Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  There was a pause. “No, my lady.”

  “Drive on then.”

  The carriage rushed off into the emptying street. Regan dropped her umbrella on the seat beside her. Leaning back against the cushioned squabs, she stared out at the street as the carriage rolled by. It took her a few moments to realize where they were. When she did, she jolted toward the window and pressed her hands against the glass.

  She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath as they passed the Inns of Court and turned onto Fleet Street. This is not the way to Park Lane.

  Dear Lord. They were headed for Whitechapel. She stared out with wide eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. The carriage couldn’t go there at this hour of the night! Not without a regiment of guards.

  Regan fell back from the window, trying to understand what was happening. Mr. Brent. The thud that she had dismissed now loomed like a terrifying warning. A warning she most certainly should have heeded.

  Chapter Five

  As the carriage raced through the empty, narrow streets, Regan grabbed the door handle. She refused to sit and wait for God knew what to happen! She pushed the door open, but the street unexpectedly narrowed and the heavy door struck at the building walls, screeching against brick. It slammed shut.

  The jarring impact shot through Regan’s hand. She bit back a cry. Twisting around, she glanced out the opposite window. Like the other side, the carriage passed dangerously close to the coal-blackened buildings.

  Regan stared out the window. The street outside blurred into a darkened mass. She tried to stay calm. She tried.

  The carriage lurched to the right as it whipped around a corner, turning down an even narrower alley. Regan braced her hands against the velvet seat. She paused as her fingers brushed her umbrella.

  She grabbed it and clasped it firmly with both hands. The spokes, hidden beneath the black fabric dug into her fingers. The three-inch steel feral flashed in the darkness.

  It was all she had… God help her, she’d used it if need be.

  Though she was loath to use aggressive behavior, she was not about to let a bunch of ruffians kill her. She refused to give in. Refused to let her father’s hard work be for naught.

  The carriage jolted to a stop, throwing Regan forward. She threw out a hand, landing on the soft rug on the floor. The wind whooshed out of her chest, as dull whiteness flickered before her eyes.

  The clank of metal on metal and the thud of footsteps on cobblestone echoed in the night. Keeping a firm grip on the umbrella, Regan pushed herself back into the seat and edged toward the widow.

  Gray mist, like a solid wall of floating milk, masked her surroundings. A tall, stone building loomed like a phantom in the fog. Regan’s eyes burned as she fought against blinking. Her breath came in painful jerks.

  What now?

  The carriage door behind her squealed open, and before Regan could turn toward the sound, a hand grabbed the back of her gown just below her shoulder blades and yanked her out.

  She shrieked as she tumbled backwards out of the vehicle, her back to her attackers. Her elbows whacked the sides of the door frame and her cheek caught the metal step. Still, she kept a grip on the umbrella. She cried out as she landed on the wet ground, her knees cracking onto the rough stones. Sharp, white pain seared up her thighs and screamed in her joints.

  “Get the ’igh kick up,” snapped one of the men from behind her.

  A pair of large hands dug into her ribcage and yanked her up to her feet. Everything around her momentarily swayed and the umbrella in her right hand felt heavy. Regan snapped her head up. The soupy fog blinded her for a moment.

  A shadow stood just beyond her view. “ ’Ello, darling. Did you get my love letter?”

  The deep, east side voice rumbled around her. Fear clenched her stomach. “Who…Who are you?”

  A laugh came from the shadowy figure. “Call me John, lass. John Smith.” His ghostly form bowed mockingly. “How do you do Your Royal Highness?”

  Regan fought against the hands still holding her, but they slid to her waist and lingered beneath her breasts. She sucked in a breath. She had to wait till just the right moment to use her umbrella.

  She tried to twist away, but he held her fast. The man’s fingers slithered back and sunk into her upper arms, pinching the skin just beneath her gown. He yanked her back against him.

  Regan tilted her head sideways, trying to look at the man behind her, but he was too tall.

  “Release me,” she growled. “Release me!”

  In answer, he jerked her back into his groin, tilting his hips against her.

  Regan flinched.

