Shirley Kerr

by Confessions of a Viscount

  Scarcely an hour later, the duke waited nearby in his coach, a sheet draped down to conceal the crest on the door. Bandages and other medical supplies were on board, as well as his grace’s favorite surgeon, who’d literally been dragged from his bed to join the excursion—who was going to say nay to a duke?

  Alistair huddled with Charlotte in the doorway of the chandler’s shop next door to the gaming hell while they waited for the marquess to return and report on his reconnaissance.

  “I need to tell you something.” She clasped her hands together, something he knew she did only when struggling to contain her emotions. “This morning I came to a very unpleasant conclusion.”

  His heart skipped a beat. He stepped closer, shielding her from the view of a group of sailors sauntering past. He meant to keep his voice carefully neutral but couldn’t resist whispering in her ear. “Before or after Toussaint’s note arrived?”

  Her rosewater scent teased him, even as she licked her lips and closed her eyes. “I—”

  “Come along, children.” Penrith staggered past, seemingly only the judicious use of his walking stick keeping him from falling to the gutter in a drunken stupor.

  Stifling a curse for his father’s bad timing, Alistair tucked Charlotte’s hand in his and followed after, though not too closely. Penrith had liberally sprinkled Blue Ruin on his cravat, and left an odiferous wake.

  He turned the corner into the alley and plopped down on an overturned whiskey barrel. “All right, here’s what we’ve got.” Though he slumped with the boneless posture of the thoroughly inebriated, his words were clear and his eyes bright as he looked between Alistair and Charlotte. “The serving wenches and pot boys aren’t paid enough to be loyal, so I don’t think you’ll have to worry about them. Toussaint is in the main gaming room, along with Sir Nigel and Mr. Jennison, and two men at the back table who are not playing cards because their hands are tied to their chairs. One of them bears a striking resemblance to you, Miss Parnell, or at least he did before his eye was blacked.”

  “Steven’s alive!” Charlotte grabbed Alistair’s arm and sagged against his side. He wrapped his arm around her in a reassuring squeeze while she took a moment to collect herself. “The other gentleman, does he have a rather large nose?”

  Penrith nodded. “Gauthier?”

  “They’re all in the same room at once.” Alistair realized he was stroking her arm when his father raised a sardonic eyebrow. He stilled but didn’t let go. “This should make our task easier.”

  “How did you manage to see all this without arousing suspicion?”

  “No one pays any attention to a drunkard.” Alistair spoke slowly, wondering just how often over the years his father had been sober when he seemed inebriated.

  Penrith tapped the tip of his nose with his finger and winked. “Now let’s go save your family, miss.”

  They parted company outside the tavern entrance of the gaming hell. Penrith entered first, loudly calling for a tankard of ale, damn it.

  Charlotte watched Alistair dart to the corner of the brick building and climb up the same drain pipe she had climbed down last night. If someone had closed the window that Penrith had opened on his first foray into the structure, would he still be able to get in without attracting too much attention?

  A doxy strolling by glanced up and followed Alistair’s progress. An appreciative smile lit her care-worn face. Charlotte couldn’t help a tiny smile herself at his display of masculine strength and agility, not to mention the way his breeches delineated his backside as he climbed.

  Once up on the roof, he made no effort at stealth, instinctively following a truism she had learned early on in espionage. Act like you’re supposed to be doing whatever it is you’re doing, and most people won’t question your actions. He reached the window, gave her a little wave, and climbed inside.

  She wanted to be the one skulking about, sneaking down the stairs, tiptoeing down the hallway. Wanted to be the one to cut Steven and Gauthier free of their bonds, be the one to rescue them, see the astonishment and relief on their faces.

  But the painful truth was, it was best if she did what she had done most often—be a distraction. She could keep Toussaint’s attention longer and get him to talk to her more than he would to anyone else, which would improve the odds of their plan’s success. She could provide Alistair the most time to free Steven and Gauthier.

  After counting to ten, to give Alistair and his father a chance to get into position, Charlotte sauntered into the tavern, through the taproom and to the back hall. It was much less crowded than last night, with a few men stretched out on benches or the floor by the fire, sleeping off the prior night’s merriment.

