmoving and wished he could call the constabulary to haul the ugly-looking customers away, but without his memory, they’d probably take him in too!
He spotted a well-dressed man at the entrance to the lane, from whence he’d come. He was about to call a warning, but the man hastened away. For a moment there, he’d thought the man looked like Mason. But with the waning sun, Reed’s vision was impaired. Wise man, whoever he was. He’d seen the scuffle and decided not to risk it.
Exiting the lane, he began to think about what had happened. Where had he learned to fight like that? A faint image of an aged man, with a long white beard, hovered at the edges of his memory. The oriental-looking elder wore a white robe and moved silently about a large room, while he, Reed, circled around, alternately attacking and defending. No name came to mind, blast it all! Another impression of himself facing a large man in combat position, slid into his mind. They bowed to each other then... then… nothing.
He stopped for a moment hoping a name, something, any scrap of knowledge might appear, but after minutes ticked by without an answer, he straightened his cravat, lifted his shoulders in resignation, and continued on his way home.
* * *
“He stood there, cool as you please and let them come at him. Och, I thought I was going to have to go in there to help him,” Mr. Mason said. “They looked so fierce, I knew that, even with my pistols, there was every chance I might end up very seriously hurt or dead. But Gordon dealt with them like they were mere gnats bothering him on a hot summer’s day.”
When he was excited, Mr. Mason`s Scottish lineage betrayed him, Tally noted. He was describing how Reed fought off a band of at least five attackers that afternoon. He was so astounded by what he’d witnessed, the usually reserved investigator was repeating the tale for the third time, aided and abetted by Foster’s request for him to explain it in more detail.
Men! They were actually enjoying themselves. She, on the other hand, was horrified. So many men had attacked Reed! What had he done to incur such enmity that someone would send a small army to kill him? She shivered at such malevolence.
And how frightening that he had no idea who was out to kill him, or why!
Foster was clearly impressed with Reed’s abilities and sang-froid. “He must have learnt those fancy moves in one of them foreign countries, Missy, cuz they don’t teach that in the British army.”
She noticed her butler was becoming a grudging admirer of “yon Gordon”.
“Thank you for following him, Mr. Mason.” She was relieved Reed hadn’t been badly hurt or killed.
“But I did nothing to help him!” the Scot admitted ruefully.
“It doesn’t matter, as long as he survived.” And this way, she didn’t have to explain to Reed why she was having him followed. “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”
“I don’t think so. There was no need for him to know I was there or that anyone had witnessed the fight.” Then he confided on a quieter note, “Once I got over my amazement, I started using my head and realized that, if we were going to solve this mystery, I needed to summon some Runners to haul those men down to headquarters to question them. They might be the same thugs who’ve been trying to harm you, Mrs. Leighton.”
“How did you do that without Mr. Gordon seeing you?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to leave him alone in case those others came back to attack him, so I sent a street urchin with a message to Bow Street — which fortuitously was right around the corner — asking for reinforcements. I kept a watchful eye from around the corner and waited until Mr. Gordon left before going in to hold them down with my gun and ensure their arrest.”
“One thing is certain. He had no need of my help. He was like a one-man army.” The investigator couldn’t stop talking about what he’d witnessed. “I’ve only ever seen such fighting once in my life. It was an oriental fellow who tried to teach the soldiers in my unit a new method of self-defense. Now that I’ve seen it in action, I’m going to recommend that it be taken up by all law enforcement officers. The military should be learning it too. What an effective weapon it would be, particularly in covert situations where silence is required.”
“I would still prefer that you continue following him,” she said. “The next time, they might confront him with a pistol.”
After witnessing the profound respect he’d formed for Mr. Gordon, she was somehow not surprised to hear him say, “I’m not so sure he wouldn’t do just as well against a gun, Mrs. Leighton. The constabulary could use your man’s skills!”
