Regardless, Gillian was glad to have spoken with the woman. Lady Danbury’s quick wit had astonished her. They’d never met in person, but Lady Danbury had recognized Gillian almost immediately from her days onstage at Drury Lane. Not wanting to upset the poor woman, Gillian had admitted the truth of her identity. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, Simon’s wife had asked Gillian for forgiveness for not being strong enough to defy her parents and marry the man she loved, a man beneath her station, so that Simon and Gillian could have been together, too. Gillian had assured Lady Danbury that she would have never known Lucien if that had happened, that she wouldn’t be the woman she was today otherwise, and thanked her.
They’d embraced and cried, connected by loss and love. And now, after portraying Lady Fanny Nelson in public, Gillian understood the heavy burden Fanny carried by loving a man who loved another. Except in this instance, Gillian was the other woman.
Barely able to see past her tears, Gillian cut across Derby Street to Pitts Head Mews, meandering through Carrington Mews on her way to Number Eleven Bolton Street. She wiped her eyes and picked up her pace, walking more briskly to calm her frayed nerves and settle her racing thoughts. Dazed as she was, with her heart in her hand, she was wary enough to stay off Curzon’s main thoroughfare where there was a greater risk of generating attention so late at night.
Lady Danbury didn’t deserve the sickness that ravaged her body and soul. Emaciated and eager for news about Society, especially her husband’s adventures, she had begged Gillian to reveal what she knew about Vice-Admiral Nelson’s triumphant return. Had her husband looked sharp standing next to Nelson? Did the vice-admiral pay her husband the proper respect? It had felt entirely wrong passing along information about Simon and the vice-admiral, but she’d done so, frightening the poor woman against her better judgment. Eyes wide, Lady Danbury had listened to Gillian explain that Vice-Admiral Nelson had nearly been assassinated before her husband’s eyes.
Gillian crossed her chest and prayed a silent prayer. Darting in and out of alcoves, she hugged her cloak more tightly around her as a carriage drew up alongside her. Horses’ hooves clip-clopped on the thoroughfare, the beat out of time with her erratic heartbeat.
Another conveyance moaned past, its eerie creak exasperating her alarm. She gazed about frantically. Minute after minute, street after street, she walked. She’d meant well. Surely that made up for her lapse in good judgment by going to Simon’s house.
A chill overtook her. She pulled the hood of her cloak higher, making sure the rough border dipped low enough to conceal the upper half of her face. Lady Danbury would surely tell Simon she’d been there, and in retaliation, he’d revoke his offer to join Nelson’s Tea. Not becoming an intricate part of the organization and utilizing the skills Lucien had taught her would be a crime.
Besides, since Lucien had only gone by the name Corbet in France and had never used the name Chauncey in his dealings with the French, she had money, a title, and an established home. Though the grounds were now on Fouché’s and Barère’s map . . . Perhaps she could travel to the Cornish coast or farther north to Wales, out of Napoleon’s reach?
But no, she couldn’t run. She’d promised Lady Danbury that she would watch over Simon. Yet, if she stayed . . . well, she might be hunted down like a creature of the wood.
Oh, she was at sixes and sevens!
Lucien’s words flooded her mind: A fox outmaneuvered the hunter. Who better to lead a merry chase than a woman trying to save her own arse?
Inhaling deeply, Gillian made up her mind. It would be better if she left early in the morning. A hunted woman was not what Simon or Nelson’s Tea needed. She would pray Lady Danbury would forgive her, and then she would force herself to forget the man who made her heart beat with ruthless abandon.
Instantly sobered, Gillian left Shepherd Market and hastened toward Piccadilly, leaving White Horse Street behind. Two men stepped out of an alcove and started walking behind her. Their laughter, an unwelcome distraction, wasn’t what piqued her interest, but their French banter, which set her heart racing. Alarm rushed through her as she recalled the men she’d encountered from Box Four.
Desperate to make it to Number Eleven on Bolton Street and the safety she would find there, Gillian picked up her pace. But her quick actions weren’t enough.
