Julie Anne Long

by The Runaway Duke

  Connor closed his eyes briefly against a tremendous wave of relief, and then opened them quickly again. The last thing he wanted to do was lose sight of Pierce.

  But what now? He could not simply walk up to Pierce with a hearty “Hallo! Remember me?” He was supposed to be dead. The best he could hope for was a moment alone with him in a relatively discreet place, where he could approach him cautiously.

  Pierce, at that moment, was making his bow to the older gentleman. The two parted, and after a moment’s hesitation, as though waiting for his companion to disappear from view, Pierce stepped into a flower shop only a few feet away.

  Connor hovered outside the shop, pretending to be absorbed by a handbill plastered to the side of the building. He didn’t have to pretend for very long. The shop door opened again shortly, and he heard a man’s voice, the shopkeeper’s, no doubt, raised in what sounded like despair.

  “. . . but, Colonel, they are much harder to come by in London than you might think. Hothouses do not like to devote space to them when they can be had by the handful in the country at no expense whatsoever.”

  “Bluebells, Mr. Gordon,” came Pierce’s voice, polite but firm, from the doorway. “I have a standing order for bluebells, and well you know. Find them and deliver them as usual, if you please. And I will, as usual, make it well worth your while. I bid you good day.”

  Bluebells? Connor thought. What could a war hero possibly want with bluebells?

  Pierce exited the shop and stood in the doorway of it a moment, his face a little thunderous. He paused for a moment, tapping his walking stick against his boot as if mulling over something. And then he strode onward decisively in the direction of the Coach and Six, a tavern known for unwatered ale and good plain food.

  Connor fell into step behind Pierce and watched him push open the door of the Coach and Six. Taking a deep breath, Connor fluffed his cravat up over his chin once more, counted to ten, and followed Pierce into the pub.

  The pub was teeming with a variety of actual gentlemen, as well as a collection of chaps who stretched the definition of gentlemen rather severely. The wives of the actual gentlemen, Connor knew, would be appalled to see their husbands tipping ale and trading jokes and back slaps with the other sort. This crowd in its entirety would never meet in a ballroom, but at a cockfight or a pub, they would certainly mingle quite happily.

  Pierce traded greetings with a number of men that Connor did not recognize, while Connor pushed his way to a corner table.

  “What’ll it be, guv?”

  Connor pretended to be fascinated by his own fingernails as he spoke, not wishing to give the barmaid or anybody else in the vicinity a full-on look at his face.

  “A pint of dark, miss, if you would.”

  “The color of yer money, if ye would, sir.”

  Connor unfurled the pound note that was balled in his fist.

  Satisfied, she swished her skirts away toward the bar.

  “I say, Pierce, will you be attending Lady Wakefield’s do this evening?” called a voice from across the bar.

  Connor pitched all his senses toward the conversation. Tempting though it was to crane his head for a look at the speaker, self-preservation forced him to keep his eyes lowered. Lady Wakefield, last he knew, lived in a townhouse in St. James Square. Two doors away from the Dunbrooke townhouse. She had also, rumor had it, been his father’s mistress. During a visit at Keighley Park, she had once come upon Connor in the hallway with his hand down the dress of a giggling maid. She never mentioned the incident to his father, which had endeared Lady Wakefield to Connor for eternity.

  “Aye, Rutherford, that I am. I am assured it is a social requirement.”

  Scattered, good-natured laughter greeted Pierce’s comment.

  “Bloody dull, these social requirements. Save for the presence of a certain fair-haired angel, am I mistaken, Pierce?”

  More good-natured laughter, as well as the unmistakable thump of a hand slapping a solid back.

  “You might have to make a run for it with the fair Lorelei, Pierce. Her mama is intent on marrying her off to a marquis or some such.”

  Good God. Connor seriously doubted more than one girl named Lorelei was being shepherded through the ton by an ambitious mama this season. He was rocked by the irony that Lorelei Tremaine would be associated with Pierce, and for a brief perverse moment, Connor wished he’d been able to witness the stir that Lorelei had no doubt created among the young bloods and matrons of the ton. Rebecca, no doubt, would have enjoyed watching her sister create a sensation, as well. But the Tremaines had not planned a season for their younger daughter. Instead, for the sake of family honor and expediency, they had forced her into an engagement to a dissolute baron. He felt a little surge of anger on Rebecca’s behalf. I hope they are losing sleep over her right now. They deserve to lose sleep over her.

