“Let me go!” she begged, vowing only for Jenny’s life could she lower herself to this man. “She is not dead. I can save her.”
“Ye ruined it all!” Egger raged, not seeming to hear her plea. Wynne slipped his hold, but he snatched her ankle and dragged her from the wall.
She dug her hands into the dirt, trying to slow his progress, trying to claw her way back to the canal. She shook her head in mute denial. Jenny was already dead.
“I ’ave ye, ye feisty bitch. I’ll sells ye to a score o’ men before the night is finished. I’ll gets me coin, then I’ll strangle ye with my bare ’ands for killing me Jen.”
Her hands plowed through the dirt; any efforts to slow this madman were ineffective. Her skirts had ridden high on her thighs from his rough handling, and her futile kicking had managed to scrape every inch of her exposed legs.
Despite the warm weather, a coldness threatened to steal her thoughts, bury her deep so she could hide from the pain. It was tempting to give in to the numbness. She bit back a cry as she arched her back to avoid being gouged by a sharp rock.
A rock.
Twisting so she was partially on her side, she reached back, felt her fingers close over the rock. A sob of relief escaped her trembling lips. She had a weapon. She doubted Mr. Egger was used to his victims fighting back.
The abuse she was enduring must have sifted into his consciousness, or more likely, he calculated the money he was losing for damaged goods. Swearing under his breath, he dropped her ankle and bent down to scoop her up like a sack of grain. Wynne did not hesitate. She slammed the rock against the side of his head. The force of the blow snapped his head to the left. Reaching for his temple, he lost his balance. He plopped down in the dirt, nearly sitting on her feet. Wynne scooted backward. If he made a move in her direction, she intended to crack his skull again with the rock.
“I’m bleeding!” Amazed, he held his hand before his eyes to examine the amount of blood on his fingers.
Propping himself up with his left palm on the ground, he seemed harmless. She rolled over to see if her shaky limbs would permit her to stand. Jenny needed her.
He attacked the instant her attention shifted. His heavy weight flattened her facedown in the dirt. Her precious rock was inches out of reach. Impotent rage unfurled within her. She turned her head, prepared to scream.
Abruptly, the weight pressing her down was lifted. She crawled forward, grabbed her rock, and twisted to face her aggressor. At the first grunt of masculine pain, her hand came up, stilling her quivering lips. Her struggles had not gone unnoticed. A large man loomed over Mr. Egger. His fury was a living current that cascaded over her even from the distance. Clutching a fistful of Egger’s shirt, he coiled it tight and hauled the man up.
“I bear no tolerance to bullies,” the newcomer said; the low, rough tones were a growl. The warning carried the promise of violence.
Wynne made a small, vulnerable noise in her throat. Her liberator’s attention instantly focused on her. Eyes, so dark from the distance that they appeared a soulless black, pinned her in place. Without blinking, he seemed to examine her from head to feet without shifting his gaze. The bruise on her cheek throbbed. She did not realize she had been holding her breath until need had her struggling for air.
“The bastard hurt you,” he said, the coldness directed at the man in his firm grip. Fierce and powerful, he stood there, silently proclaiming himself judge and executioner. Already dismissing her, his attention switched to Mr. Egger. “This is your lucky day, my friend. A man with such fists should be lending them to the ring instead of brutalizing a beautiful young woman.”
Mr. Egger struggled to shake himself loose, but the stranger was stronger. In defiance, he spat saliva and blood in the stranger’s face. “No one’s business, but me own,” he muttered.
Her blond defender mopped the spittle from his face with the side of his free arm. “Now, I disagree. You see, I know a thing or two about using my fists, both in and out of the ring. I think a man like you can benefit from a little knowledge. Some say I’m a natural when it comes to the teaching.”
“Billet eater!”
Those cold eyes narrowed, glittering in their intensity. “Lesson one: flattery doesn’t impress me.” His fist struck fast into Mr. Egger’s abdomen. The air wheezed out of the older man’s lungs. He would have doubled over if the other man had not jerked him back up.
Wynne had witnessed all the violence she could tolerate. Inching away from the men, she kept her gaze on them for fear they might prevent her from leaving.
