Edith Layton (16 page)

But it almost was, wasn’t it?

Well, well, well,
Alasdair thought, his steps slowing as he was struck with the notion. Once his lifelong mission was done, what better thing than to start a new life with a wife at his side? His reputation was tarnished, not utterly eroded. It was the plan he’d spelled
out to her, he really hadn’t lied to her about that. He was redeemable. And she was…

Alarm shot through his brain, his shoulders leapt. A streetlight was behind him and he saw a wavering shadow thrown in front of him—a shadow carrying a long stick.

Alasdair spun around, the pistol he’d kept in his pocket now in his hand, pointed straight at…an old man in baggy clothing. Who gasped when he saw the pistol, clapped a hand to his heart, and gave off a terrible loud clang that startled them both.

A
clang
? Alasdair froze. Stared. He was trained not to fire without thinking. That was a lucky thing. Now he saw that the poor old fellow carried a huge cowbell in one hand, the hand that he’d struck his chest with. He held a long truncheon in the other, which shook as he stared wide-eyed at Alasdair and his pistol.

“I ain’t harming you, sir,” he cried, throwing both hands up in the air. Alasdair winced at another loud clash of the bell. The old man dropped it and the truncheon. “I was just about to give you a good evenin’, ’tis all,” he cried. “I vow ’tis so.”

Alasdair recognized him. The Watch. He’d seldom seen him off his high stool in the watchman’s box on the corner.

Alasdair straightened, the pistol disappeared under his jacket again. “I wonder which of us frightened the other more,” he said ruefully. “I heard your footfalls and thought you were about to attack me.” But it was clear the only thing the old man had that could attack anything in any fashion was his heart.

The Watch, seeing that Alasdair wasn’t going to shoot him, bent and picked up his bell and stick with unsteady hands. “A fellow was attacked hereabouts t’other week, and I bin keepin’ a sharp eye. I was goin’
to tell ye to do the same.” He squinted. “Why, ’tis you, sir! How are you keepin’? No permanent injury, is there?”

“None,” Alasdair said. “I sent a small token of my appreciation round to you for frightening away the villains the other day. Did you get it?”

“I did, sir, and I thanks you.”

“No, I thank you. Have you seen any men loitering here tonight?”

“Nah. Not since the crime, sir. And I bin watchin’! Close.”

Since it was all the old man could do, Alasdair nodded sagely.

“I carries a bell now ’cause some young rascals stole my rattle t’other night,” he told Alasdair with some grievance. “How else am I gonna alert the populace?”

“Good point,” Alasdair said, noticing that the populace hadn’t poked one head out any door this time in spite of all the clangs and clattering. “That’s the sort of thing that makes me sleep better at night. Carry on.”

The Watch put a shaky finger to his forehead in a salute, bowed, and scuttled back to the safety of his box. Which would only be safe if some young bucks didn’t come along and tip it over while he was sleeping. They always thought that was particularly hilarious because they were usually too drunk to see how vicious it was. At least Alasdair hoped so. He’d done violence in his time, too. But always for good reason.

He strode on, not as interested in mayhem as he’d been moments before. The incident had unsettled him, and now he felt strangely empty and cold.

It took another street for him to understand why he felt quite so empty. He’d stopped thinking of her. She’d glowed in his mind like an ember, warming him
to the remnants of his soul, dangerously diverting him by utterly occupying his thoughts. That was why he felt so bereft. But that was easily remedied, he thought with a smile. Now he could at least plan on more than he’d imagined.

That would have to be later.

For now, he was anxious to be home. He walked faster, keeping alert. And so he saw a glimpse of a shadow that couldn’t be cast from a bough of a tree in the wind or a cat slinking by. It was the size of a boy or a small man, and quickly dipped and disappeared back into the darkness as he looked at it.

Alasdair felt a shiver of expectation, a jolt of exhilaration. So, he was being followed. He doubted there’d be any attack. Whoever it was had surely seen he was fully prepared, and was probably wondering what other preparations he’d taken. And he was almost at his own door. He walked on, signaling his intent to his unseen footman, who, on his orders, had also been keeping silent pace with him in the shadows all the way home from the ball.

His footman opened his door for him when they arrived at his house. “I saw the Watch coming toward you, sir. But he wasn’t dangerous, and you said as to how I shouldn’t reveal myself unless you were in danger,” the big young man said as soon as the door closed behind them. “Did I do right?”

“You did,” Alasdair said. “Did you happen to see who
was
shadowing me?”

