A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  “Now,” she said to the men, watching Ned’s sweating face, “unless you want to find out what an American lady does when confronted by ruffians with untoward designs on her person, I suggest you leave.” She offered a prayer of thanks that she wasn’t stuttering with fear. Regardless of how steady her hand was, her knees felt as though at any second they would start banging together.

  The men peered at her assessingly. Mercy lowered the gun barrel ostentatiously toward another part of Ned’s anatomy. “Git!”

  “Ah, she’d never—” the ox started to say.

  “Yes, she would!” squeaked Ned.

  “I think so too,” Hart said encouragingly.

  Still, the other men didn’t look convinced. She sighed dramatically. “Look, even if you are willing to sacrifice Ned—and after my short association with him I can certainly empathize should that be your decision—these things”—she waved the gun barrel and Ned made a choking sound—“are riotously noisy. And I daresay gun blasts are enough of an oddity here that even your most incurious policeman will be bound to investigate.”

  “She’s right!” Ned sputtered. “Back off!”

  “Ah, shit,” the ox grumbled, turning with a disconsolate air. Without another word or glance to either side he lumbered past his mates. The others fidgeted a second or two before disappearing after him.

  “Now get moving, Ned. At a decorous pace.” Mercy motioned in the direction of the alley’s opening. “And do not make the mistake of thinking you and your friends can dog our steps and take us at a more opportune moment. Percy”—she nodded at Hart and had the satisfaction of surprising an expression of incredulity on him—“is a notoriously dangerous man. I shan’t be accountable for what he does if he even thinks you are plotting something.”

  Ned scowled but cast a worried glance in Hart’s direction. Hart, resigning himself to his role, lifted his lip in a snarl.

  “Right-o,” Ned said, his shoulders and bravado deflating in an instant, leaving him looking exactly what he was: a young man with bad skin, too much hair oil, and—in spite of his painstaking imitation of middle-class mannerisms—no hopes of ever leaving the sordid streets that had bred him. “Ned Bright ain’t no fool. We had a go. We failed. No hard feelings, what?”

  Mercy almost laughed at the incredible cheek of the young man. But the memory of his hard, speculative eyes and the pointed tip of his tongue wetting his lips when he’d discovered she was a woman killed her humor. They were at the entrance of the alley now. Hart held up a hand and prowled forward, looking either way before motioning them on.

  Ned started past her but Hart caught his arm. The man flinched. Hart looked at him impassively, all animation having died on his countenance. An arctic wind would have been a balm compared to that harsh gaze.

  “Where is he? Where is Will Coltrane?”

  “I don’t know. I swear,” Ned said, squirming. “You knows how they are. They comes and goes. Willy-boy, he had an appetite, he did. It takes some of ’em like that. And I told you true before. I’d look up ter Red Lion’s Square way. Chinee houses, most like.”

  Hart thrust him out of the alley. Ned broke and ran until he was swallowed by the Peacock’s Tail’s dark recessed alcove.

  “I think we should—”

  “You be quiet,” Hart said.

  “But I—”

  “One more word and I swear to God I’ll leave you here,” he ground out before bellowing at a cab just pulling away from the corner. It rocked to a halt and he bundled her forward, all but shoving her into its moldy-smelling interior and slamming the door shut behind her.

  Once alone in the dark relative safety of the decrepit hansom, Mercy’s fear, held at bay during the last half hour, found purchase. She shivered uncontrollably.

  They could have been killed.

  She could still be killed, she thought humorlessly. She wouldn’t be surprised if Hart strangled her. And what had their escapade gotten them? The name of another place like this and the promise of another confrontation with evidence of her brother’s debasement. God. What had become of Will?

  And, seeing an image of Will’s face superimposed over the greedy eyes and furtive manner of “Ned,” Mercy buried her face in her hands and cried.

  He was simply going to have to scare her witless, Hart decided as he stood outside and gave the driver directions. But if he was going to find her damned brother, it was going to have to be without her tagging along.

