An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  “Liggett?” Surprised, he kicked his feet to the floor and sat up at the ludicrousness of that. “You’re certain?”

  Clayton finished off the last of the port in his glass. “Heard it this morning from the Home Secretary himself.”

  Of all the men Merritt would have picked to put in charge of the militia, it wouldn’t have been Liggett.

  Like a good portion of the officers in His Majesty’s army, Liggett had earned his rank by purchase, not merit. Liggett’s command with the Scots Guards had been mostly unimpressive, neither disastrous nor triumphant and, in the end, making little difference to the outcome of the wars. A general of middling competency at best, he’d been promoted far beyond his skills because he was the son of a duke. A man without a bone of true leadership or military ability anywhere in his body.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him as a general,” Clayton commented with that uncanny ability he had to read Merritt’s mind.

  “Nothing’s right with him either,” Merritt countered in a low mutter. “And an odd choice to bring in to put down a riot.”

  “A good choice actually.” Clayton frowned. “What other general do you know who would eagerly fire on his fellow Englishmen?”

  True. Liggett wouldn’t hesitate to shoot down his former brothers-in-arms.

  “And they didn’t bring him in,” Clayton added. “Liggett approached Whitehall to offer his services, and the War Department agreed to temporarily reassign his regiment.”

  “To put down civil unrest?” Merritt was dumbstruck. The Scots Guards instead of the militia? That was like hitching a Derby thoroughbred to a plow to turn a field—a complete waste of skill. And dangerous. Because the Scots Guards were some of the best fighters the British army had ever produced. If those men were turned loose on a crowd… “God help the rioters.”

  “We won’t have to worry then about figuring out who’s behind the riots then because all our leads will be dead.”

  Merritt glanced out the window at the sunny day. Unless more rain came, he feared there would be another mob tonight. If so, soldiers would be sent into the streets, the riots would be put down by force, and any chance he had of finding a connection to Scepter would vanish with the dawn.

  So would any chance Veronica had of earning her pardon.

  He frowned into his glass. “What do you truly think of Miss Chase?”

  “That she’s hiding the truth about why she was arrested and that she has better connections to London’s underworld than most Home Office agents.”

  “No, I mean—” He grudgingly clarified, “What do you think of her…as a woman?”

  “I don’t.”

  Merritt glanced up in surprise. “When have you ever not noticed an attractive woman?”

  “When she’s wielding a sword,” Clayton shot back. “A man tends to live longer that way. She’s not the sort for me.” He gestured at Merritt with his glass before setting it aside. “You, however, might have met your match.”

  He blew out a dark laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  Clayton sent him a look of disbelief, as if Merritt had sprouted a second head but hadn’t noticed, then slipped off the desk and stood. “It’s back to Whitehall for me, and off to the ball with you, Cinderella.” He gestured at the mannequin as he crossed to the door. “At least you’ve already got the gown.”

  “Very funny,” Merritt muttered.

  Clayton paused to glance back. Admiration for his friend shone on his face.

  “Congratulations, Merritt,” he said sincerely, his voice full of warmth. “You finally have the future you’ve always wanted.”

  As he stepped out the door, Merritt’s gaze wandered back to Joanna’s painting. He tossed back the rest of the port in his glass, leaned his head back against the chair, and squeezed shut his eyes.

  No, I don’t.

  Twelve

  Veronica glanced up into the dark night sky as the bell of St Sepulchre’s Church struck out the midnight hour. What she noticed most, though, wasn’t the time but the sky.

  The night sky shone clear as glass. A field of stars and full moon lit the city streets so brightly that they cut through the foggy haze that always hovered over London. She certainly didn’t need any of those fancy gas lamps that lined the avenues in the exclusive parts of London to make her way. Nor did she want even this much light. After all, there was safety in darkness.

  She glanced into every dark alley and narrow passageway she passed, hunting but not finding. Yet she knew Merritt would be out here somewhere, because the same bright and clear night that made her hunt for him go more easily also increased the odds of another riot.

  He hadn’t returned to Le Château Noir as she’d expected. The afternoon had slid by without him. Then evening had fallen, and the gentlemen had begun to arrive. Yet still no Merritt. Even Madame had seemed a bit preoccupied by his absence, although that was most likely due to her own worries regarding him. After all, the cat that caught the mouse was always the one the unfortunate mouse never saw coming.

  So when nine o’clock came and Madame had to turn her attention fully to running the house and accommodating her clientele, Veronica left. She’d returned to the Court of Miracles, donned her fighting clothes, and headed into the night after him.

  “How hard is it to find one man in a city this size?” she muttered sarcastically to herself, knowing she was looking for a needle in a haystack yet had to try anyway. One sharply witty, interesting, and dashing man. One who knew how to wield a sword as if it were an extension of himself. One who made her insides go molten with only a glance and a grin.

  One unlike any she’d ever met before.

