Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  The elegant street was deserted, but flambeaux burned in front of many of the houses to provide light for passersby. Elf hurried down it, her heeled shoes too loud on the flagstones, all senses alert for lurking footpads and other villains.

  All the same, she couldn’t help but grin with success. She’d done it. She’d achieved the first part of her escape! Now she just had to make her way through London in the middle of the night without being robbed, raped, or murdered.

  That sobered her. She’d never been out alone by day, never mind in the dangerous night.

  She paused and looked back toward Walgrave House, her experiences there already dreamlike.

  What should she do about all this? By rights, she should tell someone in authority about Walgrave’s involvement in treason and let the government deal with it. If the man was foolish enough to meddle in such matters, he must take the consequences.

  And yet, and yet . . . it would be a terrible thing to see him hang, to perhaps be drawn and quartered. In France not long ago, a man who had tried to murder the king had been torn apart by four horses.

  Elf shuddered, trying to imagine Walgrave’s magnificent body mangled in any of these ways. Surely she could find some way to save him and do her patriotic duty, too.

  As she headed for Amanda’s house, she pondered the problem. No brilliant solution occurred to her, but at least she didn’t experience much trouble along the way.

  There were people about, but only one bothered her. A one-legged man crept out from some steps where he doubtless slept, whining for coins.

  He might have been an innocent beggar, but Elf took no chances. She showed him the pistol and told him to “Cut it,” in a rough accent, hoping he’d think her a tough specimen.

  It worked. He scuttled back into his hidey-hole, and she hurried on her way thinking that the night streets were not quite as dangerous as she’d been taught.

  Of course, probably few women went abroad well-armed.

  Which raised the interesting question of why not? Men always thought women needed protection. Would it not be rational, therefore, to ensure that women could protect themselves?

  Against men, she thought with a wry smile. Doubtless, therein lay the catch.

  Perhaps women should take their defense into their own hands.

  This thought so intrigued her that she arrived in Warwick Street before she knew it. Amanda’s neat, modern terraced house was the only one with lit windows, which meant she was still up. Elf supposed it would be surprising if she’d gone to bed, but at least the house didn’t look to be in a state of alarm.

  She hurried up the steps and used the knocker gently, praying Amanda stood ready to open it.

  She did.

  She opened it cautiously, however, since she wore her night robe, then grabbed Elf and pulled her in. “Thank heavens! I’ve been pacing the floor for hours. How could you . . . ?”

  On a stream of whispered complaints, she swept Elf up to her bedchamber. As Amanda shut the door and leaned against it, she seemed to run out of breath.

  Elf hugged her. “I’m sorry! I promise not to go adventuring again.”

  Amanda regained breath. “You certainly won’t persuade me to it again! I have never been so terrified . . . And when you ran off into the Druid’s Walk with that man behind you . . . So, did the captain catch you?”

  “Of course not!” Elf realized she could finally take off her mask, and did so. “Thank heavens for that,” she said, rubbing her face. “I’ve been so hot and uncomfortable.”

  But Amanda came forward and seized one of her wrists. “You’re bleeding! What on earth happened?”

  Bother. Elf would rather have kept most of the details secret, at least until she’d had time to consider her options. As she snatched up a towel and pressed it to the small open cut she said, “I was tied up and had to escape.”

  “Tied!” Amanda stared at her. “But I thought . . . Wasn’t that Walgrave you were with when you left?”

  Bother again. “Was it?” Elf asked innocently.

  “I was sure of it! In fact,” she said with a stern look, “I am sure of it. He was hardly disguised at all! I thought—”

  Elf raised her brows. “That I’d decided to live through my fantasy? Nonsense. He just rescued me. He is part of the family, after all.”

  “Oh, really!” Amanda took the towel to dampen it in the bowl of washing water. “Having found a safe champion, was it not a little thoughtless to leave me to fend for myself?” She came to dab at Elf’s wrist. “And it still doesn’t explain your captivity or your wounds.”

