All Men Are Rogues (10 page)

T
he midday sun was high in the sky as Evelyn walked down the long alleyway toward the shelter of her new sanctuary. She hoped that Justin decided to “interrupt” her today as he had the day before. She could barely sleep last night for running the deliciously intimate events on the long green couch through her mind. Justin was turning out to be much more than simply an eye-catching gentleman; he was kind, noble, and, in her mind, the personification of Eros, the Greek god of erotic love.

Her delightful musings were interrupted by the sounds of a scuffle. She turned. Three brutish men, all armed with knives, circled Ismet.

He shouted to her,
“Kosmak!”
Run.

She was torn by her desire to help him and her need to protect her father’s journal. She clutched her reticule to her middle, as if the journal inside would tell her what to do.

Her brawny servant pulled a long dagger from his sleeve and another from his boot. He faced his foes with a wicked grin.

Her heart was pounding like a stampede of wild horses. Without thought, she tossed her reticule to the wall and pulled her blade free of its scabbard under her cloak. The men paid her no mind. Well, she would give them reason to fear. Ismet’s eyes flashed anger at her disobedience, but he was not about to argue with her now.

She slowly stalked behind the small wiry fellow with the stained yellow coat. She had never killed a man, but this was a time of firsts for her.

Ismet lunged at the largest man, and all hell erupted. Evelyn dove for the back of the wiry one’s knee with the bottom of her boot. He yelped as his knee folded underneath him. He snarled at Evelyn and swiped his blade in the air. She jumped back.

Ismet swung and parried, easily avoiding the larger man’s knife. It was a long, ugly thing with a stained blade. The two men circled Ismet, jumping in and out with military precision. Toying with him. Their movements were fast and meticulous. Despite their disheveled clothing, these men were well trained.

The wiry fellow jumped at Evelyn, spinning around, trying to grab her from behind. She swept her cloak in the air, leaping out of arm’s reach. The fellow on the side stepped away and moved to assist his compatriots. All three rounded on Ismet, hounding him. Ismet feinted and struck, slicing his knife through the burly one’s arm. The man cried out and dropped his blade.

Evelyn jabbed at the wiry one’s back, cutting through his yellow coat to the flesh underneath.

“The bitch cut me!” He twisted away, grabbing over his shoulder at his bloodied back.

She licked her lips, breathing hard.

The big one swung his fist at Ismet while the second man slipped behind him and jammed Ismet’s head with the hilt of his dagger. Ismet dropped to his knees. All three men turned on her.

Evelyn spun on her heels and fled down the alley, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Help! Help me!”

The men raced after her. She dashed past her sanctuary and around the next corner and barreled into a broad, wide figure. She fell flat on her bottom, the wind knocked right out of her. Her knife clattered away. She twisted around and jumped up, struggling for breath.

“This is no time to be sitting on your duff, Evelyn,” a deep voice commented.

Her heart swelled. “Sully!”

“Get behind me, if you would, my dear.”

He coolly cocked his pistol and aimed toward the broad chest of the largest man. The three attackers skidded to a stop, uncertain. Evelyn slipped behind her beloved friend and peeked from under his arm.

“I will shoot,” Sully remarked quietly.

“And I will shoot her,” came a harsh voice from the rear. Evelyn turned. Behind her stood a large, square-jawed, big-fisted man in a long black overcoat, pointing a gun at her head. Her mouth went dry.

Sully pursed his lips. “Helderby, I presume?”

“H…how? Never you mind, you bloomin’ bastard. Put the gun down or you’ll have her brains all over your fine coat.”

Sully tilted his head. “As you command.” Evelyn knew that tone of voice. It meant anything but submission. She tensed. Sully held up his gun as if surrendering. He slowly turned, and, with lightning speed, shot Helderby. The three men jumped on him, jarring his aim. They ripped the empty pistol from his hand and pummeled him with their fists.

“Alive! He’s to be taken alive!” Helderby roared, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Sully could not beat off the three men.

“Run, Evelyn!”

This time she obeyed. She shot past the skirmishing men and raced back down the alley from which she’d come.

Justin was striding toward her, flanked by three brawny footmen.

“Justin!” she screamed breathlessly. “Help Sully! Attacked. Go help.” She pointed behind her.

