by Rebecca King
She couldn’t ignore the fact that she was considerably more confident now that she had an ally whom she could use as a shield. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind. She had no idea if he could sense the animosity between her and the Count, but if he had, he had decided to stay and help her.
Thankfully, he is just as heroic as I had imagined him to be, she mused somewhat dreamily.
Joe almost groaned when she turned a somewhat dreamy gaze upon him. Such complications were the last thing he needed right in the middle of an investigation, especially with Sayers so close. At the moment, though, it served his purposes so he could do little other than smile insipidly back in order to give the Count the impression they were a loving couple.
Marguerite turned a somewhat triumphant look on the cloaked figure. He didn’t seem so macabre now she had a strong man beside her. In fact, when compared to Thor, the Count looked pale, limp and lifeless. She looked at him as one might a pathetic creature.
“I am sure the hostess will be looking for you by now. I will be returning home with my fiancé. Good evening to you,” she snapped coldly. She had little sympathy for him given his earlier behaviour.
The cold finality in her tone left the Count seething.
“I think it would be best if you came with me, Marguerite,” the Count declared flatly, refusing to budge. “It isn’t appropriate for you to be here like this, no matter what arrangement you think you have with this man.”
“I don’t think I have any arrangement, I do have an arrangement with him,” Marguerite countered.
“Oh, come now. Marguerite can stay with me. Given we are to be married, I will not turn her care over to anybody,” Joe interrupted, not giving her the opportunity to protest herself.
The Count’s gaze turned cold. “Well, you need to speak with your father about that, Marguerite. I understood from your father that you have no suitor. I don’t care who this man is, but he is not your fiancé as you claim, of that I am certain. I will not leave you here with him.” He turned to Joe and levelled a look on him that made it quite clear he considered Joe to be unworthy of even being in the same room as him.
Joe felt his blood boil because, if anything, Sayers wasn’t worthy of being in a house like the Carmichaels, let alone in the presence of someone from the Star Elite. He should be behind bars, for each murder he had carried out, each theft he had been a part of, and for each and every life he had ruined along the way. In spite of himself, Joe’s shoulders squared, and his entire demeanour became dark and threatening.
Marguerite felt the stillness in him almost immediately. Glancing up at him, something within her flipped over, but it didn’t leave her with a warm, dreamy feeling like before. This was alarm because the man who had once been so gentle with her was now incredibly dangerous. The atmosphere within the room turned dark and sinister. Suddenly feeling less confident, her gaze flickered between the men as she tried to find a way to dilute the situation without anybody getting hurt. She suspected that if these men started to fight it would be swift, bloody, and brutal, and only one of them would walk away with their lives intact.
Joe’s gaze was hard when it met the Count’s in silent challenge.
The Count didn’t even blink. “I am afraid that whatever arrangement you have entered into with this-woman-I have an arrangement with her father, and that takes precedence given that he is her guardian.”
“But I am afraid any association you claim you have has not been agreed with her father,” Joe announced blandly. “Because I spoke with him only last night, and he gave us his blessing. Besides, it doesn’t really matter whether Eustace agrees or not. She is of age. She doesn’t need his permission anymore. We are to be wed, and that is final. Now, seeing as you have only met my fiancé this evening, I don’t consider that our personal arrangements are any of your business. I have known Marguerite for well over a year now and that, as far as I am concerned, gives me a better understanding of both her and her father.”
Joe watched the Count open his mouth to protest and decided to push him some more. He looked at the woman beside him.
“You don’t have an acquaintance with this man, do you?” His eyes silently challenged her.
“No, I don’t,” Marguerite replied firmly. She turned back to the Count. “I wouldn’t because I am not that kind of person. I am engaged, and would never encourage the attentions of anyone else.”
Joe nodded, carefully ignoring the slight hesitation in her voice that warned him she was lying. He looked at her closely but, strangely, could not see anything but contempt in her gaze. It was disconcerting. He couldn’t decide if she was telling him the truth or not. Was she lying because it was all a charade, or was she hesitant because she truly belonged to the Count?
“Well, we have to go and see the vicar in Whitechapel,” he murmured. He tried to make his voice husky as he pointedly mentioned the area the Count was born. “So, we need to leave.”
He was looking at the woman, Marguerite, but well aware that the Count had gone still. He didn’t even bother to glance at the man, even though he could feel that hateful gaze boring into him.
“I didn’t realise Reverend Malden did emergency weddings,” the Count declared conversationally, having suddenly dropped his false persona.
Joe nodded. The man had no idea he had just announced his awareness of one of London’s seedier, crime-infested areas. For a Russian, who inhabited an affluent area of London, he should not even be aware that a high-crime area like Whitechapel existed. The man spoke with a kind of knowledge that could only be described as intimate, and that, to Joe, said everything.
“Oh, yes. He is a long-standing acquaintance of mine,” Joe murmured.
He didn’t mention that the vicar had been an advocate of the Star Elite’s endeavours. He had, but couldn’t help them by passing on various valuable bits of information about his parishioners anymore because he had been found dead last night-murdered by being stabbed repeatedly. Joe suspected that the Count knew that already.
