The Formidable Earl

by Sophie Barnes

  “Mr. St. John?”

  Simon’s golden gaze pinned her. “If our instinct is correct, and I’m inclined to believe it is, then Harold was silenced in order to keep him from talking.”

  “Yes, but do you honestly think Mr. St. John will tell us anything?” Ida hated the sense of hopelessness creeping over her, but they had to face the truth. “He has no reason to trust us, certainly not enough to betray three powerful shareholders.”

  “Perhaps not,” Simon agreed, “but it’s the best lead we’ve got right now, so we have to at least try.”

  Following their discussion in the carriage, Simon had sent a note to Mr. St. John requesting a meeting. The businessman had written back, inviting Simon to lunch with him two days hence. Sensing Ida’s impatience and need to do more than wait, Simon had suggested they sort through the information they’d gathered thus far.

  It was now almost one in the morning. His brain was starting to leap from one random point to another – nothing made sense anymore – and she was starting to wear down the carpet with her constant pacing. When she yawned, collapsed in a chair with a sigh, and started reviewing what Murdoch had said for the umpteenth time, Simon decided he’d had enough.

  “I’m taking you to bed,” he declared. “You need to rest.”

  “But I can feel the answer. It’s right there. I can practically touch it.”

  He scooped her up into his arms. Her lack of protest proved how exhausted she was. “It will be easier to reach after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Oh, I—” she yawned and leaned her head against his chest “—hope so.”

  So did he. He wanted nothing more than her happiness and was starting to fear she wouldn’t forgive herself if she failed in this mission. But was success possible? He wasn’t as sure as he’d been when they started. Hopefully they’d make some progress soon.

  Simon climbed the stairs and strode toward Ida’s bedchamber. Their bedchamber. She was deep asleep before he managed to lay her on the bed. After lighting an oil lamp, he carefully pulled back the covers and rolled her onto her side so he could undo her dress. He liked the task, the intimacy of it – the fact he was close enough to her that he knew without doubt she’d allow it.

  Leaving her chemise, he got himself ready for bed as well. Still wearing his trousers, he climbed in beside her. Propped on one elbow, he gazed at her beautiful face and smiled. The glow from the lamp illuminated her skin so it almost glowed. She looked peaceful like this, leagues apart from the fiercely determined woman she’d been just a half hour earlier.

  He liked both aspects of her in equal measure and felt his heart grow with the promise of spending another day with her tomorrow.

  It was remarkable, he decided as he settled back against his pillows and turned down the light. Within the span of three weeks, Ida had become the single most important person he knew. It was almost absurd. And yet it worked so wonderfully well. She wasn’t trying to manage him or meddle with his affairs the way some women did. Instead, she took him by the hand and walked alongside him, sharing her thoughts, her dreams, her ideas. Laughing with him, and being his friend. While also being a great deal more.

  Simon breathed a sigh of contentment and repositioned himself so he could hold her while he drifted off to sleep. There was everything that had happened before he’d met her, then there was now and what would come after.

  Inhaling, he savored the sweet smell of jasmine that clung to her hair. His hand came to rest on her hip. He began sinking into deep sleep when a soft click brought him back to awareness.

  Holding his breath, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. The bedchamber door creaked open. Simon’s lungs tightened around the air they were holding. His heart leapt into full gallop. Someone was there, and the tall shadow he could now see through the increasing gap in the door assured him it wasn’t Miranda.

  After sliding quietly out of bed, Simon crept along the floor until he reached the foot of the bed. There was now a direct path to the door, but he had to be quick if he was to catch the intruder off guard. Within two more seconds the door would be fully open, and the man would surely see him. He glanced toward his discarded clothes. The pistol he carried with him at all hours these days was in his jacket pocket while the one he’d given Ida was on her nightstand. Collecting either would waste precious time, so he had to manage without them.

  Acting on instinct, Simon raced forward, slamming the door as hard as he could. A guttural curse followed as the door struck the man.

