An Unlikely Alliance (7 page)

If John Coachman was surprised to find his employer return carrying a half-conscious woman, he knew better than to say anything. The trip back to the townhouse was accomplished with all due speed and a minimum of jarring, out of consideration for their injured passenger.

As the carriage drew up in front of his townhouse, Mademoiselle Magda roused herself from her stupor. “Where are we?”

“Home,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened as she caught sight of his residence. What had she expected, that he would drag her off to some nefarious hideout where he could dispose of her quietly?

Climbing out of the carriage, he reached in to help her. “I can walk,” she said, her eyes flashing with a trace of her former determination.

He did not bother to reply to such an obvious falsehood. It was easier to simply pick her up and carry her up the sixteen steps to his townhouse.

Dugan met him at the door and followed him into the study, where Alex laid his charge down on the sofa. “There’s been an accident,” Alex said tersely. “I’ll need hot water, some clean linen, and send Luke to me.”

“I’ll see to it at once, but Mr. Luke is not here, my lord.”

Damn. Luke should have returned by now, unless he’d found a lead or gotten himself in over his head. But there was no time to worry about Luke. Alex had his own problems to contend with. “Then fetch me his medical bag instead.”

Turning back to his patient, he found her struggling to sit up. Pulling over a chair, he sat down across from her. “Now let’s see what we have here,” he said, reaching to remove her shawl.

She flinched as his hands came near her.

“Sit still or I can’t help you,” he growled.

“I don’t need your help,” she replied. She looked absurdly fierce. Her wig had fallen off during the journey, revealing her own short, dark tresses. Her eyes were huge in her thin, white face. It was clear that she was in shock.

She brushed his hands away and unknotted her trademark black shawl with hands that shook noticeably. It slipped off her shoulders, revealing the low-cut dress underneath. A thin trickle of blood ran from the cut on her neck to the shoulder of her gown.

A discreet cough heralded the return of Dugan and a footman bearing a bowl of hot water. The butler placed the supplies on the table next to Alexander’s left hand. “Would you like me to send for a surgeon?” Dugan inquired.

“No,” Alexander replied, “I can take care of this.”

“Very good, my lord.” Dugan said, then withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage, and careful as he was, the girl still winced in pain as he peeled it off.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got to get this cleaned up,” he said. Here in the well-lit library it was apparent that her injury was not as severe as it had seemed at first. Still, it was a nasty cut, running from the right side of her neck down to her collarbone. Whoever had done this had been very good or very careless. A little more pressure and the attacker would have slit her throat, and she would have died in minutes.

His gut tightened at the thought. He told himself that this was her own fault. She had chosen to become involved in this scheme and it wasn’t his fault if her comrades had turned out to have no scruples. But for all his logic he couldn’t help wanting to find the man who had done this and give him a taste of his own medicine.

He rifled through Luke’s bag until he found what he wanted, the vial of ointment labeled Dragon’s Balm. Luke swore there was actual dragon’s blood in the ointment, along with other mysterious ingredients. Alexander had no idea of what was really in there, but he had faith in its efficacy, having had need of it himself on more than one occasion.

The Gypsy’s dark eyes watched his every movement, but she made no comment, not even when he smeared the ointment over the cut. From experience he knew it had to sting, but she made no sound. She merely stared at him with the intensity of a wild animal, and he knew that if he left her alone for a moment she would try to flee. Even if she wouldn’t get far in her present condition.

He placed a small square of cloth over the cut and then tied a linen strip around her neck to hold it in place. It looked much like a cravat, although the style was decidedly odd on someone so clearly female.

“That should do the trick,” he said, leaning back to study his handiwork.

Her right hand reached up to explore the bandage. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft and he noticed again the trace of an unfamiliar accent. “But why are you being so kind?”

Alexander stood up and went over to the sideboard. Selecting two crystal glasses, he filled them with brandy. Returning to his seat, he handed her a goblet. “Drink this—it will make you feel better.”

She held the glass in both hands, but did not drink.