Jenny! She whirled, running straight into the arms of her footman.
“Gar!” She embraced him, never happier to see him. “Jenny,” she choked, anguish closing off her throat. “She—the canal.” Time could play tricks on a distressed intellect. Wynne was not certain if more time had elapsed than a drowning girl could spare. “The canal!” she repeated, pulling him toward the muddy banks.
A small crowd had gathered at the water’s edge. Relief made her light-headed when she noticed Jenny sitting on the ground. She would have joined the girl in the dirt if Gar had not caught her arm.
“The girl is safe, Miss Bedegrayne.” The footman’s statement soothed her raw nerves. “Inch came back to see what was causing our delay, and saw her go in. I expect a bellyful of canal scum will give her a case of collywobbles; otherwise she’s fine.”
Milly hovered over Jenny. She sprang to her feet at Wynne’s approach. “Oh, my poor miss,” the maid sniffled, pity brimming in her eyes as she noted Wynne’s disheveled hair and soiled frock. “I felt horrid leaving you in the hands of those awful men.”
“You followed my orders and brought Gar to us,” Wynne wearily murmured, feeling the need to reassure her maid. “You have my gratitude.”
Milly’s brows came together in puzzlement. “But—no, miss. I didn’t find Gar. It was the other one.” She nodded her head at something in the distance, a malicious glee brightening her expression. “I never knew a man who deserved a thrashing more than that Mr. Egger. And who better than the champion himself?”
Wynne turned back, watching the men. Mr. Egger was no longer a threatening figure. The fighter had him secured on the ground with one knee while he tied the inert man’s hands. Neither of them noticed her scrutiny.
“Miss Bedegrayne,” Jenny called out.
She walked over and crouched down beside the girl. Not caring which one of them she was reassuring, Wynne hugged her.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I was crazed. I thought ’e would take me away and I couldn’t bear—”
“Hush,” she crooned. “If I had gotten away from your father, I probably would have joined you in the canal.” She smiled, attempting to make light of the ordeal. Her gaze rested on Inch. “Thank you for saving her. I was too late.”
The footman blushed under her tender regard. “No thanks needed, Miss Bedegrayne. I just wished I could have reached you as well.”
She shook her head. “You chose the correct person to aid. All I need is a bath and I will be better for it.”
Her servants glanced away, recognizing the lie, but were too respectful to disagree.
Wynne gently smoothed back a wet strand of hair from Jenny’s face. “Are you well enough for the boat? Considering your father’s present disposition, I think we should go forth with our plans.”
“Considering all ye’ve done for me, if I said no, I wouldn’t blame ye for dumping me back in the canal.” Jenny stood; accepting a wool blanket, she wrapped it around her shoulders.
The feeling of control was a balm. It pushed away her various aches. There would be time later for musing over her mistakes and perhaps indulging in a few tears.
“Inch, Milly … both of you will accompany Jenny on her journey. I will send a carriage for your return home from Leicester.” Gar had retrieved her discarded reticule. Sensing her request, he handed her the soft bag. She reached in and removed a small pouch. “Everything is arranged. The Headleys are expecting
your arrival. They are good people. I hope you will be happy there.” She offered Jenny the pouch. “Inch has already purchased the boat tickets. This is for the unexpected. I regret we will not be able to share that plate of lemon biscuits.” Her altercation with Mr. Egger proved that the unanticipated had a way of ruining one’s meticulous plans.
Jenny impulsively embraced her. Concerned she had offended Wynne, she took a few nervous steps backward. “Ye are a kind woman, Miss Bedegrayne. I won’t be forgetting ye in me prayers.” She meekly followed behind Inch and Milly.
“Wynne!”
Amara ran toward her and Gar. She had arrived with reinforcements. Her brother-in-law’s man Speck strode a few paces behind. Wynne concealed her groan behind a smile. All hope of concealing this afternoon’s events from her family faded as she watched the grim-faced servant’s approach.
“Do you think he is bribable?” she asked her footman, not taking her eyes off Speck.
“He’s Lord Tipton’s creature, Miss Bedegrayne. What do you think?”