  The door to the gaming room was ajar. She could sneak in, catch Toussaint and his minions unawares, and rescue Steven and Gauthier all by herself. She could hold Toussaint at gunpoint and coerce him into doing her bidding. It would certainly be a sight to see him forced to cut his own prisoners free.

  But that was not the plan. She had a better plan, and a partner. They had a greater chance of succeeding by working together.

  And she never made the same mistake twice—she’d learned her lesson after last night. Instead of acting impulsively, she should have talked with Alistair. Despite her taking advantage of him on many occasions, he’d come through for her every single time—been the best partner one could ask for. If she hadn’t been so obstinate about getting the snuffbox on her own, she probably would have been able to pick the lock and get the box safely while he kept watch out in the hall.

  But instead she’d acted brashly, and committed the cardinal sin of treating him with the same casual disregard of which Steven was guilty of treating her.

  Penrith sat on the floor in the hall, slumped in a passed-out lump against the wall. At the top of the staircase she could just make out the toe of Alistair’s boot, off to one side.

  Right. Time to raise the curtain on their little drama.

  “Toussaint!” she called out, relishing the very unladylike bellow. Giving vent to the mix of anticipation, fear, and exhilaration racing through her blood helped her slow her breathing to an almost normal rate. “Show yourself!” She had her hands in her pockets, feeling the cold metal of the snuffbox in one and the reassuring butt of a pistol in the other.

  She’d never actually shot anything but paper targets pinned to bales of straw before, but she’d make an exception for Toussaint. Without hesitation. He’d already killed twice, and no telling how badly he’d hurt Steven this time. Her brother already bore a knife scar from their last encounter.

  From the doorway of the main gaming room, Sir Nigel poked his head into the hall. “Have you brought it?”

  “Where’s my brother?” She planted her feet wide, chin out, shoulders back.

  “He’s here, he’s alive. For now. Did you bring it?”

  Breathe. In, out, in, out. “I want proof.”

  Nigel disappeared back into the gaming room, but left the door open. “She wants proof he ain’t dead.”

  She heard some mutterings and shuffling in the room, then a grunt of pain.

  “Don’t give it to him, Charlie! Leave!” quickly followed by an “Oof.”

  Hearing the pain in Steven’s voice, she strangled the urge to cry out. Focus. She slipped her finger around the pistol trigger.

  Sir Nigel poked his head out again. “Good enough? Now let’s see the box.”

  Charlotte withdrew the box from her pocket, just far enough to let the light glint off the silver corner. “I’ll only give it to Toussaint, and only after Steven and Gauthier are released. Unharmed.”

  Nigel scratched his jaw. “That might prove difficult, depending on your definition of unharmed.”

  She refused to flinch. Steven certainly wasn’t comfortable, but he hadn’t sounded like he was in agony. She wouldn’t think about the fact that she hadn’t heard Gauthier’s voice yet. Keeping her gaze locked on Nigel’s, she pushed the box back in her pocket, out of sight, and gave a no
nchalant shrug.

  Nigel withdrew again, muttering as he went.

  She flicked her gaze down to Penrith, who was still slumped against the wall, an empty tankard clutched in one hand. Nigel had hardly spared him a glance.

  Just as the butterflies threatened to take flight in her stomach, Nigel stepped out into the hall, moving aside to make room for Toussaint.

  She clenched her teeth to keep her mouth from falling open.

  Toussaint’s nose was obviously broken, with deep bruises beneath both eyes, and another dark, mottled patch along his jaw. His bottom lip was split and grossly swollen. His squint could be caused by swelling from the broken nose, or painful sensitivity to light because of a concussion.

  She wanted to whistle appreciation at Alistair’s handiwork. Instead she determinedly kept her gaze on Toussaint’s damaged face so she wouldn’t draw attention to Alistair, who was currently creeping down the stairs, inching toward the gaming room. He rolled his hand, gesturing for her to keep them talking.

