The Unquiet

by J. D. Robb; Mary Blayney

ONE

  BIRMINGHAM

  MAY 1816

  Lydia Chernov put on her cloak and gathered her things so she could hurry out to the hackney as soon as it drew to a halt in front of her shop door. Chernov Drapers might be on the best street of shops in Birmingham, but at dusk and beyond, one could not be too careful.

  Carriage wheels rattled across the stones and slowed to a stop at her door. Lydia pulled her cloak tight around her, doing her best to control the hum of excitement that made her heart beat faster. Tonight’s meeting could change everything.

  Lydia glanced to the left and right as she locked the shop door behind her. The fog hung just above the rooftops, turning to rain as it came closer to earth, inviting shadows or worse.

  With her umbrella and bags in hand, Lydia hurried to the conveyance. After calling the direction to Mr. Leopold, she settled back and calmed herself. She felt safe in the hackney, and in fifteen minutes she would be seated with Irina and her husband, sipping tea and discussing business.

  Mentally running through her list of items—umbrella, satchel with periodicals, trim kit, and reticule—Lydia turned her mind to business and rehearsed her speech, hoping to sound both businesslike and optimistic. Yes, Irina Allerton was Alexei’s sister, but Mr. Allerton was a mill owner first and last, and family would mean nothing if he thought the offer unsound.

  The fact that a woman now ran Chernov Drapers was offset by the recipe for purple dye, definitely the Chernov’s greatest asset. That Grandmama would allow Mr. Allerton the use of it in exchange for his exclusive business would, Lydia had no doubt, tip the balance entirely in her favor.

  The purple the Chernovs produced was perfection. This purple was the truest color of royalty, of wealth. The color every woman who aspired to be fashionable wanted. The fabrics colored from royal to lavender were expensive to make and even more dear to purchase. Allowing Allerton the use of the dye recipe would expand its availability and make them both wealthy.

  Of course, Mr. Allerton was already wealthy, and she was not much more than modestly successful. True wealth for her was years away. But she would allow the exaggeration. Of all people, Mr. Allerton understood the usefulness of hyperbole.

  Fully prepared, Lydia sat back and closed her eyes.

  Wish.

  The word whispered through the carriage and she grabbed at the coin on a chain around her neck, shock if not fear making her sit bolt upright.

  Wish.

  There it came again. It was not a spoken word, certainly not Alexei or his ghost. It was the sound of the wheels on the wet road. She listened for it again, but the only sound she heard now was the light patter of rain. Her heartbeat slowed and she drew a steadying breath, but did not close her eyes again.

  When the hackney rocked over some loose stones, Lydia realized that Mr. Leopold was moving the horses more quickly than usual. As she raised her umbrella to knock on the roof, the conveyance skidded to a halt. Before she could lean out and question Mr. Leopold, the street-side door swung open.

  Cold, wet air was not the only intrusion. A man jumped aboard. At the same moment, the hackney began moving again.

  I should never have come out without a maid, was Lydia’s first thought. Or a pistol.

  She had faced bigger threats than one strange man in her conveyance, but still her brain conjured a dozen horrors. The ghastly images of her own body broken, bleeding, or worse made her stomach churn, but she pushed beyond terror to action. Thank God her fear did not paralyze her. She touched her necklace again, as if it could comfort her, and spoke with as strong a voice as she could muster.

  “Who are you? What on earth are you doing?” Terror hid behind her indignation. Holding tight to her umbrella, she made ready to use it as a weapon.

  “Mr. Leopold!” she called. “Do you have your pistol?” She had no idea if he carried one or not but hoped the question would give the intruder second thoughts.

  The man, a very large man, laughed and settled on the opposite seat, his feet raised and propped against one door, leaning his body against the other so she could not reach either handle. “Leopold is counting his bribe money and heading for the nearest whorehouse. My man is driving.” The intruder smiled with smug complaisance, still blocking the doors with his shoulders and feet.

