by Jenna Jaxon
She’d just take a moment gazing at that lovely fabric in the small window: green and gold shot silk in alternating stripes and fleur de lis emblems embroidered all over in gold as well. Trimmed in gold lace it would set off her complexion and hair to perfection. The perfect gown for their ball during the Season. The stripes might make her seem taller, but she didn’t care about that. She must get that length before someone else stole it out from under her nose.
Picking up her skirts, she headed toward the shop of J. J. Thomas and Sons. She’d just reached the cobblestoned walkway when a voice called to her.
“Lady Manning?”
She stopped, her legs turned to stone. Shivers ran down her neck and back like an icy rain was pouring over her. For a moment she forgot to breathe, then with a gasp she whirled and faced a tall, broad-shouldered man with distinguished powdered hair, dressed rather foppishly in a lace-trimmed bright gold suit, with a pair of sensual lips she remembered all too well.
Sir Peter Fitch.
Clutching her gown, the only thing to steady her, to keep her from falling down in a faint, she backed onto the busy pavement, almost unaware of the people who jostled her.
Sir Peter continued toward her, a smug smile on his face.
Her back hit the brick wall that delineated the alley between J.J. Thomas and Madame Angelique’s. Panting as though she’d run a mile, she darted her gaze around King Street. Not the busiest thoroughfare, but enough that someone she knew might see her talking to this loathsome swine and mention it to her husband.
“Lady Manning, what a pleasure it is to see you after all this time.” He continued forward until he stood mere inches from her. “You are looking particularly ravishing today in that blue gown. Good enough to eat, my dear, if I do say so.”
The flowery scent of his cologne—the man must bathe in it to reek so of the cloying smell—took her immediately back to the stable that night in September, the dusty smell of the prickly hay on her bare legs, the soft nicker of the horses, the grunting and pain caused by this man when she had needed comfort and understanding.
Suddenly nauseous, she turned her head away, the stink of rotting fish and refuse in the alley like fresh air to her. A gasp and she could answer him. “Stay away from me. I am married now—”
“Yes, I’d heard you’d married that snip of an earl from the colonies. You wouldn’t need to do much to fool him, I’m sure. Does he think the child is his, my dear? Were you able to convince him of that?”
The man’s oily leer sickened Alethea. She had to escape this monster. If she could make a run for her carriage…
“I’ve been calling on you for months, my dear. But you and your husband are forever from home.” Sir Peter flicked open a small bejeweled snuff box. “I knew better than to call upon you at Braeton’s. He and Lady Braeton watched you like hawks. Almost constantly, what?” He laid a pinch of the finely ground tobacco on the back of his hand, then sniffed violently and wiped the residue on his thigh.
The bricks dug further into her back as Alethea squirmed, trying to figure a way to get away from Fitch without calling attention to herself. Could no one see her? Her coachman and footman had moved the carriage up the street due to a sudden press of traffic. Other passersby ignored her, perhaps supposing her a wanton marketing her wares for the gentleman.
“Do you partake, my dear?” Sir Peter offered her the snuff box and she slapped it away.
“I want nothing from you. Nothing whatsoever. If I never see you again I will thank God for his mercy. Now go away and leave me be.” Desperate, she shoved against his chest, trying to put enough space between them that she could run. She’d have a better chance at moving a granite boulder. His chest felt hard as iron.
“That’s a pity, then, my lady.” He closed the distance even further, his buttons brushing her breasts. “Because I want something from you. Oh, yes, I do.”
Panic seized Alethea. Cold sweat oozed from her pores and her hands became wet and clammy. Knees knocking, legs trembling, she feared she would simply fall to the ground in a swoon. God only knew what he would do to her then.
Another panicked look around showed her that people were beginning to take notice of them. Worse and worse. The clattering tongues of the ton would have this tête-à-tête all about town by breakfast tomorrow. And Jack would find out. Then Jack would try to kill Sir Peter.
Abruptly, she grabbed Sir Peter’s hand and dragged him into the alleyway. Righteous indignation flowed through her veins like strong wine. “How dare you threaten me?”
They stopped halfway down the alley, the overpowering stench of a dead animal assaulting her nose. She threw his arm away from her and turned to him.
The piggy little eyes stared, trying to intimidate her, but Alethea had had enough. As far as she was concerned he held no power over her and she would make sure he knew it.
“What right do you have to accost me on a public street, making indecent insinuations, besmirching my honor and that of my husband?” Sucking in air through her mouth, in an attempt to avoid the stink, she started again on the equally odious Fitch. “You took advantage of an innocent girl. I should be the one threatening to expose you to your wife, to the ton. You would never be received in a decent home again.”
“Neither would you if the truth came out,” he spat back at her, his eyes narrowing. “Just because you spun your husband a story about your lack of virginity, I’m sure he can count backward sufficiently that he will know the child is not his. Did you think the other men sniffing around, trying to marry you wouldn’t talk about your unfortunate circumstances? I heard the news two months ago.” He pulled his lips back in a sneer.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sir Peter. If you are implying I am increasing, I fear you have been misinformed.” Holding her face immobile so he wouldn’t see her triumph, Alethea beamed on the inside as inch by inch his face darkened.