* * *
Tally hated to admit it, but she was impressed with how... nice she looked in the new gown her sisters had bought her. Thank goodness they’d agreed that the usual white worn by young ladies their first Season looked too insipid on her. The coquelicot satin underslip infused the transparent tiffany with a warmth pure white could never achieve. It made the gown look like it was delicately blushing.
She twirled gracefully around, holding her silken skirts in both hands. Although the cut of her gown was simple, it showed her to great advantage. She was well pleased with it. She’d been thankful when Madame Simone had agreed, out of the hearing of her sisters, to make her bodice drop-fronted, which allowed her to dress herself. The modiste obviously knew the value of discretion. Other than a brief enigmatic look, she hadn’t demurred.
Her sisters had insisted on hiring a coiffeur to do her hair and Francois, a transplanted Parisian, had indeed been the artist they’d promised. He’d pulled back her thick, natural waves into an elaborate, braided confection on the crown of her head, allowing a few strategic curls to drift loosely at her temples and nape. The whole look created a softness, almost a beauty, she’d never known she possessed.
At least her sisters hadn’t insisted on being there while she dressed. If they’d known she had no personal maid or companion to help her, they’d have been furious. They would have sent one of theirs over or come themselves, heaven forbid. Luckily, they’d never thought to ask. In their world, no woman was able to survive without such help.
If she’d been intending to participate in the Season’s entertainments, Tally would have had to hire a lady’s maid. But becoming part of that circus was the last thing she planned on doing. She meant to keep her vow. This was going to be her one evening primped and gowned for a party.
Stepping into slippers the color of her under-slip, she reached for the matching satin cape and stole a final look in the mirror. She wished she had time to do a quick sketch of herself. She wouldn’t see herself looking like this very often in the future. Maybe never, if word got out about her living situation! She wiped that horrible thought from her mind. She’d been toying with the idea of doing a self-portrait for awhile now. Perhaps once she’d extricated herself from this morass of lies and danger, she would closet herself away and give it a try.
Leaving her room to go downstairs, she was
surprised to find she was nervous, yet excited, to be all dressed up and going out. She performed a little skip and hop and laughed at her foolishness.
Expecting to see only Foster in the front hall, she was surprised into shyness to find her pseudo-spouse standing beside her stalwart retainer, waiting to see her off. Glancing up and seeing her, he walked to the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand to assist her down the last few steps. Her hand snugly in his, he bent and kissed it with heartfelt warmth. “You are very beautiful, wife of mine.”
She didn’t know where to look. Her gaze collided with his and she couldn’t look away. Tonight, his eyes resembled a stormy sea, swirling with conflicting emotions.
“I wish I could go with you,” he said.
“I wish you could too,” she heard herself reply. Was she out of her mind? Imagine the trouble that would cause! “But think how complicated it would be for you? You don’t even remember who you know or don’t know.”
“I suppose that might be problematic,” he agreed with a wry smile.
“That, and it’s just too danger–” she cut off the rest of her words. He hadn’t told her about being attacked. She didn’t know why he’d remained silent and that worried her.
Typically, he responded with humor to her unfinished worry. “You think someone might kill me because I can’t remember who they are?”
She acknowledged his attempt at humor with a slight smile. “It’s not funny. Any manner of trouble might befall you and you’d be alone to face it.” She wanted to be sure he didn’t venture out to meet even worse. “Besides, a party is tiring and you’ve just gotten out of your sick bed.”
“But I wasn’t really sick and I’m feeling much more the thing,” he insisted.
She understood his need to be himself and well again, but she had no time to debate this now. “We can talk about this another time. My sister’s carriage is waiting for me. I have to go.…”
He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Have a good time.”
Her gaze slid to Foster — who rolled his eyes — then she looked back at Reed again. “I don’t expect to, but at least I’ll have fulfilled my obligation.” She touched his arm gently and smiled warmly at him. “Foster and Mr. Mason will be here to keep you company.”
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 27