She sighed. Since his marriage to Devona, her brother-in-law had taken up the task of keeping the impulsive Bedegrayne clan in line, and that included her father, Sir Thomas. Speck was the man’s eyes and ears. She did not stand a chance of deceiving him.
“You missed all the excitement, Speck,” she said, opting for a lighthearted, teasing tone.
The manservant, whom her sister referred to as “the gargoyle,” snorted at her friendly greeting. He was short and thickset, with sharp brown eyes that assessed and noted every mark on her face and arms. “Where is he?”
At his fierce, ruthless expression, Wynne fortified herself, expecting she was about to witness another violent altercation. She looked left, seeking out the two men she preferred to forget. Her mouth parted in a surprised O. “They were there a moment ago. Two men. Mr. Egger and the fighter. Gar, did you see them leave?”
“No, miss.”
Amara slipped her shawl from her shoulder and gently settled it over Wynne’s shoulders. “We should summon a physician.”
Speck’s eyes gleamed. “What fighter?”
Amara glared. “Speck, the interrogation can wait. Can you not see that both Wynne and Gar are injured?”
Agitated, Wynne shrugged off Amara’s coddling embrace. “Why are you all acting as though I should be seeking out my bed? I may be a little bruised; however, I can assure you all I am well.”
The fact that she was snipping at them proved to all how unwell she truly was. She used both hands to smooth her hair from her face. “Forgive me. Perhaps I am more shaken than I would care to admit. But I am fine. Milly’s fighter saw to it.” If she closed her eyes, she could still see the burning rage in his eyes. He looked as if he would kill for her. She pushed away the disturbing thought.
Gar cleared his throat. “After Egger knocked the breath from me”—his face reddened at his failure to protect her—“Milroy took up for my lady.”
Speck’s sharp teeth came together, as if using them to sink into the footman’s account. “I’ll wager Egger didn’t expect facing Reckless Milroy’s fists. Unparalleled fighter, both in and out of the ring.” He lifted his cap and scratched his head. “I can’t believe that silly, fluttering piece of floss you call a maid chased the champion down.”
Defending her staff came automatically to her. To criticize them was to accuse her of faulty judgment in hiring them. “I have no cause to question Milly’s story. I, for one, appreciate Mr. Milroy’s well-timed arrival.”
Wynne frowned, pondering whether a note conveying her gratitude might be misconstrued as an insult. The last thing she desired was to enrage a man who ensconced himself in violence. Something about him disturbed her on some level. All in all, she thought it best to stay away from Mr. Milroy.
Speck grunted, which could have meant anything. The events of this afternoon weighed heavily on her. Until she had word Jenny Egger was safely tucked away in Leicester, she doubted she would be able to relax. “Speck, what are you doing here?” Suspicion swirled and floated like smoke in her agile mind. “If your lord has ordered you to spy on me—”
“Not this time, Miss Bedegrayne. His ears are still ringing from your last scolding on the subject.”
“Really.” Tipton’s audacity went far beyond the polite society they moved within, and well beyond her tolerance. “So Amara just came across you while you were strolling along the canal?”
“Yes—no.”
Speck rolled up on his toes, then dropped flat on his feet. Not truly thinking the man was capable of normal emotions, she blinked at the sheepish grin she saw on his homely face.
“My lord didn’t send me after you, miss,” he assured her, casting a glance at the area around them. “Though by the look of things, Lord Tipton summed his assessment of you up right and tight.” He hurried on before she could express her own opinion on that remark. “I have one vice.” He paused. “Two.” He counted on his fingers. “Three, but that’s beyond the point. I came for the fight. I was on my way back to the house when I saw Miss Claeg racing down the road. If I had known Milroy would go against another challenger, I would have arrived sooner.”
Bribing Speck was not an option. He was too loyal to Tipton, Wynne mused. A distraction, though, might gain her the time she needed to placate her family and gloss over the more harrowing details. The manservant himself had just volunteered his greatest weakness. She almost smiled. There would be no rushing her off to Tipton. No lecture. No bellowing Papa if she kept her head.