  With a start he realized that he was, indeed, going to find Will for her. Her fierce loyalty and determination had won his respect in spite of her lies, manipulations, and—he bit down on his teeth as he felt the thick wad of cash in his inner coat pocket—even her damned “two hundred pounds sterling.”

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t go with him again. Though he’d admit she had saved the situation tonight, there wouldn’t have been a situation if it hadn’t been for her. She was too eager for some clue, any clue, of where Will was. She hadn’t yet learned patience when dealing with her heart.

  He hoped she never did.

  He tossed the driver a quid as an added incentive to get them quickly back to the stables and rounded the hack’s ill-sprung body. He had to make her so damn afraid of him, she wouldn’t even consider following him again. She could get hurt down here.

  His hand knotted at his side, his expression bleak. She would get hurt as soon as her facile mind unraveled Ned’s slum-cant and she realized her brother was a hophead. An opium addict.

  He shifted his shoulder as though redistributing an uneven burden and paused at the carriage door, staring at it. He couldn’t do anything about that pain, but at least he could keep her physically safe.

  Steeling himself to play the part of the bully, to force her to see him as a far greater threat than any slow-witted behemoth or brain-rotted addict with an unctuous smile, he snatched open the carriage door.

  She was crying.

  All the air abandoned his lungs in a single breath. He climbed in, pulling the door shut after him. She didn’t notice. She was hunched forward, her slender back shaking. Her hair spilled in a dark tangle from under her hat, half shrouding her face as she muffled her broken sobs with her palms.

  “Mercy,” he said softly, helplessly.

  If she heard, she gave no sign. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. But he couldn’t sit here and watch her cry. Not to save his soul. He reached out and brushed the nape of her bowed neck.

  Without hesitation she turned and flung herself against him, wrapping her arms around him as though she would never let go. Her damp face burrowed against his neck, hot and sticky. Impotently, he stared at the dark hair spilling across his chest.

  He had never had a woman seek comfort in his embrace. Hell, he had never been held by a woman with any object other than sex in mind. And God knows, for the last three days he’d been as randy as a virgin adolescent. But not now. Not now.

  Now there was nothing but this overwhelming need to soothe, to ease her pain and shelter her from grief. To hold her as though by doing so he could absorb her anguish. It was a shattering sensation. His throat ached and his body bowed over hers in a shielding posture.

  Lightly, he smoothed her hair, his fingers shivering on the thick mantle. She nestled closer and awkwardly he set his arms around her. When she did not reject him, he settled her nearer still. She was ravishingly compliant in his arms, her sylphlike body narrow and fine boned and strong beyond conception, and when her breath fanned his skin, he lost his own.

  He didn’t have any words. He was struck dumb by the tenderness she wrested from his arid, arctic soul. He had no right to hold her like this and he knew it—even if she didn’t. Still, he thought with a shred of black humor and blacker self-knowledge, there was nothing in the world that could have made him relinquish her.

  For long minutes she cried, spending her strength in sorrow until gradually her breathing quieted and she relaxed, limp and spent. Like a thief he brushed his cheek against the delicately
shaped head tucked beneath his chin, masking the caress as a movement preparatory to pushing her away. She murmured something incomprehensible and clung more tightly. He swallowed and gave up.

  Abandoning himself to the unaccustomed role, he pulled her wholly onto his lap, tucking her legs up over his, cradling her there. She sighed, a sound of utter release.

  His head fell back against the stained leather headrest. Gazing at the blackness overhead, he damned himself for a fool even as he hoped the driver would ignore his instruction to hurry.

  “We’re back.” Hart’s voice roused her from sleep and Mercy lifted her head. The wonderful warmth that had surrounded her had vanished. It was cold. She shivered, looking about as she tried to adjust her vision to the murky interior of the carriage.

  “The stables?” she asked in a sleep-hoarse voice.

  “No. Acton’s estate.”

  “But the horses—”

  “Hitched to the back.” His voice sounded indifferent. “We’re at the gate.”