  Tensing her body away from him, she grated, “I don’t understand what you want. I’m only trying to help—”

  “Look ’ere lads,” John proclaimed. “The toffy blueblood what’s educated don’t understand.”

  It was as if he were trying to keep her from seeing him. Her fingers coiled even tighter around her umbrella, keeping her hand from trembling. Not yet. She couldn’t use it yet.

  “I sent you a warning and you didn’t heed it. Apparently, a knife with a kindly note isn’t clear enough.”

  She had to reason with him. “I only seek to help—”

  “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you do here. But my employer does.” His voice was like pebbles grating against each other.

  Her eyes searched the fog, trying to see him. “Your employer? Who—”

  The fog slowly parted and a man stepped forward revealing a figure from a hell and damnation play. A black mask covered his face. Two slits in the heavy fabric revealed glittering blue eyes, but nothing more.

  Regan’s throat tightened as if his fist were squeezing it.

  John, as he called himself, stepped closer and lifted his thick, gloved hand, placing a single, black-gloved finger on her lips.

  Regan jerked back, but her shoulders jabbed into the solid chest of the man behind her.

  A soft chuckle came from behind the black mask. “You ain’t going nowhere, luv, until you promise me you won’t come back here.”

  Her father’s wrinkled face and blue eyes sparkling with warmth came to her mind. He was the reason why she was doing this. And she would not give in. “I cannot promise that, sir.”

  The man turned his head to the side, looking into the fog. “Imagine that. The lady ain’t got enough sense to piss in the pot I’m holding out for her.”

  The deep laughs of three or four men rippled through the night air.

  Regan swallowed. Hard. “Perhaps… Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement. I—”

  “No!” he pointed a rigid finger at her. “Bill, me lad. Let the ’igh kick go.”

  The hands holding her arms pushed her forward. Regan stumbled into the fog masking the bodies of the other men. “Please! I—”

  Hands shot forward out of the gray fog and shoved her. Regan’s heart jumped to her throat and she stifled a scream. Another pair of hands came out of the darkness and pushed her. Regan stumbled forward and she nearly lost her umbrella.

  How many were there? Five?

  Laughter filtered about her.

  They were only trying to scare her. She was sure of it. But Regan turned about. “Don’t. There must be a solution!”

  “Don’t,” the men taunted. They stepped closer, narrowing the circle they had formed. Regan could barely make them out, but she could feel them. A hand slithered over her shoulder. Regan jerked away.

  Another hand, broad and rough, pinched her backside. The sharp pain stuck like a needle. She gritted her teeth, tightening her fingers on her umbrella as if it were her lifeline.

  Enough was enough. She lifted it high, pointed the feral, and jabbed it as hard as she could at the nearest body. The heavy, steel feral punctured flesh with a sickening pop.

  “Son of a bitch!” a deep voice cried out. One of the men staggered and gasped.

  Regan stood frozen, her arm still extended. Her chest lifted and fell in rapid breaths. She y
anked her umbrella back then held it at the ready, waiting for another to advance.

  The man she’d struck reeled forward, clutching at his masked face. Blood gushed from between his thick fingers. It trickled onto his patched, brown shirt and thin, gray coat.

  “Bitch!” John yelled. His friend sputtered and blood sprayed the air. Slowly, the other masked men began to take solid form, closing in.

  Drawing in a gulping breath, a strange satisfaction washed over her. “I wished reason, yet you insisted on violence.”

  “Shut up!” He grabbed hold of her umbrella and whipped it aside, then violently grabbed her cloaked shoulder. He lifted his fisted hand and let fly. Her world erupted in stars and pain as his knuckles slammed against her cheek. Her head erupted in red and purple color as her body went limp and then everything went dark.

  *

  Regan slowly stretched out her fingers and water splashed over her hand. She swallowed. Water?

  She forced herself to pry open her eyes. The dark shadows of night danced over a muddy, green-covered puddle just before her face. Regan jerked her head up off the ground as pain pierced her face.

  Propping herself up on her hands, she stared at the wet ground, trying to remember what had happened.

