by Brenda Hiatt
Bitterness rose up in her throat at the thought but she would never willingly abide by the horridly unequal standards of acceptable behavior for women compared to men.
Clinging to that grim vow, Xena headed upstairs to her bedchamber to ponder her options—only to be met by a smiling Gretchen.
“I’ve laid out your prettiest nightgown, mum, as it seemed likely you might have company tonight.” She tittered, a hand over her mouth.
Xena frowned at the maid. “Whatever do you mean, Gretchen? Company?”
“Why, your Mr. Thatcher, of course, who else? Everyone below stairs was abuzz with how famously the two of you was getting on over dinner. Matthew, the footman what served you, told us. ‘Course, Mrs. MacKay and the others have said all along as how things were bound to turn out right for you both.”
Unfortunately, the servants could not have been more wrong.
Still, Xena was curious. “Why should they think so?”
“Because this here’s a lucky house for romance.” Gretchen spoke matter-of-factly. “No doubt that’s why Lord Peter wanted the two of you to bide here.”
Snorting a mirthless laugh, Xena shook her head. “Lucky? Come, Gretchen, you must know that is mere superstition.”
The maid shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit of it, mum! Why, Lord Peter and his wife, they married sudden-like after knowing each other barely a week and after just a few days here in this house, they turned out happy as larks. Same for his younger brother, Lord Marcus. Him and his bride was forced to marry because of some scandal or other. They was at each other’s throats at first, too, from what Millie says. Yet they’re happy as anything now, too—and the change happened whilst they was living right here.”
“Two instances is scarcely proof,” Xena pointed out.
“How ‘bout three, then? Lord Edward, another one of their brothers, lived here before his marriage, too, and after. He and his wife scarce knew each other at all—one of them marriages for money, I think—but now they’ve a little one and so in love it’s hardly decent, by all accounts. And Mrs. Walsh, who’s been here nigh forever, says there’s more what found love in this house in generations past. Mark my words, mum, the luck will work for you and your Mr. Thatcher, too.”
Though it was clearly all gammon, Gretchen spoke with such certainty that Xena’s mood lightened slightly in spite of herself. Still, she shook her head. “If so, ’twill be a near miracle, I fear. Though our evening may have begun well, it did not end so. Mr. Thatcher left a few minutes ago, and in quite a temper.”
“You do tend to be a bit too plain-spoken for your own good, mum, begging your pardon.”
Xena’s lips twitched. “You are a fine one to talk, Gretchen. But I’ve ever been one to prefer honesty to polite untruths despite the consequences.”
“Yet you won’t tell Mr. Thatcher the truth about you and him having a son?”
Ouch. “I will. But only when the time is right. Tonight…was not that time.”
Would that time ever come now? First she would have to somehow mend things with Harry—while at the same time making him understand that she’d not tolerate his double standard. If he wished her to remain faithful, he must be willing to pledge the same, something she doubted he would do.
Still, if she could stay awake until his return, she would confront him over the issue this very night. What had she to lose?
* * *
On reaching the ornate iron railing surrounding Apsley House, Harry paused to take stock and determine his best way to proceed. It was only then that he noticed the white cuff of his shirt protruding past his coat sleeve, like a beacon in the dark. His high-point collar was likely even more visible.
He supposed his wisest course would be to change clothes before making this undoubtedly risky attempt, but the thought of the long walk to Seven Dials and back in his current unsteady state decided him against it. How difficult could this be, really? It was just another housebreaking—and Wellington surely had it coming. The Duke himself must admit that cuckolding a fellow officer was bad form.
By way of compromise, Harry pulled off his cravat and stuffed it in his pocket, then detached his collar and did the same. Not much he could do about the cuff, as it would require another hand to tuck it into his sleeve. He’d simply keep it as close to his body as possible until he’d gained the inside of the house.
Only one or two windows in the front of the house showed lights, so Wellington was likely still out at some do or other, leaving only servants for Harry to elude—something he was fairly confident he could do despite his narrow shave a week since. Slipping through the open front gate, he went around to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows.
No rear windows had been left conveniently ajar—not surprising, as the night was uncomfortably chilly—but that did not concern him unduly as by now he was nearly as skilled at unlocking windows as doors. Not until he reached the dark window farthest from the lit kitchens did he remember that, in addition to his usual disguise, his housebreaking tools were back in the flat in Seven Dials.
Muttering a curse at his own stupidity—and again regretting that last bottle of wine—he went to work on the window anyway, jiggling the sash to discover its locking mechanism. A simple small drop-bar—easy enough to dislodge with a thin strip of metal slipped between sash and frame…which was among his other tools in Seven Dials. What might he use as an expedient?
Searching through his trouser pockets, he found a pair of his Saint cards left over from a previous caper—a bit of luck, as those were something else he hadn’t thought to bring along. Carefully, he jimmied the rectangle of stiff parchment through the crack along the edge of the window, then slid it up until it contacted the locking bar. So far, so good.
