Dios. Violence aroused him. “Pig.” She struck him there again harder.
He swore, staggered and some of his force waned. And some of hers. Her grip on the knife loosened. She heard it skitter across the floor.
With another curse, he released her wrist.
“Vile.” With both hands she hoisted the vase. “Pig.” Leaded crystal slammed into his head.
An oof popped from his mouth. He lurched and grabbed the edge of the dressing table.
She coshed him again and watched him fold to the floor. With the vase as a shield, she peered closer. Whether his chest moved, it was too dark to tell, and the stench could be him or the rot of the flowers. For a long moment, she waited for him to stir, trying to think.
The dagger. Where was it? It was a treasured gift from Papa and must go with her. She would need it to face other threats on the London streets. She scrabbled over his dark form, expecting his hand to reach out for her ankle, keeping her own hand poised to cosh him again.
When he still didn’t stir, a new wave of terror surged in her.
Get away, Graciela. You must get away. If this man was dead, it would be bad for her, but if he lived, it would likely be worse.
She skirted around the narrow bed and swept open her window curtains, her eyes welcoming the dim bit of light. Somewhere in the fog, there must be a moon tonight.
Edging back again, she honed her vision, searching the dark masses at her feet, the wooden flooring, the carpet, the body.
There. At the corner of the bed lay something. She poked with her toe.
She gathered the blade, wiped it on the bedcover and shed the heavy shawl. The dark wool had cushioned her body from the force of the wooden door and protected her wrist from the full impact of his grip. Now, it would only pull her down. She must be light as a cat tonight.
He stirred and she gulped in air, relieved that he lived, terrified he would try to stop her escape.
Finding the key was out of the question, as was taking the time to pick the lock. She tossed the vase on her coverlet, drove the blade into its sheath, tied her skirts at her waist, and opened the window. The light-filled haze stung her nostrils. A faint dusting of coal, lighter now that the cold English spring had arrived, mixed with the jungle scents of Lord Kingsley’s garden and a more familiar scent.
The sea. She was three stories up, but no matter. She had climbed the main mast and walked a yard arm more than once in her days when Papa was not looking, and the next chamber over wasn’t so far.
Chapter 6
Charley paused at the mews to listen. A dim light seeped through the seams of the ramshackle stables behind the ill-kept garden.
Kingsley House was a very large dwelling situated on a respectable older street settled late in the century before last. There’d once been significant wealth here, but it had been lost by the current baron in bad speculation. That much he’d learned in his investigating that day.
At least one horse rustled and stamped in the small stable. Whatever other cattle Lord Kingsley kept were likely off with the new carriage.
A restless horse could be Lord Kingsley’s personal mount. Or...
Rattling stopped his thoughts. Dice, it was. A sound he knew well.
“Two sevens,” a man grumbled. “You win, and I’m done.”
“Give you a chance to win it back. Your master returns at dawn, and mine is busy inside.”
The accent was foreign. The chuckle that followed made Charley’s skin crawl.
He moved noiselessly through the darkness, picking his way down the crumbled stones of the path from the stables to the house, stopping at the steps that led up to the ballroom terrace. The windowed doors there might be the easiest access. The locks had been flimsy. The ballroom would be unoccupied.
However, he should at least test the door at the servants’ entrance. If they were not all gathered there drinking gin while their master was away, he’d prefer to slip in that way. And tonight, he’d gamble his last penny that they were all away.
He looked up at the house. All was dark, not so unusual with the master and mistress out. Not much light was needed to keep Miss Kingsley locked in her room.
Would there be guards set?
He slipped the latch on the door. Unlocked.
In the service entry, he paused to listen.
A dim light emanated from the larger room within—the servants’ hall probably. The scent of oil from a lamp tickled his nose.
No noise touched his ears and yet his skin rippled again. He peered through the doorway. The room was deserted.
