by Julia Donner
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dull gleam of her pistol on the ground and launched herself at it. Her flying leap got blocked with a shove. She fell, skidding painfully on her back, but now the pistol’s outline pressed into her spine.
Cassandra counted three men. She wondered if they were from Bow Street. From what she could see, they didn’t appear shabbily dressed, nor did they immediately set upon her, like criminals or vagrants.
One of the fog-blurred outlines laughed nervously and crept closer. “Wot we got uz ‘ere be the cull’s mate.”
She dared not speak. Her speech would give her away. Her hair stayed bound up, but without the hat, the pins were loosening. She lay lower in the shadows and hoped that they couldn’t see her hair.
The man holding her father’s hat edged nearer. She felt the reassuring presence of the pistol pressing into her back. It was her only chance. They grew bolder, edging closer, circling.
The man with her father’s hat leaned over, reaching down to pull her up. He stopped when a silky threat came out of the shadows.
“I fear you’ve chased down the proverbial wrong alley, gentlemen. I am he you seek.”
The three men turned, one in time to receive a swift rap on the jaw from a cane. The dull crack of shattered bone and a pained cry split the dank air. While that man fell, the cane swung up and smacked another skull. The remaining man sprang at the murky figure before the cane could do more damage.
A confusing scuffle began, interspersed with the thuds of bone and flesh connecting. Then a long groan, the sound of air and strength leaving a body. One of the men slumped to the ground.
Cassandra rolled, grabbed the pistol and stood. Needles of pain prickled along her arm, but her pistol hand stayed steady. She had no idea which man ended up the victor, the arrogant voice out of the fog or one of her captors. She had no time to consider alternatives. Another man came around the corner with her father’s horse in tow. This new arrival hesitated for only a second before reaching into his coat. She saw the glint of a raised knife blade.
The victor of the fight turned and rushed at her, but his manner wasn’t menacing. His approach and posture suggested an attempt to protect her. The knife, poised and about to be thrown, wasn’t aimed at her, but at the man moving to shield her body with his own.
Cassandra stepped to one side and steadied her aim. Unable to stop herself or consider the consequences, she fired.
The pistol’s report rattled down the alleyways, briefly silencing the wharf’s muffled noises. The knife clattered onto the cobblestones.
The gelding squealed and lunged. Cassandra dazedly dropped the pistol and leaped through the acrid smoke for the dangling reins. She grabbed the headstall as the horse surged by her and hung on. Lifted from the ground, she clung to the leather straps and used her weight to bring down the horse’s head. She dug in her heels when the plunging horse began to drag her down the alley. A firm hand caught the other side of the bridle. Between them, they got the gelding’s head down and the quivering horse under control.
“Have you got the beast in hand, Arthur?” a voice asked, wild and strangely jovial. “I must go back and fetch the pistol and your hat. We bloody well don’t need a second murder attached to your name!”
Hidden on the other side of the horse, Cassandra clamped her palm over the horse’s nostrils to keep him quiet. She released the velvety nose to wipe back the thick veil of her hair that had fallen in front of her eyes and over her shoulders. When she adjusted her grip on the reins, the nervous horse ducked his head to rub his cheek against an outstretched foreleg.
In the dim light of a nearby wall lantern, Cassandra looked directly into the face of Arthur’s friend and her companion in crime. His eyes widened, as did her own, when they recognized each other.
“Good God, Miss Seyton! What are you…? Come!”
He took the reins and led the prancing horse up the alley ahead of her. The men on the ground were beginning to stir as he leaned over to pick up her father’s hat and coat. He tossed them to her and shoved her father’s pistol into his coat’s side pocket. He picked up his cane then whacked the men struggling to get up. His slick and thoughtless efficiency caused her to shudder and wonder if anyone else knew this side of a peer welcomed in every London house.
Cassandra followed, confused and shaking. She ignored the dead man she’d shot, unable to think about it right now. She grabbed the horse’s tail for support and guidance and stumbled after the gelding’s wide rump.
