Edith Layton (12 page)

He’d learned to rise from bed, throw open a window, and breathe in clean air. Then he’d turn on all the lamps to banish the night. Then he’d pace and plot and plan to keep his mind from its sleeping horrors. The echoes of his shame would fade into dawn.

He accumulated information. The Scalbys had played at every evil game. They’d debauched the innocent. They’d gorged on forbidden pleasures. That
wouldn’t matter, Society forgave that if it was done discreetly. But by following their adventures, by interviewing the fallen and promising vengeance to the grieving, Alasdair finally had enough proof to hang them—if he cared to. More than enough to ruin them, and that was his aim.

A man could take another man’s innocence and get away with it. He might trick another man out of his life, sully his infants and shame his name, and yet still be permitted in polite society. But one rule couldn’t be broken. Society did not forgive noblemen who swindled other noblemen out of their fortunes. They’d done that to many more men than Alasdair’s father.

That was good, and it was enough. But by digging in lives the Scalbys had touched, Alasdair discovered that they’d also committed treason. It was his crowning achievement, capping all his years of work. Because that was absolutely unforgivable. That, all their money and influence couldn’t wash away.

It was a bit of carelessness in a lifetime of callous betrayals. The Scalbys had always deftly danced around politics, but once, they’d stumbled. They’d found out some things from a drunken officer who had stayed at their home for their pleasure, and his. They’d told those things to another friend of theirs—in a letter. Not for money, but for favors. It didn’t matter. The secrets were military ones. Luckily for Alasdair, the old friend was, like so many of their friends, also an enemy of theirs.

Alasdair had the papers. He had them at last. Utterly.

He had them, but never forgot they were still dangerous. Serpents could slither out of the tightest corners. But if they were helpless it wouldn’t be half as satisying a game. So he kept watch on them as surely as they did on him. They obviously were waiting for his next move. When should he make it?
He turned it over and over in his mind as he walked, as he’d been doing for weeks, because it was such a delicious problem, too rare a treat to gobble down. He’d waited too long to waste such a wonderful opportunity for ultimate revenge; he had to have the precise moment for it. He deserved it as much as they did. He might have been working for his country as he tracked them, but that wasn’t known outside of the War Office. What everyone did see was how he filthied his name by following their star. He’d had to go down into the gutters with them, and had come up with his own reputation ruined. They’d pay for that as well.

The streets grew darker as Alasdair neared his house. He lived in the best part of town, where bright lights weren’t tolerated any more than loud noises. A single lantern glowed above each door. It was quieter here, too. The Watch, an old pensioner hired to carry a rattle to sound the alarm if he saw trouble, dozed safe in his little booth at the corner, as comfortably nestled in his high chair as the wealthy he was supposed to be guarding were in their beds.

Alasdair strolled home, deep in thought, trying to guess how long it would be before the Scalbys asked Kate to visit them. Or would they? They knew he was courting her, did they guess why? Did they know just how much he knew? He slowed as a disagreeable thought occurred to him. If so, would they resist the impulse to interfere? Would he have to do something bolder?

He picked up his pace again, his bootsteps ringing on the pavement. Even if the Scalbys didn’t guess the ultimate weapon he’d gotten hold of, they wouldn’t be happy at the idea of him marrying into their family. Maybe they’d have her visit so they could find out?…
but then when they saw her, would they try to see if they could make some profit from her?

His mouth tightened at the thought. He wouldn’t permit it.

He just wanted her to be invited. He’d invite himself along with her, send her from the room, and have his triumph. But they were lying low. He’d have to force their hand. Maybe cause more gossip they couldn’t ignore. Not enough to ruin Kate, just enough to fuel rumor. Keep her out too long one night? Kiss her in public? He smiled. It would be a pleasure to mix work with pleasure.

How
would
it feel to be able to run his hands through that crop of buoyant curls at last? To pull her close against his body, feel those high shapely breasts burning against his chest, to nuzzle her neck and breathe in the wild spring scent of her, feel that smooth downy cheek against his lips, taste, at last, that smiling mouth…

He turned at a noise. But not fast enough…. Just enough to get the bludgeon blow on the side of his head, not the back of his neck. So he didn’t go down, but only staggered. He managed to dodge the next blow, but he couldn’t get his bearings because his head was ringing too loudly. He swung out wildly and hit his attacker flush in the mouth, he felt teeth against his knuckles. But there were two attackers. He was dazed, and it was dark. He shook his head to try to see straight. He couldn’t gauge how far his attackers were from him because the blood from the cut on his temple was flowing down over his eye.