At this hour at Shaldon House, there’d be a maid mending, or a cluster of servants chatting over their cups, or a footman at work servicing a pistol or honing a blade.
Carvelle was here, and Kingsley had sent his servants away. There was a special place in hell for men like them.
Across the room, a shadow edged along the other doorway. Charley eased back into the gloom, his breathing quickening.
Miss Kingsley poked into the room and swept her gaze around it. He dodged out of sight.
A chuckle bubbled up inside him. She’d been fully dressed, her hair was down, and in her hand metal glinted.
Her scent traveled in with her, a floral on top of other baser elements—woman, fear, and...blood.
“It’s Charles Everly,” he said into the darkness.
No sound, but he could smell the fear spiking.
“My coach is waiting on the corner,” he said. “My sister is waiting there also.”
Her clothing rustled as though she had decided she was free to make noise, and she stepped closer.
“Are there guards outside?” she whispered.
“A stable hand and another man. Is Carvelle here?”
“Upstairs.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
They must hurry then. “Stay close. Keep your blade handy.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath.
“And don’t use it on me. I’m rescuing you.”
“I have rescued myself.”
So she had. “Now is not the time to argue.”
Graciela took two steps to each irritating one of Mr. Everly’s, trying to keep up.
“Ungentlemanly,” she muttered.
He shushed her.
A plain, unmarked coach sat at the corner, its lights dimmed.
“Stow the knife,” he whispered.
Her hands fumbled the blade back into its sheath, while her feet kept moving. As soon as they neared, the groom holding the horses ran to open the door. Everly waved him off, and without dropping the stairs, all but tossed her into the coach. In seconds, they were away.
She was pulled onto a seat. “Are you all right?”
The strained voice next to her was Lady Perpetua’s. As her vision adjusted, she saw the glint of the lady’s spectacles.
Her heart quaked and a chill went through her. Another man sat in the seat opposite Lady Perpetua. She could not make him out. She was not out of danger yet.
“Yes,” she said tensely, and started to shake.
“Change seats with me, Perry.” The commanding voice was Mr. Everly’s.
The coach teetered as if her own trembles were rattling it.
“Lean forward.” A coat, warm, and fragrant, settled over her, and then an arm wrapped her shoulders tucking her against a strong, broad chest.
Mr. Everly’s scent filled her anew. She choked, gulping great mouthfuls of it. Her eyes and nose clouded with moisture.
“Shhh,” he breathed into her ear. “I smell blood. Are you injured?”
“It is his.”
The hand at her shoulder squeezed. “Good.”
She closed her eyes and grasped for control. She was quivering and trembling like Reina after a tantrum, and her eyes were beginning to water, and she must not show weakness here.
“She is terrified,” Lady Perpetua said. “Do not fret, Miss Kingsley, we have your ward and your servants. They arrived safely last nig
ht. The danger is past.”
Reina…she’d forgotten to ask. Her heart filled and she could not speak.
“She is not terrified,” Mr. Everly went on. “You are experiencing the aftermath of battle, my love. It is very normal. Fighting for one’s life upsets the humors. This will pass.”
Yes, and of course she knew that from her papa. “It will pass until they come after me.”
“Yes, well, you will not stand alone. We will fight them together. I regret we did not come sooner.”
“We thought you would be at the rout,” the lady said. “Penderbrook and Charley and I were prepared to whisk you away from there. I am so dreadfully sorry.”
So, the other man in the coach was his friend. Tears flowed from her. Try as she might, she could not stop them. For the first time in so long, she felt hope. Juan would die for her, she knew, but he was her servant, a man in her care, a man without power, except for his fist and his blade and his honor.
This man who held her, she felt his power, and it was like a balm spreading over the muscles and raw wounds beginning to ache in her back.
She would allow herself these moments of comfort, and as soon as they arrived at the home of the Everlys, she would gather her servants and Reina and leave. Lady Kingsley said that her father’s friend, Captain Llewellyn, was at Falmouth. Wherever that was, she would find her way there, and he would help her go home.
