by L. V. Lloyd
Chapter Twenty One
Lord D’Anvers groaned and opened his eyes. He seemed to be lying on the floor of his hotel room. What the devil was he doing on the floor?
He tried to sit up and was overcome by a wave of pain crashing through his skull. Quickly he lay back down, waiting for the pain to subside. Evidently he had been in some sort of accident, but it was hard to think clearly. He took shallow breaths, trying to clear his head. What had happened? He could remember opening the door, then—Silverwood—Silverwood had been standing there with his bully boys. He couldn’t remember the details for the moment but they must have got the better of him, knocked him out.
They wanted Fredericka, but he couldn’t have told them her whereabouts, even if he had wanted to—he didn’t know. Were they still here, waiting for him to recover and tell them where she was? Beat it out of him? His eyes searched the room, but there was no sign of anyone else. He felt a moment’s flash of relief before it was replaced by suspicion—Silverwood had been absolutely livid, he couldn’t believe he had just given up and gone home!
Evelyn! Silverwood had threatened to take Evelyn. An icy coldness settled in his stomach.
He couldn’t lie here any longer. No matter how painful it was, he had to get up and see if Evelyn was still asleep in his bed—or not. The pain in his head throbbed in sickening waves as he got to his hands and knees on the floor, only just managing not to bring up his dinner. He failed to notice the small piece of paper falling to the floor. With agonising slowness, he crawled across the floor to the desk and used it to pull himself to his feet. He stood there swaying, trying to ride through the pain—for a moment everything went black and he feared he was about to pass out again.
He needed Jonathan. Where was he? Surely he should have been back by now. He took another breath, then staggered across to Evelyn’s room. His worst fears were confirmed—the room was empty. Where had Silverwood taken him? To his home? Anger rose up, wrestling with the sick fear. If Silverwood hurt one hair of Evelyn’s head... he would kill him. He had to pull himself together and go after them, but he needed a glass of water and a wet cloth on his forehead for a few minutes first.
He went back to his own room in search of the water jug only to find it sitting on the floor, its contents an unpleasant pink. So! Someone had been in here then. For the first time, he noticed the small pillow near where he had been lying and then he spotted the piece of paper next to it. He groaned involuntarily. He wasn’t at all sure that he could bend down to pick it up without fainting. He needed help. Finally his brain was beginning to function. He went across to the bell used to summon the hotel staff and gave it a hearty pull.
When the servant arrived a few moments later, D’Anvers brushed aside his horrified gasps and his offer to fetch a doctor. “I’m fine!” he insisted, impatiently. “A shilling for you if you rouse my man, Jenkins. Tell him to have my coach ready as soon as possible and then bring me word when it’s waiting. Oh, and before you go, pick up that note for me, will you?”
The bewildered man bent to pick up the piece of paper and handed it to his lordship. What in heaven’s name had been happening here? He didn’t know what Mr Rollins the manager would have to say about it! Still, a shilling was a shilling—perhaps he wouldn’t mention the disturbance until morning.
“Thank you. Now hurry!” D’Anvers was impatient for the man to be off. Then he remembered the jug of stained water. “And bring me some fresh water on your return.”
Scarcely waiting for the servant to depart, D’Anvers looked at the note. ‘Mausoleum, St Stephen’s cemetery. J.’ Thank heavens. Jonathan must have been here and set off in pursuit of Evelyn. For the first time he relaxed a fraction.
At least he knew where they were going now. His head had settled to a dull ache—as long as he didn’t make any sudden moves! He had better get prepared; Jenkins would have the coach ready and waiting for him soon. He gathered up his greatcoat and went to get his pistols and ammunition. D’Anvers froze as he realised one of his pistols was missing. Had Jonathan taken it? Or Silverwood? He could only hope it had been Jonathan. He wondered helplessly if he had taken the time to load it before he left. His heart sunk as he imagined Jonathan threatening Silverwood with an empty pistol.
His lips tightened. Now he had the two of them to worry about.
Jonathan regained his senses to find his cheek pressing uncomfortably against cold dirty stone. His hands were tied behind his back and he was lying on the floor of the mausoleum. He thought Evelyn had got away safely, but he couldn’t help hoping that D’Anvers was coming after them, and the sooner the better. How far was Evelyn going to get, dressed only in his nightshirt?
