He’d taken to the position with aplomb, and with the exception of his less than posh accent, it’d be hard to distinguish him and his work from any man who’d been born and raised in the stables.
That said, he was slight and wracked with a persistent cough, so he probably would be less help than Annie in what they were about to do.
Not that it would matter if he were the most correct coachman ever—the simple truth was that no matter how she did it, it was scandalous for her to live on her own. But she needed her independence, and her reputation was already lost, so she didn’t see the point of suffering in less than ideal living circumstances. Even though her brother-in-law had offered her a place to live—she just couldn’t. Besides, how much more scandalous could she get?
“Thank you,” Margaret said as she descended the coach. She felt in her pocket for the embroidery needles she kept in the coach just for this type of situation—she’d never embroidered in her life, but the needles, she’d discovered, were quite sharp.
Annie followed after her, muttering under her breath as she usually did. But, as she also usually did, she followed close behind Margaret; she’d never leave her mistress alone, never mind that she thought (and frequently said) that her mistress was often foolhardy.
“I believe their rooms are on the top floor,” Margaret said, gazing up. Just as though she’d conjured it, they saw two figures clearly in the midst of a struggle pass by the window. “No time to waste, we have to get up there.”
By the time they’d reached the fourth floor, they had a plan.
“So you’ll distract the man while I get the women out?”
Margaret didn’t have to see Annie’s face to know her expression was skeptical—she could hear it in her tone.
Fine. So it wasn’t much of a plan.
“Yes,” Margaret replied. “And John knows to summon the watchmen if he hears a scream.” One thing the two women had discovered in their time together was that Annie’s scream was piercing, known to momentarily deafen a few dogs, on rare occasions.
“Excellent.” If Annie’s tone were any dryer, they’d be in the desert, Margaret thought. Which would make a good piece of writing for her next serial, provided she survived this encounter.
Margaret didn’t bother knocking on the door, she just turned the knob and entered, taking a deep breath as she surveyed the scene.
The older sister, Miss Banner, was currently atop her brother-in-law’s back, her arms clutched about his neck as though she was his new neckwear. He had a grip on her arm with one hand, while the other was holding on to the other sister—his wife—so tightly Margaret could see the bright red marks of his fingers.
“Let go of—of them!” she called, only all three of the room’s inhabitants were yelling or screaming or crying, so her voice was drowned out.
She shook her head, withdrew the embroidery needle, and marched over to the man, poking him in the fleshy part of his upper arm. He yelped, dropping his grip from the one sister and allowing the other to get a better position on his back, moving her hand to his eyes.
He fell immediately to the ground, his sister-in-law still perched on top of him, his wife clutching her arm and staring at the scene with wide, frightened eyes.
He didn’t stay down for long, however; he wriggled out from under his sister-in-law and lurched to his feet, staggering as though he were about to fall again.
“And who the hell are you, then?” he said, addressing Margaret. He did not look at all in the mood for a discussion, so perhaps his opening conversational gambit was merely time for him to figure out how to murder her.
Or so it seemed.
“That doesn’t matter,” Margaret said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The point is, you are not fit to be in company with these ladies, and I will be removing them from your vicinity. Come along, then,” she said, turning to speak to the still supine sister-in-law and her terrified sister.
“Like hell you—” Only then he stopped, and uttered what Margaret could only describe as a squeak.
“Precisely,” Margaret replied, entirely unsure why his expression had undergone such a dramatic change, but that she should capitalize on it before he realized what he’d done.
But then she saw the ladies had equally frightened expressions, as though she had suddenly started belching fire, dragonlike, or had a squadron of armed soldiers in back of her.
She turned her head just enough to see.
Drat. It wasn’t her formidable presence that had terrified them.
It was he. The Piratical Duke. The one who’d appeared to have been disgusted with her behavior only this morning.
Who stood regarding her with his arms folded across his impressive chest, his wide-legged stance and cool gaze showing he was battle-ready.
And not even armed with an embroidery needle.
He glanced at her, then moved his gaze to the other inhabitants of the room. All of them—save Annie—seemed to almost deflate as he looked at them in turn.
“I could have handled this on my own, you know,” she said in a cross tone.
“Yes, you certainly seemed to have it well in hand,” he said in the same desertlike tone Annie had employed earlier.
She made a harrumphing noise. “Since you’re here, perhaps you can help me escort these ladies to my carriage.”
She turned to look at the women. “I promise you, he is not nearly as terrifying as he looks,” she began, only then realized the husband might seize on that idea to cause more of a fuss, “but he is here, and he is quite powerful, and I would do as he says.” She tilted her head back to him. “So what do you say, Your Grace?”
An audible gasp emerged from all three of the mouths engaged in the fracas as they realized that the Piratical Duke was, in fact, a duke.
“I say the ladies should go wherever you want them to, and the gentleman here should rue the day he crossed your path, my lady,” he replied.
Margaret nodded. “Yes. Thank you. And you may escort us to my carriage, if you please, Your Grace.”