The pain in his head was so bad he hardly felt more than a punch in his chest as the knife went in. But he could hear it scrape against a rib as the man pulled it out, and he became infuriated. He lunged and grabbed,
wrestling for the knife he saw glinting in the lamplight. He wrung the wrist that held it, and when it fell free, he grabbed the knife in his fist. When the other man came clawing for it, Alasdair swung it hard. It sank into the fellow’s chest. Alasdair didn’t let go of the hilt, so he and the other man fell like lovers, tangled together, striving together.

He rolled on the ground struggling, until total darkness fell.

T
hey were coming for him. It was time, but he wasn’t ready yet. Alasdair wished he’d drunk more and had more of what they’d given him to breathe in, because muzzy as he was he could still feel and hear. He was much too aware. He kept his eyes closed. Not tightly, because if they saw his eyes squeezed shut they’d know he was feigning sleep, and he wouldn’t have them think he was a coward. But he was, and he hated himself for it There was shame enough to deal with without that. He had to keep remembering that he was mature now, old enough to handle anything, and this was just another thing he had to contend with.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, letting his lids lie smooth, praying they’d leave him. No, he was beyond prayer, obscene even to think of it now. But he hoped they’d leave him if they thought he was oblivious. He felt a hand on his chest and knew that it
wouldn’t matter, because even if he wasn’t insensible, they were.

He heard voices murmuring, he thought he heard laughter, too, they were having a good time. They always did.

“Is he awake?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” another answered. “It doesn’t matter at this juncture.”

Indeed, it didn’t. He’d done this in a thousand dreams, and it never mattered. But this time was different because this time he felt pain, and it wasn’t just in his heart and cringing soul. His head was ringing, there was a sharp pain in it as well as a stab of pain in his chest every time he took a breath. The sickly stench of opiates was in his nose once more. He tasted spirits on his lips. He knew he lay vulnerable, naked before strangers again. He despaired. There might be variations, but this
was
the dreaded dream returned.

Yet it was not. Because the more aware Alasdair became, the more he hurt. He actually felt pain. That had never happened before. And this time he felt coverings on his body. So though they were at the stage of gathering round him, watching him closely, excited by their victory, this time perhaps he could wake before it began. He struggled to open his eyes. Now he was determined to see who his tormentors were.

“I think he’s stirring,” a male voice said, and Alasdair felt a cool hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t even have to try, it simply happened. He felt the hand on his body and his own fist clenched, he lurched up with a snarl and swung with all his might. He connected with someone’s jaw and felt a wild surge of delight as the man cried out and tumbled away, falling with a crash, somewhere out of his sight.
Then he sank back, exhausted, but exhilarated. Until he heard the man speak.

“Jesus!” Leigh said, picking himself up off the floor. “What the devil did you give him?”

“Laudanum,” another man said in a worried voice. “Brandy when he woke the first time. Laudanum, the second. This has never happened before. I hope we won’t have to restrain him.”

No restraints!
Alasdair tried to shout, struggling to wake. He managed to pry open an eye. His eye burned, his vision wavered, but he recognized Leigh standing, looking down at him.

“No restraints,” Alasdair croaked. “I won’t do it again. Leigh? That is you? I’m not dreaming?”

“Want me to punch you to be sure?” Leigh said sourly. “No, you’re not dreaming. I wish I was, though.” He touched his jaw, flexed it, and winced. “Gads, that’s lucky, it still works. I thought you’d broken it. You can stop fighting. You’re safe, old man. In your own bed, with a physician in attendance. You were set upon in the street. The Watch came running and startled them off. Well, startled one of them off. You polished off the other.”

“Who were they?” Alasdair asked, clinging to consciousness.

“We’ll find out. You rest now.”

“What happened to me?” Alasdair demanded, because the light was fading, and he had to know if he would wake again.

Leigh understood. “You’ll be all right. You had a blow to the head and a knife between your ribs. But the knife missed your vitals and your head is hard. Rest, sleep, let us do the work.”

Vastly relieved, Alasdair nodded, and the pain of doing it sent him spiraling into the dark again.

“It’s absurd!” Kate muttered as she paced around her room.

Sibyl watched, wide-eyed, from a chair in her cousin’s bedchamber. Kate was throwing a fit. Not the sort of fit Sibyl was used to seeing, because Kate didn’t shout, screech, or threaten, as Sibyl’s sisters did when they were thwarted. But she was very angry and talking recklessly, not at all her usual, calm self.