“What? You lie.” He made a swipe at her, trying to snag her gown. “I had it from two different men that Braeton was marrying you off because you’d been ruined and carried some man’s by-blow.”
Shrugging, Alethea surveyed her options for escape. She could run out of the alley, but would likely not outdistance him in her heels on the muddy ground. Doors lined both sides of the alley, likely back doors to the establishments on either side, but again, he’d be on her before she could raise an alarm at any of them. Best to bandy words a while longer and keep a lookout for help. “What my cousin may have said to entice certain men to make an offer for me is none of my affair. I, however, spoke at length and with perfect candor to Lord Manning before he proposed to me. So you see, Sir Peter, you have no claim on me whatsoever. No power. No sway.”
As she spoke, a huge weight she’d not been aware she carried tumbled from her shoulders. Finally free of this viper who had taken her virtue and wanted more, all she need do now was brush past him and walk toward her carriage. She wouldn’t dignify the toad by running from him. Sweeping past him, she arched her back and strode toward the light at the alley’s end.
“Are you quite certain of that, my lady?”
Not wanting to stop, but knowing she must, Alethea turned back to him, a snarl on her lips. “I am, Sir Peter.”
“Then Lord Manning is aware that his wife’s innocence was taken by me? You told him my name?”
The deserted alley seemed to rush toward her, closing in on her. From a distance her voice came in a whisper, “Yes, of course I told him.”
“Interesting.” Taking out his snuff box again, a tiny gold chest with a jeweled snake raised on the cover, Sir Peter opened the top and took a good pinch. “I have made it my business to find out about young Manning, since he married you and spirited you away from me.” Meticulously, he arranged the light brown powder on the back of his hand just so, then snorted it into his nose. “Ah, you really must try my blend, my dear. Quite refreshing.”
“And people in hell want water, so they say. Doesn’t mean old Scratch will accommodate them, now does it? He must be a very accommodating man, your husband. He accepted that his bride was sullied by another man. She may or may not have conceived a child by that man and may or may not have gotten rid of that child.”
Alethea’s blood froze in her veins. “I would never have done such a horrible thing, you vile worm.”
“Tsk, tsk, my dear. Let us save our pet names for the bedchamber, shall we?” Circling her, he took her in from top to toe, over and over. Whenever his gaze reached her breasts, he licked his lips.
“Let me go.” Crossing her arms around her, Alethea tried to shield herself from his hot stare.
“I am not holding you here, my dear. I only have one question left, then you may return to your earl and live merrily together.”
“What question?” she asked, her heart pounding incessantly.
“When you told him you had been bedded in a stable by Sir Peter Fitch, why did your champion not seek me out and demand satisfaction?” Sir Peter’s smile curled upward in a sickening sneer. “As I told you, I know Manning. The soul of honor, that one. Couldn’t get him to lie or cheat on a bet. Everyone says so. Yet you want me to believe that he knows who I am and what we did, and he refuses to challenge me? I say you lie.”
If she could command the earth to swallow her, or an earthquake to shake the buildings down around them, or a conflagration sweep through the alleyway and burn them to cinders, she would do it and welcome death. The very reason she had told no one Sir Peter’s name had been to keep this very thing from happening. If Jack knew, he would challenge the man and in the course of the duel, he could die. She could not let her folly be the cause of his death. Better dishonor then.
“No, he does not know your name. I did not want your blood on my conscience, because if I had told him, he would have killed you by now. Of that I am certain.” Straightening her back, drawing up to her full height, Alethea looked Sir Peter dead in the eye. “If you walk away now, and never speak of this again to another soul, I will keep my silence and save your wretched life.”
As bluffs went, it was not bad. If Fitch didn’t know how desperately she cared for Jack, he might believe she didn’t care and truly didn’t wish to be responsible for his death.
“Perhaps.” He twirled the quizzing glass attached to a black ribbon around his neck. “Although I suspect if you could shoot me this minute, you’d do it without a second thought for the blood on your hands.”
Gritting her teeth, Alethea remained silent and sober. The wretch would tell her what he wanted soon enough.
“So what I believe is you are madly in love with the Earl of Manning and would do anything to keep me from killing him in a duel.” He peered at her though the quizzer. “Am I correct, my lady?”
“What the hell do you want from me, Sir Peter?” Patience worn thinner than gossamer thread, Alethea stared directly at Fitch. “Jewels? Money? I can get those for you, although it may take me some time to do so.”
“All I require is standing right here in front of me.” Licking his lips, Fitch reached out to stroke her cheek.
Outraged, she slapped his hand away. “You are mad. I would never do such a thing. Not to my husband. And certainly not with you.”
He shrugged, a smile flickering over his lips. “You have done it before. I wouldn’t think it would be too onerous this next time, especially in a comfortable bed. If you like, you can show me what you’ve learned from your husband, although it will likely be the other way around.” He winked at her. “I’m a very clever lover.”
“No.” She could not do this. “Never.”
