Her fingers found the fallen candelabrum and with renewed vigor she struck at his head. Cursing, he grabbed the candelabrum and ripped it once more from her hand. Fright made her desperate, and snatching at the hand that held the dagger, she bit him, the salty taste of blood on her tongue almost gagging her.
He let out a bellow of rage and, grasping a handful of her hair, yanked her head backward. Her hold slackened, but the side of one of her flailing hands struck him fully on the throat and he loosed his grip, gasping for air, his attack forgotten for the moment.
It was all the advantage she needed. Fear enabling her, she gave him a violent shove and, as his weight shifted, staggered to her feet. Stumbling, running, her breathing ragged, her body aching, she raced for the table near the bed. The drawer opened and she felt the cool comfort of the pistol.
It was primed and ready, and she swung back to confront her attacker. He recovered enough from the blow to his throat to regain his feet and stood not more than six feet away from her, appearing only as a darker shadow in the gloom of the room.
"Stand!" she shouted. "I will shoot you dead if you move."
The door to her bedroom flung open and wondrous, bright golden light spilled into the area. Modesty, in her dressing robe, a long braid of hair hanging over one shoulder, stood in the doorway, a brilliantly lit candelabrum held in one hand. "My word," she exclaimed, "what is going on in here, the yelling and shouting—Oh, my God!"
Intent upon his prey, without a backward glance, the intruder sprang at Thea, the dagger poised. She had an impression of twisted features, lips drawn back in a feral snarl, the dagger aimed for her heart. Instinct more than purpose guided her finger as she pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot was explosive in the confines of the room. Thea's ears rang and her eyes stung from the cloud of blue smoke that erupted from the pistol. The distinctive scent of black powder was overpowering.
Modesty screamed. The intruder, an expression of utter stupefaction on his face, staggered backward, clutching his chest where a blood-red blossom bloomed. In horror Thea watched as he collapsed on the floor in front of her, the dagger clenched in his hand. He twitched, groaned, and lay still.
Shaken and sickened, unexpected sobs racking her body, Thea sank down on the edge of her bed. Thunderstruck, Modesty stared at her, then at the body on the floor, then once again at Thea.
Without a word, she reached for the bellpull and gave it several firm yanks. This was no time for the sensibilities of the servants—if any of them were still asleep after the pistol shot.
Putting down the candelabrum on a table, she came to Thea. Gently, she inspected Thea's bruises and wounds. There was silence between them as she continued her inventory, but her touch was soft and comforting. Blotting the tears with a corner of her dressing robe, she murmured, "Now, hush, chicken. It is all over. No one can hurt you now. You are safe."
The horrified exclamations from Tillman and a burly footman, who appeared in the doorway, made Modesty glance up from what she was doing. Looking at Tillman, she said, "We will need some warm water and some mulled wine." She glanced down at the body. "And remove this object from the house—take it out into the garden for now—do not let the other servants see what you are about. Oh, and after that send"—she glanced at the footman beside Tillman—"Eldon to Mr. Blackburne's, requesting his immediate presence." She bent a stern look at Tillman. "Not a word of this to anyone else. Tell the other servants that Miss Garrett had a nightmare and fell out of bed in her fright." Her eyes hard, she added, "Any notion that they heard a shot is to be dismissed as nonsense. Do you understand me?"
His own face grim, Tillman nodded, and, as if by magic, he and Eldon disappeared, shutting the door firmly behind them.
Modesty sat down on the bed beside Thea, one hand rubbing comfortingly up and down Thea's back.
The worst of Thea's sobs lessened and with a wobbly, teary smile, she muttered, "Has anyone ever told you that you would make a good general?"
Modesty beamed at her. "Do you know that is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me?" She took another considering look at Thea, noticing the bruises that were popping out all over her face and body. The bruises would fade and the knife slashes on her shoulder, neck, and wrist were not deep. With clever arrangement of scarves and gloves the knife wounds could be hidden until they healed. Thea's face was another matter.
