by Anna Bradley
Then with a sweep of her heavy brown traveling cloak, she was gone.
Violet and Hyacinth stood for a moment in the sudden silence, then Hyacinth braced a hand on the newel post with a sigh. “Do you mind if we wait until tomorrow to go to Iris’s, Violet? I don’t like to go out in this dreadful weather, and all the fuss this afternoon has made me weary.”
Violet studied her sister’s pale face and forced a smile. “I don’t see what harm it will do if we wait. Go rest, dear. I’ll have a tray sent up in a few hours.”
“Yes, all right.”
Violet watched as Hyacinth made her way up the stairs, but as soon as her sister was out of sight she opened the front door and darted outside.
No, it wasn’t quite dark yet. It couldn’t be later than five o’clock, and the heavy rain that had been threatening all afternoon was still only a half-hearted drizzle. Violet bit her lip as she tried to decide what to do. Hyacinth would worry if she woke and found Violet gone, but surely it wouldn’t take more than an hour. She’d be back before Violet noticed she’d left, and really, there was nothing so dangerous in it. She’d take her lady’s maid, Bridget, with her, and there was the carriage, still standing in the drive, beckoning her, and Eddesley was nowhere to be seen…
Violet dashed back inside, exhilaration dancing along her nerve endings.
Fortune truly did favor the bold.
* * * *
Alas, fortune was far less kind to the faint of heart.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, miss.”
Violet rolled her eyes with irritation. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, Bridget. For goodness’ sake, it’s just a little rain.”
Bridget had been sitting with her nose pressed against the carriage window, but now she turned to Violet with a dark look. “It’s not the rain what’s troubling me, miss. It’s the ghosts.”
“Nonsense. There’s only one ghost. Stop exaggerating.”
“One ghost what’s lost ’er head, and her red striped dress all covered with blood and gore!”
“I know. It’ll make the most ghastly sketch.” Violet rubbed her hands together with relish. “I do hope she makes an appearance. I can draw her from imagination, but the sketch will be so much more authentic if we actually get to see her.”
Violet didn’t truly believe in ghosts, of course, but she did like the idea of headless specters haunting the alleyways of London, seeking revenge for the crimes committed against them. And anyway, she couldn’t resist teasing Bridget a bit.
“I don’t want to see her, the poor, headless thing! The dead should be left to rest.”
Violet was gathering up her drawing pencils and shoving them into the pockets of her cloak, but now she looked up to frown at Bridget. “Come now. Think how dull London would be if the dead didn’t make an appearance now and again. We need a ghost or two, Bridget, to keep things lively.”
Bridget drew in a shocked breath. “Oh, miss. Yer an odd one, but I never knew you to be a sinner before.”
“Sinner? How am I a sinner? I didn’t chop her head off, did I? Her husband did, and then he tried to hide her body in the lake. He’s the sinner, not me. Now, stop your fussing and take these extra pencils. Unless you’re so frightened you’d rather wait in the carriage?”
Bridget snatched the pencils and threw open the carriage door. “And let ye go out there alone? No. I know my duty, for all Lady Chase never said a word about chasing ghosts when she hired me. Don’t suppose yer coming with us, are ye, Harry?” she called to the coachman, shaking her head when he visibly blanched. “No, I dinna suppose so, ye coward. Well, come on then, miss.”
“You’re a loyal old thing, Bridget.” Violet hopped down from the carriage and led the way across the street toward Cockpit Steps, a dark, narrow passageway that connected Old Queen Street with Birdcage Walk. “Oh, this is so exciting! Our headless lady hasn’t made an appearance in quite some time, so perhaps she will tonight. It must be lonely, after all, being a headless ghost. No one to talk to, I daresay.”
Bridget snorted. “How much talking do ye suppose she can do without a head?”
“Yes, you’re quite right, Bridget. Being headless would make it more difficult.”
Violet didn’t expect to see any ghosts, headless or otherwise, but she couldn’t prevent her heart from sinking a little when all she found in the haunted passageway was an ordinary-looking curved staircase. “She’s not here.”
