by Lois Greiman
“I can’t imagine. I’m the only jeweler in the entirety of this city,” said the other, and turned again, but this time Sean caught him by his starchy cravat.
“Tell me which way she went,” he gritted, and tightened his grip, constricting the other’s scrawny throat.
“Very well. Ease up,” the man croaked. “She turned right, then took a right at the corner.”
“My thanks,” Sean rasped, and turning rapidly, sprinted toward Smith’s Ornaments.
A little bell tinkled. Mrs. Fellowhurst glanced up.
“Where is Lady Tilmont?” His voice sounded odd, harsh and strained.
“Mister—” she began, but he stopped her.
“A beautiful woman,” he said. “Lavender gown, dark hair.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“She hasn’t returned to the carriage.”
She didn’t ask more. Instead, she nodded quickly. “That way,” she said, pointing to the left. “Some minutes ago. Are you quite—”
He was out the door in an instant. The light was fading. Reaching the cross streets, he slowed to glance right. An old man was sweeping the cobblestones. To the left a gray-haired gentleman in a tidy top hat glanced his way. Their eyes met for just a moment and then he stepped into a nearby alley.
Sean was running before he thought, sprinting down the walkway toward the alley. “You! You there!” he called, but the man didn’t step back into view. Tearing down the uneven path, Sean careened to the left, and there, not forty strides away, two men were bending over a prostrate form. He slowed, breathing hard, lungs tight in his chest, heart hammering a threatening beat.
“If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.” His words sounded even and matter-of-fact in the still alleyway.
The smaller of the two men straightened and raised his hands. “Not to worry, friend,” he said. “She seems to have fainted. We mean no harm.”
But Sean saw the other man was crouching over her, touching her shoulder as if he meant to turn her onto her back, and in his other oversized hand he held a knife. Something contracted in Sean’s gut, but he kept walking. “Leave now,” he ordered, “And you may have a chance to see the dawn.”
“We’ve no wish for trouble,” said the fellow with the hat. The other man straightened to his full height. He filled the alley like a tidal wave, seeming to rise forever.
Sean swore in silence and glanced about for a weapon, but in that second all hell broke loose. One moment their victim was flat on her back, head lolling to the side, and the next she was hurtling through the air like a loosed wagon wheel. Her heels struck the giant in the jaw. He staggered back, arms flung to the side. But she was already on her feet. Somehow, her assailant’s knife had miraculously disappeared.
The two miscreants stared at her for several seconds, and then they turned, fleeing down the alley like scurrying rats.
For a moment Clarette remained just as she was, slightly bent, but finally she hugged herself as if chilled. Then she straightened with an audible sigh and turned.
She stopped abruptly when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”
He blinked and glanced behind him. Was this a dream? A nightmare? A ridiculous play of some sort? “I was…I was looking for you.” Indeed, he had come to defend her, he thought, and found his manly behavior of moments before rather silly suddenly.
“How long have you been there?” she asked.
It felt as though he had stepped onto the stage of a nonsensical drama. “Not long.” He made a face, gave a shrug. Why not play along? he thought. The world had obviously gone mad. “Just long enough to see you attack the two thugs who accosted you.”
For a moment it almost seemed as if she swore, but she was already striding toward him with purpose and composure. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Well…” He glanced about, vaguely wondering if someone was enjoying this odd performance. “I believe I was talking about the thugs who attacked you. The ones who—”
“Someone attacked me?” she rasped, and stopping even with him, raised her left hand to her throat. It almost seemed to be shaking.
He stared at her point-blank. “What’s happening here, Clarette?”
“I don’t…” She glanced behind, her voice suddenly bewildered, her expression the same. “I was walking along.” Keeping her left hand by her throat, she lifted the right wistfully. “I had just left the jeweler, I believe. And suddenly…” She gasped, brought her outreached hand to her bosom. “Everything must have gone black because I don’t seem to remember anything after that. I…” She lifted a fragile hand toward her brow. “Oh. You don’t suppose it was—” she began, and fainted.