“Then it is your loss, my dear. Doubly so. Not only will you lose my skills in bed, but you will lose your husband as well. For as soon as he learns the truth, and I intend to make him acquainted with the facts this very day, he will challenge me. The Earl of Manning has quite a reputation at Angelo’s with a sword. Pity he won’t be able to put it to use. As the challenged party I choose the weapons, which will be pistols.”
Alethea swayed, willing the blackness that surrounded the edges of her vision to recede. She must not faint.
The leering face of Sir Peter danced before her eyes.
“He may be a decent shot with a long rifle—most colonials shoot well enough to keep their bellies full—but I am an excellent shot with a dueling pistol.” He stared into her eyes until she thought she would go blind. “I never miss.”
A sob tore out of her chest, wrenched from her heart as though this vile villain had ripped the beating organ from her chest. She couldn’t stand this. She could not betray her husband, but neither could she send him to his death. What could she do? “I can’t. I cannot betray him. I will not.”
“Aww, poor dear. You will make such a charming widow.” He wagged a finger at her. “You must pray for a child before he dies.”
“You cur. You beast from hell. You vile, horrible, worthless, nasty, stinking excuse for a man.” Alethea pounded the iron hard chest, determined to make a mark on the spot where his heart should be. Having hurled all the invective she could muster, she stood weeping, a hand over her face.
“You’ve certainly more spirit now than you did in September, I must say.” Sir Peter grabbed her arm.
Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but the image of her husband lying on the ground, a bullet hole in his heart, stopped her. Think of Jack, think only of Jack. The litany repeated itself as the villain pulled her against him.
“Now, that’s not so bad to start, is it?”
The zing of a sword pulled from its sheath filled the alleyway.
“Take your hands off my wife.”
Chapter 23
After a very enlightening afternoon at the House of Pleasure, Jack rode home a little more uncomfortable in his saddle than usual. Jenny’s explanations and demonstrations had kept him hard as a rock for the better part of two hours. Any thought of Alethea was now extremely painful, so he hoped she would agree to supper in her chamber and a later one at that. He longed to grab his wife and sink himself into her to the hilt. Groaning, he shifted gingerly in the saddle. Best not think of that for the time being.
He turned his horse down King Street, threading his way through conveyances and pedestrians who clogged the road, when he spied his own carriages lingering at the end of the block, in front of a draper. Alethea had told him she would be entertaining an old friend for luncheon. She hadn’t mentioned they would be shopping as well. Urging his horse forward, he scoured the street for her tall form. One advantage to having a tall wife was she stood out in a crowd.
He had passed the modiste’s shop when movement down the alleyway caught his eye. The noisome stench rolling out of the alley served to send most people hurrying by it. Too, the lack of light made it hard to see what went on there, but Jack had excellent eyesight. He reined in Marquess, leaped off the horse and ran down the dark lane. The woman struggling stood tall and wore the blue and white lace cap he’d noticed at breakfast not long ago. A deep blue that set off the creamy skin and bright coppery hair of its wearer.
A tall man in the coat of a dandy stood with his back to him, holding the weeping woman whose hands pushed at the gentleman’s gold jacket. His wife’s hands wearing his wedding rings.
Without thought he pulled his sword free of the scabbard. “Take your hands off my wife.”
Stiffening, the man straightened and raised his hands out to his sides.
Freed, Alethea bolted around the soon-to-be-dead man and launched herself at him, narrowly missing the blade in her haste to get to his side.
“Have a care,
my love,” he said, wrapping his free hand around her waist. “My sword will have enough work to do in a moment. Turn, cur, so you can see my face before you die.” He poked the man between his shoulder blades, making him stumble forward.
“I do hope you did not cut my jacket with that toothpick, my lord.” The fop turned to him. “I should hate to add insult to injury by sending you the tailor’s bill. I give my custom to only the best.”
“All you will require shortly is the measurements for your shroud if you lay another hand on my wife.” Jack glanced at Alethea, while keeping full attention on the fop. “You have had a busy afternoon, my dear. Almost as busy as mine. Pray tell me what the hell is going on here?”
“Yes, my dear, shall we tell your husband?” The man leered at Alethea and the tip of Jack’s sword pricked the man’s throat. “Your mouth does not have to be open for me to cut out your tongue, vermin.” More than a little curious about her dealings with this scoundrel, he returned his attention to his wife. “Well, my dear?”
With a sob, Alethea bowed her head. “This…this is the man I told you of, but would not name. He is Sir Peter Fitch, who seduced me when I was unhappy and in need of comfort. He saw me in the street today and…and…”
“And attempted to renew an old acquaintance?” Disciplined breathing, slow and steady, would be the only thing standing between Sir Peter and death at the moment. He pricked the soft skin of the man’s throat again, hard enough this time to draw a drop of bright red blood. It would be so easy to thrust quickly, cleanly, with little fuss. No noise and little blood, though that mattered scarcely at all in this filthy place. A fitting place for such as him to die. Not on a field of honor. The man had none.
“He…he told me he would find you, tell you what he had done and his name so you would challenge him to a duel. He promised to do this unless I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Unless I became his mistress.”