Bridget tiptoed up behind Violet, peeked around her, and, not seeing a headless ghost, let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, thank goodness fer that.”
“Certainly, if you’re satisfied with a dull sketch of a set of stairs.” Violet pulled her sketchbook from under her arm and flipped through it until she found a blank page. “Oh, well. I suppose it can’t be helped. I’ll just have to add her in myself, and I have been told I draw rather nice rectangles.”
What had Lord Dare said? I could tell at once it’s a headstone.
Despite herself, Violet’s lips curved into a rueful grin. She couldn’t deny Lord Dare was entertaining, though she wasn’t sure he meant to be. Oh, he was arrogant, too, intolerably so—only a gentleman very sure of his own charm persisted in calling on a lady who’d forbidden it—and yet one couldn’t accuse him of being dull. That shameless trick he’d pulled with Lady Uplands in Lord Derrick’s library had, after all, furnished Violet with enough material for a new chapter in her book, not to mention a truly exceptional drawing.
Her grin widened as she recalled what she’d overheard that evening. She was wicked to laugh, but every time she thought of the rhythmic thumping of Lady Uplands’s head against the bookshelf, she couldn’t stifle a giggle. Come to think on it, she hadn’t seen Lady Uplands since. It would be too bad if her ladyship had suffered a head injury—
“Did ye hear that, miss?” Bridget descended a few stairs and peeked around the corner. “I thought I ’eard a noise, like a gentleman shouting.”
“Oh, I’m certain there’s more than one drunken blackguard hovering about. We’re right near St. James’s Park, and of course we’re standing on the stairs that used to lead down to the Royal Cockpit, though that’s been gone for a year now, and good riddance to it, I say. I despise blood sports.”
Bridget hurried back up the stairs and tugged on Violet’s arm. “I tell ye, I hear footsteps, miss, and they’re getting louder! Hurry and finish, before a villain sets upon us.”
“You’d be happy enough to see the ghost now, wouldn’t you, Bridget? She’d frighten any villains away quickly enough. But do stop tugging on my arm, will you? You’ll make me ruin my sketch, and I’ll have to start again—”
Violet fell silent at the thud of uneven footsteps echoing on the stone stairs, and she and Bridget both froze at the sound.
“Dinna tell me ye didn’t hear that, miss,” Bridget hissed in her ear.
“No, I heard it. But where’s it coming from? Behind us, or in front of us?” In the dark, each footstep seemed to bounce against the stone in endless reverberations, and it was impossible to tell from which direction they originated.
“In front, I think. No, behind us, miss!”
“Hurry, Bridget. Up the stairs.”
Bridget crowded into her from behind and tried to push her up the stairs onto Old Queen Street where their carriage was waiting, but they hadn’t gotten more than two steps before an enormous shadow fell over the stairs, and a pair of broad shoulders blocked the light.
They’d gone the wrong way.
“Well, what have we ’ere, then? A couple of doxies, out for a stroll?” A hulking man in a black cloak with his hat pulled low over his face lumbered down the stairs and threw his considerable bulk in front of Violet, blocking her way.
Violet’s heart began to thunder in her chest, but she jerked her chin in the air and gave the villain her haughtiest glare. “Doxies?
How dare you, sir? I’m a lady, and I insist you let me and my maid pass at once.”
“Not many ladies about out ’ere, ’specially ladies alone at night, nor whores neither, now that the cockfights ’ave moved on.” The man ran a filthy coat sleeve across his mouth as he leered at Violet. “But if ye came out ’ere to see a cock, I got’s one ter show ye right enough, luv.”
He reached out to grab Violet’s arm, but she dodged his grasp and whirled around. “Down the stairs!” she hissed to Bridget, who didn’t have to be told twice, but spun around and ran straight down the stairs and through the passageway that let out onto Birdcage Walk.
Violet was right behind her, but the man, who smelled to Violet like he’d drank the better part of a bottle of gin, tore after her, managed to snatch a fold of her cloak in his grubby fist, and yanked her back against his chest. “Yer a right pretty little bit, luv, but I’m jus’ after yer coin, so hand over that purse, an’ I’ll be on my way, aw right?”