Sean watched her tumble gracefully to the ground, watched her lie there. For a moment he remained exactly as he was, brows raised. Perhaps he was waiting for the second act. He wasn’t certain, but when she didn’t rise, he bent over her.
“Clarette?”
She didn’t answer.
“Lady Tilmont?” He lifted her hand to feel for a pulse. But gloves covered her from elbow to fingertip. He began to peel off the right one. She moaned then, tugged her hand from his grip and blinked open her eyes.
He settled back on his heels, not sure if he should applaud or escape while he still had a modicum of wits about him.
“Where am I?” Her voice was little-girl soft.
“England.”
She scowled a little, already looking peeved.
“London. An alley,” he corrected, because who could tell? Maybe she really had fainted.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”
He shook his head. There was no possible way he could be more confused, but he was certain of one thing: “Not to buy your husband a gift.”
“What?” she asked, and pressed her fingertips to her skull.
He considered questioning her, but this didn’t seem the proper place. And there was probably no point. “Can you rise?”
“I don’t know. I—” She paused and closed her eyes for an instant. “What happened?”
“I’m hoping you’ll tell me,” he said, and scooping her into his arms, rose to his feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Carrying you,” he said, and strode toward the carriage.
“You can’t carry me, I’m—”
“Heavy?” He was beginning to pant a little. She wasn’t a big girl, but she was no wilting flower either.
“No!”
“Strange?”
“Put me down!”
Frozen images of the past few harrowing minutes were flying through his mind like frightened crows. “A hell of an actress?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was attacked.” Her head wobbled a little. “Wasn’t I?”
“I have no bloody idea,” he said, and, finally reaching the carriage, shifted her onto the seat.
Mrs. Edwards awoke with a start. “Oh, there you are, my dear. Is it time for dinner yet?”
“I’m afraid we must return to Knoll—”
“Not tonight,” Sean interrupted.
“What are you talking about?” Clarette asked, but he was already striding around to the far side of the carriage.
“We’ll get a meal and a place to stay for the night near here.” The tilbury tilted as he settled on the far side of their chaperone.
“Are you daft? I am—”
“Very probably,” he said, and set the mare into motion.
Clarette gripped the seat abruptly and stifled a wince. Sean gritted his teeth and swore in silence. Whatever had happened, she truly was hurt. And it was his fault.
That thought gnawed at his guts, tightening his hands on the reins and searing his mind until he finally tugged Daisy to a halt in front of an inn. It was a humble establishment made of stucco and brick, but the exterior looked solid and the walkway was free of debris. Stepping from the carriage, he strode inside. A scrawny girl of twelve or so was cleaning a table.
“Have you a room to
let for the night?” he asked.
She stared at him a second, eyes wide. “Yes sir. We do, sir.”
“And what of a meal? Can we get that, too?”
“Certainly,” she said. “If I have to fix it meself, sir.”
“Very good. Thank you,” he said, and hurried outside. Clarette, or whoever the hell she was, was scowling at him. “We’ll be staying here for the night,” he told her.
Her scowl turned to a glare. “Did something happen to Prinny?”
He stared at her, a thousand worries scurrying through his mind at her nonsensical words. “Did you hit your head?”
“I was simply wondering if the Prince Regent may have died and put you in charge.”
He almost laughed. In fact, he would have if she wasn’t so damned heavy, because he was already lifting her out of the carriage.
“Holy hell,” she hissed. “Not again.”
“Yes again,” he said, and marched her through the doors. The girl was still there, staring with wide eyes. “The lady needs a room,” he said. “She’s been injured.”
“I’m fine,” she argued.
“You’re not,” he said.
“I’ve…I’ve got a room at the top of the stairs,” stuttered the girl.
Top of the stairs. Of course. He glanced up. The steps seemed to go on forever. “Lead on,” he said, and rose laboriously to the aviary.