“Sorry, sir. He was too quick for me, but I think it was a lad. There’s one who watches the back entrance most nights. It could have been him. We didn’t do anything, because you’d told us to only watch. But if you want…?

“I do not. Continue merely to watch him,” Alasdair
said. “How else can we be sure of where he is? Thank you, Paris, that will be all for tonight.”

When the footman left, Alasdair went to his study to pour himself a glass of brandy in silent celebration. His body was weary, but his mind was racing. He was exuberant, and very pleased.

Love was now possible, and that was a small miracle, but it could wait. If it was there at all, it would have to wait its turn.

For now, the important thing was that his plan was working, and the game was still on.

A
lasdair studied the fading bruise under his eye, in the mirror. Unattractive, he decided, but no longer terrifying to small children and sensitive young women. Or so he hoped. At least now he could leave the damned patch off. Both eyes were clear at last and matched in size again. The rest of his face still showed evidence of battering, but looked much better than it had a week before. At least now when people stared at him he’d know they were gawking at him, not his wounds, and maybe that look of pity would vanish from Kate’s eyes. A man wanted a woman to look at him many ways, but not in sympathy. At least not this man, and that woman.

He smiled with anticipation. He was going to an art exhibition today. He frowned. He was pleased to be going to an
art exhibition
? He shook his head. But it would be amusing, because he’d be with Kate.

He inspected his jacket, his linen, his trousers, his hair, his fingernails. All immaculate. As he, himself,
was not. But if skin could heal without scarring, he reflected, if human tissue could mend itself so nicely, surely then, a man’s past could also slowly vanish…. No. It could not. But his outlook on life could be mended. His future could be cleaner, purer, better, so he could get on with his life, if he seriously wanted to.

Alasdair seriously wanted to—with Kate.

He hesitated, meeting his own sober gaze in the glass.
Was it really Kate he wanted?
He had to be sure before he committed himself to something so profound as marriage, because that was the only future he could have with her. Was Kate the one woman he wanted for life, for wife, friend, companion, and lover? Was she the one he wanted to give his life and word to, and then never have another? Or could it simply be that he hadn’t associated with decent women for so long he’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to deal with a female as an equal?

Could there be other women who…

He smiled. Nonsense. It was Kate, he was sure of it. She was unique. She’d none of the practiced lures of the elegant women he’d met, and none of the coarseness he’d found in women who were not ladies. She had more than manners and education, charm and allure. Because, strangely, honest and pure as she was, still she matched him in some weird way. She awakened something long hidden in him. Something he’d once been. Whatever that was, he was the best he could be in her company. He found he liked that man, wanted to know him better, and be him all the time.

All for you, then, is it?
he asked himself wryly.

Yes. And no. He wanted only the best for her, too.

How quickly she’d captured him…

He turned from the mirror. How quickly he’d have to move now to get on with the future. He hadn’t
counted on that. He’d been dragging his revenge out for maximum excitement. Now he realized he’d done it partly because he’d no idea of how to live his life without his omnipresent goal. Now he did. And so now he had to finish it, end the past, and start the far more exciting future life with Kate promised him.

Of course, other plans had to change, too. The grand denunciation scene he’d been playing over in his mind since he’d met Kate would have to be rewritten. Yes, the Scalbys had to be disgraced, but now not in public. Certainly not in front of Kate. He’d planned to call on them and let them see their denouement in her eyes as well as his own. Now that idea was impossible. It would hurt Kate. It would make him look bad in her eyes. And she might find out more than he wanted her to know.

She hadn’t seen the Scalbys in years, and it was best that she never saw them again. Better that they learned they were through and crept out of town without her ever knowing—or meeting with them. It wouldn’t be as dramatic, not half so satisfying for him; it wasn’t the delightful scenario that had comforted him through countless nights. But it was one that wouldn’t haunt her, so it would have to do. He was surprised to discover that though he disliked giving up the ultimate revenge, he could live with it. Because the Scalbys still couldn’t.

Since the thing was nearly done, it was time for it to be entirely done. He’d set events in motion.

But as for today? Today he was going to an art exhibition. It was a fine day. Soon he’d be wandering around a stuffy studio in the center of London, crowded in with a bunch of fatuous people making inane comments about inferior paintings.
Wonderful
, he thought, and strode away so he could call on Kate, and do it.

“Gone?”
Alasdair asked. “Where?”