“Speaking of Mr. Milroy, I have a dilemma, Speck. The man literally saved our lives, only to run off without allowing us to offer our appreciation.” She placed her hand to her brow for effect. “The champion deserves more than a polite note. I hate to impose upon you, but if you could find Mr. Milroy and thank him, it would ease my mind.”
He tensed, considering the temptation she had just dangled in front of him. “What of you? His lordship would not like me leaving you.”
No, he would not. She gave him an encouraging smile. “Amara and I have Gar to see us home. Please, Speck, I would not want Mr. Milroy to think me ungrateful.”
The servant’s hard look bordered on impertinence. Wynne concentrated all her energy on appearing calm and sincere. She considered herself quite an actress when the situation called for such talent. Unfortunately, most dealings with the ton demanded the polished skill. Speck’s brow twitched, and she believed she had him.
He laughed in her face.
This was no polite chuckle, but rather a hearty, from-the-gut guffaw. “Oh, Miss Bedegrayne, you are quite a piece, aren’t you? I always thought it was your sister who was the sly one.” His laughter mellowed to a chuckle. “Her ladyship is all nerve and impulsiveness. But you—all sweet and pretty as a frosted cake. Most can’t see past the fancy decoration to the cleverness beneath the surface.”
Wynne started walking in the direction of their waiting carriage. “Very well. You win, Speck. Escort us home.”
Amara caught up with her. “You should see a doctor. Tipton will be discreet.”
He would also be persistent. He was the most arrogant, high-handed, overprotective male she knew who was not related to her by blood. She thanked God daily that such a man was not her husband.
“Gar should have his ribs checked. The mark on your cheek is already changing color,” Speck observed.
“What if I promised to seek out Tipton while you meet the fighter?”
“Tempting, miss. Truly. It pains me to refuse. Then again, I cut my teeth on your sister’s mischief.” His brown eyes twinkled. “I’ve learned not to take a smiling Bedegrayne at just their word.”
Three
Few gained entrance to the private study of Rayne Tolland Wyman, Viscount Tipton. The years being married to her sister, Devona, had gradually softened the ton’s view of the enigmatic, handsome surgeon. Still, there were others who defiantly continued to call him Le Cadavre Raffine. The Refined Corpse.
At age fifteen, h
e had survived the horror of being accidentally buried alive. Resurrection men intent on collecting a new body to sell to a local surgeon had inadvertently saved him. His survival had been considered something unnatural, when so many had succumbed to the fever, including his older brother, Devlin. Shunned by his own family, he had left England to seek his fortune. Years later, he returned, a powerful adversary against those who challenged him.
It was his fearsome reputation that had intrigued her sister. She had required a man of his talents to save a childhood friend. Tipton had refused her.
Wynne smiled, imagining her sister’s shock. It was rare for anyone to refuse the youngest Bedegrayne. Tipton, like many others, had underestimated her spirit and determination, not to mention the danger surrounding them.
She sometimes still awoke from nightmares, believing her sister was lost to them. Feeling chilled, she settled deeper into her brother-in-law’s favorite green-and-gold upholstered rococo armchair.
She turned her head at the sound of the door opening. Tipton’s impressive form filled the opening. At two and thirty, he appeared to be a man in his prime. His build was lean, she thought, unconsciously comparing him to the fighter. Through eerily keen light-blue eyes, his gaze alighted on her, surveying and assessing the damage to her face, arms, and clothes.
“Good afternoon, Lord Tipton,” she graciously addressed him. “Where is my sister?” Realizing he was about to drop either his precious medical case or the small basin of water, Wynne rose from the chair to assist him.
“Sit down, Wynne.”
She merely raised a brow at the snarled command. “Tipton, you must be confusing me with my sister, or perhaps your own.” She took the bowl from him and moved away to set it on a nearby table. “Much better. So where is Devona?”
He closed the door. “Doing the same thing you should be doing. Staying out of trouble.” He hooked his arm through an ornate open-backed chair and dragged it next to her chair, watching her lean cautiously back. “Lucien has been giving her some sleepless nights, so I insisted that she take a nap.”
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 3