When a Rogue Meets His Match

by Hoyt, Elizabeth

  Damn it!

  Gideon hated that he had no idea which way Greycourt had gone—to lose sight of an enemy made him uneasy.

  But Rookewoode was still moving.

  Should he return for Keys or continue following the man?

  Gideon shook his head and half ran after Rookewoode, swerving around a group of sailors and pushing past a large butcher, standing in his bloody apron.

  Behind him someone swore.

  Rookewoode turned into a tobacconist’s.

  Gideon slowed his progress, coming to a stop just before the shop. He lingered, pretending an interest in the display of pocketknives on the table outside the shop adjacent to the tobacconist’s.

  He could see that the tobacco shop was a small one. If he entered, Rookewoode would be sure to notice him. That wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, except that Gideon wanted more information about Rookewoode’s ties to Greycourt before he took his offer of investment to the earl.

  He lurked outside.

  On the other hand, Gideon considered ten minutes later, he didn’t want to lose the man altogether.

  He went inside the tobacconist’s.

  The shop was, as he’d thought, small and gloomy and redolent of tobacco. Large twists of the dried leaves were arrayed on the walls, and a small, plump gentleman was pointing to one as a clerk attended him.

  No one else seemed to be in the shop.

  Gideon turned, but the shop was one room; the wares were displayed on the walls with nothing to obstruct them.

  There was a door behind the counter.

  Gideon vaulted the counter.

  “Oi!” the clerk cried, lapsing into an East End London accent in his shock. “You can’t—”

  But Gideon was already though the door.

  He entered a room stuffed with barrels and crates of tobacco, the smell near overwhelming. At the back was another door.

  Gideon threw it open and found himself in a small alley lined with tall, rickety buildings of the type that housed several families at once.

  He turned in a circle, but caught no glimpse of Rookewoode.

  He’d lost him.

  Bloody, bloody hell!

  Had Rookewoode known he was being followed? But then why not simply confront Gideon?

  What was the earl hiding—and how was Greycourt involved?

  He wouldn’t have those questions answered today.

  Gideon trudged down the alley, trying to decide whether to return to Opal’s to find Keys or to go to Whispers House and leave Keys to return on his own. The buildings lining the alley were close here. Each story aboveground jutted out farther into the lane in an inverted stepped pyramid until the roofs nearly met overhead, giving the looming feeling that at any minute a building could fall on one’s head.

  Gideon shivered. This place reminded him too much of the wretched neighborhood he’d lived in when he was a boy. He passed a pair of girls hanging wash, and then the alley ended abruptly in a small courtyard. A dead end.

  An old man smoking a pipe before a door turned and went in the house.

  The hairs on the back of Gideon’s neck rose. The courtyard was deserted. He was alone, with only one way back.

  He straightened his arm and shook down his knife from the sheath strapped to his forearm, holding it ready between his fingertips.

  A cat ran across the yard and disappeared into a crack between the houses.

  Behind him a boot scraped against a cobblestone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bet stared at the red-haired man. “Who are you?”

  He smiled a foxy smile at her and said, “Your husband, of course. Sometimes I’m a fox and sometimes I am not.”

  Then Bet knew that this wasn’t a man at all. Men did not turn into foxes at will. No, she’d married a fae, powerful and strange, and she shivered in fear.…

  —From Bet and the Fox

  Gideon ducked and turned, raising his knife at the same time in the little courtyard.

  The knife meant for his ribs sailed past, slicing a line into his coat.

  His assailant hardly took time to recover before slashing out again.

  Gideon shuffled back, balanced on his toes.

  The man attacking him was experienced.

  And deadly.

  Gideon’s arm shot out as he went for the gut, but the man swiveled aside, a smile curving his lips. He wore a simple brown suit, but it was in good condition.

  “Do you want my purse?” Gideon asked.

  Not that he’d give it away, but he wanted to know what this man was about.

  The man—hardly more than a boy, really—cocked his head. “I don’t mind taking it off your body.”