Purse? What purse? She wasn’t carrying a reticule…
Oh, no. Violet’s blood froze as she realized he could only mean her sketchbook. It didn’t look in the least like a purse, and it had little value to anyone but her, but there was no explaining this to her attacker, who’d grabbed it and was doing his best to wrench it out of her hands.
“Unhand me at once, you villain!” Violet twisted and struggled to free herself from his grip, and Bridget, who was now shrieking at the top of her lungs, attacked the man from behind and managed to land a blow to his shin.
“Damn ye, ye little bitch.” He wrapped one meaty arm around Violet’s waist and sent Bridget reeling with a mighty swipe of the other.
Violet gasped as she heard the sickening thud of her maid’s body crashing onto the cobblestones. “Bridget!”
She clawed at the man’s arm, her fingernails ripping into his flesh, but his hands seemed to be everywhere at once, and he was too strong for her. He pinned her wrists under his other arm and held her down as easily as if she were a kitten. “Right now, ’and it over—an’ I’ll have that cloak yer wearing, an’ yer fancy gloves, too.”
But Violet didn’t hand over a thing. She continued to struggle and scratch and bite until he lost patience, dragged her over to the darkest part of the walkway, and slammed her back up against a wall. “Don’t know why yer taking on so, luv. I’m a’ have ’em all either way, even if I gots to hurt ye to get ’em, so ye may as well stop yer fussing and ’and ’em over.”
He chuckled, and Violet realized with a flash of horror that he was actually enjoying himself. Her stomach heaved both at the thought and the smell of his fetid breath gusting into her face. In one part of her brain she realized Bridget had scrambled to her feet and was tearing across the passage toward the Royal Aviary, and in another she was groping for a memory—something she’d read in a book about the proper way to clench one’s fist to deliver a punch—but her mind went blank when an inhuman screech tore through the air. It sounded like…
Birds?
Violet shook her head to clear the daze, but she didn’t have time to work out the birds because the despicable villain who had her in his grasp wrapped his huge paw around her neck. Panic made her freeze, but before the blackguard could squeeze the breath out of her, a low, enraged voice hissed a string of curses, and in the next moment there was a pained groan, and the hands clutching at her went limp.
The smothering weight that held her pinned to the wall was shoved aside, and Violet’s knees began to buckle beneath her, but before she slid to a heap onto the cobblestones another pair of hands closed around her waist. She instinctively struggled against them, fearing the villain had returned, but these hands were gentle despite their strength, and someone was murmuring soothingly to her, telling her she was all right now, and he didn’t smell like sour gin at all, but like…goodness, he smelled divine, like amber and freshly cut wood—
No. It was impossible he should be here now…
But she knew it was him, even before she opened her eyes and found that silvery gaze swimming in and out of focus above her. “Like mercury,” she muttered in a daze, “or the sheen on a bird’s feather.”
“Miss Somerset.” He was breathless, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you all right? You’re not making any sense.”
“…don’t approve of blood sports, Lord Dare, especially cockfighting.” It seemed important, somehow, that he know this, and now that she’d told him, Violet let her head fall against his chest with a little sigh.
“I—what?” His grip grew more urgent, his arms closing around her as she sagged against him. “Are you injured? She’s going to swoon,” he warned, speaking to someone beside him.
Swoon? What nonsense. She never swooned. Swooning was for delicate ladies in tight-laced corsets, or dainty, graceful belles, not bluestockings.
It was the last thought she had before darkness overcame her.
Chapter Seven
She was much lighter than he imagined she’d be.
Nick stared down into Miss Somerset’s face, at the long, dark lashes curled against her cheeks, the vulnerable curve of her lower lip, and only one thought penetrated the shocked fog in his brain: He thought she’d be heavier.
Somehow, between her ink-stained fingers, the cobwebs in her hair, and her sharp tongue, he’d begun to see her as solid, massive even, just from the force of her personality alone.