They stopped beside a closed carriage, where she stood and listened as Arthur’s friend gave swift, whispered orders to the groom letting down the carriage steps.
“Get this horse away from here as fast as you can without creating attention. Put him in my stable. I’ll tell you what to do with him later.”
The servant mounted and disappeared into the fog. Her rescuer grabbed her father’s coat and hat and flung them into the carriage. He next captured her wrist and nearly threw her into the brougham. He climbed in after her, shutting the carriage door. He pressed her down onto the carriage floor, squeezing her between the footrest and opposite seat, then covered her with a heavy lap rug.
Arthur’s friend rapped the head of his cane on the carriage ceiling. “Stepson, turn the carriage, as if we were coming from the Two Cocks.”
The carriage made a slow, tight turn at the end of the narrow street. Cassandra’s hair, caught under her shoulder, tore at her scalp. When she tried to adjust her position, a boot warned her with a nudge in the ribs to be still.
Voices outside the carriage ordered them to stop. Cassandra listened, stiff and terrified, as her rescuer diverted the interrogators with an imitation of a drunken peer on his way home after a night in the stews. While he smoothly acted out a convincing sham, she began to realize that Arthur’s friend, who held a secretive government position, might be a spy.
Chapter 11
Cassandra considered it fortunate she’d spent a large portion of her life in the stables. The language being bandied about outside the carriage door would’ve thrown an ordinary miss into a fit of hysterics. The raucous conversation ended when her rescuer tossed some coins out the window to dull any suspicions or memories.
She endured each pothole and corner lying crushed and cramped on the straw-littered floor. When she heard him give the coachman her address, she flung off the rug, sat up with a gasp and sucked in fresh air.
Her companion offered his hand to assist her onto the opposite seat. Lifting a quizzing glass, he urbanely said, “I must say, it’s doing it up a bit brown to go chasing after one’s lover dressed as a man. I’m not a catamite keeper myself, so you must permit me to observe that your limbs are set to remarkably fine advantage in breeches.”
Aggravated and bruised inside and out, Cassandra lifted her chin. “I’m scarcely a child and didn’t invite you to encroach upon my private affairs. What I do is no business of yours, Lord Asterly.”
“On the contrary, it is all my business! You nearly had us both in chains. Permit me to remind you, I saved your lovely neck back there in that alley.”
She rounded on him with, “And I’ve heard no thanks for saving yours!”
He chuckled, low and sleek. “Touché!”
Cassandra calmed, mollified by his acknowledgment of her part in the rescue. “What of Arthur? Do you know where they’ve taken him?”
The brougham slowed at an intersection. A flambeau held by a linkboy on the corner briefly lit Asterly’s grim expression. “We must suppose he’s being locked up in gaol.”
She covered the sob with her hand. Silent tears of futility and frustration burned through the grime smeared on her cheeks.
Asterly shifted to sit beside her and took her hand. “Now-now, my dear. We still have some hope, and I promise that Arthur will have the very best counsel.”
“Why couldn’t it have been me who shot that miserable rotter? I really should’ve, you know. Now my poor Arthur will hang, and all on my account!”
“He won’t hang. I have some influence, and Beason’s reputation will win Arthur some sympathy. He won’t escape without some form of sentence, but I assure you that he will not hang.”
Cassandra looked out at the muddy dark beyond the lowered window. They’d left the stench of the wharves behind. “Australia?”
“I cannot say if he’ll end up there, and you mustn’t take all the blame on your own shoulders. Arthur was, and still is besotted, and who can blame him? You’re the most sought-after miss of the Season.”
“I vow that I’ll not rest until he’s free. First entrapped by his guardian, and now, the law. It’s so unfair!”
“Life often is, my dear. May I offer you my handkerchief?”
“Yes, please.” She rubbed her face and stoutly blew her nose. “Do you happen to know how Beason was given guardianship? They can’t possibly be related.”