"I suppose we should be grateful for one thing," Modesty said.
"And that is?"
Modesty patted Thea's hand. "You and your bridegroom will sport, I fear, identical black eyes for your wedding."
Chapter 15
By the time Patrick arrived, the body had been removed and Thea and Modesty, both wearing dressing robes, met him in the small sitting room. Thea's wounds had been tended, and the cup of warm mulled wine Modesty pressed upon her helped to restore her shattered nerves.
Patrick entered the house like the blast of a storm front, brushing past Tillman as if he didn't exist. "Where is she?" he demanded, never halting in his forward rush. When Tillman told him, his long legs made short work of the distance that separated him from Thea. His dark face tight and set, he plunged into the sitting room and only the sight of Thea in a rose-hued dressing gown, sitting on the small sofa, halted his charge. She looked very small and unbearably dear as she sat there, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her big, dark eyes full of remembered terror. Dear God! She was safe. He never again wanted to experience the raw fright that consumed him when he had been awakened by the news that one of her servants was downstairs in his house demanding that he come immediately to her side. His mind filled with monstrous scenarios, never had the distance that separated their residences seemed so great.
Standing a few feet inside the doorway, Patrick took a deep breath and fought to control his fierce emotions. She was alive and, it appeared, despite the purple marks on her face, unharmed. But the bruising on her face made his heart freeze, and a dangerous, inimical gleam leaped into his gray eyes. Crossing the room, he sank to one knee in front of her, his hands covering hers. His gaze on her pale features, he asked, "What happened? Your servant would tell me nothing but that I must come at once." He smiled without humor. "I considered throttling him on the spot."
Thea sent him a shaky smile. "I think our intruder from Curzon Street came to pay me a visit." She swallowed and her chilled fingers tightened on his strong, warm hands. "I shot him. I-I-I killed him, Patrick."
"Just as well," he replied evenly, his eyes never leaving hers. "It saves me the trouble." His gaze roamed over her, taking an inventory of the wounds, his mouth growing grim when he noticed for the first time the cotton wrap around her right wrist. With cool efficiency, he undid Modesty's neat bandage. A muscle bunched in his jaw as he stared at the thin, red line that marred her soft, white skin. Tenderly, he kissed the scarlet laceration, the knowledge that only by chance he had not lost her that night clawing at his vitals. Fighting to master the naked fury against the man who had laid hands on her, he continued his careful scrutiny.
"I really am unharmed," she said. "He attacked me with a knife, and I have a few cuts, but nothing very serious."
"Hmmm, is that so?" Patrick asked, one lean hand deftly moving aside the collar of her dressing gown. That betraying muscle jumped in his jaw once more as he examined the slash on her neck and the second one on her shoulder.
Unnerved by his cool manner and embarrassed by the familiar way his gaze and hands were running over her, Thea muttered, "I'm fine—really. I told you—he did no great harm. Ask Modesty—she already did a thorough examination."
Patrick's eyes swung to Modesty, and her quick nod gave him the answer to his unasked question.
"Indeed, just as you," she confirmed, "I had to assure myself that she was relatively unscathed." Her eyes twinkling, she said, "I can assure you, dear sir, that except for bruises and the three cuts, there is nothing to worry about." Wryly, she added, "She will live—no thanks to our intruder."
>
"Ah, yes, the intruder," Patrick murmured sinking back onto his heels. "And where might his, er, remains be?"
"I had the servants take the body into the garden. Would you like to see it for yourself?" Modesty replied.
Patrick nodded. Rising to her feet, Modesty looked at Thea, and said, "We shall not be gone long, chicken."
But Thea had no intention of being cosseted any longer. Her dark eyes still too big for her face, she stood up, and said firmly, "I will come with you."
Patrick and Modesty exchanged a glance. Modesty made a face and shrugged. Patrick stared for a long moment at Thea and nodded. It would be easier, he decided, to have Thea close at hand than to leave her alone.