  Colonel Pierce’s voice rose up out of the laughter. “Oh, come now, Rutherford, you know I am not in the market for a wife. In fact, let us drink to the success of Lorelei’s mama.”

  Connor smiled faintly at Pierce’s tone. He remembered it well, that pleasant timbre shot through with steel. It meant Pierce intended to brook no further discussion of the topic of Lorelei Tremaine.

  There was laughter, and the clink of glasses touching as Lady Tremaine was toasted. Then Rutherford cleared his throat and said in a loud inclusive tone, “Well, now, and I heard the king is expected to appear at Lady Wakefield’s do, as well. Do we think he’ll get his divorce?”

  Rutherford had predictably changed the topic to a very popular one. George IV might be a sot, but his wife was a harlot, or so he claimed, and he was doing his best to divest himself of her. Perversely, the entire ton had sided with Queen Charlotte. A racket of enthusiastic voices chimed in with opinions.

  A pint of dark ale landed with a clunk on the table in front of Connor, and next to it the barmaid slapped down a small pile of coins by way of change. She waltzed off into the crowd once more before he could utter a word of thanks. He lifted the pint to his mouth and tilted, watching with an ache that bordered on the sensual as the thick silky white foam slid toward his lips.

  “Tonight, then, Pierce! We’ll have a cigar at Lady Wakefield’s,” Rutherford called.

  Blast. Pierce was already weaving his way through the crowd toward the door. Connor took a long draught of the ale and lowered his head as Pierce passed his table.

  “That, at least, I shall look forward to, Rutherford,” Pierce said, and exited the pub to the sound of friendly laughter.

  Connor waited a moment or two, then slid his chair back and discreetly followed Pierce out of the darkness of the Coach and Six. He stood on the threshold of the pub for an instant, blinking to adjust to the daylight, then took a step forward.

  And nearly collided with John and Edgar the high- waymen.

  Connor recovered first.

  He plunged into the Bond Street crowd, making for the thickest part of it, all the while keeping a desperate eye on Colonel Pierce, who was now moving at a brisk and determined pace. It would be difficult to get off an accurate pistol shot in this throng, Connor knew. But that didn’t mean the highwaymen would not try.

  Connor walked swiftly, moving as fast as he dared without breaking into a rather more conspicuous and less dignified gallop, and took refuge at the sides of the plumpest men he could find in the hope that it would make him an even more difficult target. But John and Edgar had managed to separate from each other and were now more or less flanking him. Connor caught glimpses of them now and again as the three of them dodged purposefully between men in the street, one man seeking cover and two men seeking a gap in the crowd through which a pistol ball could travel. It was like participating in a deadly sort of reel.

  A long, feminine scream followed by a torrent of cockney curse words suddenly captured the attention of the crowd, and the cluster of people that Connor had been moving through halted and massed in the direction of the noise.

  And just like tha
t, Connor was exposed.

  They stood for a stunned instant, the three of them, within ridiculously clear shooting distance of each other. And then John and Edgar reached into their coats for their pistols.

  In the space of a second, sights and sounds raced past Connor like detritus caught in a floodtide, the sun glinting off the barrels of the pistols, Pierce mounting a bay horse, the steady clop of hooves and the grind of the rolling wheels of an approaching hackney coach. Connor made what seemed the most logical choice at the moment.

  He threw himself under the hackney coach.

  Dive, tuck, roll; from the recesses of his memory of war and pugilism, the sequence of motions returned and served him. Connor remained coiled in a tight ball, watching in a state of suspended reality as the coach wheels rolled to a complete stop inches from his nose, the horses whinnying shrilly and dancing in their harnesses. He became dimly aware of a swelling hubbub surrounding him; it seemed a good portion of the crowd was now captivated by what might well prove to be a gory coaching accident. A crowd meant protection. But a crowd also meant curious eyes on his face. Connor waited, motionless, barely daring to breathe.