If he is Russian, I am a Dutch man, Joe mused as he studied the man’s evening attire with a calculating eye.
His clothing was expensive but could have been purchased from any gentleman’s outfitters anywhere in London. Sayers would be able to afford such expensive clothing. With his fingers in many pies, most of them illegal, he had wealth that could only be described as alarming given his rather destitute start in life. All of it had been obtained illegally because the man had never worked an honest day in his life.
“We need-” she began only for the Count to cut her off.
“I am afraid that you are breaking an agreement between her father and me that neither of us will renege on. Margaret is not free to wed,” the Count declared pompously.
“I am free to wed,” she snapped. “I am an adult and have a choice, regardless of what you think.”
“Yes, you are marrying me,” Joe declared, gazing at her in what he hoped was an adoring manner.
Marguerite snorted. “If this carries on, we can go to the vicar right now,” she huffed.
“I am afraid Martha is already engaged,” the Count began.
“Her name is Marguerite, and she is going to marry me. The vicar is waiting,” Joe announced flatly. “I have the license here.” He patted his pocket meaningfully and watched the Count’s gaze slither toward it. He half expected the Count to demand to see it. To thwart him, Joe turned his attention to the woman beside him.
Later, he would spend a few moments thinking about just how stunned she looked but, right now, it was more important that he stop any further protests either her or the Count might make. They had to get out of the house before the Count did something rash, like challenging him to a duel or something highly illegal and dangerous.
“I challenge you to her hand,” the Count declared suddenly, as though he had read his mind.
Too late, Joe mused with a curse.
“What?” Marguerite cried. “You can’t! It is illegal.”
“What is?” The Count ignored her.
“Duelling.”
The Count shook his head at her and then gave Joe a look of complete masculine arrogance as if to say ‘stupid woman’.
“I wouldn’t be so foolish. It wouldn’t be a duel, it would be an execution,” the Count declared with a smirk.
“Don’t be so presumptuous,” Joe chided. “You know nothing about me.”
In exactly the same way the Count had looked at Marguerite, Joe scoured the man with an insulting look in return, mostly because he hated any woman being looked at in such a derogatory way. He watched a muscle tick steadily in the Count’s jaw, and knew that his point had hit home.
“I will accept whatever challenge you want to put before me,” Joe announced calmly. “However, I warn you now that I will war with only you on the condition that nobody aides you.”
He put sufficient meaning into his words to make Sayers frown slightly and look at him with renewed curiously. It served his purposes to leave the man burning with curiosity because he knew the Count had no information on him at all, and wouldn’t be able to trace him. Marguerite, however, was an entirely different matter. He suspected that, for whatever reason, the Count knew all about Marguerite; who she was, where to find her, and what she was all about.
“Just name how you wish to challenge me for her hand,” Joe ordered.
Inside, he was calculating how many men it would take from the Star Elite to round up not only the Count, but the minions he would undoubtedly bring to whatever skirmish he was cooking up. Whatever it was, Joe was prepared to fight. Not just for the honour of the woman by his side if she was innocent, but for the honour of each and every man in the Star Elite who worked tirelessly day and night to bring men like Sayers’ to justice, and put their lives in perilous danger while doing so.
Marguerite went still and stared at him in dismay, but he didn’t even glance at her. He was too busy staring the Count in the eye in a silent battle of wills. He smirked when the Count’s gaze slid away. It was clear that the Count now doubted the wisdom of challenging him so brashly.
“Two rounds at Jacks. Whoever is left alive wins her,” Joe suggested with an arrogant smirk.
From the look of the Count, he hadn’t had a good meal in many years, and wouldn’t have enough strength to withstand even one round against someone as highly trained, and heavily muscled, as Joe, and they both knew it. Not only that, but inside a boxing ring, in somewhere like Jack’s, Sayers wouldn’t be able to get any of his cohorts to bail him out. It would be a fight just between the two of them. Joe relished the possibility of being able to pound the man-before he arrested him. Now that he had seen Sayers up close he was amazed at how puny the man looked. In a way, it stood to reason that the man had to have a ruthless reputation. If he didn’t, he would have no chance of persuading any of the East End thugs in his employ to take him seriously. Unfortunately, that reputation had been earnt by murdering innocent people who stood in his way.
“No, you cannot do this,” Marguerite whispered. “Jeremy, you mustn’t.”
“But we are fighting for your hand, my dear. You should be honoured,” Joe drawled.
“Well, I am not honoured,” she snapped with an energetic shake of her head. “I am not honoured one bit. You are a pair of buffoons.”
She looked from one man to the other but neither appeared to move. The Count, while yet to answer, was studying Jeremy-Thor-closely.
“Neither man is going to fight against anyone else for my hand because I wouldn’t marry either of you. No matter what you threaten me with, I shall say no,” she added for good measure. To her dismay, her declaration had no effect on the men whatsoever.
“You do, and I shall have you put behind bars,” she snarled.
She was well aware that her voice lowered to a growl as she stared hard at the Count and watched his brows lift. He looked a little stymied for a moment. It was as though he had never been spoken to like that by a woman in his life and wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Before he could gather himself, she turned a lethal glare on the man beside her and spun on her heel.
