by Allison Lane
Chester had been livid. How could he live in servitude when the blood of dukes flowed in his veins? Fate knew he deserved better – as she’d proved more than once. Hadn’t she struck down Haskell after the oaf discovered who had caused the accident that killed the seventh duke? The fool had actually threatened to tell the headmaster, so he’d deserved to be punished. It wasn’t Chester’s fault that he’d died. Fate had made that judgment. As she’d done on other occasions. So she would certainly aid him now.
Gripping his jar, he slipped into the yard behind the upstart’s house. Never would he allow his birthright to pass to another. With or without fate, it would end tonight. Success came to those who grasped it.
A hand suddenly spun him around.
“What are you up to, Chester?” demanded Bitstaff, his glare cutting through the dim starlight. “No more excuses. Either redeem your vowel, or explain yourself to the steward at White’s.”
“Take your hands off me. You traded that debt for Miss Harper. I owe you nothing.”
“I traded it for a virgin – which she was not. Since you reneged on our deal, the original debt stands. I need the money to satisfy my own creditors, so you will pay now.”
“Nothing was said of virginity, and you can’t prove otherwise.” He casually wedged his jar into a hedge. Bitstaff was the next problem he’d meant to address, but he was amenable to a change of plans. The splints and sling hampering that broken arm would make retribution easy.
Bitstaff actually laughed. “My word will be quite enough now that the title is out of your reach, Chester. Accept fate and move on.”
“I make my own fate.” He planted a fist deep in Bitstaff’s gut, then followed with a facer that would have laid even Jackson out cold. Bitstaff well down like the ox he resembled, moaning as he landed on his arm.
“This is your own fault,” Chester murmured, jerking Bitstaff’s head back to snap the neck. “Drunken fools deserve whatever trouble they find. You never should have followed me tonight.”
He recovered his jar, then stared at his erstwhile friend a long moment. This was a message from fate. She had not only delivered Bitstaff neatly into his hands, but she’d provided the perfect explanation for two death. Lascar would take the blame for Bitstaff, and vice versa. All he had to do was properly position the bodies, then spread word of Bitstaff’s obsession with Miss Harper. Everyone knew that she and Lascar had fled Westcourt together. Few would be surprised that her two paramours had fought.
Smiling, he verified that no one had overheard Bitstaff’s bluster, then headed for the house. Fate was in his pocket tonight. Lascar would trouble him no more.
Faith startled awake, heart pounding above the echo of an unexpected noise.
Or was it an echo? The house was silent. Even the servants were deep in dreams.
Probably her conscience, she decided. Despite her efforts to remain awake, she’d dozed off. But she’d awakened before it was too late.
Dim light from the square’s gas lamps illuminated John’s face. Unlike most people, he slept with his windows open, uncaring that night air killed thousands every year. If she had heard a sound, it had likely come from outside.
Now that her departure was imminent, she couldn’t move. Pain already ripped her from head to toe. Cold followed, impervious to the heat radiating from his body. How could she live without him?
Selfish! she chided herself as he shifted in sleep, drawing her closer.
Tears tickled her eyes. She had to leave. Love meant putting his needs first, even if that meant sacrificing her own.
All too soon he would discover how society penalized those who broke its rules. Everyone had reviled the duchess for abandoning her son. Now they would revile the son for neglecting his duty. Eventually they would accept his ignorance of that duty, and once Chester’s crimes came to light, they would even accept the duchess’s secrecy. But it would take time, and if John lost his temper when people criticized the duchess or disparaged Francine…
But if Faith remained at his side, acceptance would never happen. Many would recall that her family considered her a bastard. None would accept that her breeding was good enough for a duke, even without that stain. And when she failed in her duty…
Chester’s accusations would make it worse. Bitstaff would embellish the charges to avenge his own grievances. So she must leave.