  “What do you want?” If he wanted money or her supplies, she would willingly abandon them to him.

  “The Russian wants what you have.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t know any Russians.”

  “But you do. Alexei Chernov.”

  Her heart rose to her throat. “Mr. Chernov is dead.”

  The man shrugged, and the careless gesture frightened Lydia more than his words.

  Lydia caught her breath. This was not a random abduction. This man wanted her. Or something of Alexei’s. Alexei had died, yes, but even with him dead, a line of those who wanted something from him would wind around the block. She’d had enough proof of that this last year. “What is it you want?” she asked again.

  “Your most valued possession.”

  Her necklace? She forced herself not to touch the chain around her neck, hoping it was not visible. No, not her necklace. It only had value to her and Alexei.

  He wanted the recipe for the purple dye. The recipe belonged to Grandmama, a family heirloom, really.

  Despite her growing anxiety, Lydia’s mind worked as fast as the machine at the new cotton mill. She would not take this horrible man back to the shop to search for the recipe, not with Grandmama and the maid upstairs.

  “Yes, I can see you know what I want. Hand it over or I will take it from you, wherever you hide it.”

  The man took out a large knife and pretended he needed to clean his fingernails.

  His crude threat upset her, but her whole body chilled at the sight of the nasty blade. Lydia choked back the scream that clogged her throat, all pretense of calm gone in an instant.

  Holding her umbrella by the tip, she used the curled handle to hit him where the inseams met. The man bent double, cursing, and Lydia grabbed the moment to fling open the door and leap from the hackney, dragging her bags with her.

  Stumbling on the wet cobblestones, Lydia twisted her ankle and cursed a little herself. Ignoring the pain and without the slightest idea of where she should go, she ran toward the noise coming from the one lighted building glimmering through the fog.

  When she was within a few yards of safety, a man stepped out of the shadows.

  She barreled into him, the feel of the fine wool of his greatcoat announcing his wealth to her as surely as a ring would have to a jeweler.

  No gentleman should be walking these mean streets. With no time to ask and fearing that he might be part of the threat, Lydia raised the satchel holding the periodicals with strength born of desperation and clunked him on the head before his words registered.

  “Do you need help, miss?” He then made a sound between an oof and ow.

  Lydia stopped short. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “What in the world did you hit me with?” He stepped back and looked about for his hat but showed no sign of abandoning her. Finding his hat, he brushed it off, acting very much the gentleman, seemingly unaware of the scoundrel from the hackney hurtling down the street toward them. “I offer help, miss, not harm.”

  The clothes of a gentleman and the voice of one as well, Lydia thought, her panic easing a bit.

  With his hat firmly on his head, the man from the shadows waited until she nodded her understanding, then stood between her and her abductor, easing her anxiety enough so she could breathe again. In an instant the gentleman raised his walking stick as if it was a weapon to be respected. “Begone, you villainous thug. Leave this woman alone.”

  Even though dread still had a hold, Lydia almost laughed. Her rescuer’s words could have come straight out of a Minerva Press novel.

  The thug hesitated only slightly. “Leave us be. She’s my wife and trying to run off with her lover.”

  “I am not his w
ife!” Lydia hoped she did not have to say that for the gentleman to recognize it for the truth. Her abductor was a disgusting example of a man, and she pitied the woman who might be married to him.

  “Your wife? No, she is not. A lady would never even be seen with a pig like you.”

  The ruffian lurched forward without a moment’s pause, knife at the ready. Her rescuer stepped toward him, disarming him so quickly that Lydia could not see how he did it. As the knife skittered across the cobblestones, her rescuer punched the man in his ample stomach and then in his jaw. The pig fell to the ground with a graceless thump.

  With his foot on the man’s chest, the gentleman drew a fine sword from the sheath of his walking stick and held it to the villain’s throat.

  “I would kill you and relieve the world of one more venomous pig, but it would most likely upset the lady.”