  Whitechapel. And John. Whoever John really was. Shivering, she rubbed her hands along her shoulders and glanced about. Miraculously, her carriage was standing just a few feet away, the horses pawing at the earth, the door wide open. It couldn’t have been too long or the horses would have been stolen.

  Dear Lord, Mr. Brent. And her driver!

  Regan planted her hands on the ground and dug her toes into the muddy stones. She pushed herself up and staggered for a moment toward the coach. The coach swam before her. Holding out a hand, she brushed the side of the vehicle then leaned against it and took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Brent?” Using the side of the vehicle for support, Regan walked toward the driver’s box and peered up at it. The reins hung slack over the side.

  The box stood a good five feet off the ground. Even with the carriage lanterns swinging gently as the horses shifted hooves, she could make out no one. Regan grabbed hold of the side and dug her foot into the step.

  Pulling herself up with shaking arms, her dress caught on the break and ripped. She yanked the material free and stepped up into the box. Mr. Brent’s broad body was sprawled face down on the floor. Black blood matted his russet hair.

  Regan’s stomach twisted. Crouching beside him, she pushed aside the collar of his brown coat and placed two fingers at his neck. “Please, Mr. Brent,” she whispered. A pulse, slow and sluggish, pressed against her fingertips. Oh, thank goodness. Regan blew out a breath, straightened, and turned her attention to her driver, Mr. Hopkins.

  The driver sat twisted in the seat, his body resting against the side of the box. His black tricorn hat hung lopsided from the crown of his head.

  Regan reached out and gently shook his arm. “Mr. Hopkins? Mr. Hopkins?”

  The driver moaned.

  Regan shook him again, her eyes searching his body for any sign of injury. No blood spattered his coat, face, or hair. None that she could see. “Mr. Hopkins, please.”

  He moaned again and shifted in his seat. His head rolled towards her. A black and purple bruise bloomed on his forehead. He blinked.

  How could anyone do anything so hateful?

  Gently, Regan laid her hand on his shoulder. “Hopkins, I do not know how to drive the coach. And Mr. Brent—” Regan lowered her gaze to Brent’s limp body. “Mr. Brent is incapacitated. We must leave.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “Are you able to drive the coach?”

  Hopkins sat for a moment, his eyes drifting shut. Slowly, he opened them then grasped the side of the box and pushed himself upright. “Of course, Milady.”

  Home was a good deal too far away. “Take us to Hazard’s.”

  It was the only haven she had now.

  The driver leaned over and grabbed at the reins. Hopkins swayed to the right. “Right, Milady.”

  Regan reached for his gnarled hands, steadying him.

  “Let me help you,” she whispered as she grasped the leather strips just behind his fingers.

  The carriage lumbered off into the night-blackened street. Deep within her heart, a place Regan wanted to shut away, she doubted that she would ever be truly safe again.

  Chapter Six

  Jack jabbed at the burning coals in the hearth with the poker. The fire crackled and he stepped closer to the grate, letting the heat seep into his legs. The flickering red flames reminded him of Lady Regan’s hair. Yet, her flames were tame and caged in pins and ribbons.

  Had any man ever slid his fingers through her hair? Not likely. Lady Regan was a woman to be looked at, not touched. She valued being in control far too much to allow a single strand of hair to be out of place.

  Jack hung the poker on its hook and turned back to his desk. Piles of parchment called him, needing to be seen to. Little more than five years ago, he never would have believed his plans for revenge would make him one of the richest men in London.

  Placing a hand on the leather arm, Jack forced himself to sit in his chair. He placed his hands on the desk, and stared at the stacks of parchment.

  Where to begin?

  Every noble that had ever been guarded by Hazard’s was catalogued in such files, along with every detail about them and their case. Hell, he knew what dressmaker Lady Markby bestowed her gold upon. What wine Lord Dandridge drank. What whorehouse young Lord Tatteridge frequented.

  He knew every despicable thing about them, and every single one of them disgusted him. Once he’d believed in honor and pride, but to survive in the real world, there was little room for such ideals.