“You cannot outrun us, petit rat,” one of them called after her.
Rats were problem solvers. They sensed danger and knew how to get out of tight spots. Gillian didn’t mind the comparison. But if she intended to live out the night, she’d need to fight them on her own terms. She started to run, leading the men on a chase through a maze of buildings along Half Moon Street. She turned onto Clarges Street, but the footsteps sounded against the cobblestones behind her. She borrowed a stone wall for support and stopped to listen, easily gauging the distance between herself and her attackers. She would not be able to evade them. She needed to prepare for a counterattack.
Gillian moved into an alleyway, a dead end that would force the men to approach her and leave their backs unguarded. She pulled two sharp metal hairpins out of her coiffure and waited. The two men followed, blocking her exit, just as she suspected they would.
“You are trapped, ma chérie,” the man who stood in the shadows said.
He pointed to his partner, who advanced. Gillian braced herself, spacing her feet wide and angling her right side toward the man in anticipation of his next move.
“If you do not rethink your intentions, this will not go well for you,” she warned.
The first man said nothing but watched from afar like a voyeur. The second one, however, bolted forward. He had no weapons that she could see. Apparently, he’d chosen to use brawn against her, perhaps desiring to snap her neck to prevent her from alerting passersby.
But she was ready. She counted his lumbering footsteps, one by one, judging his quickness of foot and body alignment, and calculating his weight and momentum. As he closed in, he raised his fists, aiming a blow to her face. She ducked what would have been a debilitating injury and stabbed one of the needlelike hairpins into the man’s inner thigh. He He howled and bowed his back to grab his leg, and attacked again, lumbering toward her. Gillian dodged the man again.
In his momentary lapse, she flicked her cloak off her shoulders and over his head so he couldn’t see. He struggled, his anger rising, as she stalked him, waiting for the precise moment he’d free his head. When he did, she sank the other hairpin into his neck.
Eyes wide with surprise, he grabbed her arm, taking her with him as he staggered backward. He cried out. She thought she’d heard him say, “Saint! Help!”
Gillian flicked her stare to the other man, prepared for the next round of attack. To her surprise, the other Frenchman simply backed away, retreating toward the street. She retrieved the dagger she kept strapped to her thigh as a last resort and followed, her elbows bent to guard her head and torso as she neared the street. But when she cleared the alley, her attacker’s accomplice—and any knowledge of who he was—had simply vanished.
Gillian couldn’t take the chance that he’d return, however, and took off at a run, darting past stately homes with wrought iron fences as she wove her way through Mayfair to ensure she wasn’t followed. Shaken and exhausted, she walked slowly to Bolton Street and Number Eleven. There, she stepped onto the stoop, glanced around to see if anyone was watching her, and then pulled several more hairpins out of her tussled hair to pick the lock.
Click. The mechanism disengaged. She opened the door and quickly slipped inside. The house was eerily quiet, though she’d hadn’t spent a night within yet so she couldn’t be sure what to expect. She made her way past the longcase clock toward the stairs. Halfway there, she heard a man’s voice.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Baroness?”
Goodayle’s question startled her, but she managed not to jump. “Yes.” Turmoil burned inside her, and she straightened her skirts and patted her hair, trying to appear ca
lmer than she felt. “Were you able to locate my maid, Goodayle? I’m at a loss without her.”
“Of course.” He stepped into the open, emerging from a dark corner near the longcase clock. “Miss Potts will be ready to attend you in the morning.”
“Wonderful,” she said, glad that something was finally going her way. “Thank you, Goodayle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire for the night. It’s been an eventful day.”
“I can see that, Baroness.” He cocked his brow. “Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but I notice you did not return with your cloak.”
“My cloak?” She placed her hand on the banister and stopped midstep. Clever man! Goodayle had seen her sneak out of the townhouse. “It’s of no use to me now,” she said truthfully. The garment had served its purpose.
Her comment seemed to take Goodayle aback. “Shall I send Daisy up to assist you? She has a knack with unruly stains.”