Thoroughly absorbed in his task, he nearly forgot his surroundings until a shout from the direction of the kitchens recalled him. He’d been spotted! With a muffled oath, he ducked behind some ornamental bushes and scurried, still crouching, close along the side of the house toward the gate where he’d entered. With any luck, whoever had seen him would be content with having driven off the intruder…
But luck was not with Harry that night, it seemed. He’d barely reached the corner of the great house when more shouts came from behind, then the sounds of hurrying feet. A moment later he heard remarkably military-sounding orders called and remembered something he should have considered sooner—many, if not most, of Wellington’s menservants were former soldiers.
As recognition would be nearly as disastrous as capture, Harry broke and ran full-tilt for the gate, making sure to keep his left side out of view from any who might come round the corner before he could make his escape. Running as hard as his inebriated state would allow, he achieved the gate and sprinted off down Constitution Hill along the edge of Green Park, thinking to take a circuitous route East toward Seven Dials.
For a dozen steps he thought he’d been successful in eluding pursuit—then the sound of a shot shattered the night, accompanied by a cry to halt. His heart now fairly in his throat, Harry swerved to the park railing and vaulted it, wishing Green Park boasted more trees. Perhaps if he cut straight across and back up to Piccadilly…? But already it was too late. From the corner of his eye, he saw at least two of those after him veering left to cut off that avenue of retreat.
“Damned soldiers,” he panted, swerving back to the right to fling himself over the railing again, now aiming for St. James’s Park, which offered more chance for concealment.
“Tally-ho!” came a shout from behind. “I’ve spotted ‘im, men! After me!”
By now Harry’s right side felt as though seized by a large claw. Drawing breath grew more and more painful, but he dared not slacken his pace. Darting into The Mall between the two parks, he dodged and wove through the trees, hoping thereby to confuse his pursuers before hurling himself over the railing into St. James’s Park.
The trees here were widely spaced, offering little cover, but he made use of what he could as he appr
oached the lane bisecting the park. On the verge of collapse, Harry whisked behind the next good-sized tree he came to in order to catch his breath and better hear what the ex-soldiers were shouting to each other. It sounded as though none were quite positive where he’d gone. Yet.
By now his exertions combined with the excitement of the chase had gone a long way toward clearing his head. What a complete dolt he’d been! Madness to attempt robbing such a well-guarded house, so ill-equipped and clad for the task and after over-imbibing as he had—the primary cause of that error in judgment. If he were apprehended or even killed, it would serve him right.
Still, they didn’t have him yet. Peering cautiously around his tree, he saw six or seven men milling about near where he’d jumped the railings while their apparent leader ordered them to make a methodical search of the park.
“I saw a shadow go over the fence. He’s in here somewhere. If we get him and he turns out to be the Saint, think of the reward!”
Thus motivated, the group fanned out to search among the trees. He would certainly be found in moments if he remained where he was, but moving would bring them even quicker. Which was the better option?
A low laugh followed by a feminine giggle a short distance away reminded him that despite the Regent’s recent efforts to clean up the Royal Parks, St. James’s was still popular with whores and those who partook of their wares. In hopes of duplicating the ruse that had served him so well a week since, Harry scanned the ground near his feet and was rewarded by the sight of several chestnuts within easy reach. Stooping, he snatched one up and hurled it in the direction of the trysting couple—and was rewarded by a shriek.
As he’d hoped, Wellington’s servants converged on the sound, giving Harry his chance. Not far ahead was the ornate yellow bridge Prinny had commissioned for some celebrations two years since. If he could duck behind it, he might have a chance of remaining concealed until the hunters gave up the chase.
On the very thought, he ran as quickly yet as lightly as he could toward the bridge. He was just crossing to its far side when more shots rang out, immediately followed by a searing pain in his side. He’d been hit!
Acting on nearly-forgotten battle instincts, Harry ran a short way up the bridge, then pitched himself off the side away from his pursuers. He hit the frigid water with a splash, then ducked under the scummy surface to swim as far from the bridge as he could manage before his air gave out. When it did, he carefully raised only his mouth and nose above the water for one deep breath, then continued swimming underwater, repeating the process again and again until he reached the far end of the canal, near the Horse Guards.
At that point, he finally dared raise his head far enough to look back and was gratified to see half a dozen men still milling about the foot of the bridge. Though he could not make out words from this distance, they sounded excited and pleased, clearly believing he’d been badly enough wounded to drown. Drawing a shaky sigh of relief, Harry waded through the shallows to a low copse by the bank where he was able to crawl out of the water within the cover it offered.
Though shivering violently by now, Harry forced himself to remain where he was until the men left the park entirely. Every muscle in his body seemed made of heavy stone when he finally forced himself to his feet to go…where?
Seven Dials would likely be his safest refuge and the distance was only slightly more than that to the house on Grosvenor Street but only at the latter could he be assured of a hot bath. In addition, Brewster had some experience at patching minor gunshot wounds, which his must surely be. Numb as he was from the icy water of the canal, he scarcely felt it now, especially in comparison to his aching legs and feet.
After traversing a few hundred yards, however, the burning in his side returned, a streak of fire in the otherwise frozen block that was his body. Though the distance was less than a mile, it took Harry the better part of an hour to reach the servants’ entrance of the Grosvenor Street house, by which time he was in considerable pain.