  A minute or so passed, and then a large face peered underneath the coach. The face stared at him for a moment with deep anxiety, which subtly evolved into astonishment, and then split into an enormous, delighted, gap-toothed grin.

  “Why, yer lordship!”

  It was Chester Sharp.

  Little Thomas had the colic. Alice had a nasty cough. Nicholas Heron’s gout was plaguing him, and Uncle Louis complained of loose bowels. All day, Leonora peered into eyes and down throats, felt foreheads and examined tongues, poked and prodded and asked questions, and then administered her cures. And all day, Rebecca leaped to do Leonora’s bidding; once, without being asked, she handed over the tincture of meadow saffron. Leonora had gifted her with a smile. It was just the thing for Nicholas Heron’s gout.

  Their last patient, Raphael’s Great-uncle Louis, was an elderly widower, and mostly just wanted someone to listen to his complaints. After ascertaining that he had no fever or other ailments that might cause his bowels to misbehave, Leonora teased him and told him he should count himself lucky, as most men his age could not move their bowels at all. He laughed appreciatively and accepted a concoction of tormentil, and threatened to return to bother all of them if it had no effect.

  Throughout the day, Rebecca would occasionally lose herself in a task, or in the knowledge that Leonora imparted, or in gratitude that Martha was absent—no doubt she was off greedily collecting admiring stares from a broader array of Gypsy boys than her own compania provided. But eventually the cramp of anxiety in her stomach reminded her: Connor was gone. Connor had left without even saying good-bye.

  She’d been patient with him, patient with the secrets, the half-truths, with the unknowns. She was certain that anyone who’d known her from birth would be incredulous if they knew just how patient. But because she loved him, and because he seemed to need it, she had given Connor not only patience, but trust, with hardly a question—well, at least, fewer questions than she would normally have asked. And still he would not trust her with the truth. What, precisely, was he afraid of? Did he think she would fly into a rage, or burst into tears, like a child?

  Evening yawned chasmlike before Rebecca. There would likely be the stew, which she doubted she could choke down again, and possibly more heart-scalding songs sung by bloody Martha Heron. And laughter and chatter in Rom, which Connor could understand and she could not, and he had left her here alone. Because he was afraid to tell her the truth, whatever that truth might be.

  Leonora stretched languidly when Uncle Louis finally left the tent. “What would ye like to do this evening, little Gadji?”

  Throw something very hard at Connor Riordan, and possibly at your daughter, too.

  “Ye’re welcome to join us at the fire,” Leonora added when Rebecca did not answer.

  And then Rebecca had an inspiration. “Do you have any herbs you need . . . crushed? With a mortar and pestle?” Crushing something seemed like a very appropriate way to spend the evening.

  Leonora looked at her for a long silent while, then the corner of her mouth lifted. “Certainly. Something always needs to be crushed. I’ll bring a meal to ye in a bit.” She turned to leave, then paused at the threshold of the tent. “Welcome to love, Rebecca,” she added wryly.

  The tedium was almost like a gas; Connor swore he could feel it pouring out of the huge double doors of Lady Wakefield’s London townhouse, much like the noxious fumes that poured off the Thames on sweltering summer days. He’d always loathed balls, throngs of people in finery that was bound to be sweated in and spilled upon packed together like pickles in a jar, nattering about nothing in particular to people they saw virtually every day during the season, hopping about like lamed frogs during ridiculous reels, although waltzes were now allowed and were, in Connor’s opinion, somewhat more tolerable. On the whole, balls offended Connor’s sense of the practical. Normally they were not accounted a total success until some maiden fainted from lack of air and was hauled dramatically out to the garden.

  He thanked God once more for the practical redheaded girl waiting for him in Cambridge. Rebecca would much rather snare a hare or swim in the nude than squeeze herself in among the fools at Lady Wakefield’s ball. Suddenly a vivid and highly distracting image of Rebecca nude, covered in little pearls of water, filled his mind. Connor took a deep breath and forced himself to refocus on the matter at hand. The sooner he accomplished his mission, the sooner he could return to her.

