Courtesan's Kiss (40 page)

Birmingham
May 1819

L
YDIA
C
HERNOV DID NOT
put on her cloak or gather her things until the hackney drew to a halt in front of the shop. Chernov Drapers might be on the best street of shops in Birmingham, but at dusk and beyond one could not be too careful.

Pulling the wool cloak over her gown, Lydia did her best to control the hum of excitement that made her heart beat a little bit faster, but she could feel herself smiling and knew that tonight could change everything.

She calmed herself by mentally running through the list of items: umbrella, satchel with periodicals, trim kit and reticule; then she stepped out into the evening, miserable as it was.

The fog hung just above the rooftops, turning to
rain as it came closer to earth. Not a heavy rain, but enough to make protection necessary. Holding the umbrella and her bags, Lydia made short work of locking the door. She hurried to the conveyance stepping carefully, holding her skirts a little higher than proper, all to avoid the widening puddles.

Calling the direction to Mr. Leopold, she climbed into the cab. She settled back and considered the periodicals she had chosen. Lord David promised fabric that would be a delight to both eye and touch. His wife would be the perfect model for the new cottons. And Chernov Drapers would be the only shop to carry the yard goods. The trick would be to choose the designs that would show the fabrics to best advantage.

The hackney moved more quickly than usual and Lydia had to hold on so as not to lose her seat. With the streets wet and slick, speed seemed unwise.

Controlling a stab of alarm but not her annoyance, she was about to knock on the roof with her umbrella when the conveyance skidded to a halt. Before she could lean out and scold Mr. Leopold, the street-side door swung open.

Cold wet air was not the only intrusion. A man jumped aboard. At the same moment the hackney began moving again and Lydia felt affront and an even stronger dose of alarm. Thank God she was not the type to be paralyzed by fear.

“What do you think you are doing?” She tried for indignation and held tight to her umbrella, quite prepared to use it as a weapon. “Mr. Leopold!” she called. “Do you have your pistol?” She had no idea if he carried one or not but hoped the question would give the intruder second thoughts.

The man, a very large man, laughed and settled in with his feet propped against one door and his back against the other so that she could not reach either handle. “Leopold is counting his bribe money and heading for the whorehouse.” The man made himself more comfortable but still blocked the doors.

“Mr. Chernov wants to see you.” He spoke with an all-too-familiar accent.

“My husband?” That was not possible.

“If you wish to call him your husband.” He spoke the word as if it were a nickname and not a state blessed by God and the church.

“Mr. Chernov is not in England and I have no travel papers with me.” Which would hardly matter if he intended to force her to go abroad.

The man shrugged. “No papers will be needed where we are going.”

Her mind worked as fast as the machine at the new cotton mill. Lydia was sure that Mr. Chernov was dead. He would have found her much sooner than this if he still breathed. The shop, after all, bore his name. But even dead, a line of those who wanted
something from him would wind around the block. This man thought to use her to find him.

Lydia had made a vow that she would not become embroiled in his problems. Not ever again. “This is a kidnapping. I will not go with you willingly.”

“Call it what you will, you are coming with me.” The man took out a large knife and pretended he needed to clean his fingernails.

The knife erased her fear, replacing it with a cold truth. Her mind moved at double speed. She would rather die. Yes, and leave Paul an orphan, than obey this man. If she went along with his demands she might never see the boy again anyway.

The carriage was still in the city, nowhere near the river but surely headed that way. Once they were out of Birmingham it would be more difficult to find help.

Lifting her umbrella, holding it by the tip, she used the curled handle to hit him where it would hurt the most. The man bent double, cursing in Russian, and Lydia grabbed the moment to open the door and leap from the hackney, dragging her invaluable bags with her.

Stumbling on the wet cobblestones, she twisted her ankle and cursed a little herself. Ignoring the pain and without the slightest idea of where she was, she headed for the noise coming from the one lighted building glimmering through the fog.

Within a few yards of safety a man stepped out of the shadows. She ran full into him. Raising the satchel holding the periodicals with strength born of desperation, Lydia beaned him before his words registered.

“Do you need help, miss?” was followed by a sound between an
oof
and
ow
.

“What in the world did you hit me with?” He stepped back and looked about for his hat but showed no sign of abandoning her. Finding his hat, he brushed it off, seemingly unaware of the scoundrel from the hackney hurtling down the street, his knife raised, all the more menacing for silent dispatch.

With his hand firmly on his head, the man from the shadows stepped in front of her, easing her anxiety enough that she could breathe again.

In an instant her rescuer released a sword that was sheathed in his walking stick. What was a gentleman doing on the streets at this hour?

“Begone, you villainous thug. Leave this woman alone.”