  Blowing out a recriminating breath at herself for letting him get under her skin, she headed southeast and quickened her pace through the rabbit warren of streets in Cheapside and Walbrook where he would most likely be. She wasn’t worried about him. Heavens, why would she be? The blasted man was more than capable of taking care of himself. But if he’d gone after Smathers or Malmesbury, or if he’d done something even more foolish like circle back to speak to Danker again without her—

  She halted and held her breath, cocked her head, and listened. The little hairs at her nape stood on end.

  From a distance of several streets away, she could just barely make out the faint but familiar noises. Raised voices echoing off the stone buildings, the smashing of wood, a shattering of glass—a riot.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. It knew before her head that she’d find Merritt there in the thick of it. Damn foolish men! Equal parts concern and exasperation grated at her as she raced toward the commotion.

  On any other night, she would have remained behind the mob, to linger at the rear to capture those opportunistic men who weren’t part of the protests but used them to commit crimes. In the confusion of the melee, they could easily burglarize shops and warehouses, break through shutters and windows of houses to snatch whatever they could, and escape into the chaos of the mob. Easy pickings for a thief. Very easy pickings for a thief-taker.

  But tonight, she raced ahead. She circled through the alleys and passageways to bring herself dangerously close to the front of the riot and to its leaders because that was where Merritt would be. With every panting breath and thumping heartbeat, she kept her eyes peeled for him.

  A scream cut through the night. Her hand darted to the short sword at her side, and she sprinted toward the sound.

  Merritt.

  He stood halfway down one of the dark alleys that angled away from the main street. Lit by a stray slant of moonlight, his blade flashed as he held it in front of him and kept at bay four large men positioned around him in a semicircle. Behind him on the ground, a young woman with her dress half-torn from her body cowered against the stone wall.

  Worry for him wrapped around Veronica’s spine. He’d rushed to place himself between the woman and her a
ttackers. But he’d also backed himself into a corner at the end of the alley, cut off from the street and escape. The four men advanced in slow, swaying steps like a pack of circling wolves.

  “Mrs. Fitzherbert,” she called out from the mouth of the alley to alert him that she was there. “We really must stop meeting like this.”

  Glancing past the men, his gaze collided with hers. His fierce expression sliced into her like a shard of ice and ripped her breath away. It was a look of pure vengeance.

  He tore his attention back to the four men as they continued to circle in front of him. They ignored her, most likely believing she was nothing but a weak woman who wouldn’t interfere, and kept their focus on Merritt as they looked for any weaknesses in him. Futile. He possessed none.

  “Leave,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “Go home before I give you the justice you deserve.”

  One of the men laughed.

  Veronica commented sardonically, “Good to see you’ve got everything under control.”

  His lips twisted into a strained smile. “Just giving them a false sense of confidence before I put them in their place.”

  “And here I thought you were about to get your arse kicked.”

  He flashed her a crooked grin, which knotted all the tiny muscles in her belly.

  Then he lunged, so quickly the movement was almost a blur. He slashed the tip of his sword across the closest man’s arm, through his clothes, and into the muscle beneath.

  The man bit out a venomous curse and clamped his hand over his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  Instead of attacking again, Merritt retreated farther back into the alley and past the woman who still sat huddled and sobbing in the shadows along the wall. The men followed after him like trained dogs.

  Knowing what Merritt wanted her to do, Veronica darted forward. She took the woman by the arm and yanked her onto her feet. “Run!”

  But the woman only sagged back against the wall and pressed a fist to her mouth, too terrified to move.

  Veronica grabbed her shoulders and gave her a fierce shake. “Run, damn you!”

  With a gasping sob, now just as terrified of Veronica as the men, the woman stumbled backward a single step. Her terrified eyes darted toward the street and escape. She pulled in a deep breath and ran.

  Merritt stopped his retreat and flashed his sword in the moonlight, to let the light catch the blade and remind those four damned fools of exactly how sharp it was. But the idiots thought they had him trapped and didn’t retreat. Instead, they raised their clubs and started forward. One of the men snatched up a discarded bottle and smashed it against the wall.

  With a grimace of aggravation, Merritt lunged and easily knocked the broken bottle from the man’s hand. This time, he didn’t retreat. He struck, stabbing his blade into the man’s shoulder and driving the tip of his sword an inch deep.

  The man howled in pain and fury. But he was smart enough to run away before Merritt could strike again.

  He pointed his sword at the man to his left, who’d rushed forward when his comrade had fallen back. Merritt stopped him at the tip of his sword. “You want to have a go next?”

  “Or would you rather fight a girl?” Veronica called out, stepping into the middle of the alley behind the remaining two men.

  When they glanced over their shoulders at her, she pulled both knives out of her sleeves in a single cross-armed movement. And smiled.

  The men’s eyes widened, then glanced between Merritt’s sword and her knives. They were beaten and knew it. They stumbled backward, carefully slid past Veronica, and raced out of the alley.

  Veronica lowered her knives to her sides with feigned disappointment. “Guess they didn’t want to fight a girl after all.”

  “God knows I wouldn’t,” Merritt answered dryly. “You girls fight dirty.”

  A low thrill tingled through her as he stalked toward her, and she replied huskily, “What fun is there in playing clean?”