  Elf quickly assembled a story. “Walgrave didn’t know who I was, you see. He was rescuing a stranger, and fancied a seduction.”

  “Well, of course he did! Really, Elf—”

  “When I objected, he tied me up.”

  “The wretch!” Amanda cleaned the dried blood off the other wrist, then looked up, somber. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “When he’d tied you up, what did he do?”

  Elf studied her wrists. The cuts were superficial, but they’d still scab for a few days. How fortunate her sharp-eyed brothers were away. “He went to bed.”

  Amanda gripped Elf’s hands. “Dearest, you don’t have to lie to me. If you’ve been unwise, I’ll help you.”

  “Unwise? It was certainly unwise to go to Vauxhall.”

  “Elf!” Amanda almost shrieked. “What did the man do?”

  Elf tugged free. “I don’t think it’s quite proper to demand these details, Amanda. I don’t ask what you and Stephen do.”

  “Ah! So he did something.”

  “Well, of course he did. He was trying to seduce me. And,” Elf added thoughtfully, “it was surprisingly pleasant. He kisses rather well.”

  “Kisses well.” Amanda collapsed into a chair. “Are you saying Lord Walgrave tied you up and then did nothing but kiss you?”

  “He didn’t kiss me after he’d tied me up. That would be rather dastardly, wouldn’t it?”

  Amanda sank her head in her hands. “I hesitate to destroy your innocence, but even gentlemen are capable of being dastardly, you know.”

  Elf supposed they were. With distance and leisure, she could see that the earl had behaved rather well. Once he had her in his power, he could have assaulted her with all kinds of touches. All he had done, in fact, was to save the life of an anonymous innocent and not press his attentions when she said no.

  Elf found it hard to be thinking so kindly of her brother-in-law.

  “And he doesn’t even know who you are,” said Amanda, shaking her head in wonder. “You seem to have escaped scot-free.”

  Which reminded Elf of the inconvenient Scots and a small matter of treason. Lord, what a tangle. She needed time to think it through before she said anything to anyone.

  “Goodness, I’m worn out,” she said, unhooking her gaudy overdress and shrugging out of it. She turned her back. “Spare me having to ring for Chantal, Amanda, and help me with my laces. I’ll be grateful for my bed.”

  Amanda came over, but then said, “Are you going to tell me you usually wear your stays so loose?”

  Bother, bother, and more bother! “He loosened them.”

  “I thought so.” Amanda tugged at the bow. “Men never retie them tight enough.”

  “I don’t like them tight anyway.”

  “You have the good fortune of a naturally trim figure.”

  Amanda loosened the laces so Elf could step out of the boned, cotton stays. “That’s better. But you have a full figure that men admire.”

  “You have a delicacy that men admire, inconstant creatures that they are. So?” Amanda asked, clearly intrigued. “What think you of Lord Walgrave now?”

  Elf was happy to be able to laugh about it. “That he can be pleasant, I admit it. But only because he thought me a silly ingenue called Lisette. If he’d any idea of my true identity, he’d have throttled me.” She gently turned her friend toward the door. “Off you go to bed,
Amanda. I’m safe now, and you must be exhausted. I’ll tell you the whole story in the morning.”

  Once alone, Elf untied the laces that held her two pockets around her waist. She’d been aware of the pistol in the right one, and prayed that Amanda not notice the bulge. She didn’t need any more peculiarities to explain.

  Now she knocked the powder out of the priming pan, wishing for a safe way to return the weapon. Walgrave could afford to replace it, of course, but she knew men treasured such guns. She traced the mother-of-pearl and gold design on the grip. The weapon had doubtless been custom-made to fit his hand exactly with precise balance, and she had, in effect, stolen it.

  A fig for such silly scruples. She placed the pistol in the back of a drawer. She’d return it if she could, but the man was a black traitor, and deserved no consideration at all.

  But still, she thought, as she unfastened her silk petticoat and let it fall to the floor, he had been kind after a fashion.

  And he was very beautiful.