  She pointed at Toussaint’s injured face. “Did one of your little birds say no to you?” Baiting a man about his sexual conquests—or lack thereof—was so easy, it almost seemed unscrupulous. But Toussaint didn’t play fair, so she wouldn’t, either.

  When she lowered her arm, she slid her hand into a different pocket, this one filled with a dagger.

  Toussaint’s eyes narrowed even farther. “Box.” Movement of his lips was barely perceptible, and his jaw moved not at all.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you,” she said brightly. “Could you repeat that?”

  If looks could kill, she would have exploded on the spot under his furious glare.

  “He said you should give him the snuffbox. Now.” Nigel edged out a little farther into the hall, his hand held out.

  “Really? You heard all that, expressed in only one syllable?” She held her hand to her chest in mock amazement. One more step, and Alistair would be able to slip behind them into the gaming room.

  Toussaint gave an inarticulate growl.

  “His jaw is broken,” Nigel said, poorly disguising a snicker of amusement at Toussaint’s predicament by coughing into his sleeve. He gave Toussaint a sidelong glance, and returned his attention to Charlotte, serious once more. “This has gone on long enough, miss. Give me the box, I’ll release your brother and the Frenchman, and we’ll all walk away with what we want.”

  Alistair was in. She kept her eyes on Nigel, but inside she was hopping up and down in excitement.

  She lifted the corner of the box out of her pocket, just far enough to make sure Nigel and Toussaint focused on it and not the muffled thud coming from the gaming room as Alistair made his presence known to Jennison. “I’m not so sure I want to do that. The gemstones alone on this box could support me in grand style for the rest of my life. Not to mention what I could do with what’s inside it.”

  Nigel’s brows knitted together. “You’d sacrifice your brother and friend?”

  “Well, I—”

  The sound of flesh striking flesh made everyone in the hall look toward the gaming room.

  As Nigel and Toussaint turned, Penrith suddenly swung his foot, taking Nigel out at the knee. The two struggled on the floor.

  Toussaint hardly spared them a glance, intent on getting back into the gaming room, his expression even more thunderous than before.

  Knowing she couldn’t overpower him physically, Charlotte threw her knife. It pinned Toussaint’s sleeve to the doorjamb.

  He growled something that may have been a slur on her parentage, and reached for the still-quivering dagger handle.

  She retrieved more throwing knives from her pockets and let one fly. It caught the open flap of his coat, just below his navel, though she’d been aiming for his other sleeve.

  “The next one will be lower,” she promised. She drew her arm back but did not release the knife.

  His eyes were narrow slits as he stared at her, his chest heaving with impotent rage.

  Penrith finally managed a clean blow, and finished off Sir Nigel with an uppercut to the jaw. Nigel went still.

  Charlotte glanced at the two on the floor. When she turned back to Toussaint, he had his hand on the knife handle, trying to extricate it from where it pinned his sleeve to the wall. She pulled her pistol and cocked it. “Please, do keep trying to free yourself.”

  Toussaint’s eyes widened. He froze.

  Penrith climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and retrieved his walking stick.

  Steven and Gauthier tumbled into the hall just then, a little worse for wear with bruises and cuts. “Told you she was great guns,” Steven said, rubbing his red, raw wrists. Careful not to get in the way of her pistol, he leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  Her gun still steady on Toussaint, she gave Steven a one-armed hug.

  “Certainement, une femme formidable.” Gauthier gave her a peck on the other cheek.

  Alistair emerged then, a knife in one hand, rope in the other. “Shall we put these to better use?” He held up the ropes that until recently had bound Steven and Gauthier.

  “Excellent idea.” Steven grabbed one and leaned close to Toussaint. “I’m hoping you’ll resist,” he growled.

  Toussaint sniffed and looked away.

  Charlotte kept her pistol trained on Toussaint while Steven trussed him up and Gauthier bound Nigel’s hands.

  “Don’t forget Jennison.” She kept her gaze trained on Toussaint, but noted with pride the triumphant smile lighting Alistair’s face.

  “Oh, he won’t be going anywhere, anytime soon.” Alistair shook out his right hand.