  The gentleman stepped back, his sword still at the ready, while the man struggled up from the street. He moved out of range of the sword and then seemed to regain his courage.

  “You’ll pay for this!” The vitriol in his voice made payment sound life-threatening.

  “Ah, but first you will have to find me.” He raised his sword toward his head in a sort of salute.

  “I will, and after I take care of you, I’ll make that bitch Mrs. Chernov pay as well.”

  The gentleman leaned closer and nicked the fat of the pig’s arm with the sword. “If you so much as come near her again, I will beat you to a pulp before a cheering throng and leave you for the dogs. I know my way around Birmingham and can find the likes of you, Nesbitt, without a moment’s trouble.”

  Though he looked surprised at the mention of his name, the man called Nesbitt ignored the blood dribbling down his shirtsleeve and stood his ground. Lydia herself prepared to run.

  “Begone!” her rescuer shouted again, causing both Lydia and Nesbitt to jump.

  “I’ll find you. I’ll bring a mob and make you pay! Both of you!” Nesbitt said as he backed away.

  “Empty threat, Nesbitt. Even your driver won’t help you.” He nodded toward the hackney, where the driver waited, still seated, watching the action not fifty feet away.

  “Damn you both to hell!” Nesbitt called out as he stumbled backward and away from them. The hackney rumbled away with the same air of defeat as its passenger.

  Lydia’s rescuer wiped his sword and sheathed it in one easy move, then turned to her and bowed. “For you, the rain has stopped.” He gestured to the generous heavens. “I beg your pardon for his offensive language, Mrs. Chernov, and for the violence.”

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” It was the first of at least five questions to which she wanted answers.

  “Help when you needed it.”

  “Obviously.” She straightened and stood as tall as she could. “But I would have made good my escape.”

  “I’m sure you would, but these streets are not safe for any lady out alone, especially at night.”

  As if he were the innocent he pretended. Exactly what was he doing here? She forbore to ask. “How did you know that man’s name?”

  “The man is tall with a girth to match and much too ready to use his knife. They call him Nesbitt the Butcher. Not many like that in Birmingham. It was an educated guess.”

  “Nesbitt the Butcher?” The name made Lydia feel weak in the knees.

  The gentleman took her by the arm. “Now, now, you have bested the villain. A heroine does not faint, but calls for champagne.”

  “Perhaps in your world, sir.” Lydia laughed. Profound relief and genuine amusement mixed. “Who are you?”

  “A gentleman come to your aid. Names are not necessary.”

  “Then you have the advantage of me.”

  He smiled and his face went from dangerous to delightful. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Ladies always have the advantage.”

  Lydia hefted her sample bag and used the voice that always cowed her servants. “If you are flirting, sir, you have picked a miserable time and place.”

  “If I am a flirt, then you are an original, Mrs. Chernov.”

  His smile grew to a grin, at her expense she was sure.

  “From your name, to your vicious weapon disguised as a bag and your presence in this neighborhood at this hour, you are very much an original. You can call me Chase.”

  Before she could decide how to answer, he continued, with a slight bow. “Tell me where you are bound, madame, and I will see you there safely.”

  No! she almost shouted. The last thing she needed was to show up at the Allertons’ with a man to whom she was not married. Irina and her husband were too much pretenders to society to tolerate anything less than proper.

  “I can guess if you won’t tell me,” Mr. Chase teased. “You are off to see a customer, a lady, someone you call on in the evening because you would also like to see her husband.”

  Lydia almost dropped her satchel. How could he know that?

  “We are within a short walk of one of the better neighborhoods in Birmingham, which I assume is your direction, but I do think that a carriage would be far more comfortable.”

  As if by magic, a covered conveyance rolled to a halt behind him.

  “Thank you.” Lydia summoned all the dignity she could. One of them had to. “I will not be keeping my appointment. I will go directly back to my shop. I do not need or want an escort.”

  “You are not worried that Nesbitt will be lying in wait?”