She glanced down at herself once more, noting the blood that splattered all over her clothing. Botheration! She had borrowed Daisy’s clothes and had been in such a hurry to make it back to Bolton Street that she hadn’t considered the way she looked or how she was going to explain the bloodstains. “Extend my apologies to Daisy. I will replace her uniform before I leave.”
He nodded stiffly. “Have you . . . decided to refuse Lord Danbury’s offer, then?”
After she’d snuck into Simon’s home and spoken to his ailing wife, Simon would never forgive her. “My decision,” she said on a sigh, “is complicated.”
“Most decisions are,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the half-light. “Be advised. In the future, if you need anything, Baroness, anything at all, you have only to ask and it will be done.”
“Thank you, Goodayle.” She managed a smile, genuinely grateful she’d found sanctuary in London, a place where Fouché’s and Barère’s men couldn’t reach her until she could figure out where to go next. “I shall retire, then, and gladly so.”
“As you wish, Baroness.” He walked to a hallway table and grabbed the lone candlestick there. Its flaming wick dimmed, then flared, then barely flickered as he moved across the marble foyer and handed it to her. She accepted the cold unyielding pewter, wrapping her fingers around the looped handle, relieved that the man’s questions had come to a halt.
Goodayle bowed, and without saying another word, he turned, leaving her to her own devices.
She quivered. That terrifying ordeal was over, wasn’t it? Except . . .
Good hounds never lost the scent.
Her hands began to shake. She tightened her grasp on the bannister, prickles of unease crawling down her spine. Had the men in the alley stolen her resilience? No. She’d risen from squalor and joined forces with a spy. Lucien had taught her never to turn away from a challenge. She was made of sterner stuff.
With Goodayle’s footsteps a distant tap on the marble, Gillian climbed the staircase, moving slowly past the exquisite gilded landscapes—more lush and vibrant in the candlelight—and then by the pairs of unseeing canvas eyes that led to the next floor. The glow from her candle cast eerie shadows in the hallway as she came to stand before her bedchamber door.
I am safe, she told herself. But Lucien was not. Lady Danbury was not. There would be no rejoicing this night. Nor any other for that matter.
She opened the door, a moment’s panic seizing her chest as her gaze fell on the copper tub near the fireplace. A washstand had been placed nearby, and she was eager to remove her garments, stained as they were with a stranger’s blood—a man she’d killed. In some small measure, she was glad that Goodayle had seen her leave Number Eleven. Is that how he had known to wait to prepare her bath?
Gillian moved into the room, closed the door behind her, and set down the candle on a bedside table. The room was dark with only the sparse candlelight and the fire snapping and crackling in the hearth. She stretched her aching body, feeling as if she carried the world on her shoulders. And she had for much too long.
Her emotions rose to the surface. Here, in the privacy of her room, a tear trailed down her cheek. Despising the weakness, she swiped it angrily away with the back of her hand and began stepping out of her disguise, piece by practical piece—her bloodstained apron, the leather bracings that held her knives over her stockings, her stays and the sheath she hid there, and finally, her shift. She gazed at the bed where she’d laid weapon after weapon—short blade here, and small pistol there—feeling the weight on her conscience lighten.
Why hadn’t Lucien allowed her to accompany him to France? If she had been with him, then perhaps . . .
Another tear fell. She could not change the past.
Devil’s hounds! I will not cry again.
She’d fought too hard and come too far to lose control of herself now. If only she had someone to talk to, someone to whom she could confide her fears. But Lucien was gone, and she had yet to see Cora. At this hour, Gillian guessed her maid would most likely be abed.
She stretched again, this time arching her tired arms over her head. Her muscles complained as she moved to the copper tub. She moaned with delight as she dipped her toe in the water. It was still warm—more evidence of Goodayle’s uncanny timing.