  A hungry look darkened his face, and the tingle turned into a full-out throbbing. He moved his gaze predaciously over her, the way a wolf might contemplate its prey. Right before he devoured it.

  He stepped forward and slowly backed her up against the alley wall. She flattened herself against the bricks, with her arms raised to her shoulders and her hands still fiercely grasping both knives as if her life depended upon it. When he stopped in front of her, she turned her face away and squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the temptation he presented. She didn’t dare let herself step into his embrace.

  She swallowed. Hard. Madame Noir was right, Veronica knew that. He was the absolutely worst man in the world for her to desire. She and Merritt? A convicted criminal and a barrister? A thief-taker and a gentleman? She’d have to be mad to let herself even consider such a thing.

  Yet knowing that didn’t stop her from wanting him.

  He placed his hands flat on the wall on both sides of her shoulders and lowered his head close enough to hers that his warm breath tickled over her cheek. He didn’t touch her, yet she was certain the front of his body thrummed with electricity from her nearness as much as hers did from his. He murmured, “You came looking for me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Worried about me, were you?”

  She could practically taste the self-pleased smile on his lips. “Never.”

  “Liar.” His low chuckle rumbled into her. He cajoled in a husky voice, “Look at me.”

  Unable to resist, she opened her eyes and somehow managed to lift her chin in defiance, despite pressing herself flat against the wall. She didn’t dare touch him, not even an accidental brush of bodies. One touch… God have mercy, she’d be lost.

  “You’re not kissing me,” he pointed out.

  “Brilliant observation,” she drawled with all the sarcasm she could muster. She wore it like armor to keep him at bay. “I’m sure the army appreciated your finely honed reconnaissance skills.”

  Ignoring that, the devil leaned closer until his lips almost teased at hers. “Why aren’t you? This is usually when you grab me and kiss me.”

  She scoffed. “Someone has a high opinion of himself.”

  “I speak from experience.”

  “And I speak from common sense when I tell you that you’re not nearly as attractive as you believe you are.”

  She expected him to laugh at that, too. Instead, he stroked his thumb along her jaw. “But you want to kiss me.”

  So very much! “What I want is my pardon and for you to—”

  “To let you kiss me.”

  He’d twisted her words, the same way he was twisting an aching knot low in her belly. “That isn’t it at—”

  He grazed her earlobe with his fingertip, and a shiver sailed through her, proving her a liar. “So why aren’t you?”

  She caught her breath at the simple question. Why wasn’t she? Her mind spun like a whirlwind but was unable to latch onto any viable reason except for a truth she didn’t want to face. That she would never mean anything to him except as a help in stopping the riots.

  “Kiss me, Veronica,” he murmured. Each word pulsed a ghost pain from his lips that hadn’t yet been brought against hers. “Let go,” he urged her breathlessly. “Let go of whatever is holding you back and surrender.”

  He turned his head slowly each way to glance at the knives she still clutched in her hands, so hard that her fingers ached. Her heart pounded wildly in a heady mix of apprehension and anticipation, so fiercely that she was certain he could feel it even though their chests weren’t touching.

  “Let go.”

  His velvety voice wrapped around her with its temptation. He was the devil himself, come to claim her soul… Yet she opened her hands, and the knives fell away to clatter against the stones at their feet.

  With a pleased smile, he whispered against her mou
th, “Now surrender.”

  A whimper of capitulation rose from her throat—

  An explosion reverberated through the streets. The ground shook, and a flash of light pierced the darkness in the street beyond the end of the alley.

  Veronica startled with a gasp. Merritt grabbed her to him and protectively shielded her between his body and the wall. Their racing hearts beat off the seconds until they were certain the attack was over.

  She lifted her head from his chest. “What was that?”

  He glanced over his shoulder into the street as the noise from the riot increased, and he let out a curse. “A declaration of war.” He looked back at her, staring longingly at her mouth as he ordered with an aggravated breath, “Stay here.”

  He ran out of the alley toward the explosion.

  Stay here? Absolutely not!

  She snatched up her knives and raced into the street after him, only to halt in her steps. Her mouth fell open at the sight of the crowd—no, not a crowd. A complete mob. Uncontrolled. Violent. Good God.

  This was nothing like what she’d seen of the riots before. Men, all in their twenties and thirties and armed with hammers, shovels, pikes, and clubs, moved through the streets seemingly without reason or focus. They randomly destroyed whatever they came across…barrels, crates, shutters, windows, lamps. There were no leaders at the front to direct the crowd or keep them moving forward, no shouts or rallying cries that gave cause to their protest. Their sole intent was to harm and destroy. Directly in the mob’s path, flames from the explosion leapt high into the night and engulfed the building adjacent to the Bank of England.

  A chill slithered up her spine as unbidden memories of Portugal and the wars flashed before her eyes…scenes of death and destruction that had no purpose except to lay carnage to the land, of men who took gruesome pleasure in butchery and demolition. The similarities between tonight and her last days in what had once been her homeland struck her like a slap. She remembered how the men who’d ridden in advance to terrorize the villages and countryside had given way to the armies, which in turn had given way…to hell.