“I believe through his mother’s unfortunate marriage to the beast. It’s well-known that Arthur’s birth is out of hand. His face is a mirror of his father’s.”
“Yes, I recognized that immediately. We are almost at my house. Please, tell the coachman to drive to the back gate.”
After he complied with her request, Cassandra asked, “Will I see you soon? I must have word of Arthur.”
“No, I don’t think that would be wise. We’ll encounter each other socially; there is no escape of that. You may write to me later. I shall give you an address, but you must write only when necessary. Our names must not be linked until after this incident is forgotten.”
“But you’ll let me know how it goes with Arthur?”
“You may be assured of that. Your house is dark. They must not have missed you.”
“Aunt Duncan attended the opera and then went to a late supper. She should be well asleep by now.”
“What of the doors? Aren’t they bolted for the night?”
“That is nothing. I shall get in the way I got out.”
“And how is that, you wicked child?”
She made a grin for him that was slow and sly. “I will show you!”
Asterly handed her out of the carriage in the grand manner, as if arriving at Carlton house or a ball. He instructed the coachman to drive down the street and around the corner. When he quietly closed the carriage door, she saw the bold gleam of his crest under the lacquer.
“Sir, that crest is a beacon. You dared to use it and risk your family name while helping Arthur?”
“The carriage belongs to my brother. No one in their right mind would connect him with what happened at the docks. Nevertheless, Arthur is worth the risk. He’s aided me often and in ways I can’t explain.”
He smiled at her disappointed pout. “No, I will not tell you about it! Show me this escape route of yours. We can’t remain here overlong.”
She led him through the garden to the sinewy-limbed tree beneath her balcony. He used his quizzing glass to gaze up through the branches of the ancient oak.
“That may have been an easy descent, Juliet, but how doth thou return?”
“With your assistance, sir! Give me a leg up, will you?”
“What a minx it is!”
Casting off his façade of mocking urbanity, he flashed the most disarming and irresistible smile Cassandra had ever seen. She reciprocated, wondering why he didn’t use it more often in public.
She planted a swift kiss on his cheek, which was beginning to need a shave. “Thank you for helping us, dear Mutual Friend!”
“If I am to be rewarded so charmingly each time I offer my humble services, I shall present myself regularly for collection.”
She laughed out loud at his playful leer and quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. They listened, waiting for a sign they’d been discovered.
She whispered, “Give me that leg up, will you?”
“Your servant, Miss Seyton, if you will forgive any familiarity.”
He knelt, guided her knee on his shoulder and grabbed a handful of the back of her jacket. She braced one hand on his head and reached with the other for the nearest limb as he stood. She marveled at his strength, hoisting her up like that, since she was not small.
Cassandra didn’t immediately scale the tree and perched on a sturdy limb to look down at him through her swinging boots.
When he motioned for her to climb up, she shook her head. “You have a smile much like Sir Harry’s.”
“Please, my dear, no references to my dissolute twin.”
“Very well. How soon before you write to me, Mutual Friend?”
“You are a thoroughly unmanageable brat! Climb up before you are noticed.”
“How am I to be noticed?” she said, scornful and incredulous. “Who would look for the famous Miss Seyton in an oak tree?”
“What monstrous conceit it has!” He braced a hand against the tree trunk and grinned up at her. “I say, Miss Seyton, I believe I’ve neglected to properly thank you for saving my life. Demmed lucky shot, if you ask me!”
“Foot! Luck had nothing to do with it. I was shooting grouse for dinner when I should’ve been sewing samplers.”
“Oh-ho!” he taunted, lifting the quizzing glass. His magnified eye, huge and unblinking behind the lens, made a study of her legs. “And who taught you this unmaidenly sport?”
“Uncle Duncan and Foster Macpherson, his gillie. Father taught me cards, and Uncle Duncan’s nephew taught me how to wrestle. They do it the right way up in Scotland. No fiddling about with nonsensical rules up there! I can shoe a horse passably well, too. I drive to an inch and can hide a poached salmon from your best hound, and someday, I’m going to learn how to box! You will teach me, won’t you? You were simply marvelous in the alley. Punishing, really!”