The women had stopped crying and screaming enough to gather a few things they deemed necessary to take with them, and it wasn’t long before the five of them were descending the stairs, the duke and Margaret in the back of the group.
“Why are you here, anyway?” she said in a low voice as they made their way down. Margaret was grateful there wasn’t very much light—she’d already stepped on something sticky, and she didn’t even want to imagine the dirt and grime that would be on her evening gown.
Worse was imagining what Annie would say. If only she’d had the forethought to dress appropriately both for an evening party and a perilous rescue in one of London’s lesser neighborhoods.
What would such a garment look like, anyway? The mind boggled.
And he hadn’t answered her question, either. She had the feeling he was ignoring her. Something she most definitely did not like. “You haven’t said. Why are you here?”
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Hush, do hush, or someone will come,” Georgiana said, knowing that trying to soothe a dragon was likely an impossible task.
“Someone has come,” the dragon said, in between bellows, “and it is you, and I still feel terrible, and I am hoping that the person who was meant to come is out there still so I can be rescued.”
Georgiana frowned. “Rescued? What do you mean? That is, you’re a dragon; dragons don’t get rescued.”
The dragon glared at her from his yellowy red eyes. “Look, I don’t know what stories you’ve been told, but all the stories I know mention that dragons are rescued by beautiful princesses.” He seemed to look her over and let out a sniff, releasing a belch of smoke as he did so. “And I don’t think you’re a princess, either.”
It took her a moment, and then when she understood, she knew she turned as red as the flames that emitted from him. “You’re saying I’m not beautiful?”
He rolled his eyes. “An
d you also seem to be quite slow. Leave me, I’ll wait for the princess.”
Georgiana planted her hands on her hips and stomped her foot, which would have been impressive if she weren’t standing in damp leaves. “Fine. You can stay here and wait, for all I care.”
The dragon nodded as though in satisfaction, but Georgiana could see him grimace as he did, as though he were in pain all over.
She couldn’t care about that. He’d told her to leave so he could wait for his beautiful, intelligent princess. So she would.
She picked up her bucket, turned on her heel, and tromped out of the woods as quickly as she could.
Chapter 6
Why was he here? Telling her the truth—that he’d dropped Jamie off, then spotted her carriage where he knew she didn’t live, so he’d instructed his coachman to follow, perhaps to be able to apologize, no doubt terribly—made it seem, well, awkward. Strange. Almost impertinent, which he never was.
Until now, of course. Because he had followed her, and what’s more, he’d even—obviously—followed her into the building, entering the room when he heard the fracas.
“Uh, well,” he said, wishing he had use of her imagination so he could come up with some reason that didn’t make it sound as though he was unduly interested in her. Or even duly interested.
What the hell are you doing, then?
And why did the voice in his head sound so much like Jamie?
More questions he couldn’t answer. Lovely.
“Your Grace?” Now she sounded even more annoyed. “Were you coming to apologize for earlier? Or demand satisfaction from me, or something?”
“Never mind why I was there,” he said, his words clipped and forceful. It usually worked on most people.
“That is just avoiding the question, which seems awfully suspicious, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lady Margaret was not most people.
Thankfully, they had finally descended the final flight of stairs, and had emerged onto the street, so Lasham was saved, for the moment, from answering.
“Don’t think I won’t ask again,” Lady Margaret said, punctuating her words with a poke to his side. “I’m quite curious as to the answer.”
Lasham was not the type of person one poked. At least he didn’t think he was.
“But for now, Your Grace,” she said in a louder voice, “if you would excuse us,” she began, but he started speaking almost before he himself realized it.
“I insist on accompanying these ladies”—he nodded to the two women—“to wherever it is they are going. They could be in some danger still, could they not?”
Lady Margaret began to sputter some sort of aggrieved reply, but her servant answered before her mistress could speak coherently. “That’d be lovely, Yer Grace. How’s about you take Lady Margaret and them in your carriage, and then if you don’t mind, I can foller along in Lady Margaret’s carriage. There ain’t room for five in Lady Margaret’s.”
There was a moment of silence. Lasham knew he couldn’t utter a word, not at the moment; he had never had a servant issue any kind of directive, much less what sounded as though it was an order, in his presence. Even his various footmen would just meekly inquire if he wanted more coffee when he was holding up his empty cup and looking pointedly at them. If he held a sign up that read “I want more coffee” he couldn’t have been more obvious.
But this. He turned his gaze to Lady Margaret, whose expression was not the scornful, condemning one any other lady might wear, but instead was much more—well, she wasn’t sparkling now as much as blazing.
“No.”
“No.”
They blinked at each other as they each spoke, then he saw a slight smile cross her lips, as though she was amused but didn’t want to reveal it.
Perhaps she would accept his apology, no matter how terrible. Dear God, he hoped so.