By the time Clarette and Mrs. Edwards were settled, Sean felt somewhat relieved. For a moment he had considered housing them in the same room, but Clarette’s head seemed to hurt when she was jostled, and a woman of Mrs. Edwards’s size could do a lot of jostling. Thus, he ordered meals for all three of them and insisted that the baroness’s be sent to her bedchamber.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Edwards said, pausing between mouthfuls of pigeon pie as she and Sean ate in the common room. The cream colored satin of her wide tiered skirt had ingested the chair upon which she sat. “What happened?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” he said, and pushed his own meal to the center of the inn’s scarred table.
“What’s that?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.
He scowled, thoughts scampering in a thousand directions. “There may have been foul play,” he mused.
“Yes, the fowl is quite good,” she said, and scowled, still masticating. “But what of Lady Tilmont?”
He raised his voice. “I believe she may have…” He paused; several people had turned toward him. “I think she fainted,” he said.
“Sainted? Yes, she is quite nice. Not at all the harridan people think her to—”
“Fainted!” Sean corrected, his usual calm shattered.
“Ahh, fainted. Why didn’t you say so. Yes, of course. I see. Well…” She took a slurp of wine. “She’s such a tiny thing. But a good meal will set her right. Unless…” She froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
Sean stared at her, stomach twisted with worry. Not much made Mrs. Edwards quit eating. “What?”
“You don’t suppose she’s…” She canted her head in an oddly girlish manner.
Sean scowled.
“You don’t suppose she’s…” Her whisper was as loud as thunder. “…in the family way.”
“In the—” Fook it all. Pregnant? He hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t even considered that. But wait a minute. He was beginning to believe his own idiotic stories. She’d been attacked, not overcome by the vapors. Hadn’t she? True, the man with the top hat said they wished her no harm, but what was he apt to say? We’ve clonked her over the head and now intend to rob her blind and perhaps kill her for sport?
“Oh!” Mrs. Edwards clapped her chubby hands. “Wouldn’t Lord Tilmont be pleased?” she crooned, and the day went from bad to miserable.
Chapter 17
They were running. She was exhausted and hungry and scared. The baby wouldn’t quit crying. They should leave her. The evil thought stole like poison through Savaana’s mind. They should leave her as they had the others. Though she didn’t know where they were going. Didn’t know why they ran.
She fell, tripping on a root in the undergrowth. Mother stopped. She was panting. Dogs bayed in the distance. Mother jerked toward the sound, eyes white in the encroaching darkness. A hound howled again.
Savaana snapped her eyes open. A figure stood over her, arm descending. A sword. A giant. Fear! She rolled wildly to the left. The bedding tangled about her legs, trapping her. She shrieked a scream, but it was muffled in the pillow.
“Suffering saints, Clarette, ’tis me.”
She scooted to the far side of the mattress and turned back, muscles rigid with terror. “Who?” Her voice was as wispy as a lost child’s. A giant grinned in her mind, scarred lips twisted, but was that a memory or a dream? Was he friend or was he enemy?
“Me. Sean Gallagher.”
She shook her head, confused.
“Wicklow,” he said, and the soft edge of humor in his voice calmed her nerves somehow, brought a semblance of clarity. “I but wished to make certain you were well.”
Her senses returned slowly, and with them a modicum of anger, which made her think perhaps she wasn’t so very different from Clarette after all. “You scared the stuffing out of me so you could make certain I was well?” she asked.
“Apparently,” he said, and smiled a little as he seated himself on her bed. There was a good yard of sagging mattress between them, but still he seemed very close in the moon-kissed darkness. “I’m sorry. ’Twasn’t me intent.”
Savaana’s dark dreams faded slowly, allowing her to catch her breath. She leaned back against the crunched pillow behind her and watched him. “So you’re not trying to kill me?”
He studied her in the silent darkness. “I admit I’ve considered it a time or two.”