Lydia almost laughed, as inappropriate as it was. The words could have come straight out of a Minerva Press novel.

“She’s my wife and trying to run off with her lover.”

“I am not his wife!” Lydia hoped she was stating the obvious.

“Of course not. No woman with your taste and manner would ever be seen with a pig like this.”

The pig lurched forward, and without a moment of hesitation her rescuer stuck him in the arm with his sword.

Bleeding like his namesake, the pig stumbled back, tossing his knife into his other hand but making no move to attack. “You’ll pay for this!” The venom in his voice made payment sound life threatening.

“Ah, but first you have to find out who I am.” Her rescuer wiped the blade with a bit of linen and held it at the ready again.

“Not you, you dandy-headed fop. The bitch, Mrs. Chernov, will pay. I’ll see to that.”

The rescuer glanced at her, apparently taken aback for the first time since the encounter began. For her part, Lydia had no idea what was afoot, other than the mention of her husband’s name, and that was as puzzling as knowing nothing.

The gentleman nodded as if she had spoken her confusion aloud. He took several steps closer to the thug, holding his sword in front of him.

“If you so much as come near her again, I will butcher you and leave you for the dogs. I have my ways and my contacts in Birmingham—I can find the likes of you, Novokov, without a moment’s trouble.”

Novokov’s startled expression showed his shock at being named.

“Begone!” the man shouted again, causing both Lydia and Novokov to jump.

“I’ll find you. I’ll find you both!”

“Empty threat, Novokov. Mrs. Chernov is now under my protection. You know better than to challenge me.”

Did he? Who was this man? At the moment he sounded almost as threatening as Novokov.

“Damn you both to hell!” Novokov called out as he stumbled backward and away from them.

Her rescuer wiped his sword again and sheathed it in one easy move. He turned to her and bowed. “I beg your pardon for his offensive language.”

“How did you know who he was?” It was the first of at least five questions to which she wanted answers.

“The man is tall with a girth to match and an accent he didn’t learn at school in England. Not many like that in Birmingham. It was an educated guess.”

“And who are you?”

“A man when you needed one. Names are hardly necessary.”

“Then you have the advantage of me.”

He smiled and his face went from dangerous to delightful. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Ladies always have the advantage.”

Was he flirting with her? She hefted her sample bag and used the voice that cowed her help. “You, sir, are a rogue.”

“And you are not the first to say that.” The smile tempered to an amused disappointment.

“Oh dear.” Lydia hated it when she stated the obvious. It was an awful habit. “I would so much rather be original.”

“You are definitely an original, Mrs. Chernov. I have no doubt of that. From your name, to your vicious weapon disguised as a bag, to your presence in this neighborhood at this hour, you are very much an original.”

Before she could decide how to answer, he continued. “Tell me where you are bound and I will see you there safely.”

What a conundrum, Lydia thought. She hardly wanted to walk on alone but neither did she want to tell him where she was going. It was supposed to be a secret.

“I can guess. To see a customer, a lady, someone you call on in the evening because you would also like to see her husband.”

Lydia almost dropped her satchel. How could he know that?

“We are within a short walk of Posey Hill, which I assume is your direction, but I do think that a carriage would be far more comfortable.”

As if by magic, a covered conveyance rolled to a halt behind him.

“Who
are
you?” Lydia asked again.

“If you must have a name, call me Jessup.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jessup, but I think I will send a message to my customer and tell her that I will not be able to keep the appointment. I am more than a little distracted at the moment.”

“You disappoint me, Mrs. Chernov. I would think that someone with your obvious independence would not be deterred by the idle threat of a man like Novokov.”

It was not Novokov who was making her nervous. Mr. Jessup showed signs of being a bully himself. With a much more charming approach, but a bully nonetheless. She had enough experience of the type to know how to deal with them.

She made her eyes fill with water and looked up at him. “I need to return home. I will send a boy to cancel my appointment. Please, can you help me?”

“Of course, madam. I would be a pig myself if I did not.” Mr. Jessup opened the carriage, offering his hand to help her inside as he called the direction to the driver.

She was wearing gloves. He was not. He squeezed her hand a little and the heat of his fingers traveled to warm parts of her that had been stone cold for much too long.

She missed the carriage step and almost fell. Mr. Jessup caught her by the waist and steadied her and made to lift her into the conveyance.

She shook her head and moved out of his grasp. She did not want Mr. Jessup any closer.

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Good night only, Mrs. Chernov.”

She shook her head and knocked on the roof for the hackney to move on. No one knew better than she did that station and place in life meant nothing when it came to one body responding to another. A man in her life or, God help her, in her bed was a complication she would never entertain again. This was good-bye.