Dangerous to Kiss (45 page)

“Stand back, Kendal, or I shall blow the boy’s brains out.” As he spoke, Standish edged away from the stairs, hauling Quentin with one arm locked around his throat.

Gray stepped onto the gallery. “You will be happy to know, Mr. Standish,” he said, “that Nick survived the bullet you put in him. It was a clean wound, straight through the shoulder and out the other side. You should also know I heard the other shot. Deborah, what happened?”

“He shot my father.”

“Ah,” said Gray. “Two shots. That’s what I was hoping you would say.”

Deborah didn’t understand what was happening, but she sensed something new in Standish’s desperation. Suddenly he moved. He flung his pistol aside and lunged for the balustrade, dragging Quentin with him. She wasn’t aware that she screamed. She knew what was in his mind. He was going to jump to his death and take Quentin with him. As Gray went to intercept him, she went for the pistol. Her hand was shaking when she pulled back the hammer and leveled it.

Gray’s fist smashed into Standish’s face, and he went sprawling, taking Quentin with him. Quentin’s teeth sank into his captor’s arm and Standish slapped him hard, then he quickly scrambled to his feet, holding Quentin in front of him. In the struggle, he had lost his spectacles. Deborah moved in close till she had a clear shot of the back of his head.

“Let the boy go,” she said, “or I shall pull the trigger.”

Standish laughed. It sounded carefree, and all the more demented, to Deborah’s ears, because of it.

“Deborah,” said Gray, “stand aside.”

Gray didn’t understand, and there wasn’t time to explain it to him. Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she hesitated. It was a terrible thing to take a man’s life. Then Quentin sobbed, trying to get breath, and her resolve hardened. She pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but there was no explosion, no bullet in the chamber.
Before her horrified eyes, Standish began to hoist Quentin onto the balustrade. Gray’s hand lashed out, and there was a sickening crack as Standish’s arm snapped. Deborah grabbed for Quentin and wrenched him clear by the coattails.

“Get out of here,” yelled Gray, “before the whole place goes up.”

In the moment when Gray’s attention was on Deborah, Standish dragged himself to his feet and collapsed against the rail. Half leaning over it, he fought to drag air into his lungs. The rail swayed, and with an ominous crack gave way beneath his weight. Before their horrified eyes, he teetered on the edge, then went toppling into the abyss. There was no scream, no sound until he hit the marble floor, three floors below. Deborah’s arms were around Quentin, keeping his face averted, though there was nothing to see now.

White-faced and grim, Gray reached for the two of them. “Now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

Outside in the Strand, the street was blocked with carriages. Red-coated militia were ordering the crowds back. Flames were already creeping along the roof. The back of the house was an inferno and the fire was quickly spreading to the front of the house.

Lady Helena Perrin was in her carriage, watching the spectacle with detached interest. Her detachment fled when she saw and recognized Nick Grayson as he flung out the front doors. His face was blackened from smoke, and his arm was in a sling. Frowning, Helena opened the door of her coach and, ignoring her coachman’s protest, gingerly stepped onto the street. She was immediately swallowed up by the jostling crowds.

“Move along! Move along!” bellowed the captain of the militia. “Or I shall read the riot act!” He was mounted, and the spectators pressed back to avoid being crushed beneath the horse’s hooves.

Helena elbowed her way toward the front of the
crowd. “Captain,” she called out. “What’s going on here?”

The cultured accent stayed the rude retort that came to the captain’s lips. The dazzling beauty of the lady who had put the question to him softened him even more. “A damnable business,” he said. “There are people trapped inside the house.”

“Who?” asked Helena. Her heart was beating frantically.

The captain pointed to Nick. “That gentleman’s brother, for one. He went to the rescue of a lady with a boy. A brave man. A very brave man.” The crowd surged forward and he turned away, bellowing to his men to hold their positions.

There were faces in the crowd that Helena recognized, people of her own set. The crowd was so dense, however, she could not get to them. She had to know what was happening. She had to know.

“Lord Lawford,” she cried out.

Lawford heard her cry, and turned his head. He smiled, nodded, and tried to make his way toward her. The crowd was too dense.

“What’s going on?” Helena shouted above the noise of the crowd.

“I believe Kendal has caught his murderer,” he shouted back.

There was a cry and the crowd went wild as three people came out the front doors. Gray, Deborah Weyman, and Quentin. Nick went forward and flung his good arm around Gray’s shoulders. Gray smiled and said something to the captain, and two militiamen came forward and led them away. No one else came out of the house.

A terrible feeling of doom possessed Helena. She acted without reason, a thing of the wild in a panic. Pushing, shoving, she forced her way out of the crush, then, blind to everything and everyone around her, she started to run. Her coach driver saw everything but could do nothing since he was hemmed in by other carriages. He motioned to the other coachman, who then descended from the box and went after her.

She had only one thought in her head. She must get home. Eric had agreed to escort her to Lady Kendal’s informal soiree that evening. She prayed as she had never prayed before that he would be at home waiting for her.

As soon as she entered her house, she called his name. There was no answer. Picking up her skirts, she went tearing up the stairs and burst into his dressing room.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading and in a lightning glance took in her disheveled appearance, the panicked breathing and fear-bright eyes. “Helena, what is it?” he asked urgently. He had never seen her look like this.

She sagged against the door and tears welled in her eyes. “Kendal has caught his murderer,” she said. Her voice broke. “Oh Eric, I thought it was you. I thought it was
you.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I think he perished in the fire.”

He came to her then and clasped her by the shoulders. His eyes devoured every expression. “And would it have mattered to you if it had been me?”

“How can you ask me that when you know that I love you?”

He closed his eyes, then opened them wide. “I thought you didn’t care for me.”