She caressed John’s chest one last time. He faced a fierce battle for acceptance. Those who judged solely on breeding would scoff at his ignorance, swearing that lords could never hide their superiority. People must have known and urged him to take up his duty. That he hadn’t done so proved he was either dishonorable or an imposter.
Others would shake their heads over John’s sad story, but avoid him because he espoused ideas they found distasteful. The blood might run true, but he would never be a typical aristocrat. His approach to life was too democratic and his goals too plebian. He lacked the network of friendships lords built during their school days, which would greatly reduce his power. People could ignore him with impunity.
Thus he faced a bumpy future. If he took his seat in Parliament, his voice would go unheard unless he sided with the most powerful leaders – but his beliefs did not mesh with those men’s. If he abjured Parliament, he would be derided for again ignoring duty. Eventually such antagonism would pass, but if he didn’t conform, it might take decades, making his children suspect as well.
She could not add her own troubles to his. She had nothing in common with ladies. Not breeding. Not training. Not ideas or behavior. She would raise eyebrows at best and draw cuts from the most rigid. John had no idea how horrid ladies could be when someone defied their standards. Catherine wasn’t as unusual as he wanted to believe.
John would eventually earn respect from his peers, but society’s ladies were another matter. Adherence to their dictates was their primary criteria for acceptance, even stronger than blood. The best way he could satisfy them was to ask their assistance in finding a suitable wife. They would never choose Faith.
So she had to leave. A man and woman became one when they wed. Her behavior would reflect on him, good and bad. What tarnished one reputation, tarnished both. Eventually he would regret subjecting himself to yet another burden, even in the name of honor.
Watching the man she loved fall into despair would destroy her. And he would eventually meet someone he could love. Might even do so tomorrow. Once he had the title, dozens of girls would vie for a position as his wife – the Season was barely underway, so there were plenty of candidates at hand. Well-bred girls with proper educations, who were not on the shelf, and who conformed to society’s expectations.
The pain made her shudder, but she locked it away. He must meet his destiny, just as she must meet hers. She had chosen her course that day at Westcourt. There was no going back.
The arm across her waist loosened as he slipped deeper into sleep. She inched toward the edge, letting it slide onto the mattress.
No reaction.
A three-quarter moon lifted above the rooftops, adding enough light that she had no need for a candle. She smoothed her pillow, then collected her clothes, removing all trace that she had been here. She was stooping to retrieve a stocking that had fallen behind a chair, when the door creaked open.
Chester poked his head around the frame, stared at John for a long moment, then smiled.
Chester? How had he got in? Where was Portland’s guard?
“Out!” Faith grabbed the poker as she lunged for the door.
Something crashed behind her as she swung the poker.
Chester jumped back and pulled the door shut.
She jerked it open.
He slammed it shut.
She tugged it open again, but couldn’t both hold it open and hit Chester with the poker. Shadows darted past her face.
“Out!” she screamed again, poking at him as they fought for possession of the door. “Wake up, John!” she added. “Summon the staff. Chester’s here.”
>
Chester cursed, bracing his foot against the frame. He nearly wrenched the door from her grasp, but she again pulled it open. John groaned behind her..
Another shadow buzzed past her face. A bee. Many bees. Clouds of them rose from the fireplace.
“You bastard!” She yanked the door from his grasp, kicked him in the groin, then raised the poker.
“Bitch!” Even as he doubled over, he knocked her down and finally slammed the door shut.
John pulled her to her feet.
John!
“Back in bed,” she ordered frantically. “Under the quilt. Chester tossed a jar of bees in here.”
“Bees?” His eyes flashed white as he backed into a wall.
“Lots of them.” Their buzzing cut through the terror ringing in her ears. “Quick! Wrap this around you.” She grabbed the coverlet, shook it briskly, then dropped it over his head. “Hurry!”
Retrieving the poker, she tugged on the door.
Nothing. He’d jammed the lock.
“Your dressing room,” she panted. “Move!”