But he might have been holding a child in his arms—she was a feather, a cloud, an armful of mist. Christ, she was so small, so delicate and fragile, like bone china, or porcelain…
Nick choked back the fear rippling through him as he realized how breakable she was, how tender the skin of her neck. That scoundrel who’d attacked her…by the time Nick came upon them the man’s fingers had been gripping her throat. Another moment and the villain would have broken her, snapped her to pieces in his brutal grip.
A strange feeling came over him as he studied the graceful lines of her face, as if he were suspended between fury and fascination. Damn it, what was she doing out here in the dark with only her maid to protect her? How could she risk her safety in such a foolish way? And why had he never noticed how pale and fine her skin was, how sweet the curve of her lips?
He curled her tighter against his chest as these confusing thoughts bounced from one side of his skull to the other, refusing to settle into anything coherent.
“…never swooned in my life.”
Miss Somerset’s eyes fluttered open and Nick tensed, bracing himself for tears, wailing, and hysterics. Long moments passed as she blinked up at him with wide eyes, until at last her gaze cleared and recognition flickered across her features.
She drew in a deep breath, opened her mouth, and…
Here it comes.
Said the last thing in the world Nick expected her to say.
“You’re a large man, aren’t you, Lord Dare?”
Nick’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Tall, I mean, and muscular.” She reached up and ran an experimental hand over his shoulder, testing the solidity of the muscle there as if she were assessing a horse. “Yes. Quite large, and strong as well. I doubt you have much trouble with footpads and thieves on the London streets, do you?”
Nick stared at her. Not five minutes ago she’d been trapped against a brick wall with a criminal’s hand squeezing her neck. Where was the confusion, the weeping, the apologetic babbling? For God’s sake, she hadn’t even breathed a word of thanks that he’d left her attacker bleeding on the cobblestones at the bottom of Cockpit Steps.
At that moment Nick tipped over the edge of fascination, and tumbled headlong into fury.
His arms tightened around her until she gave a little squeak of protest. “Lord Dare, you’re holding me rather tightly—”
“Not another word.” They’d reached his carriage, and he gave Miss Somerset’s maid a curt nod. “Get in
.”
The servant wasn’t nearly as calm as her mistress, and she dove into the safety of the carriage as if the hounds of hell were yelping for her blood.
Nick deposited Miss Somerset carefully on the edge of the opposite seat. She slid over to make room for him and he leapt in, slamming the carriage door behind him.
“Lord Dare—”
“No, Miss Somerset,” Nick snapped through clenched teeth. “I’m going to speak now, and you’re going to be silent and listen.”
Her eyes widened at his tone, but she seemed to understand it wasn’t the time to trifle with him, because she subsided at once. “Yes, of course.”
“What the devil,” Nick began, ignoring the maid’s gasp of dismay at his curse, “are the two of you doing wandering around Birdcage Walk alone, in the middle of the night?”
“Now, my lord, it’s hardly the middle of the night. It can’t be more than—oh!” Miss Somerset suddenly broke off and raised her hand to her mouth. “My sketchbook, Bridget! I dropped it when we ran down the steps to escape that blackguard!”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. The sketchbook. Of course. He should have known the bloody sketchbook was somehow connected to this madness. “What could you possibly have to sketch that couldn’t wait until daylight?”
Miss Somerset wasn’t listening to him. “Everything is in that book! All my work…oh, I must go back for it at once!”
She tugged at the door, but Nick grabbed her elbow before she could leap out onto the street. “Don’t even think of leaving this carriage, Miss Somerset.”
For God’s sake, she hadn’t batted an eye over that ruffian who’d nearly choked the life out of her, but now that her precious sketchbook was at risk her face was bleached of color, and her lower lip was trembling. “Please, Lord Dare. I must have it back.”
Damn it. Nick wasn’t the heroic sort—gallantry was tedious, and far more trouble than it was worth—but any intention he might have had to leave the sketchbook behind fled as soon as he saw that trembling pink lip. “I’ll get it. Stay here, and for God’s sake, don’t stir from the carriage.”