by Deb Marlowe
“Aye?” Birch asked. “Then you saw that this weren’t no abduction. Letty was expectin’ us and she come willin’ enough.”
Callie had to fight off a wave of defeat at his words. She’d suspected as much. But it didn’t matter. She squared her shoulders and wiped the rain from her face. She’d been saving Letty from herself since the girl had toddled her first step. This was no different.
“Say what you will,” she said with a wave of her hand. “What’s important is where she is now.”
“We don’t need to tell ye nothin’,” Birch’s cohort spoke up. He had white dust in his hair and white marks smeared across his rough linens. What had the pair of them been into, to be so covered in thick white streaks? He inched closer again. Too close. “We done the job wot we was paid for.”
Callie rounded on him. “I don’t know you—and I presume that you are too ignorant to know the perils of crossing me. Birch can tell you the folly of getting on my bad side—and that of Hestia Wright.”
“Now, Miss Callie,” Birch began. “You and Hestia Wright cannot be savin’ every wench with rash intentions and bad judgment.”
But his friend bristled, throwing his shoulders back and lowering his brow. “See here, Miss Up and Mighty. Your friend give us enough lip. I ain’t takin’ it from you, too.”
“Quiet, Cobb,” Birch ordered. “We don’t want trouble, Miss Callie.” His voice gentled. “Letty’s right where she wants to be. You’d best just let ’er go.”
Denial surged. Callie drew breath to answer, but Cobb interrupted with a derisive snort. “What’s got into ye, Birch? Why in blazes are you dancin’ around this girl’s skirts? We had orders not to touch the other one. She knew it, too, and I swear she worked to get my blood up, out of pure spite.” He shifted position and adjusted his smock. The addition of white smudged fingerprints did nothing to improve the look of it. “And I still ain’t had the chance to scratch that itch. Now, there’s been no word on this one. She’s clean. Smells good. Smart-mouthed, but she’s alone. Ain’t nothin’ that says we can’t teach her a better use for that mouth.”
“Shut it, Cobb,” barked Birch.
“Why?” Cobb leered. “I got a mind to take my ease o’ ’er.”
Here it was again. A drama played out endlessly over time, in dark lanes like this one, in brighter, wider streets, in hovels, homes and mansions the world over. Was there anything more universal than abuse of the weak? Than a man thinking to use his greater strength, wealth or position to brutalize a woman? Any other woman would have had the sense to be terrified. But Callie had learned the trick of turning her fear into fury. She knew it was possible to fight back—both for herself, and for others.
Cobb was edging closer. He watched her pistol hand, Callie noted with satisfaction. She kept her other hand, the one with the blade, still and ready to strike. She tossed her hair, slowly growing wet enough to drip, out of her eyes. All of her frustration with Letty, her anger at this bully and all of his brethren, flared high, setting her resolve.
She’d learned a few things about his sort over the years, working with Hestia Wright. She’d stood off against men who made Cobb look like a schoolyard bully, against drunkards and vicious pimps, abusive husbands and self-righteous parents. She braced her knees and watched his chest. Always the chest, which messaged intent. She took note of his, saw the instant he meant to move, tightened her grip—and found herself snatched out of the way.
She glared upwards, snarling, ready to flail Birch’s hide, only to find that it was another man entirely holding her arm in a vise grip.
Another man—whom she recognized in an instant.
She froze. Her eyes widened and her cheeks heated until she felt they must look like beacons glowing through the misty drizzle. The ground shifted beneath her feet.
Lord Truitt Russell.
Of all the men she never wanted interfering in her business—it was he, pulling her close, growling a warning at Cobb, stealing her breath and her stability.
She hadn’t thought twice about confronting Birch and Cobb in a rapidly darkening alley—Birch knew her, knew her work, and understood the incredible heft of Hestia Wright’s name backing her. He would allow her to skirmish with Cobb, but he wasn’t going to let things get out of hand. She might be on slightly dangerous ground with these two, but at least it was familiar territory.
That had never been the case with Lord Truitt Russell.
She’d beheld him with nothing but scorn when first he turned up, interviewing prostitutes of every level for his reworking of the old Love List—just another lordling amusing himself in the London’s stews and back alleys. Later they had clashed—finding themselves at cross purposes after the Marquess of Marstoke’s true intent for the List had been discovered and the extent of his villainy revealed. But disdain and frustration aside, she’d always noticed him.
How could she not? His height, his endlessly wide shoulders, all that lean muscle wrapped in masterful tailoring—he’d been crafted to attract feminine attention.
“Move on now.” Lord Truitt’s voice rumbled with suppressed anger as he tossed the order at Cobb. “Go about your business and leave the woman alone.”
His raspy tone vibrated right through her, tickling hidden parts of her anatomy.
She shivered. This was bad. Very bad, indeed.
Cobb, either too frustrated or too stupid to know when to back down, puffed up like a bantam rooster. “Here now, we call first claim on ‘er!” He reached for her again. “We don’t hold with poachin’. Find yer own—”
A soft snick sounded behind her. Before anyone could react, Cobb found his protest cut short as the point of a blade came to rest perilously close to his dirt-smeared neck.