  He ran forward, as swift as a scurrying rat, and made a pass at Gideon’s ribs again, missing. The suit Gideon wore would never be the same again.

  Gideon darted, slashing in a quick, tight zigzag motion.

  The attacker raised his arm and Gideon’s blade sliced.

  He slid back, expecting blood spray.

  There wasn’t any. His attacker must have wrapped his arm with leather.

  The man grinned, slipping forward, going for Gideon’s left side, but then at the last minute slashing his right.

  Gideon only just got his arm out of the way.

  Or not.

  He could feel warmth seeping through his sleeve.

  There was no time to look.

  His attacker was charging, slashing swiftly again and again, his knife a blur. Gideon spun aside once and then again, rallying to flick his blade at the man.

  This time blood sprayed.

  Gideon stood his ground, his knife thrust at waist height before him, grinning. He wove a dangerous figure eight with the knife.

  Slash.

  Slide.

  Weave.

  And dart.

  He was elegant. He was swift. And he should’ve prevailed.

  He was, after all, the champion knife fighter of St Giles. Had once brought down Grinning Jack and his infamous black dagger.

  But alas.

  He’d just made another slash when a cudgel hit Gideon on the right shoulder. He felt it at once, the agonizing pain of the arm going out of joint.

  His knife clattered to the cobblestones.

  Too late he realized that he’d not kept an eye on the entrance to the courtyard.

  The next blow got him in the ribs.

  And the one after.

  Gideon staggered, raising his left arm to shield his head.

  He heard a shout, the familiar sound of Keys’s voice, and had two final thoughts:

  How disappointed Keys would be that he’d been too late to save him.

  And how he wished he could’ve seen Messalina once more before he died.

  * * *

  “Do you truly want to stay with him?” Lucretia asked hesitantly after Freya and Elspeth had departed.

  They’d returned to the sitting room, where Lucretia had draped herself over the settee rather like a languid cat and Messalina slumped in her chair.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” She looked at her sister. “I had plans for you and me. We’d leave England, sail to the Americas, buy a little cottage—small, but big enough for a maid and a cook. I’d present myself as a widow and you could be an eligible young lady.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Lucretia said. “But you’d never see Freya again if we did that.”

  The thought gave Messalina a pang. She’d only recently made up with Freya. To lose her so soon…

  “Hopefully we’d never see Uncle Augustus ever again, either,” she felt compelled to point out. “He wouldn’t have any control over you.”

  “Mmm,” Lucretia replied rather indistinctly. The maids hadn’t taken away the tea things yet, and she was eating the rest of the seedcake.

  Messalina stared at her doubtfully. “You do know that we’ll be having supper in another couple of hours, don’t you?”

  Lucretia nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, and Coo
k is making a leg of lamb.” For a moment she stopped, and her gaze became unfocused, as if she was imagining the juicy meat in front of her. Then she sighed and smiled at Messalina. “I do love a good leg of lamb. I hope Hicks doesn’t burn it.”

  The door opened as she was speaking, and Crusher entered. He waited respectfully to be noticed and then cleared his throat. “A Mr. Blackwell to see you, ma’am. Shall I show him in, or are you not receiving?”

  He must’ve come to see Gideon. Messalina had no idea where Gideon was at the moment—or when he might return—but she quite liked Mr. Blackwell.

  “Please show him in,” Messalina replied, and then turned back to Lucretia. “Perhaps you should sit up to meet visitors.”

  Lucretia sighed heavily but obeyed.

  A moment later Will Blackwell came in, and Messalina was startled anew by how handsome the man was. He was wearing a robin’s egg–blue suit today—the same blue as his eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said, crossing the room to take her hand and bow over it. He smiled charmingly. “I do apologize for interrupting your afternoon tea.”

  Messalina indicated the tea table in disarray and the one remaining piece of seedcake, which Lucretia was eyeing forlornly. “As you can see, we’ve nearly finished. I do hope you’ll join us, though.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Blackwell turned to bow over Lucretia’s hand with a roguish twinkle. “I trust I find you well, Miss Greycourt.”