“So, you’re awake are you?” came the hateful voice. Rough hands pulled Jonathan to his feet and he found himself held upright by the burly henchman, forced to face Lord Silverwood.
“Where is Fredericka?” his lordship demanded.
“Somewhere safe, where you’ll never find her!” Jonathan answered defiantly, his chin in the air.
Silverwood smiled unpleasantly. “We’ll see what D’Anvers has to say about that, shall we? I’m sure he’d prefer to have you back instead of her.”
“Lord D’Anvers won’t give in to your threats!”
“We’ll see, I hardly think he can be pleased by your interest in her, after all. I’ll be doing him a favour—getting rid of the competition.”
Jonathan flushed. “It’s not like that! I’m not interested in Fredericka in that way. I just feel sorry for her, as any gentleman would!”
Silverwood’s eyes glittered for a moment.
“Wot I want to know is, wot ’ave you done with Bill?” The burly man holding Jonathan spoke for the first time.
“Bill?” Jonathan was confused.
“’im as was guarding the place.”
“Oh him. He’s outside, having a nap,” answered Jonathan irreverently, anything to keep his courage up.
“I think this young man needs to be taught a lesson,” said Silverwood in silky tones. “Give me a hand here would you?”
In seconds, Jonathan found himself dragged over to a stone sarcophagus and pushed face down on top of it. His face was pressed uncomfortably onto the cold marble lid and he could feel Silverwood’s hand in the middle of his back, all his weight behind it. His heart froze as Silverwood took a firm grip of the waistband of his trousers with his other hand, hard knuckles digging painfully into the bare skin of his back.
“Leave him here with me and go and check on Higgins would you? No need to hurry back,” Silverwood told his henchman. “You can keep watch outside in case D’Anvers turns up.”
Jonathan heard the other man leave, only just managing to bite back words begging him not to go.
“Alone at last!” sneered Silverwood, and wrenched at Jonathan’s trousers.
Lord D’Anvers entered the cemetery cautiously; his pistol, fully loaded, in his right hand. Jenkins followed closely, carrying a heavy wooden club. He hadn’t liked leaving the coach unattended but young Evelyn’s safety was more important. He could only hope thieves would be too frightened to hang around here after midnight.
They could see a faint light coming from the middle of the cemetery and made their way toward it, taking care to make as little noise as possible. D’Anvers thought he saw the outline of a man, moving across in front of the light, and came to a sudden halt. Both men stood stock still, listening intently, watching for another hint of movement. A low groan broke the silence, followed by some hearty cursing.
“Shh!” A different voice broke in. Neither sounded like Lord Silverwood, but D’Anvers smiled with satisfaction. Now he knew pretty much exactly where the two henchmen were—presumably Silverwood was inside the mausoleum with Jonathan and Evelyn. With the flick of an elbow, D’Anvers sent Jenkins off to his left, to try and circle round behind the two men. He wanted to take the two by surprise, without alerting Lord Silverwood if at all possible.
D’Anvers crept forward, taking advantag
e of the cover provided by the stone monuments, getting closer and closer. An owl hooted softly nearby. That was Jenkins, signalling he was in position. In one smooth movement, D’Anvers rose to his feet, aiming his pistol directly at the man in front of him, only ten feet away.
“Hands up!” he ordered in a determined but low voice, “Or I shoot.”
The burly man jolted in surprise, his head spinning around to find his opponent. The light from the lamp showed D’Anvers standing there, and glinted off the large pistol in his hand. Reluctantly, the man raised his hands.
“No need for that, guv’nor,” he asserted, taking a cautious step back toward the mausoleum.
“Hold still!” D’Anvers ordered. The last thing he wanted was for Silverwood to get help.
“I’ll just get his lordship,” murmured his target, still shuffling slowly backward, “He’s th’un you want to speak wit’.”
Taking matters into his own hands, Jenkins rose up behind him and brought the club down on his head with a solid thwack. Then he turned to the second man, who was sitting on the ground, holding his head, and staring fearfully up at him.