  “What shall we do with this rubbish?” Steven indicated Toussaint, and nudged Nigel’s foot with the toe of his boot.

  “Last night he wanted to throw Charlotte’s body into the river.” Alistair studied Toussaint’s injured face as though considering where best to add more damage.

  Toussaint flinched.

  At the reminder of the emotional anguish Alistair had suffered when he thought she’d died, her heart constricted. How could she make it up to him?

  Steven’s brows rose. “Poppet?”

  “I’ll explain later.” She suddenly realized all five men present—Nigel didn’t count, since he was unconscious—were looking toward her. She was, however temporarily, in a position of authority. They were willing to listen to her.

  The first thing she wanted to do was give back a family heirloom. She dug the snuffbox out of her pocket and handed it to Penrith. “Would you please return this to his grace, with my thanks?”

  Penrith tucked the snuffbox into a coat pocket. “Perhaps.” He winked at her.

  “You borrowed a duke’s snuffbox?” Steven gave a low whistle.

  Sir Nigel, on the floor at their feet, groaned.

  She gave him a considering glance. “The Bow Street Runners would be interested in the office full of stolen goods.” From the corner of her eye she noted Toussaint relax slightly. “But I think we’ll send for our mutual friend instead. I’m sure he has a few questions he’d like to ask of Monsieur Toussaint.”

  Toussaint paled.

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear.” Lord Q stood in the doorway of the taproom. As he spoke, half a dozen men surged forward and collected Sir Nigel and Toussaint. “The Home Office does indeed have a few questions.”

  Steven jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the gaming room. “Don’t forget Jennison.”

  Charlotte stared at Q and lifted her chin. “I thought you said you could offer no help.”

  “Officially, I cannot. Un-officially, however, I came to see if acquaintances were in need of assistance.” Lord Q stepped aside to allow his men to walk past, Nigel slung over one man’s shoulder, Jennison slung over another who bore a strong resemblance to Q’s butler, though he was not in livery. Two others herded Toussaint. “But I see you already have matters well in hand.” He gave Steven and Gauthier an appraising stare. “You two should see a doctor.”

  “W
hat great luck we happen to have one on hand.” Penrith grabbed both men by the shoulder and led them out. “His grace will be eager to hear about all that transpired last night. However did you manage to allow yourselves to be captured by Nigel?”

  “The same duke who loaned his snuffbox?” Steven gave Charlotte a glance over her shoulder as he left the hall.

  “Oh, yes. He brought his personal surgeon, just for you two.” Penrith clapped Steven on the back as they disappeared into the taproom.

  Lord Q watched them leave. “Excellent work, Charlie.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I could not have succeeded without my partner.” She gestured toward Alistair.

  “You two work well together.” Lord Q beamed his approval.

  It was probably the last time they’d work together, but Charlotte didn’t have the heart to say so out loud.

  No. She raised her chin. She wasn’t going to give up again as easily as she had last night. She wasn’t going to give up Alistair, even if it meant the end of working for Q.

  “Well.” Lord Q cleared his throat. “I’ll see that she gets home safely, Moncreiffe.” He spoke directly over Charlotte’s head.

  “Of course.” Alistair turned, as if to leave.

  “Wait!” She clutched at his sleeve, hating that she sounded so desperate. “We’re not done. The conversation we started at the chandler’s shop next door?”

  “Oh, that.”

  Even with his disinterested tone, she refused to give up without a fight. “I won’t need your assistance, my lord,” she said to Lord Q without taking her eyes off Alistair.

  “If you’re sure?”

  Alistair kept his gaze locked on hers. Was that a twinkle in his eyes? “Certain. Good day, sir.”

  Lord Q left.

  There were more voices in the taproom, and people scurrying down the hallway.

  “I think we had more privacy in the doorway,” Charlotte grumbled, stepping aside as a couple pushed past, headed for the stairs.

  Alistair led her to the private gaming room. After checking to make sure the room was unoccupied, he pulled her inside and shut the door. “You were trying to tell me something earlier.” He adopted a neutral expression of polite interest.