“No. There is no other exit, and the bees have already found it.” He wrapped the coverlet around his body, leaving his arms free, then tried the latch himself. When it wouldn’t budge, he shoved her out of the way and picked up a chair.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he smashed the chair into the door. Once. Twice. Bees blundered about the room, furious at being disturbed. Some escaped out the open windows. Others banged against the glass, seeking the light. But the rest…
She squashed one as it stung her arm. “For God’s sake, hide before they kill you!” Grabbing a pillow, she stunned several headed for John, then smashed others that had landed nearby.
“Can’t,” he panted, wielding the chair in a frenzied attack on the door. “Too dangerous. Have to escape.” He finally punched a hole in one of the door panels, letting him reach through and free the latch. “Hurry.”
Faith tumbled into the hall behind him, then slammed the door. To keep more bees from escaping, she stuffed the pillow into the hole.
“We need light,” said John.
“There’s a candle in my room. Don’t move.”
It took only a minute to fetch light and another pillow, but she nearly dropped both when she spotted a bee crawling along John’s arm. He flicked it off, smashing it with the coverlet. But that exposed the rest of him…
“Go in my room,” she ordered, smashing her pillow into two bees. “I’ll find the rest that escaped.”
“You can’t fight them alone,” he grunted, killing another as it zoomed toward the candle.
“Stand back.” She set the light on the hall table, then attacked everything that moved. There were more bees out here than she’d expected. And they were more aggressive than they should have been.
Chester would have taken no chances, she realized. He must have brought the entire hive, including the queen. Nothing riled bees worse than danger to their queen.
The light helped draw them away, but her heart remained in her throat, choking her whenever one flew near John. All it would take was one sting…
“He won’t win,” she vowed even as she wondered why Treburn was taking so long. She’d summoned him from her room.
Whoosh! Her pillow smashed three bees against the wall. Wham!
“Damn you, hide before one stings you!” she snapped as John swung the coverlet.
“Not unless you come with me.” He crushed another invader. “You aren’t even dressed, Faith.”
“Neither are you, but I’ll live. You won’t. Don’t you dare take such a risk.”
“Watch out. There’s one on your shoulder.”
She brushed it off, then screamed when a bee landed on John’s face.
He flicked it off. “No harm done.”
She wasn’t so sure, but there was no time to think. With only one candle to light the hall, it was impossible to see if others lurked in the shadows. Images of John lying dead made her knees shake.
An argument erupted in the square, the shouts covering any telltale buzzes.
Pillow at the ready, she turned, eyes probing the shadows. Behind her, John did the same.
“I think that’s all,” he said at last. “I’ll fetch Treburn. He can bring more light.”
“I already rang him.”
“When?” He picked up the candle, examining the floor so he wouldn’t step on dead bees. Their venom could still penetrate his bare feet.
“When I went for the candle.”
He frowned, then stalked into her room. Helping himself to her coverlet – his held smashed bees – he headed for the stairs. “You’re naked,” he reminded her when she tried to follow. “Get dressed.”
* * * *
John used his fury at Chester to stiffen his knees – the attack left him so shaky he could barely stand. He hadn’t really believed that Chester was evil enough to attack him directly. Now he would have to prosecute him for attempted murder. It would create a huge scandal, but he could not risk Faith’s life by letting Chester remain free. Even life in Botany Bay was too good for him.
But his most pressing fear was for Treburn. At least ten minutes had passed since Faith’s shouts had pulled him from the warm aftermath of their lovemaking. So where was his butler?
Out cold.
Renewed fury nearly blinded him as he knelt by Treburn’s side. The man had not rushed into the hall in response to Faith’s shouts or to her summons, for he was nowhere near the stairs. And he’d not taken even a moment to don a dressing gown, let alone the pants and jacket he could put on in seconds when called to duty. He must have heard Chester enter.
“Oh, no!” Faith hurried to his side. “Is he—”
“Unconscious.” He carried Treburn into the study and laid him on the couch. One shutter hung drunkenly from a broken hinge. The gardener’s ladder stood outside. Shards of glass sparkled on the ground. Chester hadn’t bothered with locked doors.