“Drink up,” he ordered roughly. “I’m hardly likely to poison you after I’ve gone to the trouble of patching you up.” He took a large swallow from his own glass to prove his good intentions.

She nodded and took a sip of the amber liquid, then followed it with a large gulp. The well-aged liquid slid down with a smoothness that belied its potency. In no time at all she would be telling him whatever he wanted to know.

“Now tell me what happened,” he ordered.

“It was your men,” she said accusingly. “They came for me and said you wanted to speak with me.”

His men? Could the runners have caught up with her?

“My men don’t resort to this kind of violence,” he countered. His conscience gave a little twinge as he realized that he wasn’t sure exactly how far the runners would go in carrying out his orders. And where was Luke in all this?

“But they said their employer had ordered them to kidnap me,” she said. “They would have succeeded, too, if Matt hadn’t come along.”

Now he was getting somewhere. “And who is Matt?”

“Matt Sweeney. I hired him to escort me. He was late and when I went to find him they grabbed me. Oh God, and then Matt came and he tried to get me away but they stabbed him. I think he’s dead.” She started shaking as she relived the horror.

Alexander grabbed the glass before it could fall from her hands. She looked so young and vulnerable that he had to resist the urge to put his arm around her and comfort her. He had to remind himself that her troubles were none of his concern.

“I didn’t set the villains on you but someone clearly did. I can help you but only if you tell me everything. Tell me who was behind the scheme to fix the race.”

“But I don’t know!”

She was stronger than she appeared, and a worthy adversary. But she was also in shock from the attack, and half-drunk on his expensive brandy. It was time to home in for the kill. “Do you want to wind up dead in the streets like this Matt? Tell me who put you up to this. If you help me I’ll help you. Otherwise—”

He let the threat trail off into silence.

She opened and closed her mouth, at a loss for words. His experience told him that she was ready to break, to spill her secrets. But the words that came our of her mouth were the last thing that he expected to hear.

“You stupid Englishman! Didn’t you hear what I said? I have no partners. You’re the only one who thinks I am part of some scheme.”

“But what about the race? What about the prediction you made at Lady Stanthorpe’s?”

“It was a mistake,” she cried out. “I intended a different reading, but the cards went wrong. It was all a stupid mistake. I should never have been at that party. If Madame Zoltana hadn’t broken her leg none of this would have happened.”

He didn’t want to believe her. It could still be an act, but his instincts told him otherwise. She had nearly lost her life tonight. A guilty woman would have grasped at his offer of protection. Even an innocent might have been tempted to lie, telling him whatever he wanted to hear, rather than putting herself back in jeopardy. But instead the Gypsy asserted her innocence, which made it just possible that she was telling the truth.

“But if you are innocent, then who wanted you enough to commit murder?” he asked. It was the one hole in her story.

“If it wasn’t your men—”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then I don’t know,” she insisted. “It makes no sense. Until a fortnight ago I was just an out-of-work seamstress.”

It made no sense to him, either. But he had faith that he could get to the bottom of the matter. And in so doing, he would prove her innocence or her guilt. “It makes no sense to me, but I am very good at puzzles, and I will figure it out eventually.”

The Gypsy sank back against the cushioned sofa, the brandy and events of the night finally catching up with her. “If you were so good at solving things you would have known I wasn’t to blame,” she argued.

“Rest now,” he said. “Things will look better in the morning.”

It was good advice for himself as well. It was too late tonight, but in the morning he could start checking out her improbable story. And he would start with Bob Parker. The timing of the attack on Mademoiselle Magda was a little too coincidental. The guilty twinge he felt now would be nothing compared to how he would feel if he learned Luke or one of the runners was behind the botched kidnapping attempt. But he swore that no matter who was responsible, he would find that person and make him pay.

Magda woke to the long-forgotten sensation of warmth and comfort. She opened her eyes to find herself lying in bed under a satin coverlet. A soft light seeped through the pale pink curtains, while a month’s worth of coal burned merrily in the fireplace. This must be a dream, she thought to herself. But pleasant as it was, she could not linger. She stretched her arms in an effort to wake up.