The coach stopped and she sat up stiffly and let the groom hand her down the steps. They were in a neighborhood of quiet, darkened houses. The groom stood by at a respectful distance and Mr. Everly took her arm.
The coach rattled and she wheeled around, watching it turn the corner, leaving her alone with Charles Everly and the groom.
Fear swept through her again. Her breath froze.
“We are going to my brother’s house,” he said, as nonchalantly as if he were speaking of a social call. He stepped out along the pavement. “Once they learn I have taken in your servants, the first place they will look for you is Shaldon House. They cannot legally touch Reina, but you, I am not so sure about. Lord Kingsley is your guardian. Until my father returns I should like you to disappear into a safe house.”
“They will know where your brother lives.”
“He never actually had the chance to live in this home. It is his pied-a-terre when he and his lady desire a break from the busyness at home. Not many know he has it. And we shall move you when the time is right.”
They walked down another street and around the corner to an even quieter street of homes, and then down a dark mews to a back gate. He moved silently as a breeze this man, as did his groom, as if they sneaked about quite regularly.
Perhaps he did. Perhaps rakes went into their mistresses’ homes by the back door.
He held her elbow and handed a key to the groom.
The door opened on a dim light. “It’s Mr. Charles Everly,” the groom announced, as if he was calling out the name of a ball guest.
As they entered, the light brightened. A grey-haired servant in shirtsleeves and trousers lowered a musket.
Graciela’s heart pounded and she looked again at the groom, who was carrying himself like the chief of one of Papa’s boarding parties.
“Mr. Windle,” Mr. Everly said placidly but with much volume, “greetings to you and Mrs. Windle. I hope you’re well. It’s been an age since I’ve seen the both of you. My brother gave me a key to use his house at any time. Did he inform you?”
The grizzled man’s eyes narrowed. A stout older woman popped from behind him, a pistol in her hand. Her gaze darted from the groom, to Mr. Everly, and then landed on Graciela, in her disheveled state.
The rheumy eyes widened. She set the pistol on the table and curtsied.
“Aye, Master Charley. Of course we know you.” She nudged her husband aside and drew closer. “The lady is injured. Come, let me see to you, madam.”
“Mrs. Windle, the lady’s maid will be along shortly to assist her. If you would be so kind as to show us to a bedchamber?”
He meant to accompany her to the bedchamber? But the maid coming must surely be Francisca. Perhaps Lady Perpetua was on her way to Shaldon House to fetch her.
Distrust mixed with relief. She did not think he would attempt to molest her, not in her present condition, and not with these elderly, familiar servants who showed no fear of him nearby, not with Francisca, and surely Juan also, on the way.
But...a kiss…perhaps she would not mind that so much.
Dios, she must not think like that.
As they moved through the kitchen, he gave orders for water to be heated and coal to be brought to her chamber.
His brother kept coal in the house in the spring? Perhaps Shaldon did also, and Reina, wherever they were keeping her, would finally not shiver every night in her sleep.
At the bottom of the servants’ staircase, he swept her into his arms.
Pain seared her back and she gasped. He set her back on her feet quickly and glared at her.
“He did hurt you.”
She shook her head. The housekeeper stood above them, holding a lamp, stiff as Lot’s wife, her gaze directed at the landing above them. “It was Kingsley.”
“Lady Kingsley?”
She shook her head again. Green muck from the Kingsley garden clung to the sides of his pretty patent shoes. He had large feet. He was all around as large a man as Papa, and right now, as with Papa when he was angry, impressive waves of rage swirled in the air around him, reminding her she was naught but a troublesome girl, a magnet for shame, and weak to boot.
She blinked hard and lifted her chin. “Reina and Francisca and Juan are safe. And I will be fine very soon.”
“You will be fine, and you will also be safe,” he said through locked jaws. He lifted her by her arms and threw her over his shoulder like a haversack.