“He’ll pay for this,” growled Faith.
“Definitely, but that must wait. Send a footman for Alex, then ask my valet to find me some clothes. Some of his would be best. I don’t want him taking chances with those bees. And send for Dr. McDaniel. He will know how long Treburn should remain abed.”
As Faith hurried off, Treburn stirred.
“Lie still,” John ordered.
“Someone – inside—”
“I know. He’s been and gone, with no harm done beyond a smashed window and a damaged door.” He could hardly believe he’d broken a hole in that door, for it was a sturdy one. But he’d been desperate to get Faith away from danger. The effort had pulled something in his shoulder, though. Now that the immediate danger was past, he felt the pain.
“Should have stayed up.”
“No. You acted exactly right.” What was keeping Faith?
On the thought, she returned, carrying a tray. “Portland should be here shortly. I brought you some tea, Treburn. It will settle your head.”
Treburn opened his mouth, but whatever protest he meant to utter died when shouts resumed outside. Faith shoved the teapot into John’s hands and headed for the drawing room, where she could see out.
John’s valet rushed in. “There is a problem in the square, Your Grace.”
Faith hurried back. “Get dressed, John. You’re needed.”
“If you will come upstairs, sir,” began the valet.
“He will not go upstairs,” snapped Faith. “There are bees up there, as you know perfectly well. Do you want him stung?”
“Bring me a coat and some breeches,” said John, forestalling the words trembling on his valet’s lips.
Someone pounded on the front door.
“I’ll get it.” Faith hurried off.
“Now!” John glared at the valet.
The man hustled out.
Faith returned with Alex. “Still not dressed?” she asked. “No matter. There isn’t time. We carried Chester into the drawing room, but he’s fading fast
.”
“What?” John strode toward the door.
Alex shook his head. “I don’t know what happened. I left a man to watch the house in case Chester came after you. Someone bashed him on the head—”
“Chester,” said Faith.
“Quite likely. When he woke up, he rushed around front – he’d been checking the mews when he went down – and saw the front door open and Chester grappling with a gentleman in the square. Just before he reached them, Chester went down gasping for breath. His opponent swears he hardly touched him, but Chester is clearly in extremis.”
Chester was lying on the couch, his face mottled red and his breath coming in wheezing gasps. A lump the size of an egg decorated his cheek.
A disheveled stranger stood between the couch and a furious Simmons.
“How dare you touch me, sir?” demanded Simmons. “I won’t kill the bastard, though God knows he probably needs killing. But he owes me two quarters’ allowance, and I won’t leave until he pays it.”
“Stop this at once,” snapped Faith. “Sit down. You are behaving like a spoiled child. Can’t you see he’s injured?”
“I didn’t do it. I barely touched him.”
“Then why can’t he breathe?” asked Alex.
“He’s been stung,” said John, pointing to Chester’s cheek. A stinger remained in the wound.
“He must share the family curse.” Faith knelt beside the couch, shaking her head. When Simmons tried to crowd closer, she growled, “Stay back.”
Alex pulled Simmons away and forced him into a chair. “We’ll deal with you later.” He motioned the other man to stand guard, then moved to John’s side.
For once, Simmons closed his mouth and stayed put.
Faith used John’s penknife to remove the stinger, then sliced deeper.
Chester screamed. “Whore! Don’t touch me.”
Alex grabbed Chester’s hands. “Unless you relax, you will die, Lord Chester. Bee stings are very dangerous for the men of your family.”
“Only for impost—” Choking ended his denial.
“Richard nearly died from a bee sting,” said Faith, squeezing to remove as much of the poison as possible. “Several of your cousins have the same problem, as did your father and other more distant relatives. At least two villagers descended from Willowby by-blows have died from bee stings. It is no surprise to discover that John shares that trait. As do you.”