  She’d forgotten; he was angry with her. Regardless of the fact that he had allowed her to find a haven in his arms, his remote tone made it obvious it was only a temporary one. The realization brought fresh tears welling up in her eyes.

  Fool, she thought. He kisses you and you all but offer yourself to him. He offers a consoling pat and you fling yourself in his arms. And when he doesn’t dump you on the floor you assume … you hope …

  She turned her head away. She wouldn’t embarrass him again. She wouldn’t have him witness her crying again.

  He opened the door and jumped from the carriage. She struggled upright, still disoriented. Before she could act, he plucked her from where she swayed at the entrance and carried her to her horse. He lifted her up into the saddle.

  He was a gentle man, she thought muzzily, for all his dangerousness. His hands lingered a second, ensuring that she was secure. And then he was stepping back.

  “You’re all right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “How are we going to get you back into the house?” he muttered, swinging into his own saddle.

  He was impatient to be rid of her, impatient to be rid of her duplicity and blackmail, impatient to have her gone from his life. True, he’d said he admired her, but he did so grudgingly, as one admires a coyote for its relentless opportunism.

  That was all she was to him—a coyote raiding his manor house, she thought in despair. And how could she blame him? She represented everything he wanted to forget: violence, deceit, vulgarity.

  For God’s sake, she thought on a bubble of feverish laughter, she was blackmailing the Earl of Perth! What did she expect from him? An invitation to the opera? She dashed the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “I’ve made arrangements,” she said, and spurred her mount away from him and all she could never hope to have.

  Chapter 17

  “Miss Coltrane, you slept well I trust?”

  Mercy started at the sound of Henley Wrexhall’s voice. She was tired and uncertain and filled with an overwhelming desire to see Hart. A desire she wasn’t about to examine too closely.

  “I had a perfectly restful evening, Mr. Wrexhall,” she answered. “And yourself?” He wore his usual bland smile but there was an assessing quality in his eyes that was not at all pleasant. Had he seen her come in last night?

  Nonsense, Mercy thought. Brenna had sneaked her in through the servants’ entrance. There was not a soul the wiser. She’d stake her reputation on it. In fact, that is exactly what she had done.

  He shifted on his feet. “Perfectly.”

  Then why, she wondered, are there pouches beneath your eyes? Her own mirror had reflected similar dark areas this morning when she’d made a hasty toilette.

  “Pleasant morning, is it not?” she asked, fumbling for a topic of conversation. Wrexhall, if she remembered correctly, was a member of the Liberal party and a rising young politician. Which knowledge left her no more certain how to proceed than before. She hadn’t the least acquaintance with England’s politics.

  “Your brother-in-law appears absent this morning.”

  “Tending Fanny, I expect,” Henley replied. “It’s become rather a full-time job for the poor chap. Though I doubt whether he begrudges her it. Richard never did like crowds. Much happier on his estate.”

  Richard? Of course, Mercy remembered, the other brother-in-law. “Mrs. Wrexhall enjoys house parties, then?” she asked. “Lucky woman to have so indulgent a spouse.”

  “Oh, dear, no. Fanny is most strained by the prospect of parties. Always worried someone will expect her to say something clever.”

  Mercy frowned in perplexity. “Then why ever did they accept the invit—” She stopped, abashed by her rudeness. “Forgive me.”

  Henley smiled, and this time the expression made it to his eyes, a sardonic gleam, true, but more than his usual social expression, which was a tightening of cheek muscles as meaningless as it was ubiquitous.

  “Quite all right,” he said.

  “Actually, when I asked you about your brother-in-law, I was referring to Lord Perth.”

  “Oh.” His dark eyes went flat. “I’m afraid I don’t know where Perth is. Probably busy with his machinations.” If his smile was an attempt to rob the words of criticism, it failed. “Not that we aren’t indebted to Perth,” he hurried on, “but it might be for the best if Annabelle were to enter any … permanent association with a certainty that she herself was the main factor in its evolution.”

  She stared at him in bewilderment, at a loss as to how to respond to such an extraordinary statement. She was saved from having to by the arrival of Nathan Hillard.