“If you lift a hand to anybody in such a brutal manner, I shall never speak to you again,” she snapped, aware that after this she most probably wouldn’t ever see him again anyway.
Strangely, that hurt. More than it should, it left her deeply disturbed, and at a loss to explain the slightly bereft feeling she had never expected to feel. Still, if he was the kind of brute to reduce himself to such boorish behaviour, she wanted nothing to do with him.
“Oh! You two deserve each other,” she snapped when neither man sought to appease her. Without saying another word, she stormed across the room to the French doors. Thankfully, they were unlocked and didn’t hinder her. She swept somewhat regally out of the room and, slammed the door behind her with a resounding bang. Its dull thud was no less satisfying than being able to get out into the open air and savour the crisp evening. It was the first moment of freedom she had had all evening and it was wonderful – for a little while at least.
“I am not going back in there,” she muttered to herself as she ran down a small flight of stone steps and came to a halt on the lawn.
She hadn’t stopped to consider just how dark it would be in the gardens, or how isolated she was from the rest of the guests who were on the opposite side of the house. Silence settled over her. She could hear nothing but the heavy thundering of her own heartbeat. Before she could decide what to do, her attention was drawn to two men, who appeared out of the darkness of the deepest shadows at the far end of the lawn. Her eyes widened when she realised they were heading for her.
It was then she realised that, yet again, she had made a massive mistake.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even in the darkness, she knew they were less than reputable. From the furtive way they kept looking around as they approached her she suspected that they were muggers.
Muggers? How can they be muggers? We are in one of the most reputable neighbourhoods in London. If they are not muggers, what are they doing in the garden? What do they want with me?
Her first thought was that they had something to do with the Count, and were there to spirit her away on his orders, but that was ridiculous-wasn’t it?
She swallowed harshly and threw a fleeting glance at the still-closed French doors. To rush back in there would leave her no better off. Backing away, she lifted her skirts but, when she turned around she was faced with the same impenetrable blackness she had experienced in the darkened room earlier. This time, though, Jeremy wasn’t there to help her. For a second, she almost wished he was.
Still, she couldn’t stay where she was and allow the men to catch her. She had no choice but to head around the outer perimeter of the house and find another way back into the house somehow. Suddenly, the jangle of a harness nearby drew her attention. Her gaze flew to a long row of low buildings to her left. The stables stood a long, dark shape in the distance, a faint shadow of mercy that would save her from ruination-if only she could get there.
Without hesitation, she raced toward it, horrifyingly aware of the heavy pounding of boots thundering behind her. The buildings seemed so very far away and strangely seemed to grow increasingly distant the more she ran. Her lungs burned, her legs ached fiercely, but she daren’t give up. To do so would have dire consequences for her future and she knew it. She quickly turned away from the tumultuous thoughts of what might happen to her should she be caught. The prospect of the awful things that might happen to her pushed her to dig deep for that last bit of energy and keep running.
“Help!” she screamed when a wild flurry of movement in the periphery of her vision drew her attention. Horrified at just how close they were, she gasped. “Help!”
Before she got more than a few more feet, her arm was captured in a ruthless hold and she was yanked off-balance. Her scream was instinctive and unchecked as she was swung around bodily in a wild arc and landed with a heavy thump on her knees. From he
r position on the ground, she glanced up and saw one of the vagabonds loom toward her, his beef hand stretching toward her in a menacing claw.
Her mouth opened. She tried to scream again, but no sound came out. It didn’t need to, though, because, in that second, the vagabond was suddenly yanked backward. His eyes widened in shock as he was propelled through the air and disappeared into the dark. She couldn’t see him but heard the heavy bang of his body hitting the ground.
Scrambling to her feet, she peered at the shadows and watched the second man double over at the waist with a grunt before a heavy fist crashed into him. His head snapped back, and he too fell to the ground.
She turned to the man responsible for this menacing miracle.
“You?” she whispered in stunned surprise.
She wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved, worried, or horrified. It was difficult to know what to think. Her mind wouldn’t co-operate. She couldn’t think of anything other than she was hugely relieved he wasn’t the Count. She glanced around what she could see of the garden. Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of the Russian who, she suspected, was hiding inside somewhere.
“You have to come with me,” Joe ordered.
“Where are we going?” she demanded. She teetered on the balls of her feet, unsure whether he could be trusted or not. While he had been her hero, her savour, she couldn’t ignore this new, ruthless side she had witnessed.
Could she trust him? Who was he to know how to fight like that?
Whoever he was she knew instinctively that it was unusual for anyone to have those particular fighting skills. So many questions rolled through her mind that she wasn’t sure what to think right now, other than she knew he wasn’t as meek and mild as he purported to be and, no matter how handsome he looked, she shouldn’t trust him until she knew more about him.
Before she could reply, the flutter of something dark by the steps of the house drew her horrified gaze. Like a looming spectre against the night sky, the cloaked figure of the Count swept across the balustrade, to the corner of the building she had been hoping to reach, but he wasn’t racing toward them. He was heading toward the stables.