He unlocked the door as quietly as he could, peering down into the kitchen as he passed. As it was near midnight, only a single scullery maid was still there, putting away the last of the dinner pots and pans. Tiptoeing was quite beyond him but she was luckily making enough of a clatter to cover his clumsy footsteps. Availing himself of the back servant staircase, he made his weary, shivering way to the second story.
CHAPTER 17
A THUD from out in the hallway jerked Xena awake. She’d fallen into a doze while reading in the chair near her bed, awaiting Harry’s return. Judging by how little remained of the candle burning on the table next to her, she must have slept an hour or more. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pulled her wrapper more tightly around her and hurried to fling open her door.
Harry was still in the hallway, leaning heavily against his door as he groped for the handle. He appeared even drunker than when he’d left, but she was determined to speak with him nonetheless, for fear she might lose her resolve by morning.
“Now you are home, there are a few things we must—”
She broke off, startled. “Goodness, Harry, you are soaking wet! What on earth happened to you?”
He glanced down at his dripping clothes. “Tripped. Fell into horse trough,” he mumbled. “Hot bath’ll help.” As he reached again for the handle of his chamber door, a violent shudder shook his frame.
“Yes, and without delay, I should think.” Stepping to his side, Xena opened the door for him. “Have a bath drawn at once,” she instructed his startled valet. “And extra blankets brought up, as well.”
Brewster glanced at Harry, who nodded, apparently shivering too much now to form words. The man disappeared.
“Now, we must get you out of those wet things at once, or you will certainly catch a chill.” Xena spoke matter-of-factly, tamping down her curiosity…and worry. “Here, let me help you,” she added impatiently when Harry fumbled ineffectually with the buttons of his coat.
Quickly, she undid the buttons herself and stripped off his sopping coat, and waistcoat, then gasped at sight of his shirt, stained crimson along one side. “You are bleeding!”
Not waiting for him to force an answer through his chattering teeth, she gently tugged the shirt off over his head, then bent to examine the wound. Relief replaced the horror that had initially swept through her, more intense than any she’d felt in any battle surgery, on finding it less critical than she’d feared. Her curiosity intensified, however.
“Do not try to tell me a fall caused this, for I know a bullet wound when I see one, Harry, better than most. What really happened?”
He blinked a few times as though having difficulty bringing her face into focus. “C-c-caught a fellow cheating at cards,” he managed after a moment. “We fought and he grazed me. J-j-just a scratch, I think.”
“I will be the judge of that.” Already, she was gently exploring the area with her fingertips. “The bullet is still lodged, but barely below the skin. You were fortunate it did not go deeper, though you appear to have lost a lot of blood.”
Brewster returned then, his arms piled with blankets. Behind him were two footmen, one carrying a large copper bathing tub and the other two steaming kettles.
“That was very quick,” Xena commended them. “Thank you.”
“Water was still hot from the washing up.” The valet motioned the footmen to set up and begin filling the bath while he fetched the water pitcher from the dressing table. “Still, ’twill take a few more trips before— What—? How—?” He’d seen Harry’s wound.
“Your master has been shot,” Xena confirmed. “I don’t suppose any forceps are available in this house?”
Again, Brewster looked to Harry for an answer and again his master was no help.
“No matter.” Xena spoke briskly, as though addressing orderlies back on the battlefield. “Sugar tongs should do for this. Bring them up with the next pair of kettles.”
“Aye, mum. Right away, mum.” With respectful bows, the thre
e men scurried back out.
Picking up Harry’s ruined shirt, Xena tore a wide strip from the bottom. “Let’s get this cleaned up, shall we?”
She folded the cloth, dipped it into the tub, then gently laid it against his side. He winced, tensing, then slowly relaxed, his eyes beginning to drift closed.
“No, you mustn’t sleep, not yet. You’re half frozen still. Once we’ve warmed you up you can go to bed, but not before.”
After a moment, she decided the bullet hole in his side was clean enough and turned her attention to pulling off first his boots, then his breeches.
* * *
Harry had a vague feeling he shouldn’t allow Xena to undress him…that he had some reason to be upset with her…but could not at the moment recall what that reason was. As she methodically stripped his sodden nether garments from him, he again felt a pleasant lassitude overtaking his senses.
“Ah, good,” she startled him by exclaiming. “Yes, these should do.”
Harry was dimly aware of several people moving about the room, pouring kettle after kettle into the copper tub. Then Xena put a firm hand on his shoulder.
“This will likely hurt a bit, but I promise to be quick,” she said. He felt a sudden, sharp pain, and then it was gone. “There. The bullet is out. Now, let’s get you into this bath. Gentlemen, if you can assist me? I fear he hasn’t the strength to do this under his own power.”
Hands, some more gentle than others, grasped him about his knees, thighs and chest and then the warmth of the bath enveloped him—painful at first, as it thawed his extremities, then heavenly as the warmth penetrated to his very core. His eyes drifted shut with the sheer bliss of it. When he opened them, only Xena remained in the room and the water was merely tepid.
“Did I—?”
“Only for a few minutes,” she assured him. “Not to worry, I wouldn’t have let you drown—much as you deserve such a fate after behaving so foolishly.”