Callie looked around and groaned. “Not you too, Stoneacre.”
She had to put a stop to this. To their actions and her even more unwelcome reactions. She snatched her arm free and glared between the two interfering men. “What do the pair of you think you are doing? I have business here! There’s no need for you to interfere.”
Lord Truitt frowned down at her—and there it was, clearly visible. The precise instant that he recognized her. That awareness didn’t come alone, either. It dragged a dose of shock along, and a less-than-flattering horror that broadcast itself across the handsome lord’s face.
“Callie Grant.” He let her go and stepped away, as if she carried the plague.
Perhaps in the darkest hours, at her most private moments, Callie might have conjured up a scenario in which the two of them were not sniping and bickering like children. She might have indulged in a vision of a dance, or a conversation conducted in adult harmony. She might even have dreamed of a kiss, of this particular man dragging her name out in a moan—but she hadn’t imagined it said with a tone of impatient disdain.
He turned on Stoneacre. “The chit’s asked the right question for once. What in hell are we doing? Is this your idea of a jest, Stoneacre? Or is it some warped test? Since I ruined myself rescuing one damsel in distress, do you think I must have a hand in saving them all? Did you think to laugh? Or was I supposed to instantly recognize the most contrary girl in the kingdom and the one least likely to appreciate my help?”
Callie bristled. “Never mind,” she snapped. “Don’t answer. I don’t care why you are here—only that you take your leave. Now.”
“Gladly.” Lord Truitt turned on his heel.
“Wait,” Lord Stoneacre ordered. He bent a kind look on Callie. “Miss Grant, I’m afraid we’ve come for you.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“What was that?” Lord Truitt demanded.
“Well, damn it all,” Cobb spat.
Birch stepped up. The white smears across his forehead and on his shoulders had begun to run in the rain. “It looks like you gentlemen can take the lady in hand. We’ll jest be goin’ to tap a glass, then.” The big man jerked his head at his partner and the two of them faded back toward the tavern.
Callie barely n
oticed. She was staring at Stoneacre’s sympathetic expression and greatly fearing she knew what it meant.
“What’s this about, Stoneacre?” Lord Truitt asked again. “You said we were going after Marstoke. Miss Grant has made her position on this issue clear already. Repeatedly, in fact, during the social whirl surrounding my brother’s marriage to her friend.” He folded his arms. “She doesn’t want Marstoke found and dragged back to justice—not by me or anyone else.”
“I don’t think Miss Grant’s feelings on the topic are so simple. In fact, I believe her objections arise from her worries about Lord Marstoke exerting undue influence on Letty Robbins.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m too late, aren’t I?”
“I’m afraid so. She’s with him even now.” Stoneacre nodded toward Lord Truitt. “But we are going after Marstoke—and I need to speak with you before we do.”
Stoneacre was a powerful man. Wealthy and titled in his own right, but richer by far in his friends and influence, or so rumor had it. And now this influential man stood dripping rain, regarding her with an unfailing, steady compassion.
Damn.
“You know, don’t you?” she clipped.
“I’m afraid so.”
She groaned.
Stoneacre offered his arm. “Let’s find a dry spot to talk.”
She put her arm in his and glanced over her shoulder at Lord Truitt. “Does he have to know as well?”
Stoneacre smiled. “I’m afraid so.”
Callie sighed. She stole another glance back. Lord Truitt smoldered back at her with dark beauty and frowning disapproval.
Damn. And damn again.
Chapter Two
St. Malo, Brittany
Dumped from a carriage, alone, with child and without prospects—yet, still I was filled with determination. I set out along that dusty lane, following the promise of those stars, taking the first steps into what Lord M— expected to be a short life filled with want and misery. I knew better.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright.
The screams unsettled her.
Letty Robbins had led quite a sheltered early life. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising for the illegitimate daughter of a Grand Personage, as she liked to call her eminently uninterested father. She’d left all of that behind as soon as she could, however. She didn’t like quiet, had no interest in sheltered. She’d wanted to see more, have more, live more.
Events had taken an unexpected turn, however, and consequently she’d spent the last year seeing more than she had bargained for—and yet, less than she might have—living as she had amongst London’s worst collection of thieves, thugs, bawds and whores. She had learned quite a bit, though—including how to distinguish screams put on for a show from the real thing.
Her heart pounding, she stared at the small house nestled amid a copse of scrub pines, knowing that the pleading cries coming from there were real.
The sun shone, brightly illuminating the pretty little scene. A soft breeze brushed her cheek, smelling of sweet, ripening fruit. It was all so utterly incongruous with whatever terrifying events must be happening in that house.
Abruptly, the screaming stopped. Almost as if someone had heard the direction of her thoughts.
Letty dropped the fragrant branch that had blocked her path, turned on her heel and headed back the way she had come. Back to the dubious safety of the rambling, stone villa. Another lesson lately learned—not to ask questions. She might be in league with the Marquess of Marstoke, but she’d be worse than a fool to think of crossing him. She wanted no part of what might be going on in that cottage—and wanted less for anyone to know she’d discovered it.