  “Simon?” The noise had woken Ida.

  “Stay there,” he warned as he pulled the door open and threw a punch straight at the intruder’s head.

  The man dodged the blow and brought up his hand. Something long and shiny gleamed in the darkness before it came rushing toward him. Simon lurched back, the shift in the air so close to his chest informing him that he’d just missed a deadly attack from a blade.

  Eyes focused on the dark form before him, Simon used every intuition he’d garnered through boxing to anticipate his opponent’s next move and stay out of harm’s way.

  Dodging from side to side, he avoided three more attempts on his life while trying to build a strategy that would disarm the assailant. Behind him, in the bedroom, he was conscious of Ida moving about and prayed she’d stay out of the fight.

  The blade came down once more, straight toward Simon’s throat this time. Stepping into the advance, Simon used his right forearm to block it while jabbing his opponent with his left fist. The punch landed squarely in the man’s belly, forcing him back along the landing.

  The door to the servants’ stairs opened and Miranda gasped.

  “Get back,” Simon shouted, still struggling to stop the tip of the blade from descending toward him. The door slammed shut, thank God. Simon punched the intruder once more, but the third time he tried it, the man grabbed his wrist.

  They staggered. Simon tried to determine his position in relation to the stairs so he wouldn’t stumble and fall. Until an obstacle suddenly came out of nowhere, stopping the assailant’s retreat. Not a wall, but the railing that spanned the length of the landing. Simon panted for breath. If he lowered his arm, the villain would surely stab him, but if he kept pushing and the man fell, he would without doubt take Simon with him. His hand still grabbed Simon’s wrist.

  “Who are you,” Simon gritted between clenched teeth while trying to hold his position. This close, he could see that the man’s face was covered so only his eyes showed. “Who told you to come here?”

  The man’s eyes hardened with determination. He leaned back further, most likely trying to force Simon into an awkward position so he’d lose his footing. It worked. Simon’s center of gravity shifted and he felt the strength leave his arm. The blade grazed his neck, producing a sting. He wobbled and knew he would soon be falling unless he chose to act quickly.

  Something shattered behind him, it sounded like glass, and then someone else was beside him. “No, Ida. Go back to the bedroom and lock the door. You mustn’t—”

  “Shut up, Simon.”

  A shout of pure pain filled the air as the eyes in front of him widened. The grip on Simon’s wrist loosened and vanished. Hands clutched Simon’s arms and pulled him back out of harm’s way. He reached out, tried to stop the attacker from falling over the railing, but it was too late. A thud let him know when the man hit the floor in the foyer.

  Simon barreled down the stairs, half slipping and stumbling in his haste to reach his attacker. “Please be alive,” he murmured. Light flickered as an oil lamp was lit. “Please, please, please…”

  A pair of empty eyes stared up at him. Blood pooled beneath the man’s head. The knife he’d been holding was lying some distance away near the wall.

  “Christ.” Simon raised his gaze and stared up at Ida. Miranda stood beside her, the oil lamp she held raised high in the air. “He’s dead. We can’t question him.”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to save you. If I hadn’t forced his hand away, he
would have taken you down with him, or stabbed you, or…” Ida’s voice broke. “I couldn’t let him win.”

  “Of course not.” Simon nodded. “You did the right thing.”

  In her hand, she still held the oil lamp she’d used, the glass shade now broken after she’d smashed it. Simon could see the imprint it had made on the back of the intruder’s hand when she’d pushed the cut glass down into his flesh.

  Crouching, Simon pulled back the black scarf covering the man’s face. “Bloody hell.”

  “What is it?” Ida asked as she and Miranda descended the stairs.

  He glanced at her in dismay. “It’s the same man who attacked you in the alley. I recognize him.”

  Wide eyed with shock, Ida approached until she stood at Simon’s shoulder. “You’re right.”

  Grimly, Simon started riffling through the man’s pockets in the hope of learning something more. He pulled out a pocket watch, a small collection of coins, and a folded piece of paper.