“No!” he pleaded. “Not again!” but Jenkins was ruthless, bringing the club down, though a fraction lighter this time. “I’ll look after these two, milord, you go after the boy,” suggested Jenkins, already pulling some rope out of one voluminous pocket.
Lord D’Anvers was already moving toward the door of the mausoleum. He slipped inside, holding the pistol in front of him, his aching head completely forgotten.
Only the greatest self restraint stopped him from shooting Silverwood on the spot.
Chapter Twenty Two
Jonathan was struggling on the floor, his torn trousers were around his knees and Silverwood was on top of him.
“Get away from him!” D’Anvers didn’t recognise the harsh tones coming from his own throat. Silverwood sprang to his feet, his eyes wild, his breath ragged.
“You’ll meet me for this, my lord!” D’Anvers flung out the challenge before he could stop and think. He was so angry it was all he could do to stop from shooting Silverwood out of hand. “I’ll give you two minutes to get your pistol and prime it!” He kept his eyes fixed on Silverwood, not daring to look at Jonathan.
Furious at being caught unawares, Silverwood fought to take back control of the situation. He took a moment to straighten his clothes then looked pointedly at D’Anvers’ silver pistol lying on the floor of the mausoleum where Jonathan had dropped it earlier.
“No, my lord. I’ll send my seconds to meet yours tomorrow, as is usual!”
“You’ll meet me now!” insisted D’Anvers. “Or are you too much of a coward? Afraid to face up to a man instead of picking on boys and children?”
An ugly red colour infused Silverwood’s cheeks. “You’ll regret that!”
Ignoring the weapon on the floor, he drew his own pistol from his coat pocket and aimed it at D’Anvers.
Normally at a duel, a third party would drop a white handkerchief to signal the commencement, and a doctor would be on hand to take care of any injuries, but that wasn’t going to happen here.
“Jonathan? Can you countdown from three?” D’Anvers ordered, keeping his eyes on Silverwood, or more precisely his trigger finger.
Still on the ground, Jonathan paused in his struggles to free himself and cleared his throat. “Yes milord. Ah... Three. Two. One—” Silverwood fired a split second before Jonathan finished and the bullet hit D’Anvers in the shoulder.
“No!” shouted Jonathan. Then he watched in astonishment as D’Anvers smiled coldly into Silverwood’s triumphant eyes. Ignoring his injury as if it didn’t exist, Lord D’Anvers adjusted his aim slightly and fired. Silverwood took the bullet in his chest and fell straight to the ground as D’Anvers lowered his weapon.
Paying no attention to his bleeding victim, or his own wound for that matter, D’Anvers strode over to Jonathan and hauled him to his feet.
“Are you all right? Where’s Evelyn?” He brushed the tangled hair back gently from Jonathan’s face, peering anxiously into his eyes. Jonathan’s eyes slid sideways, not meeting D’Anvers.
“He’s safe, I think. Outside in the cemetery somewhere—we better go and look for him. Can you untie me? I can’t get my hands free.”
Quickly, D’Anvers spun him around. He winced at the sight of the blood stained rope around his wrists and cut carefully through the cord which had dug into flesh. He made a huge effort to keep his eyes on Jonathan’s hands and not let his gaze drop lower. “Did he... did he... hurt you?” he murmured as he worked. He wished he could see Jonathan’s face but he couldn’t wait any longer to find out.
“I’m all right, apart from my wrists,” came the answer he had half expected, but wasn’t quite sure he believed. But now wasn’t the time to challenge him.
As soon as Jonathan’s hands were free, D’Anvers pulled off his own greatcoat and wrapped it round him, covering his shredded trousers.
“You’ll feel more comfortable in this,” he tried to smile. “Now let’s go and find Evelyn.”
“Let me look at your shoulder, first,” said Jonathan, glancing pointedly at the hole in the greatcoat as he pulled it tightly around himself.
“I’m fine,” said D’Anvers, eager to begin the search.
“It won’t take a minute and we don’t want you passing out in the cemetery,” insisted Jonathan, his fingers already peeling back D’Anvers’ black tailcoat to expose the bloodstained shirt beneath.
“I’m fine, it’s just a graze,” repeated D’Anvers but Jonathan ignored him. He had to see for himself—the sight of Sebastian getting hit had nearly stopped his heart.