  Her brothers were each beautiful in their own way. She’d never been aware of seeking beauty in a husband, but now she thought perhaps it was important to her. It seemed a trivial thing, but she responded to it, indeed she did. The picture of her brother-in-law’s body, so wantonly displayed to her, teased at her mind.

  Washing her face and hands, it still teased her, and lingered as she unpinned her curls to brush some of the powder out. Her hair would have to be washed tomorrow to get rid of it all.

  Of all the men in the world to be stirred by, why the Earl of Walgrave?

  Fort. That’s what his intimates called him. What Chastity called him.

  She paused, staring sightlessly at her reflection in the mirror, imagining murmuring that name to him in the dark as she licked his skin. She’d never before thought such a thing about a man.

  Perhaps it would be different now. Perhaps she just needed awakening to these desires, and now she’d feel drawn to other men. More suitable men. After all, Fort in dishabille had been quite a revelation to her. Presumably, if she married, her husband would come to her lightly clothed, hair loose, and she would feel the same wanton desires . . .

  Elf rose to pull off her shift and slip into her cotton nightgown, stroking her hands over her awakened body. Honesty commanded her to remember that she’d been stirred by Fort in the full armor of gentleman’s dress. Stirred more than by any other man of her acquaintance.

  But it was completely impossible. Not only was he enemy to her family, he was a traitor. Stupid, stupid man.

  She climbed into bed intending a logical analysis of the threat to the realm. Immediately, however, she remembered lying in Walgrave’s house, listening.

  She remembered being tempted to call out to him again . . .

  Had he discovered yet that she had gone?

  No, she thought he wouldn’t check her again until the morning.

  Would he just shrug, assuming silly Lisette had returned to her home? Or would he be concerned for her safety?

  Would he care that she had left him?

  No, probably he’d mostly be concerned about what she knew. That meant he’d have to try to find her again, to recapture her so she couldn’t chatter about his affairs. Her heart raced with nervousness. Surely he couldn’t find her. He’d shown no sign of recognition, and she’d left behind no clue.

  She hoped that was true, for if Walgrave could find her, perhaps those Scots with knives could, too.

  She pulled the covers up around her head, lusty desires chilled by fear. If only none of it had happened. If only she’d never gone to Vauxhall in the first place.

  Something wicked, indeed.

  Something completely foolish. And now she must face the consequences. She knew about things that could not be ignored, and she could pay for it with her life.

  Chapter 5

  Fort awoke when someone rattled back the curtains at his bedroom window. Blinking his eyes against sunlight, he saw the offender was not an impudent servant he could dismiss on the spot.

  “Gad, Jack. What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “Waking you,” said the rangy young man cheerfully. “Late night, Fort?”

  He had a lean, humorous face, and mousy brown hair, tied back casually. His dress, too, was casual—plain breeches and coat, suitable for riding.

  “Not particularly.” Fort stretched lazily, then tensed when he remembered the night.

  A quick glance showed him the door to the adjoining room still stood ajar. Was the chit awake? Though Jack Travers wouldn’t make trouble, he’d rather his friend not know there was a bound damsel in the bed next door. He’d be hard-pressed to come up with a believable explanation.

  He rolled out of bed naked and rang for his valet. “Why don’t you go down and command breakfast, Jack? I’ll join you when I’m ready.” He turned to frown at his friend. “Why the devil are you here at this ungodly hour?”

  “Pettigrew. Ham. Tickle-me-quick.”

  This cryptic string of words enlightened Fort, and he glanced out of the window to check the weather. Another fine day. No chance of getting out of his commitment to ride out to Ham this morning with Travers and Pettigrew to observe the paces of Tickle-me-quick, a promising Ascot runner.

  What on earth was he going to do with troublesome Lisette? He didn’t want to leave the poor girl tied up all day.

  He turned back to repeat his suggestion that Jack go down to breakfast, just as his friend pushed wider the half-open door into the next room. It was a meaningless fidget, really, but Jack paused, then walked in.