  Standing, he unfolded the paper, moved closer to the lamp light, and read, “Number Five Bedford Street.” Simon met Ida’s gaze. “The paper came from the Shadwell Gun Works. It bears the company address right there at the top. I don’t need to check it against the note we received from Murdoch to know it won’t match. This writing’s different, and judging from the messy scrawl, I’d say our villain wrote it so he would not forget the address.”

  “So he worked there too?” Ida asked.

  “That would be my guess.”

  “I’ll go put some tea on,” Miranda said. “I believe we can all use a cup.”

  Simon thanked her, waited until she was gone, and turned to Ida. “I have to inform Bow Street of the break in and of this man’s death. Will you be all right here by yourself for a while until I return?”

  “Yes.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’ll stay in the kitchen with Miranda.”

  Simon nodded. “You should probably get dressed first. And so should I for that matter.”

  “Of course.”

  They returned upstairs together. After helping Ida button her gown, Simon put on his jacket and went to collect Ida’s pistol from her nightstand. “Promise me you will keep this with you at all times?”

  “I promise.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then quickly kissed her.

  “Good girl.” Grabbing an extra blanket from the wardrobe, he followed her downstairs where he unfolded the blanket and spread it over the dead man’s body so it covered his face. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Lock the door behind me.”

  Once outside, Simon waited until he heard the lock click into place before heading down the street. He wanted the intruder gone from his house as soon as possible, and then he wanted to get back to the investigation so he could figure out who’d hired him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was dawn before the last constable left the house. Simon had brought four with him when he returned. The chief magistrate arrived later and went over everyone’s statement until Ida started losing her patience. She was relieved to have them all gone again so she and Simon could get back to bed.

  “It’s a good thing I’m meeting with Mr. St. John the day after tomorrow,” Simon said when they were back in their bedchamber with the door locked. To Ida’s surprise, he’d sent for Blayne, who’d promised to stay downstairs and keep watch while they slept. “Hopefully, he will be able to identify the intruder and let me know if he’s ever seen Kirksdale, Elmwood, or my uncle conversing with him.”

  They climbed into bed and Ida settled her head against Simon’s arm. It felt good being back together like this. “I’d like to go with you. To meet with Mr. St. John.”

  “Do you doubt my investigative skills?” Rolling onto his side, he pulled her closer and placed a kiss on her shoulder.

  “Of course not.” Ida said, “but two pairs of eyes and ears are better than one.”

  “Quite right.” He placed another kiss on her cheek, so tender and warm it seeped all the way to the tips of her toes. “Try to sleep, my lovely sleuth.”

  Ida closed her eyes with a smile and did precisely as he asked.

  When she woke, Simon was gone. She glanced at the clock. Good heavens, it was almost four in the afternoon. After scrambling out of bed, she located a clean chemise and front lacing stays along with a pink dress she’d not worn before, then did her best to get dressed on her own. Finding the top buttons hard to reach, she went to the door and prepared to call for Miranda, only to stop at the sound of loud voices coming from the parlor.

  Men’s voices.

  With a frown, she grabbed a shawl and flung it over her shoulders to hide the gap at the back of her gown and proceeded downstairs. As she went, her stomach began to clench tighter and tighter because, dear God, she recognized not only Simon’s voice but Guthrie’s as well. The Duke of Windham had returned much sooner than she’d expected.

  Hesitantly, because she was more inclined to flee than keep moving forward, she eased the parlor door open and entered the room. Guthrie reclined in one of the armchairs, looking much like a flamboyant king, while Simon stood, hands clenched, his entire body straining for action. Blayne, who completed the trio, had propped his massive body against the fireplace mantle and silently watched the exchange between the other two men.

  “Ah.” Guthrie’s cat-like eyes latched onto Ida. “There you are.”

  “Welcome back, Guthrie.” Ida moved toward Simon, determined to give him whatever support he needed. “I trust you and your wife had a lovely journey?”