Gillian stepped into the tub and slipped beneath the surface, releasing an audible sigh. She submerged her body, cleansing away her sorrow, guilt, and pain. Then she sank down, allowing the water to wash over her face. Beneath the surface, she held her breath, envisioning her garden, her home, and the solitude and sanctuary she and Lucien had experienced there, hanging on to the life they’d once lived. But she couldn’t. Her lungs squeezed. Her pulse began to pound like a death knell, every inch of her screaming for air. It was useless to cling to the past. She could never get back what she’d lost.
Lucien was dead.
She broke through the surface of the water and inhaled a wrenching breath. She smoothed the hair away from her face and settled her head back against the rim of the tub. Relaxing there, she fought to bring her heartbeat back under control and closed her eyes.
The scent of leather and spice infiltrated her senses. Was this still part of her imaginings? Had she finally come so unhinged that she could actually smell Simon when he wasn’t there? It was impossible for him to be. She’d left him in his townhouse with his wife. And yet, Gillian fought an odd sensation that he was there, that she was being watched.
A strange fizzling sound fractured the stillness, and Gillian sprang to attention. She reached for one of her knives, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. The weapon securely in hand, she surveyed the room, stifling the urge to scream. When would this night, and the dangers it brought, ever end?
In the corner of the room, she spied a small flame blaze in the darkness, then disappear. Tobacco filled the room as another glowing ember took shape. Someone was in her room!
“Forgive my intrusion,” a familiar voice said.
It was Simon!
She scrambled for something to cover herself even as an unbidden heat coiled in her belly. “How did you get in here?” she blurted, scarcely recognizing her own voice.
Had he entered while she’d been underwater? Or had he somehow left his wife after discovering she’d been there and come for retribution? Thinking upon it, she supposed the latter was possible since she’d been forced to fight for her life in the alley. She had no earthly idea how much time had passed since she’d last seen him.
He studied her thoughtfully. “I snuck in . . . The same way you entered my wife’s bedchamber.” There was an underlying sadness in his voice she’d only heard once before: the day they’d said goodbye five years earlier. Something was terribly wrong.
“I meant no harm,” she quickly told him. “Goodayle said your wife was ill, and I—”
“Didn’t believe him?” Simon stood up from the chair he was sitting in and slowly limped forward, his six-foot height looking impressive in the candlelight. His brown hair was abnormally mussed, his cravat askew. And he was still the handsomest man she�
�d ever known. “Edwina told me why you’d come. I thought you should know—and there is no gentle way to tell you this—she died shortly after that.”
She gasped, stricken by sadness for Simon and his wife but also riddled with guilt. Dear God, was Lady Danbury’s death her fault? Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Simon! I’m so very sorry. I never meant to cause your wife any harm. I learned of the old medicinal remedies in Kent, ways to help the sick, and I thought . . .”
“You thought what?” he asked, his tone solemn.
“I thought I could help. I wanted to help her get well. But I did not comprehend how ill she was. And she . . . she . . .” Gillian couldn’t finish. How could she reveal that Lady Danbury had pleaded for Gillian to vow to always stay by Simon’s side? This was neither the time nor place for such an admission. Besides, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted Simon to know.
“She told me she’d asked you for forgiveness,” he said. The tip of his spicy-scented cigar blazed red as he took another excruciatingly long puff. His emotions were unreadable, but she suspected he meant to hide them.
“And I sought hers, as well.” Her voice broke as her heavy heart sank into her belly. The bathwater suddenly felt entirely too cold, and she began to shiver. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Simon. Lady Danbury was kind. I—”
“Will listen to what I have to say,” he cut in.
She startled. What could he possibly say to her now that she hadn’t already told herself? “Of course,” she relented, sliding down in the tub to hide her body from his piercing stare. “I understand.”
“Do you?” He walked forward until he was standing before her. She clung to the wet towel she’d draped over herself in her embarrassment. “You are an educated woman with ideals and fascinating talents, but you are wrong about many things, Gillian.”
“Apparently, too many to count.” She bit her lip in dismay. Where was he going with this conversation? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. One accusatory word from him after all that had occurred and her heart might never recover.
My Lord Rogue Page 10