He grabbed her shoulders. Shoving her toward the house, he shouted, “Go to my brother’s, now! I will take care of this!” She lifted her skirts and ran. Thank God for Justin. She just prayed that he would get there in time to save Sully and that he would not be injured.

She raced back to where Ismet had fallen. He was gone. Her reticule lay on the ground by the wall, hidden in shadow. She grabbed the handle and ran back toward the house. Midstep, she pulled out the golden key. She was rasping for air and her chest burned as if a knife were lodged in it. She dashed back to the house and tried to insert the key in the door, but her hands were trembling too badly.

She bit her lip and took a deep breath. She arched back and tried to glimpse down the alley but could see nothing beyond the corner. She listened breathlessly but could barely hear anything above the clamoring of her heart. She used two hands to get the key in the lock and turn it. Heaving the door open, she charged inside and slammed it closed. She turned the lock and grabbed a chair to bar the handle. Her eyes scanned the long, tall bookshelves, longing for some magical weapon to use to save the day.

She yanked her father’s journal from her bag and shoved it into the bookshelf. She stared at it a hesitant moment, and then pulled it out. Removing four or five books from the shelves, she slid her father’s precious diary in back and reshelved the volumes.

A loud knock pounded the door. “Evelyn! Are you alright?” It was Justin.

She removed the chair and whipped open the door. He was whole and fit. Thank God! She ran into his arms and hugged him close, pressing her nose to the soft wool of his gray coat.

“Sully and Ismet?” She looked up hopefully.

“Sullivan is badly bruised, but otherwise fine. Ismet, no one knows where he is.”

She peeked past Justin but saw an empty alley. “Where is Sully?”

“In custody.”

Bile rose up in her throat. It was as bad as a death sentence.

With his arm tightly wrapped around her, he pushed her inside and closed the door. He walked her into the parlor as her mind reeled with the implications of Sully’s arrest. Justin seated her on the couch and crouched before her.

“Evelyn. I want you to be frank with me.” He squeezed her hands between his. “Do you know why your friend Sullivan is wanted by the authorities?”

She shook her head. “What are they charging him with?”

“Treason.”

Her stomach lurched. Oh, God, no. She closed her eyes.

“Evelyn. You must tell me. Do you know anything about a plot against the Crown?”

At least they had not murdered him in the street as they had her father. There would be a trial, if unjust, and she might have another chance to save him.

He shook her gently. “Listen to me, Evelyn. Did Sullivan say anything to you at all about Napoleon or banking or the monetary system? Anything at all?”

She opened her eyes and blinked. “Why are you asking me these things?” A ball of anxiety roiled in her gut. “You, you did not help them, did you?”

“Please just tell me what you know,” he pleaded urgently. “We haven’t much time and must stop the plot from proceeding before it’s too late.”

We.

The room rushed in and out of focus, suddenly clouded in white. Justin was talking to her but seemed to be speaking from down a long, dark tunnel. Then waves crashed in her eardrums, muting him altogether, and her queasy stomach lurched and heaved. She twisted away from him, and the contents of her breakfast rushed up through her throat and splashed onto the worn oriental carpet.

Someone was holding her hair back as she coughed and sputtered. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she thought she might die from the pressure in her head.

A hand pressed her forehead and a handkerchief was shoved in her sweaty, gloved palm. She raised the cloth with shaky hands and wiped her mouth. A glass was placed in her fingers, and she clutched the brandy to her chest. She took a small sip, swooshed it around her mouth, leaned over the grate, and spit. She sniffed and took a long, hot swallow of the fiery liquid. It burned the whole way down. She welcomed the pain. It made everything more clear.

She dropped the glass, and it rolled across the thick carpet. The same carpet where she had kissed the despicable man standing before her now.

She stood, and her legs wobbled like jelly. She drew herself up.
“Carry yourself like a queen,”
her father had told her;
“it is like a cloak of protection when you are feeling most vulnerable.”
When she turned and headed for the door, Justin grabbed her arm.

“Where are you going?”

She stared down at his gray-gloved hand as if it were a poisonous snake. Her free hand clenched, and before rational thought came, she reached back and smashed her fist into his nose.

Blood splayed out and he let her go, reaching for his face. “What…?”

In a voice she did not recognize, she railed harshly, “Do not lay your filthy hands on me ever again.”