  “An excellent one to be sure,” Guthrie informed her jovially. He even smiled. “Now, gather whatever belongings you need so we can be on our way. I have to return home before—”

  “I’m not coming with you.” As much as she valued Guthrie’s concern, it was time for her to fight for what she wanted. “I’m staying here. With Fielding.”

  “No you bloody well aren’t.” The pleasantry Guthrie had shown toward her was gone. In its place was a hard glower. “I’ll not let you ruin yourself for him, Ida. You’re destined for better things than that.”

  She grabbed Simon’s hand. “I’m a traitor’s daughter, and if that’s not enough, all of London thinks me a whore, so there is nothing better for me than where I am right now.”

  A shadow crossed Guthrie’s eyes. He shifted his gaze to Simon. “I should have you flogged.”

  “While I’m grateful to you for all you have done,” Ida said, “I am old enough now to choose my own fate.”

  Guthrie scoffed. “And you think he will provide a happy one, do you? Ida, you’ll never be more than his mistress. He won’t marry you. Not ever. I’ve already asked him to do so and he has declined. Do you know what that means, luv?”

  Ida clutched Simon’s hand as hard as she could to distract herself from her crumbling heart. She’d known he would never offer marriage, but it still hurt having the fact thrown in her face with cold brutality.

  Refusing to be cowed, she straightened her spine. “It means he and I will be together for as long as we wish.”

  “And in the eyes of the world, you will only ever be the woman who fills his bed until he finds another.”

  Simon lunged forward so fast Ida didn’t realize he’d let go of her hand until she saw Guthrie rise and ward him off with one agile movement. He glared straight into Simon’s eyes. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Fielding. You’re more of a man than I gave you credit for. But that doesn’t mean you deserve her.”

  “You’ve no right questioning what I deserve.”

  “Marry her,” Guthrie insisted while Ida shrank back in embarrassment.

  “I can’t,” Simon hissed.

  And there it was, spoken out loud for her to hear. Something inside Ida shriveled and died in that moment – a distant hope she’d not even known she’d been holding onto.

  “Coward,” Guthrie snapped. He pushed his way past Simon and stepped toward Ida. Sympathy overshadowed his angry expression. “Come with me now.
Let me help you avenge your father.”

  It was a good offer. Guthrie was not the sort of man who’d go back on his word. He would fight for her every step of the way, but so would Simon, and between the two, there was only one choice. Even if her heart was breaking and her head felt like it might explode with anger. “Thank you, but Fielding and I have been working together on this for some time now, and I really don’t think you’ll accomplish something we haven’t.”

  Guthrie inhaled deeply. “MacNeil mentioned the assassin and according to the papers my butler has been collecting during my absence, there was also a fall at the Huntley ball. Whoever you’re after is dangerous, Ida, and while I am all too familiar with the need for revenge, I also know it can blind you. Perhaps it’s time to stop stirring things up and just—”

  “What? Let someone get away with pinning a heinous crime on my father?” She couldn’t believe he of all people would suggest such a thing. “I’m not dropping this until the right man pays for what happened.”

  “You’ve more grit than I recall, I’ll give you that.” He glanced at Simon. “You’d best be ready to lay down your life for her, Fielding, because if she so much as trips in the street from now on, I’ll come after you like the bloody devil himself.”

  “Duly noted,” Simon muttered.

  Guthrie sighed and scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “I don’t like it. The whole mess stinks of trouble beyond my control, but if you really want to remain here and see things through with Fielding, I don’t have the right to stop you. But I do think you’re being incredibly foolish.”

  “I know.” She was fairly sure she’d lost her sanity the first time Simon kissed her.

  Guthrie held her gaze for a moment, just long enough to assure her of what he was thinking. And then, to be certain there was no misunderstanding, he leaned forward and whispered next to her ear, “Your love for him will break your heart.”

  Ida fought the cramping of her throat. “It already has.”