“The man is hurt,” Kate said. “He’s sick. Lord, for all we know he could be dying! It happened two days ago, after all. He was supposed to go to the opera with me tonight, but of course he can’t. I’ve gotten a note with his regrets—and it’s not even written by him! What am I to think?”

She took another agitated turn round her bedchamber. “And I’m not allowed to go visit him? Why, if I was home, and he was a neighbor, I’d have been on his doorstep with a pot of soup two hours ago.
And
asking if I could help with anything else, too.”

“But we’re not in the country, and he’s not a neighbor,” Sibyl said. “Mama says it’s a pity, but you can’t visit yet, because if he’s in bed, you certainly can’t see him.”

Kate glowered at Sibyl. “He can’t debauch anyone; he’s in bed because he’s sick,” she said through clenched teeth. “We are speaking of the milk of human kindness here.”

“No, we’re speaking of one of England’s most notorious bachelors. And you’re not the only one whose nose is out of joint, Harriet and Frances wanted to go with you. Because they think he might have some bachelor friends visiting him, too,” Sibyl added fairly. “But Mama’s right, Kate. If you go to his house, it will make things look more intimate between you two. If
you were a married lady, it would be one thing. You could go anywhere. If your mother were here, you could visit with her. But my mother doesn’t know him well enough to call on him, and you can’t. You’re a single female, Kate. It’s just not done unless you’re married or betrothed. So if you did go, at the very least it will seem as though you two have an understanding.”

“We do!” Kate said. “It’s just not the kind your mama means. You know that, if she doesn’t. I’ve agreed to help him, and I’d think it would make him look even more respectable if I visited him now,” she added in a burst of enthusiasm.

Sibyl gave her a long level look. Kate had the grace to look away.

“All right then, maybe not,” Kate admitted with a trace of embarrassment. “But I have to know what’s happened to him. All I heard is that he was set upon by robbers and left for dead!” She shivered. “I thought it was all country talk, but London must be a very dangerous place if a man like Sir Alasdair is set upon and almost killed. And in one of the finest districts, too! I can’t sit back and wait patiently. I want to know.” She paced another step, then turned. “And I shall,” she said with determination.

“Your reputation will be ruined,” Sibyl said. “And it will reflect on us. Mama will kill you, if my sisters don’t do it for her.”

“She won’t. My reputation will be preserved and so will yours. I’ll go in disguise.”

Sibyl clapped her hands together. “As a boy!” she cried.

Kate gave her a look of disgust. “You really do have to stop reading so many gothic novels. Do I look like a boy? Can I walk like one, talk like one, behave like one? No. I’m not an actress.” She was diverted for a
moment. “You know? Every time I see a Shakespearean play I wonder that the audience doesn’t giggle when they see
Twelfth Night
or any play where a boy acts like a girl pretending to be a boy. I mean, in his time all the female roles were played by men and boys, so a boy pretending to be a girl who was pretending to be a boy was probably convincing, and why not? He was actually just playing himself. But now it just seems foolish…You know what I mean,” she said peevishly, because Sibyl was starting to grin.

Kate marched over to her wardrobe. She flung its doors open. “I’ll go as myself, but no one will notice. I still have clothing I wore at home. I think I packed everything I owned, even though I haven’t used any of it because your mama wouldn’t allow it. Just as well. I’m not interested in fashion now. I have good, decent gowns, for a good decent countrywoman,” she said as her head disappeared into the wardrobe. She rummaged through her gowns.

“Aha!” she said triumphantly, drawing out a plain muslin round gown. She held it up for Sibyl to see. “This. And my old walking boots, the ones for rainy days. Still serviceable, and absolutely unfashionable. I think your mama would swoon if she saw them. But she won’t. Because who looks at country girls fresh off the farm? I’ll wear a kerchief, too, and walk with my head down. There’s not a soul in the street who’ll look at me. Even the servants won’t, because they consider themselves of a higher class. And the upper classes don’t look at servants, do they? So, safe all round. And so I
shall
see him, so there!”

“I’ll come, too!” Sibyl cried, carried away by the idea.

“That you will not,” Kate said as she drew her gown over her head. “Then your mama would kill me and
you. In the remote chance that anyone notices, that is,” she hastily added. “No, I’ll go alone.”

“You can’t. It isn’t done!” Sibyl protested. “At least take a maid with you!”