She arched her brow and regarded her servant. “You see, Annie, the duke and I are in perfect agreement. He will return to his home, and I will make sure the ladies are safe, and then return home to mine.” She looked at him, that brow still raised as though in challenge. “We will be perfectly safe, Your Grace, thank you for your concern.” She nodded to the ladies. “Go ahead and get inside the carriage, it is too cold out here.”
Lasham clamped his jaw tight so as not to explode in front of all four of the women. Even rarer for a servant to issue orders to a mistress was anyone daring to refuse to do what he’d said. That hadn’t happened since before he had become duke. And even before then it had been rare, since he’d been a duke’s heir.
He strode forward and clasped her arm just as she was preparing to enter the coach herself. “You should not put yourself in such danger, Lady Margaret.” Never mind not doing what he’d commanded. “These neighborhoods are not appropriate for a young lady such as yourself.”
“Such as myself?” she replied, her tone practically dripping with disdain. “Believe me, Your Grace, if there was a choice in the matter I would not concern myself, but there is none. And so I am here. But now, as you have said, it is time for all of us to go home. Please do excuse me,” she said in a sharp tone as she swept up into the carriage, not even looking at him as she shut the door.
Lasham refrained from punching anything on his way home. Thankfully. One outburst a day seemed like it was entirely sufficient.
He did, however, walk immediately into his study and pour himself a very large brandy.
“That bad, hm?” a voice said from Lasham’s blind side, making him nearly spill the alcohol on his clothing.
Of course it was Jamie. Nobody else would dare enter his home without a proper invitation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked anyone to his home, in fact. And definitely people did not arrive when their host was off scaring angry men in substandard housing.
“What are you doing here?” Lasham said, turning to regard his friend. “Didn’t I just drop you at your house?” He narrowed his gaze. “Your mother hasn’t kicked you out already, has she?”
Jamie, who’d been reclining on the sofa, sat up, a grin on his face. “Not yet.” He stood and walked over to where Lasham stood, an empty glass in his hand. He reached for the brandy bottle and poured himself nearly as hefty a glass as Lasham had. “I went home, and everyone was sleeping, only I was wide awake, and I thought I’d just turn up here.”
“Like a bad penny,” Lasham muttered.
Jamie ignored him. “Here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass.
Lasham shook his head, knowing there was no use trying to get Jamie to leave, much less not drink him out of brandy. He lifted his glass as well, but stopped when there was a knock on the door.
Both men stopped still, immediately looking at the large clock that stood in the corner. One o’clock.
“You didn’t invite anyone, did you?” Jamie asked, downing his drink in one swallow.
“I didn’t even invite you,” Lasham replied. He strode over to the door, flinging it wide.
“What is—?” he began, only to feel his words fall away—again—as he saw her.
“Your Grace,” his butler said in an anxious tone, “I tried to tell the lady that you were not at home, but she—”
Lady Margaret walked into the room, pulling her cloak off as she did so. “But I told him you clearly were, since here you are,” she said, laying her cloak on the sofa Jamie had been sitting on.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lasham,” Jamie said in a low, amused voice. “Good evening, my lady,” he said with a nod at Lady Margaret, then smirked at Lasham, and walked quickly out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Coward,” Lasham muttered, before turning to her.
She lifted her chin and looked at him, seeming as though she was really seeing him, not looking at him as though he were a piece at a museum. For an amateur daubist to admire, no doubt, he thought sourly.
But she wasn’t doing that. Unlike everyone else he met, everyone with the exception of Jamie. Even his servants woul
d stare occasionally when he’d been away from the house for a few days.
“What can I help you with, Lady Margaret?”
She lifted her chin higher, setting her jaw. That would make it difficult to speak, a fact that was borne out by how her words emerged through clenched teeth.
He couldn’t help but notice, however, that she was still lovely. If also very, very angry.
“Your Grace, I am here to demand that you explain what you were doing in that neighborhood earlier this evening.” She drew a deep breath and continued before Lasham could even open his mouth.
“Because if I was not mistaken—and I was not—you made it absolutely clear that you did not wish to associate with me just earlier today. Even though you are the one who suggested we meet at the museum.” She crossed her arms over her chest. He tried not to notice how that made the bodice of her gown move. “And since the first words we exchanged were you telling me to leave a room, and me saying no, let me make it clear myself: I have no interest in you as anything. Not as an acquaintance, a friend, or Lord help me, a husband. Which is what you seemed to think.”
Lasham drew himself up straighter, if only so he didn’t have to meet her gaze so intently. He opened his mouth to reply, but she gave her head a vigorous shake and kept speaking.
“The thing is, you seemed as though you might be different. That you might be someone who would be interesting to know. Not to marry, of course,” she said in a scornful tone, “although that is what everyone would think, but someone with whom I could exchange ideas and opinions. Instead you tease me with the promise of that, and then shut me down. And then,” she added, her voice gaining strength and outrage simultaneously, “you follow me to a place you would not otherwise be and have the audacity to come in and rescue me. Or attempt to, at least.”
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 6