“I thought you knew,” Lady Swanson said. “The truth is that I was vexed with you, Sir Alasdair, for sending a hackney carriage for her and not calling in person to take her to the exhibition yourself. But Kate said you might be feeling ill after all your recent trials and so we oughtn’t stand on ceremony. The messenger said she was to go in the coach and Sibyl should wait, because Lord Leigh would come for her on his own, and so he did, a half hour later, and now they’ve gone, too.” Her eyes grew wide when she saw his expression. Her voice shook as the idea occurred to her too. “That
wasn’t
your messenger?…or your coach?”

“Or my message,” Alasdair said grimly. He looked around the salon. Chloe, Frances, and Henrietta Swanson were there, standing strangely still. Their faces showed excitement, not concern. That could be because of who they were and not what they’d done. Or it could not. Alasdair grew deathly still, though the blood beat loudly in his ears. He had to think clearly and carefully now. “But a maid was with her?”

“Of course,” Lady Swanson said, “We are not lost to the proprieties.”

“Neither am I,” Alasdair snapped. “You might have done better to trust me on that score, madam. I wouldn’t treat her so shabbily. My reputation may be dark, but I’ve never been said to lack manners.” He brushed off stammered apologies. “That doesn’t matter now. I’ll go to the art gallery. If she’s not there, I’ll be back immediately. Don’t leave this house,
any of you
,” he said over his shoulder, because he was already on his way out.

Alasdair returned within the hour, with a grim-faced Lord Leigh and a very shaken-looking Sibyl.

“She never arrived at the gallery,” Alasdair reported to Lady Swanson. “So tell me exactly what this messenger said, what he looked like, and what the carriage looked like.”

“He was just a man,” Lady Swanson said nervously. “One doesn’t notice servants in the usual way of things, and there was nothing to notice about him. He was neither young nor old, fat nor slim. He said he was told to bring Kate to the gallery, on your instructions, for you’d meet her there. I didn’t see the carriage.”

Alasdair shot a look to the three elder Swanson sisters.

“We weren’t here,” Chloe protested, shrinking back from the fury blazing in his eyes.

“None of you looked down from your windows?”

“To what purpose?” Frances asked bitterly. “So we could sigh over how pretty she looked? You expect us to flock to the window to wave good-bye every time she steps out, congratulating ourselves on the success of our country cousin?”

“Maybe he thinks we ought to stand there twittering with happiness for her,” Chloe muttered from behind her sister. “Maybe even brushing away our tears of joy as she goes out and we stay here watching her go.”

The look in Alasdair’s eyes was murderous.

“You’re mistaking the matter,” Henrietta told him with a twisted smile, “We aren’t fairy godmothers, we’re the wicked stepsisters, remember? Believe it, because we never forget it.”

“Henrietta!” her mother gasped.

Her daughter ignored her. She kept her eyes on Alasdair. “But even so,” she said, “we aren’t responsible for this.”

Alasdair looked hard at her. She raised her chin. He turned from her to the butler, standing in the doorway to the salon. “I need to know what color the coach was, trim and wheels. That at least will tell me which coaching company sent it.”

“It was a commonplace brown, Sir Alasdair,” the butler answered readily. “Undistinguished, as was the trim. At least the trim wasn’t distinguishable, but that may have been because it was soiled with dirt and dust of the road. A simple coupe, badly in need of a washing, with two horses, both inferior, one dappled white, the other a rusty bay. The coachman had his head turned the whole while. I believed it to be a private coach and remember remarking that it wasn’t the sort one would have expected of you, sir.”

Alasdair’s healing bruises looked darker against his suddenly ashen face. “And no one thought to insist she stay home instead of answering such a cavalier summons? Or at least thought of sending word to me to ask for an explanation, because the vehicle I sent was unsuitable for a well-brought-up young woman, not to mention the fact that my behavior was wholly inappropriate to a gentleman?”

The silence that greeted this told him what they’d thought.

“Well, then,” Alasdair told Leigh harshly, “we have a kidnapping, it appears. You have your sources. I have mine. Let’s try to find her before whatever demands are made arrive. They had the element of surprise; let’s see if we can too.

“My lady,” he told Lady Swanson curtly, “please send for your husband and ask him to meet us here in an hour. This is the best place for us to gather because this is where her abductors will send their conditions. Since Kate wasn’t snatched from the street, we must
assume this wasn’t a random abduction. Since she’s not wealthy and no one would expect her uncle to pay a high ransom for a cousin when he has daughters who might have been taken instead, we must also assume you aren’t the intended victim of this abduction. I, however, do have a certain reputation. It is not undeserved. I have funds, as well. And anyone watching, as your daughters say they were not, would know Kate and I have been seen together often of late.”