“No,” Kate said, tossing her fashionable gown aside and dropping the other one over her head. “I can’t take anyone, and I don’t need to. Servants talk. Anyway, servants don’t take maids with them.”

“It’s dangerous,” Sibyl wailed.

“Not at all. I’ll go and be home in time for dinner and no one will be the wiser.”

“You yourself said London was dangerous.”

“Yes. For someone who looks rich. Come, do I look rich?”

Sibyl privately admitted Kate didn’t look rich, in fact she looked as though she might be seeking work. Her gown was indeed an old one, not threadbare, but its tiny pink floral pattern had turned almost white from repeated washings. It didn’t have a style or a flounce, and was so thin the only shape it had was Kate’s own. Which was rather spectacular, Sibyl thought with a trace of wistful envy. With Kate’s mop of curls, appealing face, and charming figure, ill dressed as she was, she didn’t look slovenly; instead she looked quaint, adorably so.

“You’ll be accosted then,” Sibyl said. “You can’t just defy Society’s rules.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Kate asked, her hands on her hips. “Well, I have done, if you’ll recall, and you encouraged me to do it, too. And last time I did, it was actually more outrageously daring, and I wasn’t accosted, was I? I didn’t even know Sir Alasdair then, but I stole into a room and interrupted a lady when she tried to trap him, didn’t I? I routed her, but I could just as easily
have disgraced myself if he’d a mind to have her. Or me! And after that I was alone in the room with him. It was at night, too, he didn’t know me, and he wasn’t wounded then.”

“You don’t know how wounded he is now,” Sibyl argued.

“Exactly,” Kate retorted. “That’s why I have to go see. Last time I saved him. This time I’m saving myself from my conscience.”

“Your curiosity,” Sibyl corrected her.

“It’s more than that.”

“Why not just ask someone who
has
seen him? I know! Send a note to Leigh!”

“Alasdair may be at death’s door,” Kate said, picking up a kerchief and folding it in half. “What sort of friend would I be to sit back and wait for someone to tell me what’s going on? If
I
were set upon, maybe left dying, and he didn’t know, he’d call on me, wouldn’t he? He’d want to know firsthand what happened to me. Fie on Society if it believes women are any less true to their friends than men are! He
is
a friend. I won’t sit and wait when my heart tells me to go.”

She faced Sibyl. “What’s the worst that can happen? My reputation will be hurt? I’ll be sent home? Much I care. My parents will understand, and I’m going home soon anyhow. No, the worst thing that can happen will be if he die…”

Kate’s face blanched at what she’d almost said. She swallowed hard, put the kerchief on her head, drew it in a knot under her chin, raised that chin, and said, “I’m going.”

Kate knew the way to Sir Alasdair’s house because Sibyl finally told her—after Kate threatened to ask a passerby for directions if she didn’t. Kate stole from
the Swanson house, crept down the street in the shadows of the other houses, then once she’d turned a corner, marched briskly forward. She didn’t slow until she’d gone three streets, when the exhilaration for her own daring wore off and she realized she was alone in London, for the first, and hopefully last, time in her life. Because now she
was
a little worried about being discovered.

It was a calm bright day, a little before breakfast, not yet time to pay morning visits. Even so, the streets were busy. Most of the wealthy people who lived in this district might still be indoors, preparing to step out to dazzle the world with their elegance. But that didn’t mean that their needs weren’t being served. Servants bustled about their errands. Strolling peddlers cried their wares, shouting about their fresh meats, fish, fruits, and vegetables, offering to grind scissors, mend pots, or offer other services to the housekeepers and butlers who ran their prosperous masters’ homes.

Kate walked quickly. She kept her head down, more so when she noticed the looks she was getting. It seemed to her that those who saw her sneered at her. One thing was sure. She didn’t see any servants dressed as badly as she was. Even the peddlers had a certain raffish style she lacked. She definitely looked as out of place as she was.

Only four more streets to go, she thought, and plunged on. But her pace slowed again. Now that she was almost there, she was getting nervous, and not just about being found out. Would
he
think she was rash, impetuous—worse, presumptuous?
Would he be in any condition to think at all?
The thought horrified her.

She remembered the queer feeling she’d gotten in her stomach when she’d seen his bruised knuckles. But this! It was almost impossible to think of that
strong, commanding man beaten into submission. That smiling mouth, the memory of which kept her stirring restlessly in her bed, broken by a fist? Those intense dark eyes, always brimming with humor and hidden fires—puffed and blackened? The strong bones in his face broken—or worse?