  Jack lifted the silver tea pot and poured into a delicate red and gold tea cup. The dark liquid pooled in the cup, wafting steam and a spicy scent of India.

  He poured in two dollops of milk and stirred in three teaspoons of sugar. Bloody hell, how he’d missed good tea. On the continent, there’d been a few tea leaves and dirt stirred together in stream water.

  He cradled the cup in his hand, damning decorum in private. The heat seeped into his skin. Taking a deep sip, he savored the exotic taste in his mouth, letting the spicy warmth slide over his tongue and down his throat.

  Once, he’d never even imagined he’d be surrounded by such creature comforts.

  As the sound of footsteps, fast and heavy, thundered outside his door, Jack lifted his gaze. The door burst open and O’Malley came through, his chest pumping up and down beneath his dark blue coat.

  “Ye’re needed straight away, Captain!”

  Ice ran through Jack’s blood. O’Malley never overreacted to situations. Never.

  “What is it?” Jack demanded.

  “Lady Regan, sir. She’s had a bit of a barney with some London toughs and Mr. Brent was knocked straight out into next week.”

  Jack slammed his cup to his desk. The china cracked under his hand as he shoved his chair back and rose. Damnation. He strode around the side of his desk. “Where is she? Is she here?”

  O’Malley gulped for air. “Down in the side parlor. Yer private parlor.”

  “Good.” Jack strode back towards his desk and the wood panel that led into his private filing room. “And Lady Regan? Is she harmed?”

  “I’ve already sent for some hot water and alcohol for her wound.”

  Jack froze. His heart thudded sharply in his chest. “Wound?”

  “Yes. She’s a bit damaged.”

  Christ.

  Jack yanked open the wood door and charged into the dark room. He pulled on the catch just above his tall, mahogany file cabinet and it swung open. Grabbing a candle, he lit it, then held it high, as he ran down the stairs.

  He should have listened to his gut. It was never wrong. Lady Regan was not safe and, despite the irregularity, he should have seen to her himself.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he straightened
his shoulders then stepped into the space behind the green china screen that blocked off the rest of the room. He forced himself to take in a slow breath then stepped into the room.

  Firelight flickered over her black dress and tangled, red hair. She sat on the burgundy settee, her face forward, staring towards the crackling fire.

  “Lady Regan?” he asked, softening his voice.

  She turned toward him.

  Jack hid a wince at seeing her swollen cheek which glowed purple and cushioned an angry, red cut down its center.

  A flash of a deeper, though similar, scar running down a woman’s face invaded Jack’s mind. The woman screamed as blood poured from down her neck and over the folds of her green gown. Wounded by one of her customers, Jack forced the image of his mother back into its customary cage.

  He strode to Lady Regan and crouched before her. She quietly stared back at him, her blue eyes wide and wary. Yet, surprisingly, she was calm. Her hands were clasped and her dress rustled as she sat up straighter. The black folds clung to her legs like wet rags.

  “Good God, you’re not only hurt, you’re soaked.” Jack stood and crossed to the chest of drawers near the secret door. He yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a pair of his trousers and a linen shirt. Fisting the soft linen and wool material, he turned towards her. “Put these on.”

  She refolded her gloved hands and shook her wet head, the long strands of red sticking to her neck. “I assure you, Captain Hazard, that is not necessary.”

  “Assure me all you like. I won’t have you dead of a fever.” Jack advanced towards the settee, the heat of the fire dancing on his legs. She shimmied into the corner of the settee, her eyes wide, the blue irises, though wary, sparkled with determination.

  He dropped the bundle of clothes into her lap, then grabbed her small hands and yanked off her gloves. As he rubbed their icy, pale smoothness, he was startled by how delicate her fingers were. His hands swallowed up their whiteness.

  Jack looked up and met her eyes. “Lady Regan, I know it is unorthodox, but I really think ’twould be best for you if you changed. The screen will suffice. For propriety sake.” He tilted his lips into a smile, hoping to reassure her. “Even I am known to be a gentleman on occasion.”