“What—”
“Shhh. Hold tight.”
She clutched at his waist. Blood pounded in her ears, tears filled the back of her nose, and her hair brushed the steps below them. He carried her like a prize, one strong hand bracing her hip, the other wrapped at the back of her knees, and both sending unholy tingles through her.
Dios, this would not do. Her head swam with the pulsing sensations. She must not let him think he could seduce her. She must not.
Across Town....
Carvelle heard the pounding of a great gun, every reverberation crashing through his head. He cursed the powder, cursed the man who had sold it, the mate who had tested it, the sailor who...
He lifted his head and the room teetered as in a bad squall. He swore and...he smelled a rot like channel dredge, only it was mixed with a floral perfume and...
He raised his shoulders and felt a sharp pain in his middens.
A long stream of oaths poured out of him and did not ease the pain. She’d had a blade. Was the bitch still here?
Damp fog prickled his nose. He rolled, wrenched himself to his knees, and squinted into the gloom. The window was wide open. Rattling wheels, the clomping of hooves, grew louder, nearer. It might be the Kingsleys returning home.
He searched his pocket. The key still rested there. Three stories up, would Kingsley’s whore have exited out of the window, or was she cowering under the bed?
When she was his, the windows would be barred. When she was his, he’d tie her down and she would take it. When she was his, once he had her money, her father’s compliance, and the matters with Lord Kingsley settled, he would dump her and make a proper marriage. A titled lord’s daughter, the younger the better. Someone with proper bloodlines for his children.
Until then, the Kingsley chit would do as well as any hole to quench his wick, and one who paid him instead of sucking off his coins.
He slid the blade from his boot and rose. She’d surprised him though. He’d had a whore in Lisbon once who’d tried to rob him, as this one was trying to slip away with the money that should be his. This one would know his wrath also. In the morn, they’d wed, he’d
haul her off to Kent and fix her. Her face need not be pretty for their brief marriage, as no man would be looking at her again.
He groaned. “Come help me to my feet, Miss Kingsley. You fight quite well, and I need your help.”
Nothing.
He heard a muffled entrance below stairs. Crawling to the bed, he hauled himself up, cursing, and then felt his way around the room until he found a branch of candles and a tinder box on the mantel. Once lit, they showed the room in all its disarray. Unmade bed, a broken pitcher, a downed vase, the flowers scattered all about, and the dark spot upon his belly where new blood oozed and pain pricked him with every breath.
He staggered about, checking every hidey-hole. She was gone.
A red haze cast itself upon his vision. No man or woman got the better of Gregory Carvelle. No stupid, headstrong, spoiled chit of a whore stabbed him and ran away. She would not be allowed to think she could make a fool of him. She was his, that money was his, and she would be knowing it as soon he’d recovered her.
Carvelle met Kingsley and his lady on the stairs. Lord Kingsley’s eyes widened and the woman gasped and clutched the handrail. The single aging servant guiding them almost dropped his candle. All but deaf, he was, Kingsley had promised, as was his wife.
“Get my man from the stables,” Carvelle shouted. “And here.” He thrust the branch of candles at Kingsley. “We’ll go below. You,” he said to his pinched-up cow of a cousin, Blanche, her with her scheming, “Get linens and hot water.”
Her mouth puckered. “Is Grace—”
“Now,” he bellowed.
Kingsley pulled a candle from the branch and handed the rest to his wife.
“But the servants are not—”
“Go,” her husband said.
“If you’ve killed her…” She spluttered and threw up her hands, taking her rage with her. Blanche was afraid for her reputation among the other useless nobles.
Afraid was what she should be, questioning him about the chit she couldn’t manage.
Kingsley’s hand shook while he lit the lamp in his study, throwing glances back at Carvelle.
Carvelle lifted the shirt and gritted his teeth at the pain. He didn’t know the hour, but the blood’d had time to congeal.
The Rogue's Last Scandal: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 3) Page 4