She shook her head. “Perhaps at first, because I knew you married me for my connections, but later—”

He shook her hard. “I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you.” She looked at him uncertainly, and he shook her again. “It’s always been you. I thought you married me for my money.”

“I did, but I was a fool.”

He kissed her as he had never dared kiss her before, betraying all that he felt for her, and the Kendals and their informal soiree were consigned to oblivion.

Lady Kendal’s informal soiree was not precisely a raging success. Some of those invited were among the spectators at the demise of Strand House, and when the red glow over Charing Cross lit up the sky, the remaining guests took off to investigate, taking their hostess and her daughter with them. Nick was glad to have no mother fussing over him when the physician arrived to doctor the “scratch” on his shoulder.

Having seen the physician off the premises, the survivors of the fire assembled in Gray’s library, and were soon fortifying themselves with their favorite tipple. Hart was there, but only because he had returned home to find the house empty. The atmosphere was subdued but far from grim. Gil’s murderer was finally caught. They had escaped with their lives. Quentin was safe, and though he had been through another harrowing experience, he had come through it well.

At one point, Gray said quietly, “Tell us, Quentin, exactly what happened that night in Paris.”

Quentin swallowed and nodded. “I was playing a trick on Deborah, but when I heard Papa’s voice, I came out from behind the curtains at once. Mr. Standish was with him, and he had a pistol. He said ‘Don’t move. Don’t anyone move.’ Then we heard Deborah calling
my name. Papa told me to leave, but Mr. Standish wouldn’t allow it.”

When he stopped speaking, Deborah put her arm around him. “Don’t think about it if you don’t want to,” she said.

“But I
do
want to think about it.” There were tears in his eyes. “When Papa told me to run, I thought he would run too. But he sprang at Mr. Standish. Then, then, I don’t know. The gun went off, and Deborah was there, and we were running, and … and I forgot everything.”

“Well,” said Gray, “tonight your papa must be very happy.”

“Do you think so, Uncle Gray?”

“I know so. If it were not for you, we would never have caught Mr. Standish. Your papa knows that too. I’ll bet he is … um … looking down from Heaven with a big smile on his face.”

Quentin said eagerly, “When I remembered who Mr. Standish was, I was frightened, but I didn’t cry, did I, Deb?”

“No. You were very brave.”

“And I bit him on the arm, didn’t I, Uncle Gray?”

“You were a real Trojan. Ferocious, in fact.”

“He slapped me hard, Uncle Nick, but I didn’t cry out. Uncle Hart, do you think I shall have a bruise on my face when I wake up tomorrow?”

“I don’t think …”—observing Quentin’s hopeful look, Hart changed in mid-sentence—“there’s any doubt of that. Why, it would not surprise me if we scarcely recognized you.”

“That’s what I thought you would say. I can hardly wait to show Jason. Deb, may I have more ale?”

“You may not! In fact, young man, you should not be here. It’s long past your bedtime.”

“Then I’ll have some of your barley water, and you may put as much honey and lemon in it as you like.”

“Fine. I’ll bring it up to you in a few minutes, once you are settled. All right?”

“I’ll ring for a footman,” said Hart.

“Oh, not one of the footmen. Can’t I have Samuel?”

“And who,” asked Deborah, “might Samuel be?” “My valet,” said Gray. “And he is Mr. Farley to you, scamp.”

Hart pulled on the bell rope to summon a footman who, in turn, went to fetch Mr. Farley.

Quentin jumped up and ran to the door to greet him. “Farley,” he said, “you’ll never guess what’s happened. We caught the man who shot my father. I lost my memory, did you know? And when everything came back to me …” He left without a backward glance.

Those remaining smiled and chuckled.

“I’m glad to see,” said Nick, “that Quentin is recovering from it all. I know I shall have nightmares for a long time to come.”

“I know how he feels,” said Gray. “It
was
a harrowing experience, but he is elated that his father’s murderer has been caught. Not only that, but he helped catch him. He’s proud of himself, and so he should be.”

Deborah sipped at her tea and kept her opinions to herself. She was not so sure that Quentin was untouched by the events of that night, and took comfort from the thought that Dr. Mesmer would be arriving in a day or two to examine him.

Nick had moved to the window and was staring out at the fiery sky. Suddenly shivering, he pulled on the ropes to close the curtains. When he came back to his place, he offered the others a crooked smile. “I don’t think,” he said, “I shall ever forget finding Strand House going up in flames when I arrived with the militia. I didn’t know where to begin to look for you. We tried every room on that ground floor before the heat and smoke drove us back. When you came down the stone staircase and out the front door—” He swallowed hard as the memory came back to him.

“And,” said Gray, “I shall never forget the dash along that long upstairs corridor. It seemed to go on for miles. Hell, it did go on for miles. We could hardly see for smoke, and the floor beneath our feet was so hot it was burning holes in my boots.”

Deborah said, addressing Nick, “How did you know I would make for Strand House?”

“Gray told me. But what I can’t understand is why. You took me completely by surprise when you ran away, Deb. Why did you do it?”

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the bare truth, that she had suspected
he
was the murderer. “I knew someone was following us and I panicked.” Then, to distract him, “What happened when you followed me?”

“What happened was I was too clever for my own good. I knew Standish would be armed, of course, and I tried to draw his fire as a safeguard. I succeeded as you can see.” He patted the arm in the sling. “When Gray arrived upon the scene, I was in no condition to go chasing after you, but at least I could tell him which direction you had taken and how far Standish was behind you. Then I hailed a hackney to take me to Whitehall, where they insisted on putting this cursed sling on me, and had them call out the militia. And that takes care of my part in the affair.”

Deborah was not quite satisfied with this. “You knew Mr. Standish was following us?”