  Fort waited, expecting voices or perhaps a scream.

  Silence.

  Then Jack strolled back, dangling red-and-white-striped stockings, and lacy garters speckled with dark stains. “What have you been up to, my friend?”

  Fort snatched the garters and confirmed that the stains were blood. He pushed by his grinning friend, but saw what he expected. The little bird had flown.

  He looked at the sheet. More blood. For a moment he wondered if Murray and his men had somehow invaded his house and murdered the wench. It took only a moment to dismiss that. The blood was mere spots, and Murray would have left the corpse.

  What the devil had the silly chit done to herself?

  “The bodice dagger,” he muttered, then remembered that he had an audience.

  He cursed himself silently, though, for forgetting Lisette’s weapon.

  Thinking back, he could see he’d been far too interested in the silly widgeon, far too stirred by her, far too frustrated by her sudden panic. He’d hidden it. He didn’t show anyone that kind of need. But it had dulled his wits.

  These days, he couldn’t afford dulled wits.

  He glanced at the clearly intrigued Jack, but before his friend could voice his curiosity, Fort’s valet scratched and slid into the room as if attempting to be invisible.

  Dingwall was a thin, prudish, humorless man who had been appointed by Fort’s father years ago. Gliding over the carpet, the valet placed hot water silently on the washstand, then stood beside it, as patient as a statue and almost as inanimate.

  Jack was observing Dingwall in fascination. He’d seen the valet many times before, but everyone tended to stare. As well, everyone asked why Fort didn’t get rid of the strange man now that his father was dead.

  There were reasons, but not good ones. Even he knew that. It was petty to jab at Dingwall when his father was beyond reach. It was foolish to keep the Incorruptible’s tool around just because Fort felt haunted by memories and guilt. After all, the valet could no longer send reports back to his father, unless he had a means to talk to hell.

  Fort strolled over to the washstand, ready to jab at Dingwall, petty or not. If only the valet’s feelings were more obvious. If they were, he’d show his disgust at the sight of naked bodies. No flicker of emotion moved the still, pale features.

  Plague take it, Fort had let the man find him in bed with a whore once or twice. Dingwall had not so much as twitc
hed. Two whores once, now he came to think of it.

  He’d think the man indifferent if he’d not found the years of reports of his every action. Dingwall had related every sin, had described every debauchery in detail. Always he had implored Fort’s father to correct his wickedness.

  Fort knew what sort of correction Dingwall had in mind, for the man had been hired before he’d grown too old to be beaten.

  Now, Fort dangled the stained scraps of cloth in his valet’s line of sight. “Dispose of these.”

  Ah, for once Fort saw a betraying trace of hesitation before the valet took the garters and stockings. “Immediately, my lord?”

  “Immediately.”

  Dingwall glided out of the room.

  “You really should—”

  “—dismiss him,” Fort completed. “Perhaps he amuses me.”

  “Only if you’ve a devilishly strange sense of humor. He makes me feel as if someone’s walked over my grave.” Jack dropped lazily into a chair. “Now, tell. Whom did you have tied up? And, more importantly, why was she so eager to escape? Must be losing your touch, my friend!”

  Fort soaped a cloth and began to wash. “A virgin who got cold feet, that’s all. I’d no mind to go out again to take her home, but feared she’d run given the chance. The silly creature would never have survived the night streets.” He rinsed the cloth and re-soaped it, frowning. “I didn’t think her desperate enough to cut free. I hope she’s safe.”

  Jack surged out of his chair to face him. “No, you are not spending the morning checking on her. You have a commitment.”

  Fort eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to start, anyway.” Dingwall oozed back into the room, so Fort added, “Do go down, Jack. I’m not going to run off.”

  An hour later he rode along Whitehall, strangely tempted to abandon Jack and search for Lisette even though he knew it was hopeless. He was annoyed but comforted by the knowledge that she’d run off with one his pistols. He truly didn’t want her to have fallen into the clutches of Murray and his associates.

  He saw another angle to it all, however.