It was damp and cool in the garden, wisps of fog drifting over the manicured shrubs and neat borders. The body was lying on a patch of lawn just outside the house; Eldon stood nearby, a flickering candle clutched in one hand.
Patrick and Modesty both carried double-branched candlesticks, and, in the golden glow of their light, they regarded the body. The dead man lay facedown, but Patrick could tell from the quality and cut of his coat and breeches that he had been no common housebreaker. The boots looked to be of good leather and, even in the wavering candlelight, their shine was apparent.
His face expressionless, Patrick used the toe of his own highly polished boot to tip the body on its back. Thea and Modesty shrank together at the ghastly sight of the gaping wound that had killed him; the footman, his face green, turned away.
Patrick studied the wound and then the slack features of the dead man. He did not recognize him, but he suspected he knew his name.
Glancing at Modesty, he asked, "Have you notified the proper authorities?"
Modesty shook her head. "No. I wanted you to be apprised of the situation first."
"Very quick thinking—my compliments." He looked back at the house. "Do we know how he entered?"
"Yes, that was another thing I had Tillman do while we were waiting for you to arrive—we checked all the doors and windows and discovered that the door to the tradesman's entrance had been forced. It was standing ajar when Tillman found it, and we assume that he entered the house from there."
Patrick frowned, his eyes on Thea. "Was there any sign of robbery?"
Modesty shook her head. "No. As near as we can tell, he broke in through the tradesman's entrance and went directly to Thea's room. None of the other rooms of the house appeared to have been touched. I had Tillman examine them all."
"He came to kill me, didn't he?" Thea asked painfully.
There was no hiding the truth from her, and Patrick nodded. "From everything that I have just learned, it would seem so, my sweet." He smiled, a smile that, despite the circumstances, made Thea feel warm and protected. "And you, my clever little darling, managed to beat him at his own game."
Thea shuddered. "It was only by chance that I am not the one lying dead. If I had been asleep..." She swallowed. "Or if I had not kept that dueling pistol in my drawer..." The words trailed off as the horror of the night washed over her.
In an instant Patrick's strong arms were around her, his lips buried in the black-silk hair at her temple. "Don't think of it," he urged. "It is over. You are safe." He lifted his head to look down at her. "And I will keep you safe. I swear it by the moon above."
Modesty cleared her throat, and they both looked at her. "At the moment, beyond ourselves, Eldon, the servant who came to your house, and Tillman are the only ones who know what happened." She looked meaningfully at Patrick. "They are both discreet and have an abiding loyalty to the family—especially to Thea. Eldon is Tillman's nephew, and Tillman has been with the Garretts since he was a young man, and his father before him. They will say nothing. However, if you think that it best that we notify the authorities, I shall send Eldon to do so."
Keeping an arm around Thea's shoulders, Patrick shook his head. "Not yet, if you please. I want him identified, and I know just the fellow to tell me."
If Nigel was astonished to be ordered from his bed and to come posthaste to Grosvenor Square, there was no sign of it on his face when Patrick met him in the hall of Thea's house. One eyebrow did quirk upward at the sight of the two women in their dressing gowns, but beyond that he betrayed nothing. In his dark blue jacket, buff breeches, and exquisitely tied cravat, he looked as if he were prepared to stroll down St. James's Street instead of finding himself in the home of the notorious Thea Garrett as the hour approached five o'clock in the morning.
As he and Patrick strode down the hall toward the back of the house, he murmured, "I trust that you have an exemplary reason for having me dragged from my bed at this hour of the morning."
Patrick grinned at him. "Never tell me that you were actually abed?"
"For an hour only," Nigel said, quick to maintain his reputation for carousing.
"Then you couldn't possibly have been very deeply asleep, now could you?" Patrick said as he ushered his friend out into the garden. At the sight of the body, Nigel stopped, his blue eyes opening very wide, his composure shaken.
"Good Gad!" he exclaimed. "What the devil is going on here?"