  Mercifully enough, Lady Wakefield seemed to be leaving the doors open to invite in the night air. She had apparently purchased every candle in London. A rectangle of lamplight extended several yards beyond the front steps of the house, nicely illuminating her pair of liveried footman, who were there as much for decoration as to direct the guests to the ballroom. Ironically, the bold light merely enhanced the shadows, and Connor found a perfect vantage point for viewing the arrivals while remaining almost completely hidden, sandwiched between the Wakefield townhouse and the house next door.

  Chester Sharp had, no questions asked, taken Connor back to his quarters in Cheapside, loaned him a razor, fed him, and agreed to take him to the ball and return for him again at midnight. He had even liveried the horse Connor had left tethered in Bond Street.

  “Think naugh’ of it, yer lordship. Things were right dull before ye came along,” was Sharp’s response when Connor attempted profuse thanks.

  Coach after coach rolled up to the townhouse and disgorged groups of women resplendent in silks and turbans and jewels, and men in crisp white shirts and billowing cravats, their somber-colored coats over adventurous waistcoats.

  Connor recognized some of the people who disembarked from the carriages, but he did not feel one whit nostalgic; it was like watching a battle from a distance, one that he had retreated from gratefully. Tiny battles would take place tonight inside Lady Wakefield’s house, he knew, and the weapons would be silken barbs and insincere compliments in the name of social ambition. Real war, Connor thought, was a good deal more honest.

  He could hear Sedgewick, Lady Wakefield’s ancient and semidaft butler, announcing guest after guest in his sonorous, deliciously indifferent voice: Sir Gregory Markham. Lord and Lady Bryson. The Earl and Countess of Courtland. Dr. Erasmus Hennessey.

  And at last, stepping out of a hackney coach, was Colonel Pierce, dignified and slightly unfashionable in a black coat and gray waistcoat. Connor watched Pierce for a breathless moment, praying. His prayer was answered as the coach Pierce arrived in rolled away. Pierce was alone.

  Colonel Pierce hesitated in front of the Wakefield place, an expression of bald dismay on his face as he took in the liveried footmen and heard the buzz of hundreds of voices and the squalling violins. Connor smiled crookedly. He sympathized immensely. Resignedly, Pierce squared his shoulders and took a step forward.

  “Pierce!” Connor hissed
from the shadows.

  Colonel Pierce stopped abruptly and his head jerked up. He gazed about him, frowning quizzically, then shrugged to himself and continued up the walk.

  Connor cursed softly under his breath. He took a risky step forward, into the light.

  “Colonel Pierce!” he said, just slightly louder than a whisper, imbuing the words with all the resonance, if not volume, he could muster.

  Pierce halted and frowned again, swiveling his head about impatiently.

  And then he went rigid.

  Recognition, joy, fear, bewilderment, flickered across Pierce’s face in rapid succession. He took a hesitant half step forward, then stopped and gave his head a little shake, and stared again. It was clear that he was not convinced that Connor was more than an apparition.

  Another coach pulled up before the townhouse, regurgitating a half dozen or so drunken young men who immediately began listing merrily up the walk. One of them collided with Connor, teetered a bit, then clamped both his hands on Connor’s arm to keep from falling outright. He gave Connor a bleary, affectionate smile.

  “S’ank you, old chap. You’re myfren for life, you are.”

  “Get off me!” Connor hissed, horrified. He tried in vain to peel the man’s fingers from his arms; they were clamped as tight as pincers. The man swayed a bit, gazing up at Connor limpidly and with the faintest sort of surprise, as if he could not recall precisely how he came to be there. He remained clamped.

  The rest of his young friends were suddenly upon them in a drunken, noisy, pushing, teasing, jabbing clot, all wriggling arms and legs and swinging walking sticks.

  “Come now, Farnsworth, don’t tarry, the young ladies await us,” one strapping lad bellowed, and they pushed Farnsworth up the walk. And because Farnsworth was loath to relinquish his savior, Connor was dragged along with them, right past the footmen and up into the house.