She lifted her skirts and sprinted out the door, dashing past the surprised eyes of the burly footmen, and raced toward Belfont House with one thing on her mind. Shah.

Ismet was gone, Sully was arrested; heaven help her if she did not save her loyal servant. Fancy and street vendors alike stared at her as she charged down the avenue, but she did not heed them. Her throat burned and her chest was on fire, but she was not about to be taken in or lose the only friend she still might be able to help.

She banged on the heavy oak doors of Belfont House, rasping for air.

The butler opened the door. “Egad! Miss Amherst!”

She tore past him and headed down the fashionable hallway to sprint up the stairs two at a time. She burst through the door to her chambers, swallowing to bring some moisture to her parched mouth.

“Shah,
gelmek
,” she panted. Her body was drenched in sweat and she felt so hot that she thought she might combust while simply standing.

Shah stood wide-eyed in the doorway to her room. Evelyn grabbed her hand and dragged her out the door. Ever-quick, Shah did not need to be told twice. They raced back down the hallway together and barreled down the stairs.

Lady Fontaine stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Faith have mercy! What happened to you, child?”

Evelyn could not imagine how awful she must look, but she didn’t care. One more landing and then out the door. Escape.

Lady Barclay stepped out from the drawing room and into the hall, a wicked glower on her sharp face. “She looks as if she rolled in mud. How appalling!”

Then
he
bombarded in.

Evelyn froze midstep, and Shah barely stopped herself from catapulting down the stairs.

His face was bloodied, his nose already enlarged to twice its normal size. Two dark welts were forming under his eyes. At least she’d hurt him a little: Lord help him if she got another crack at him.

“You must listen to me, Evelyn!” he pleaded, but it sounded more like a command.

“Justin! You’re hurt!” The dragon lady pounced on him, dragging at his arm.

He shoved her off and stepped up the bottom stair. “You have to listen to me!”

“Can’t a man have any peace in his own home!” Lord Fontaine said as he stepped into the hall, scowling. His eyes widened. “Gadzooks!”

Evelyn was betting that the bastard’s family didn’t know about his auxiliary activities. It gave her an advantage, little as it was.

“Lady Fontaine, I need your help,” she exclaimed.

Justin froze midstep, beseeching her with his eyes.

“Anything, child,” Lady Fontaine offered worriedly.

“I beg of you, please tend to Lord Barclay.” She glared daggers at the villain. “It seems he’s been fistfighting, and the sight of his hideous face makes me ill.”

“Fistfighting?” The dragon lady turned on her son. “Have a care, Justin! Have you no sense of duty to your family or your title? Like a common ruffian, you behave!” Her left shoulder was inching up huffily. “The chit is right, you look positively horrid.”

“Come, Justin, we will clean you up.” Lady Fontaine turned on her nephew.

“I say, Barclay.” Lord Fontaine peeked through his monocle. “You must confine your tussles to pugilistic science. And certainly not in front of the ladies. Too much for their delicate sensibilities.”

“Go upstairs,” Justin ordered Evelyn, glowering at her as his mother and his aunt tugged at his arms, directing him to the drawing room.

“Of course, my lord.” She scrunched her face into a fake smile and curtseyed, which was quite a feat, standing on a stair and holding Shah’s hand while all she really wanted to do was rip his lying throat out. Or perhaps tar and feathers might be a suitable punishment.

She turned and calmly stalked up the stairs, with Shah following close behind. As they reached the top of the landing, Evelyn lifted her skirts, and she and her trusty maid sprinted the length of the hall to the back staircase.

“Evelyn!” Justin bellowed. Footsteps thundered after them.

Shah and Evelyn flew down the servants’ staircase and tumbled into the kitchens, frightening the cook into dropping a platter full of stewed beets. Sloppy purplish-red liquid splashed all over the wooden floor. Evelyn and Shah skidded through the mess, grabbing for purchase as they went. Evelyn clutched the cutting table for balance and pushed off, propelling them toward the back door. Plates crashed, people yelped, but they charged on and barreled out the servants’ door and into the fresh air of the sunlit garden. Out the gate and into the crowded street they ran, racing away from treachery, running as if the devil himself was surely after them. For that was what
he
had become to her, evil incarnate.