"Oh, nothing very much," Patrick drawled, "only an attempt at murder, which Thea managed to thwart... and shoot the culprit in the process."
"My word, my word," Nigel muttered, walking carefully around the sprawled body. After staring for several seconds at the face revealed in the wavering light of the candle, he glanced over at Patrick. "You never met 'im, did you?" At the shake of Patrick's head, he nodded. "Didn't think so. Well, allow me to introduce you to the, ah, late Mr. Thomas Ellsworth."
"I rather thought that was his name," Patrick said.
Nigel looked at Eldon hovering nearby. Motioning to Patrick to follow him, he walked a short distance away.
"How many people know about this?" Nigel asked in a low undertone.
Patrick shrugged. "The ladies, the butler, his nephew over there, and you and I."
Nigel made a vexed sound. "Six altogether. A large number to keep a secret... especially a secret like this!"
"Modesty has informed me that Tillman and Eldon, Tillman's nephew, hold a longtime allegiance to the family—they will say nothing." At Nigel's look of relief, Patrick added, "However, nearly all of the household knows that something happened tonight—Tillman sent them back to bed with a tale that Thea had been awakened by a nightmare and disoriented and frightened, fell in her bedroom, knocking over several items. They probably don't believe it—not when a pistol was fired in the house—but they can hardly call Tillman a liar to his face. They may speculate, but if we present a united front, we should brush through with a modicum of gossip."
"Damn and blast! In another hour it will be all over London! You know how servants gossip—even if they don't really know what went on."
"Once we report it to the authorities, what the servants say won't matter," Patrick replied, his eyes fixed on Nigel's face.
"Well, we ain't going to report it—and you know it," Nigel said, sending Patrick a fulminating look. "Thing is, we have to think this thing through before we do anything foolish."
"What do you propose?" Patrick asked, relieved that Nigel's thinking ran along the same path as his.
"I ain't proposing anything at the moment," Nigel complained. "But I'll tell you one thing that's as plain as a pikestaff—none of us needs to be connected to a dead man." He flashed Patrick a glance. "Especially not Thea! We know she is innocent, but do you think the rest of London will think so? Your unexpected betrothal and hasty wedding is causing enough gossip as it is—and the beating you received the other night only added fuel to an already-raging inferno of curiosity. The very last thing either one of you needs is a dead man laid at your feet."
Nodding, Patrick murmured, "Yes, I agree with you. The servants will not talk—Miss Bradford already confirmed that." He paused, running a plan through his mind. "You came by carriage?" At Nigel's nod, he added, "Then unless your coachman is not to be trusted, I suggest you have yo
ur coach brought to the back of the house and that we put Ellsworth in your carriage and take a ride out to Hounslow Heath. Ellsworth will have been the unfortunate victim of a highwayman."
"My coachman will keep mum," Nigel snapped, offended that Patrick would think otherwise. He considered the plan a moment. "It'll do," Nigel finally pronounced. "The main thing is that the body is not found here."
Returning to the ladies, Patrick told them the dead man's name and what he and Nigel intended to do with the body. "Why don't we simply notify Bow Street?" Thea asked, her huge dark eyes fastened on Patrick's face. "I did kill the man."
Patrick sighed and glanced across at Modesty. The three of them were alone in the small morning room: Nigel, Tillman, and Eldon were busy placing Ellsworth's body in Nigel's carriage at the back of the house.
Correctly reading Patrick's look, Modesty said from her position on the settee, "That may be true, my dear, but have you thought about all the implications of what happened? You have shot and killed a man in your bedroom on the eve of your wedding to Patrick—no one is going to believe that it was anything but a final assignation gone wrong. The gossip and scandal will utterly drown out the truth. The very worst connotation will be put upon your every action." Her eyes dropped, and she ended slyly, "Of course, for Patrick it will be even worse—he will probably have to fight a half dozen duels defending your honor before you are married a fortnight. Poor fellow. If you insist upon notifying Bow Street, we must hope that your new husband will be as talented with the sword and pistol as his reputation declares."
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