  Oh dear, the thought had not even occurred to her. “Are you trying to frighten me?” He was succeeding.

  “Not at all, merely trying to keep you safe.” He smiled, but it definitely did not reassure her. It was the kind of smile that invited her to a private party, one that would be more fun than anything she could imagine.

  “I will see you safely home,” he said without apology.

  So Mr. Chase had some of the bully in his makeup, too. “If you wish to see to my safety, then ride atop with the driver. I have my reputation to consider.”

  “No one is about tonight, madame. Your reputation is as safe as you want it to be.”

  Mr. Chase opened the carriage door, offering his hand to help her inside as she called the direction to the driver.

  She wore gloves. He did not. He squeezed her hand a little, and the heat of his fingers traveled and warmed parts of her that had been stone cold for much too long.

  Lydia missed the carriage step and almost fell. Mr. Chase caught her by the waist, steadied her, and made to lift her into the conveyance.

  Shaking her head, she moved into the carriage and out of his grasp. She did not want him any closer.

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  “Not quite yet, Mrs. Chernov.”

  She ignored him and knocked on the roof for the hackney to move on. Mr. Chase stepped up and into the hackney and took a seat beside her. She ignored the feel of him close, the scent he favored, which was something as fresh as mint but much more alluring.

  No one knew better than she did that station and place in life meant nothing when it came to one body responding to another. It did not matter that she was a shopkeeper and he was quite obviously a gentleman, though also something of a rogue or even a rake.

  She did not need the complication of a man like Mr. Chase in her life or, God help her, in her bed. In a few moments she would say good-bye and mean it.

  TWO

  Lydia would not give in to the confusion roiling through her. Holding the edge of the window so tightly her fingers grew numb, she ignored the man beside her and watched for any sign of her attacker.

  Mr. Chase spoke the truth. Despite her rescuer’s threats, Nesbitt would not give up that easily. He might well try again now, when she was shaken and, beneath her bravado, terrified.

  “The streets are empty. Except for that man over there and the doxy in the doorway. Do you see her?” Mr. Chase leaned closer to point out the window.

  “Do be quiet,” Lydia snapped.

  “As y
ou wish,” Chase answered and fell silent.

  Which made him no easier to ignore. How could she have forgotten how this felt—this attraction that made no sense at all? She knew little more than his name.

  “Mrs. Chernov, do you have any idea why Nesbitt would have singled you out? How would he know that you would be out this evening? Was it common knowledge?”

  Perhaps conversation was the best way to pass the time. “No, I did not announce it to my customers, but I did not keep it a secret either. Mr. Allerton is married to my husband’s sister, but for all that, I planned to discuss business.”

  “And why is your husband not with you? On a buying trip perhaps?”

  “Mr. Chernov died a year ago.” Should she have lied to discourage him? That would be foolish. Alexei’s death was common knowledge.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Chernov. What a devastating loss.” He watched her as he spoke; she could feel his eyes on her. Lydia nodded. Devastating? Yes, in so many ways. But she would not discuss it with a stranger.

  “I must have something he wants, but I cannot puzzle out what it could be.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “When I asked what he wanted, he said, ‘Your most valued possession.’ ”

  “And what is that?”

  Lydia touched the necklace. “What I value most is a gift from Mr. Chernov, and it has no monetary worth.” That was vague enough to leave him guessing. For all of a second she debated telling Mr. Chase about the purple dye recipe, but a gentleman of his station would never understand its value.

  Lydia turned to face him, which proved unwise. He was very close in the narrow hackney. He was so near she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the bold shape of his brow, the fullness of his mouth. She cleared her throat and tried to recall her train of thought.

  “Are any of your husband’s associates suspect?”

  How gently he phrased that question. “Without a doubt. I have spent the last year clearing my life of Alexei’s morass of business dealings.” Not all of them legal.

  “Aha, and were they all above the law?”

  She stared at him, suspecting him of reading her mind. “Are you implying that I am dishonest?”