  “Mr. Blackwell.” Lucretia nodded.

  Messalina looked for signs of Lucretia’s interest in the man but couldn’t discern any. Messalina sighed. It would be very convenient if Lucretia found a man to love—marriage would help to shield her from their uncle.

  Messalina rang for the maids to clear the dishes and bring fresh tea.

  That done, she indicated a chair across the low table from her and Lucretia. “Please be seated, Mr. Blackwell. I’m afraid that Gideon is not at home.”

  “So your butler informs me,” Mr. Blackwell said. “Do you know when he’ll return?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Messalina tried to make her reply as casual as she could, but the fact was that she and Gideon had hardly spoken in the last few days. His schedule and work, which had always been obscure, were now entirely closed to her.

  The thought was depressing. She had a marriage in name only, a union of two people yoked together for the rest of their lives. She could imagine becoming old and bitter. Such marriages were not uncommon in society. This was why she’d always been wary of marriage. Had always wanted her autonomy.

  She’d thought she’d had both with Gideon.

  She was a fool. She wished she could turn back time and never have married Gideon.

  But then she’d never have seen the laughter in his black eyes. Never discussed boys in St Giles and the importance of a good tailor.

  She would not have felt his hard hands on her body. Would never have seen his face softened in sleep.

  Her heart was sore.

  Mr. Blackwell tutted, interrupting her thoughts. “Odd. Gideon sent round a note to meet him here today to discuss some matters. Perhaps I have the date or time wrong. Hawthorne is usually punctual.”

  “I’m sorry to be of no help,” Messalina replied as the maids arrived with the tea.

  “Please,” Mr. Blackwell said. “It is I who should apologize for thrusting my company upon you and your sister.”

  Messalina smiled as she leaned forward to pour the tea. Hicks had included more seedcake as well as Lucretia’s favorite lemon tarts, which he must’ve sent out for.

  Hicks’s attempt at piecrust yesterday had been an unfortunate failure.

  Lucretia seemed to perk up at the sight of the lemon curd tarts. “What sort of business do you and my brother-in-law deal in, Mr. Blackwell? Surely not the same business Mr. Hawthorne does for the Duke of Windemere?”

  “Indeed, no.” Mr. Black laughed, accepted a dish of tea from Messalina. “The business I engage in is much more civilized. Mining, mainly. I’ve a plan to—”

  He was interrupted by a commotion from outside the sitting room.

  One of the maids ran in. “Oh, come quickly, ma’am!”

  Messalina jumped to her feet, dread in her stomach. She hurried to the stairs, vaguely aware that Lucretia and Mr. Blackwell were behind her.

  Halfway down the steps the entry hall came into sight and she stopped, suddenly light-headed.

  Reggie and the new footmen were bringing Gideon in on an improvised litter.

  His face was entirely covered in blood, and he was still.

  For a second she feared the very worst.

  Then Keys glanced up and saw her. “I’ve sent for the doctor, ma’am.”

  Messalina sagged against the banister, nodding faintly. Lucretia put an arm around her shoulders.

  Mr. Blackwell ran past them down the rest of the stairs. “What happened?”

  “Set upon in Whitechapel,” Keys said grimly. “We was followin’…” Oddly, he glanced up at Messalina again and pressed his lips together before continuing, “Doesn’t matter. Got separated, and by the time I found the guv ’e was goin’ down with two men upon ’im. Shot the bigger one and the smaller ran for it.”

  “Christ,” Mr. Blackwell said, looking appalled. “Where’s that bloody doctor?”

  He reached to touch Gideon’s right shoulder just as Keys shouted, “Don’t!”

  At the touch Gideon arched with a pained cry.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Messalina asked frantically.

  “’Is shoulder’s out of joint, ma’am,” Keys replied, and then said to the men carrying the litter, “Up the stairs, careful-like.”

