Edith Layton (23 page)

Alexandria snatched up the lantern and ran forward to see the two men rolling over and over on the floor. And the pistol—lying on the ground near them. She ran to get it—and the men saw her. Fitch let go of Drum and clambered on his hands and knees toward it. A second later, he’d kicked it from her grasp and sent it spinning. She ran for it, but the mossy floor was slick, and the weapon spun across the landing into the water.

The men heard it. Fitch rose, his eyes rolling, and ran for the far door. Drum rose and, limping, followed. They met as Fitch swung the door wide. Alexandria saw them silhouetted against the night. They grappled, they grunted, someone cried out.

Then one of the figures broke away with another wild cry, as the other fell to a knee.

Alexandria raised her lantern in a shaking hand, and saw Drum rise and stagger to the door—which slammed in his face. He clawed at the handle, but the sound of metal grating on metal told him what he dis
covered when he tried the latch. In frustration, he threw his shoulder against the door. It held. They were locked in. Fitch had got out.

Alexandria ran to Drum. He took her in his arms. She held him tight. “You’re all right? You’re all right?” was all she could say over and over again. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, she felt tremors coursing over his long frame, but he was warm, and he breathed, and he lived.

His hand stroked her hair. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, don’t cry.”

Amazed, she realized she was weeping. She took a shuddering breath, then her eyes flew wide. She tugged at him, trying to drag him back into the darkness. “He’ll be back, he’ll be back,” she cried frantically. “Come, hide, he’ll be back for us!”

“No,” he said, exhaustion clear in his deep voice. “No, he won’t be. I dealt him a killing blow. He’ll never be back. Hush, hush,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “Believe me, it’s so. I know the work I do. Here, see?” He took his hand from her and held up a long, wicked-looking stiletto blade. It wasn’t clean.

“It was hidden in my splint,” he said. “We put a groove in a slat for it, because I
was
an agent, and a man who did that kind of work never goes unprepared, out of habit and necessity. I
did
work against Napoleon—though I never poisoned him, if he even was poisoned. But there’s always a chance of last vengeful enemies out there, so we keep up our defenses. I lost my pistol and my small knife, as well as the swordstick I kept in one of my crutches, but I still had this, thank God. I slid it out and up my sleeve before Dubbin examined my splint. It was gone, thank
God, before he disassembled it. And it did its work.

“A man can move and run, even speak after such a blow,” he told her. “But not for long. Fitch is dead now. I’d bet my life on it. What’s that worth?” he said wearily. “Better, and more important, I’d bet yours too. A heart can’t beat when it’s been punctured, Ally. Trust me. He won’t be back, ever again. By dawn they’ll find him floating in the Thames with Dubbin and Hake. Or lying in the bottom of his boat. He’s gone.”

She let out her breath and rested her face against his shoulder. He stroked her hair as her pulse and breathing slowed. He felt her stiffen a moment later, and knew why.

Because she’d obviously realized what he had known when he’d tried to get to the door before Fitch locked it against him.

Now there was no one who knew where they were—not their friends, not even their enemy.

A
LEXANDRIA KNEW SHE SHOULD BE WORRIED
. N
O
, she ought to be in despair. They were locked in a place without food or water and no one knew they were there. But she couldn’t summon panic. Not when she was in Drum’s arms.

She rested on his chest. His neckcloth had unwound during the scuffle, his jacket was open. His shirt was of the finest linen so it was thin, and the warmth of his skin felt so good against her icy cheek. She could hear his steady heartbeat and feel the utterly alien shape of him against her own body. She marveled at the differences, the hard strength of his long frame, the long corded muscles beneath the living flesh of him. His scent was that of a gentleman, clean, with top notes of soap and starched linen and a touch of sandalwood. The other scent, of honest male sweat, made him and their situation very real.

It was bliss to actually rest against him and feel his hand stroking her back, the other on her hair—until
she realized it. Then it became disturbing. This was the Earl of Drummond, the lofty man she could never aspire to. This was Drum, the man she laughed with and fantasized about in spite of all her efforts not to. This long, lean man was her ideal, and she was as close to him as his eyelashes now.

She had to leave his arms. She didn’t. She decided to steal this last moment because it was a pleasure he would never guess, and whatever became of them, she’d never have it again.

She burrowed closer. But that nearness and her wayward thoughts of him suddenly made her nipples draw up, puckering as though with chill. They tingled, and she stiffened, shocked into reality. She prayed that if he noticed her reaction he’d think it was only because of the cold, and quickly drew away from him.

“What do we do now?” she asked him abruptly, looking down, looking away, trying to hide her embarrassment.