The movement caused a sudden, searing pain in her neck. Magda sat up abruptly, hands reaching for the bandage at her throat, as the events of the previous night came flooding back. The attack on her, Matt’s death, and then the strange encounter with Lord Kerrigan, who seemed to menace and then to rescue her. Looking back, it seemed unreal, something out of a Drury Lane play. But the bandage on her neck proved otherwise.

As did her presence in this bedroom. She must still be in Lord Kerrigan’s townhouse, and Magda blushed at the realization that she could not remember how she had gotten to this room. She remembered his unexpected gentleness as he bandaged her wound, so strange when contrasted to his ruthless questioning as he tried to get her to admit to some imagined crime. But she could not remember how the conversation had ended, or when indeed she had fallen asleep.

If she was still in his house, then the enigmatic earl was bound to come looking for her. She jumped out of bed, mortified when she realized that she was wearing only her thin and much-mended chemise. Her clothing from last night was nowhere to be seen, but someone had thoughtfully laid out a brown wool dress and half-boots by the dressing table. The dress, undoubtedly some maidservant’s Sunday best, was too loose around the bosom and the hem dragged on the floor. But with judicious use of pins she was able to make herself presentable.

She debated over waiting in the room till she was summoned but decided it would give her host the wrong impression. She didn’t want him to think that she was cowed by her surroundings. Grateful for his help, yes. But intimidated? No. It was not in her nature to show such weakness, especially toward someone whom she still did not trust.

She descended the stairs, reasoning that Lord Kerrigan was most likely to be found in the living quarters below. A gentleman crossing the foyer witnessed her descent and paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle,” the stranger said. “We didn’t expect to see you awake so soon.”

The man seemed close to her age, with close-cropped dark brown hair and brown eyes that hinted at a sense of mischief. His clothing was plain but of excellent quality, making it difficult to tell if he was a servant or a gentleman. Magda decided to err on the side of politeness. “Good morning, sir,” she said, giving a half-curtsy. “Can you tell me where to find Lord Kerrigan? I must speak with him.”

“I can do better than that. Let me take you to him.” He gave a half-bow and gestured with his right arm for her to proceed him. “Luke Stevenson at your service, milady.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She did not give her own name, not knowing what story Lord Kerrigan had told his staff to explain her presence.

Luke Stevenson led her down a corridor, passing several doors, till he came to the end of the hall. He tapped once and then threw open the door with a flourish. “My lord! I bring you a damsel in distress,” he announced, bowing her into the room.

Lord Kerrigan looked up from his breakfast. A faint grimace crossed his features.

Now that she was face-to-face with him, she knew not what to say. How do you thank someone for saving your life? Especially if you’re not sure why he did it.

Magda took a few steps into the room. “My lord, I must thank you—”

“That’s not necessary.”

Magda crossed the few feet that separated her from the table. Lord Kerrigan did not rise to greet her but instead assessed her with his cold blue eyes that seemed to measure her and find her lacking. Even seated, he was an imposing presence.

“But it is necessary,” she insisted. “You may have saved my life last night.” But it was also true that he may have been behind the attack on her in the first place. So she would be polite, but she must remember not to confide in him. Nor to place her trust in anyone else until she knew who was responsible for last night’s attack.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing at the empty chair on his left side. “We never finished our conversation last night, but I’m sufficiently civilized that I’ll allow you to break your fast first.”

Magda sat down gingerly. Luke helped himself to the chair on the opposite side without waiting for an invitation, then picked up a silver bell and rang it once.

A footman appeared as if by magic. “Mademoiselle desires breakfast,” Luke announced. “And another plate for me as well, to keep her company.”

“If you keep eating like that you’ll rival Prinny one day,” Lord Kerrigan grumbled. But there was affection in his tone. So much for her supposition that this Luke was a servant. It was a good reminder that nothing here was as it seemed.