  This morning he looked in fine spirits, rested and genial. His golden hair was polished to a deep shine, his dress was elegant and subdued. He was, she thought objectively, a very handsome man.

  “Miss Coltrane,” he greeted her, “I trust you spent a restful evening? These morning rides of yours are not taking a toll, I hope. You must remember, we are not keeping rancher’s hours here. Take care of yourself, m’dear.”

  His concern was slightly proprietary. Mercy felt a rush of shame under his scrutiny.

  “Lovely, thank you, Mr. Hillard.” That was the second man who’d studied her rather too closely. She would have to see if Brenna had any powder to conceal the circles beneath her eyes.

  Henley, obviously relieved to have been extricated from his indiscretions, welcomed Nathan with a clap on the back. “Nate, I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for your support in the boroughs last year.”

  “It is not only my pleasure but my duty to do anything I can to advance the economic and social conditions of our country, Wrexhall. And seeing you made a member of the House is certainly a step in that direction.” It was a munificent statement, but rather than giving Wrexhall pleasure, it seemed to have the opposite effect. He flushed deeply.

  Hillard turned to her. “And how do you propose to spend this lovely day, Miss Coltrane?”

  “I haven’t given it any thought,” she replied. Beyond finding Hart and charting their next move, she’d made no plans.

  “Ah. Well, perhaps I might interest you in a ride in the country or a trip to Fair Redding? It’s an extravagantly picturesque town.”

  “Perhaps some other day, sir.” She had other matters to see to today. As delightful as it would probably be, she couldn’t afford to waste time seeking her own enjoyment while Will needed her. The decision felt suspiciously like a reprieve.

  Henley snorted. “And what would you know about picturesque towns, Nate? I confess, I’m surprised you’re here at all. Didn’t think the country was your cup o’ tea.”

  “It depends on who is in the country,” Hillard responded, his brilliant blue eyes resting on her. She had never seen such eyes; the crystalline blue irises dominated them, all but swallowing the pupils in gemlike color.

  “You must miss the hustle and bustle of London, Nate,” Henley went on, either missi
ng or ignoring Hillard’s byplay. “The amusements, the parties, the society …”

  “I’d forgotten you were a permanent resident of London, Mr. Hillard,” Mercy said. “So many of the people I have met have a country address as well as a town one and I must confess, I find it all very complicated.”

  “So many of the people you have met have the means for two residences,” Hillard said with a self-deprecating smile.

  Immediately, her cheeks burned with the enormity of her faux pas. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hillard,” she exclaimed, mortified.

  “No need, Miss Coltrane. The circumstances of my address or lack of one is simply a temporary condition. Who knows, next year perhaps I’ll own four country houses.”

  “And why would you want to?” Henley asked, his usual smile absent. “Great encumbrance, if you ask me.”

  The bitterness in the words was obvious, and Mercy was reminded that the Wrexhalls lived on Hart’s ancestral estate, which Henley managed during Hart’s prolonged and successive absences.

  “Too true, Henley. I have no desire to own property, I merely wish to have the occasional use of it.”

  “You enjoy living in the city, Mr. Hillard?” Mercy asked, an idea forming in her mind. Perhaps she need not embroil Hart in her plans after all. Plainly, Hillard was … interested in her and as such might be sympathetic.

  “Nate is a gadabout,” Henley said. “He knows everyone, everything, and everyplace in London.”

  “Hardly,” Hillard demurred. “I simply enjoy the company of my fellow man. I am, I admit, a social creature.”

  “Perhaps you have met my brother in town, Mr. Hillard.”

  “Your brother?” Hillard’s smooth forehead creased. “Ah, yes. The mysterious Will. I recall your mention of him when we were first introduced in London. Quite intent on discovering his whereabouts, you were. And have you found your elusive sibling?” he asked.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Oh! Forgive my flippancy, Miss Coltrane. I assumed you—” He stopped, turning his hands up apologetically. “I am sorry to say I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your brother. How long has he been in the city?”