She said not a word to anyone and she didn’t see the marquess at all that day. By the following day she counted herself safe. She must not have been spotted. Relieved, she spent the afternoon at her lessons, though she grew more irritated by the moment as the young upstart of a maid corrected her again and again.
“No. It’s the left leg she always stretches out as she sits to write letters. And don’t forget to tilt your head.”
Letty complied.
“The other way.”
She shot the girl a nasty look and only got a grin in return.
“There it is. That’s it, exactly.”
Letty rolled her eyes.
“I’m glad to find you doing so well, my dear.”
She jumped. That last bit of praise had come from behind her, and in the marquess’s smooth, cold tones.
“No, continue,” he instructed. “She writes a great many letters. This is an important mannerism to master.”
Obedient, she turned to the paper before her once more.
He watched her in silence, perched upon the arm of a padded chair. The minutes stretched out. The silence grew thick with all of the words not being said. Worse, Letty began to run out of nonsense to inscribe with her quill. When I am the grandest lady in the land, she wrote, I will banish that cheeky maid to the scullery.
“Did you enjoy your walk yesterday?” Abrupt, the question cut into the quiet.
With all of her will she held still, kept her answer casual and unaffected. “Yes, thank you, my lord. The estate is very pretty.”
He didn’t answer. She glanced up and her nerves suffered a jolt at the intense look of displeasure he bent upon her.
“It was just a short walk,” she said. “And uneventful.”
He stilled and she knew she’d made a mistake. The quill in her hand began to shake.
“Keep your wanderings to other parts of the estate, my dear,” he said softly. “Unless you have a wish to take up permanent residence in that little cottage?”
She shook her head and bent to her writing. The greatest role in the history of theater and the stage, she wrote. In the history of history. It will be worth it.
He stood. “I’ve guests arriving soon. A pair of young acolytes. They shall get in very late, in all likelihood. I inform you because I wish you to keep your distance from them, as well. They’ve no need to know the specific direction of our plans just yet.”
Disappointment stilled her hand. She knew the type he recruited for such positions. Young gentlemen of good birth and wealthy families. Exactly the sort of men she’d hoped to meet, when she’d left home so long ago.
The marquess correctly interpreted her silence. “Letty, you will do as you are bid.”
Frustration stiffened her spine, fueled by the knowledge that despite the significance of her role, he held not an iota of respect for her. For months—beginning long before her hurried journey to this French backwater—she’d performed every task set before her and done it well. She’d had no word of praise or thanks and she’d been given no idea when her toils would be over and she’d be set upon the path that promised so many rewards. Straightening, she set down the quill. “If this works, there will come a time when it will not be so easy for you to order me about in this fashion.”
She had no time to even think what a fool she was, the violence came so swiftly. She never saw him move, only had a second to jump back as the spindly desk before her flew hard through the air and into the wall. Suddenly he was before her, his hand encircling her throat.
“Leave us.”
The maid scurried for the door, closing it behind her as she fled.
“On the contrary, my dear. If this works, I will always and absolutely order your every waking moment.”
The words were quiet, the tone conversational. It frightened Letty more than the violent outburst.
“Why else would I spend so much time, effort and money on you?”
She couldn’t answer, could only struggle to swallow past his tightening grip.
“Little fool. You are nothing but a fine nose between correctly shaped eyes. Were it not for your profile, you’d be singing still at the back of that dreary little theater. Or spreading your thighs for some minor baron’s son.”
He pushed her abruptly away and she stumbled backward, trip
ping over her chair and landing in a heap upon the floor. She didn’t dare take her eyes from him.
“Why could you not be useful?” It came out a snarl, causing her to flinch back. But he turned away from her and crossed to gaze out the window, upon the climbing, cultivated hills beyond the woods. He drew in a great breath and let it out slowly. “The game heats up.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Appearance is one thing, but a worthy mind is yet another. You, alas, are but a placeholder, a piece to be moved about as I see fit.” He spun around and advanced. “Do you understand? You will play your role but I will hold the power. All of it.”
Letty pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Good.” He walked on past her. “Don’t forget this lesson.” At the doorway he paused. “And know that if you do, then I won’t hesitate to remove you from play altogether.”
With soft snick of the closing door, he was gone. She stared at the ceiling overhead, unseeing, for long moments before climbing painfully to her feet.
An eerily high-pitched, deep-throated hum jangled her nerves. She turned to find Anselm, Marstoke’s toady, had cracked the door to peek through. His impassive expression was, as usual, completely incongruous with that horrid sound he made. He made her skin crawl.
She kept her expression blank while she wondered if he’d been the one to inform on her.
Moving slowly, she righted the table and chair. Anselm grew bored and took himself off.
Taking her seat, she took up her quill and paper, stretched out her left leg and angling her head, began to write again.
I fear I have made a grievous mistake. It will likely be my last.