She flashed her eyes to him and he grinned, his teeth cutting a swath in the night.
“But ’tis obvious, I’m not the first.”
Memories of the alley stormed back at her. What the hell was going on? Had one of the jewelers sent someone to steal the necklace? It seemed likely, but ungodly fast. She had barely stepped out the door before the brigands were on her.
“I brought Tuica,” he said and raised a small metal cup toward her.
She frowned a little. Sometimes it was damned comfortable living in Clarette’s skin. She never had to be nice. It was rather relaxing. “What?”
“Plum brandy,” he explained. “’Twas not a simple thing to find.” He was watching her closely. “’Tis made elsewhere. Romania mostly. But Delvania also.”
Delvania? What did he know of the place? she wondered, but didn’t allow her gaze to snap to his. Instead, she studied the mug in her hand. It was crafted of fine hammered steel that shone in the moonlight. The handle was made to look like a rearing horse, mane and tail flying.
“Emily said ’twas your favorite,” he said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, finally remembering she had tasted it once and found it surprisingly palatable. She and Clarette seemed to have similar tastes. The thought made her feel a little breathless, but she set the thoughts aside. “What an unusual cup,” she said, admiring the delicate workmanship. “Where did you get it?”
He said nothing for a moment, then finally spoke. “I tired of shaping nothing but horseshoes.”
“You made it?” she asked, and did let her gaze rush to his now.
“Drink your brandy,” he ordered.
“Why? Is it poisoned?”
“I would think not,” he said. “Take it. It’ll steady your nerves.”
She scowled, wondering when he had crafted the mug. Wondering where it had been during their trip to London. In the pocket of his breeches? In his shirt against his bare skin? “My nerves are steady,” she said. Or they had been until she considered his skin.
“No truer words…” he said, and letting the sentiment dangle, drew his feet onto the mattress. Leaning his head against the wall behind him, he watched her in silence before he spoke. �
�You’re a spy,” he said finally.
She coughed on her first sip of Tuica and almost spat the contents onto the somewhat frayed counterpane. “What are you talking about?”
He nodded thoughtfully, still watching her. “An agent hired by the prince regent—Prinny, as you call him—to ferret out secrets.” He tilted his handsome head. “I’ve heard of such things.”
“How much of this did you drink?” she asked.
“You can admit the truth,” he urged.
“Very well.” She cupped the mug in both hands, liking the smooth feel of the steel against her fingers. “I am not a spy. I am Lady Tilmont.”
“You can trust me with your secrets,” he said.
“How nice.” And odd. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“You forgot to lock your door.”
“No,” she said, and took another sip of brandy. “I did not.”
“Then the lock must be faulty.”
“Hmmm,” she said, and raised her head from the cup. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“When I was…” The memory made her hands tremble. Perhaps her nerves weren’t quite as steady as she would have him believe. “In the alley,” she said. “How did you find me?”
“Perhaps I’m a spy, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “You really are Irish, aren’t you?”
He watched her as if searching for logic in her oh-so-obvious statement.
“Prone to bouts of overactive imagination,” she said.
“I didn’t imagine the giant bending over you,” he said, and there was something in his face that gave her pause. An unusual seriousness. A caring.
“You stopped them.” Her voice sounded strange, almost broken.
He frowned, as if unsure how to respond, but finally spoke. “What was their intent?”
“I don’t know.” She took another sip and felt strengthened by it.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. His voice was earnest and soft. “This one truth and I shall tell you how I found you.”
For a moment she was tempted almost beyond her strength to reveal all, but she had not been raised to be foolish. “Very well,” she said. “The truth is, I spoke to two proprietors about a piece of jewelry. When I left the second one, I intended to return around the back street to the carriage. There was very little foot traffic. Very little traffic of any sort.” Her throat felt tight. She cleared it and continued. “A man approached me from behind and asked if he could speak to me about a business deal. He seemed—”