He found the wound, it seemed like the bullet had clipped the top of Sebastian’s right shoulder. He gave a sigh of relief—it didn’t look too serious. Quickly, he tore a piece off his relatively clean shirt and made a makeshift bandage. D’Anvers looked down at Jonathan’s head, so close to his, and swallowed. He wanted desperately to put his arms around him and hold him tight, but he was frightened of doing the wrong thing. If Silverwood had done what he feared, then the touch of another man was probably the last thing Jonathan wanted.
“There. That will hold until you can see a doctor—you might have chipped a bone.” Jonathan stepped back. “Uh—is he dead?” he couldn’t help adding, looking down at Silverwood.
“I hope so,” said D’Anvers, with a complete lack of interest. He bent to retrieve his second pistol. “Better not leave that there.” He had a second look around, to make sure there was nothing else to give the Runners a clue as to what had happened that night.
Jenkins was waiting anxiously at the door. “Master Evelyn?” he asked, ignoring the body on the ground.
“Out here somewhere, hiding I’d suspect. Jonathan and I will search for him, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to the two bruisers? Best if they’re not found here, tied up.” When the body is discovered. There was no need to say the words out loud. Jenkins nodded and went to retrieve his rope.
“All sorted, milord,” he reassured, as he re-joined them. “They’ll be off like rabbits as soon as they wake up, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Evelyn?” D’Anvers called in a low voice. The last thing he wanted to do was attract any further attention. Working a couple of yards apart, the three of them searched the cemetery, starting with the area around the mausoleum. They could only hope that Evelyn had not gone too far. After a quarter of an hour, Jenkins spotted a patch of white, curled up behind a tombstone. “Over here, milord,” he called softly.
D’Anvers hurried to his side. “Evelyn? It’s me, your father. You’re safe now.”
“Papa?” a sleepy voice answered. D’Anvers heart turned over, it was years since Evelyn had called him that. “Yes. I’ve come to take you home. Up you come,” he bent down to gather Evelyn into his arms, steadfastly ignoring the pain in his head and the sting in his shoulder.
Luckily though, it wasn’t very far to the coach. The three of them col
lapsed inside, D’Anvers pulling a thick travelling rug around Evelyn as Jenkins clambered up onto the box and picked up the reins. “You can have a big cup of hot chocolate when we get back to the hotel,” D’Anvers promised Evelyn, who was sitting next to him, clamped firmly against his side. “Jonathan and I will have a nice glass of cognac, and we will all put tonight behind us. Tomorrow, we will see about returning to Blackstone.”
A couple of hours later, Evelyn was tucked up sound asleep in bed, and Lord D’Anvers and Jonathan sat down with their cognac. Jonathan had changed into fresh clothes and a doctor had cleaned and re-bandaged D’Anvers’ wound, tutting over their story of footpads. What was the world coming to, he wanted to know.
Finally, they were alone. D’Anvers looked across at Jonathan who was sitting in an armchair looking down at his feet. Jonathan took a hefty gulp of the cognac and spluttered for a moment at the unaccustomed fire in his throat.
“What happened?” asked D’Anvers quietly, after the younger man had got his breath back. “Tell me.”
“I didn’t realise there were three of them,” confessed Jonathan. “I was able to knock out the man on guard outside, but there was a second man in the mausoleum with Silverwood. I didn’t get a chance to fire the pistol, but at least I was able to keep him busy while Evelyn escaped.” He came to a halt, his fingers turning the glass round and round, watching it as if his life depended on it.
“I can’t thank you enough!” said D’Anvers, trying to get Jonathan to meet his eyes. The younger man looked up in surprise, as if he had expected to be scolded for not being able to handle the situation by himself. “Without you... I don’t know what would have happened to Evelyn.”
A faint flush of red coloured Jonathan’s cheeks and he mumbled something about doing his best. He was absolutely adorable.
D’Anvers took a deep breath. Time to do the right thing.
“I just want you to know, that I promise to leave you completely alone from now on. I won’t be making any more attempts to... to tease you, not even in jest. You will be absolutely safe with me, I give you my solemn word.”