He ruefully shook his head and swatted her boot. “A veritable paragon! Here I stand, literally and physically at your feet, along with the rest of London’s males, when I really should fly away before we’re found out. You have corrupted me, Miss Seyton.”
She smirked then hardened her expression. “Someone else had that honor long before we met, sir.”
“What claws this vixen has!”
“I thank you,” she sweetly replied, presenting her dimples.
Asterly solemnly gazed up at her, as if trapped in a tragic vision, and the alteration in his face had her staring. His intense, studious expression was the opposite of the flirting cavalier. She marveled that anyone could change so much in appearance between a smile and a frown.
“Mutual Friend, do you think I killed him—that man in the alley?”
“We may never know. T’would be wise if you quit London until this blows over and is forgotten, Miss Seyton.”
“I suppose you’re right. Perhaps Aunt Duncan would take me to Scotland.”
“Persuade her to do so.”
He took his leave with an elegant bow, as if they were in a withdrawing room. “Never change, Miss Seyton.”
She softly called after him, “I promise. God bless you, and I shall pray for you, Mutual Friend.”
He stopped and blew her a kiss from his fingertips. She waved back and began to scale the tree. She moved from limb to limb with ease and swung down onto the small protrusion of her bedroom’s narrow balcony. The reality of what had happened in a few, swift hours swept over her.
Cassandra’s knees buckled. She sank down and sat with a thud, all energy suddenly drained out of her body. She pressed her brow against the balcony’s cold iron bars and peered through, feeling forlorn and afraid. Two men had been shot this night—both because of her and one by her own hasty hand. The horror of it settled over her. She grasped the dew-damp metal bars, felt its cold impressed into her flesh and inhaled a shaky breath.
“So this is how it feels, Arthur. You were my very last hope. I’m left with yet another secret. The other was bad enough, but now, no honorable man will have me if I tell him I’ve killed someone.”
“Cassandra Jane Elizabeth Seyton!”
Cassandra winced and peered over her shoulder.
Lady Duncan stood behind her attired in opera finery. Cosmetics no longer helped to cover skin coarsened from years of face paint. Rage lent a purple cast to her usually sallow complexion coarsened by the puce color of her voluminous gown. Standing to one side, Tessa cowered in the shadow of her aunt’s considerable bulk.
Lady Duncan’s gruff command, a combination of steel and disdain, sent chilling dread throughout Cassandra’s tired body.
“Niece, I suggest you come out of the unhealthy night air. We shall have words, if you please.”
Cassandra swallowed a groan and gripped the railing to hoist herself to her feet. Every muscle in her body protested. The spot on her spine throbbed where she landed on the pistol, and her clothes smelled of the harbor, but when Aunt Duncan spoke, people obeyed. She huffed a sigh, left the balcony to present herself to her aunt, not knowing what to say in the face of her aunt’s extreme and justifiable displeasure.
“Your conduct this evening in my absence is beyond comprehension. You must think me lacking in any particles of brain to suppose that I would condone—”
“Aunt Jane, Beason is dead.”
Lady Duncan raised her rust-colored eyebrows without allowing the rest of her granite-hard features to move. “Lud, how very accommodating. Did you take it upon yourself to put a period to his disobliging existence?”
Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt lifted a gloved hand, palm out. “No, do not tell me. I’ve decided that I don’t wish to know. You’ve obviously been a part of something horrendous to look so contrite. Since Beason is dead, I shall change my plans. We depart for Scotland at dawn. Neither of us will be present when this scandal explodes. The scandalmongers may have their fun castigating the accouterment I shall leave behind as a distraction.”
“Accouterment? Do you mean a fake trail?”
“Stupid gel, of course. A plausible lie about someone else must be manufactured to redirect their attention from this fiasco. I shall handle everything. You are fatigued, child. Go to bed. Tessart, stop cowering over there and come assist my niece.”