  Reggie grunted and began backing up the stairs, his massive arms bulging with the strain.

  Messalina turned and with Lucretia hurried back up. She ran to Gideon’s room and entered for the first time since the night of the ball.

  The bedroom looked the same as when she’d last seen it only days ago. For a moment grief reached up to take her in an overwhelming wave.

  Then Lucretia began to pull back the covers on the bed. “We need a fire in here right away.”

  “Yes.” Messalina went back out into the hallway, moving aside to let the men carrying the litter by. She glanced at Gideon’s face, but his eyes were closed. Was he insensate?

  She caught the eye of the same maid who’d run into the sitting room. “Please bring another blanket.” She turned to a second maid, “Go to the kitchens and tell Hicks that the doctor will no doubt need hot water.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Both maids took off at a run.

  Below, Messalina could hear the doctor arriving, and in a moment a middle-aged man with a bobbed wig puffed up the stairs.

  The doctor caught sight of Messalina. “The lady of the house, I presume?”

  “Quite.” Messalina pointed to the bedroom. “My husband is in there.” And as the man trundled slowly down the hallway, she couldn’t help adding, “Please hurry.”

  The doctor nodded, saying soothingly in a voice that made Messalina want to kick him, “All in good time, ma’am. All in good time.”

  He was at the bedroom door now, and as he went in Messalina followed close behind.

  She halted, though, when she heard Gideon’s rasping voice from the bed. “Get her out.”

  Messalina glanced around, wondering which maid had irritated her husband so much he wanted her thrown from the room.

  But then she realized: he meant her.

  “I don’t want her here,” Gideon was saying, even as he groaned at the doctor’s touch. “Get her out, I say!”

  Keys was in front of Messalina, his expression apologetic. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “But—”

  The door shut in her face.

  * * *

  Julian Greycourt deliberately let the door slam as he entered the inn room he and his brother shared.

  “Where have you been?” Quinn asked with his arm over his eyes. He lay in one of
the two narrow beds in the room.

  “Out on business,” Julian replied, tossing his hat onto the table. He prowled to the window, peering out. The inn courtyard was nearly deserted. “And being followed by Hawthorne.”

  “What?” Quinn withdrew his arm, revealing bloodshot eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Hawthorne followed me from Opal’s,” Julian said absently. Was the boy lurking by the stables watching their room?

  “Why the hell should he do that?” Quinn demanded.

  “I presume he’s doing it on our dear uncle’s orders.” The boy went inside the stables, and Julian turned to look at his brother.

  Quinn was staring at him. “He means to kill you.”

  “Perhaps.” Julian had of course already considered this possibility after his uncle’s sinister hints. “Augustus certainly hates me enough to order my death.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  Julian glanced at his brother, his lips twitching. Quinn could be nearly as dramatic as their sisters. “But that’s not the only reason Augustus might order me followed.”

  Quinn groaned, rolling to stand from the bed. He wore only his shirt and breeches, the shirt untucked and hanging about his hips. His hair was a wild tangle. “Then tell me what Augustus is up to.”

  Julian shrugged. “Remember, I went to meet with Rookewoode and his friends.”

  Quinn paused in the act of pouring a glass of wine, his eyes narrowed. “You think he knows of our plans?”

  “It’s one concern.” Julian sauntered to the table, taking the wineglass from his brother’s hand. “Augustus has certainly spiked our plans before.”

  He swallowed some of the wine and winced. Cheap swill.

  Quinn poured himself another glass. He looked at Julian, and for a second Julian caught a glimpse of the laughing, quick-witted boy his brother had once been.

  Then Quinn tipped the wine down his throat, emptying the glass. “What’s the other concern?”

  Julian pressed his lips together. He hated to speak of it. That he, the scion of generations of aristocrats, should have this…humiliating weakness.

  Quinn must’ve been in better control of his senses than Julian thought, for he said softly, “Blackmail.”

  Julian nodded. He was a Greycourt. He had to face this. “If Hawthorne finds out…”