He turned to Leigh. “I’ll put my staff on notice, too. It’s possible that’s where the ransom demand will be made. For now let’s see what we can discover. I’ll meet you back here in an hour’s time.” He paused on his way to the door. “Tell Bow Street, Lord Talwin, and any others you think might find her. Whether I get back here or not, don’t stop looking for her. Be sure, I won’t.”

The coach rolled on. Kate sat quietly now. She’d stopped pounding on the window when the villainous-looking man shoved her shoulder to make her look at him—and the knife he held so close to her nose that her eyes almost crossed looking at it. He sat back when she fell silent. But he didn’t put the knife away.

He’d been in the coach when she’d entered it. She wished she was the sort of female who screeched when she was frightened, but all she’d done was gasp when she’d ducked her head, entered the coach, and seen him sitting there glaring at her. Alice, the Swanson’s maid, entering the carriage behind her, had gasped, too, but she’d been drawing in breath for a really good screech, Kate was sure of it.

But Alice hadn’t uttered more than a groan as she’d slumped down to the floor of the coach, because she’d been struck down from behind by an unseen hand that then slammed the door shut behind them.
By the time Kate gathered her wits together enough to scream, the man sitting in the coach had half risen from his seat, gesturing with the long and horrifying knife, and growled, “Scream and die. Shut up and we’ll see. Now sit down. And shut your trap.”

“But Alice…” she protested, looking at the maid who lay facedown on the floor between the two seats.

Without taking his eyes from Kate, the man reached a hand down to feel Alice’s neck. “She’ll do,” he snarled. “Wake with a sore noggin, but she’ll wake. Which is more’n you’ll do if you don’t put a sock in your mummer, hear? Shut up!” he translated to Kate’s look of bewildered dismay.

She did. The coach started up with a jolt that sat her down fast, which was as well because the muscles in her legs seemed to have turned to water anyway. She looked to the windows, but they were closed tight and covered with shades, so she couldn’t see where they were going. That was when she hammered on them—and when the man showed her why she couldn’t. She’d sat back again, not daring to breathe, or able to easily, because of her panic and the vile odor rising from the man with the knife. He smelled worse than any garbage she’d ever encountered, because at least garbage was disposed of after a few days, or melted away in the rain, which purified it.

Kate almost wished she couldn’t breathe, but did, shallowly. She also wished she was the sort of female who fainted when she was terrified, because she couldn’t think of how to escape and she’d rather be oblivious to whatever was going to happen to her next.

She tucked her feet in close to the seat to avoid hurting poor Alice further, and sat huddled in a knot in a hopeless attempt to vanish. She glanced at her captor again, then quickly away. He really was villainous-
looking, far removed from all her notions of villains gotten from romantic fiction. He wasn’t colorful or dashing, the way she’d thought of pirates—the way Alasdair had looked with his eye patch. Nor was he mysterious and dashing, like a highwayman—as Alasdair seemed when he dressed all in black. This man looked like a villain in the rude, crude, ugly way of reality, like a man who had nothing and so had nothing to lose by trying to get something.

She dared another glance. He was short, heavy, and dressed in ragged clothing that might have been brown when it was made, a dozen years ago. The seams in his somewhat simian face were outlined with grime, so though they made him look ancient, he could have been any age. His crooked features had been broken, but his eyes were small and sharp. If he touched her, she would die. She shuddered, as she realized with sinking heart that she wouldn’t. Death before dishonor sounded fine, but death didn’t come as easily as dishonor. She wasn’t a screecher or a fainter, so that ladylike escape would probably be denied her, too.

But he didn’t seemed interested in touching her, and that slowed her pounding heart to a mere gallop. They drove on in silence, but the argument going on in Kate’s head was louder than the sounds of the carriage wheels on the cobbles.

She should have known Alasdair wouldn’t behave in such scaly fashion, even if he had, she shouldn’t have held herself so cheap, nipping into a carriage he’d sent for her like a maid answering a summons from her master. Ladies didn’t do that—Alasdair wouldn’t have done that either, she realized, feeling stupid and shamed. It was what people might
think
he’d do, but he’d always acted like a gentleman and she was well served for imagining even for a moment that he’d act
otherwise. But she’d been so eager to see him she’d let what she’d thought of as his little lapse pass. So it was her fault, as well as a crime, that she was there.