He didn’t seem to have noticed. He dropped his hands and looked around the room. “We take the lanterns before they burn down and try to see if there’s any other way out. I doubt it. Fitch was too thorough and too pleased with himself. But we must try. You take a lantern and go left. Go up that stair as well. He said the door was sealed at the top, but one never knows. I’ll go right, we’ll meet back here and compare notes when we’re done. Don’t be too long,” he cautioned her. “If anything frightens you, shout and run right back here.”

“No,” she said. “
I’ll
go in one direction, then the other. You stay here. Your leg,” she said when he frowned. “I don’t know how you stayed up on it so long, but we mustn’t try it further.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I think it’s all mended. At least, it feels sound and worked when I needed it. It only aches from lack of use. I’ve been practicing putting weight on it for days now so that I could surprise the doctor when the splint came off. And because I hate to feel helpless,” he admitted. “Don’t frown at me as though I was one of your boys. I didn’t risk anything. He was going to remove it in a week or so anyway.”

“But Fitch kicked you! I saw it.”

He winced at the memory. “Yes, I felt it too. But he kicked the wrong leg. Never mind, I can do this. Now go, we can’t waste lantern light.”

He turned and stepped off to the right. She bit her lip because he was limping badly. She couldn’t see which leg he was favoring but his pace was halting and uneven. He stopped, then turned back to show her he was smiling. He sat on a crate and tugged at his boot. “It’s hard to stand straight when you’ve one shoe on and one shoe off,” he said, then grunted. “Grimes earns his pay, they’re deucedly hard to pry off. No, I can do it…there!”

He shucked off the boot and tossed it to the side as though it were not fine Spanish leather. “Now I’m on an even keel again,” he said, rising and standing with one bare and one stocking foot. The absurdity of it occurred to him and he looked up to share it with Alexandria. Then he saw her expression.

“Ally, don’t worry,” he said softly. “Yes, this is a bad spot. We can get out of it. Let’s find the best way, shall we?”

He rose and jauntily walked off into the shadows, his lantern throwing a bouncing light before him. He
came to the stair, and paused. The steps were high and narrow, made of cold, unforgiving stone. But he took them easily enough. Alexandria let out her breath, picked up her lantern, and went in the opposite direction.

After climbing five stairs, he glanced back over his shoulder. She’d left. He stopped, bent double and grimaced, damning his aching legs, the mad Fitch, and fate.

His legs did ache. The one, deep inside, because the muscles hadn’t been used in months and every step reminded him of that. The other, with a searing pain because Fitch had been wearing heavy boots, and had got him in the shin. He’d be lucky if that wasn’t broken now too. But he was still alive. His other leg had mended. And Ally was still alive. He had to keep it that way.

He worried about her more than himself. Ally was clever; she knew they were in a perilous position, but he doubted she knew the extent of it. It was his job to keep it from her because the truth was that he didn’t know if they
could
get out in time. Fitch and his hired help were dead. Drum doubted if they’d told anyone else their plans, so there was actually no one who knew they were here. They were in an abandoned district with many empty buildings. There were other such districts. London was huge.

Certainly his friends and family would search, but how long would that search go on until they were found? And what condition would they be in by then? How long could he and Ally survive without food or water? The Thames was London’s lifeline, but Drum didn’t think any sane man drank from this part of it.

He was astonished they’d survived. He wouldn’t have
without Alexandria’s help. He’d been waiting for his chance, suppressing his anger, allowing indignities, keeping his patience only by hoarding the fact to himself that he could walk again, watching for the best moment to act at last, the moment when he could surprise them to maximum effect. Then she’d gone and courageously tried to disarm Dubbin. She’d done it. It had happened so quickly it overset his own plans. He hadn’t expected her to fire when Dubbin went for her; he’d only known he had to protect her. So he’d leapt to his feet without looking or thinking—and Fitch had garroted him in the crook of his arm before he got a step away.

Then he’d had to wait again, because it wasn’t the right time to let Fitch know he was able to fight back like a man.

Thank God for his stiletto. Damn Fitch for his intricate plans.

He straightened, wincing, and went up the stair again. She’d be back soon and he didn’t want her to be alone. He’d admired her before, even more so now. But he’d been shocked to learn she was not only not Gascoyne’s daughter, but his mistress.

The knowledge sat like a weight on his heart. He knew her well enough to know that whatever she was to Gascoyne, it hadn’t been a thing of her choice. But foundlings had few choices. She was lucky not to have been impressed into a brothel, forced to serve ranks of men. Being one man’s mistress was a treat compared to that. The thought made him shudder. Bright and lovely Alexandria forced to accommodate strange men day after day…He refused to imagine it, or what she’d had to do to keep a roof over her head when she lived with Gascoyne.

It was a hard world, and she at least had gotten an education, he told himself, but his heart hurt for her. Too bad, he thought again, as he had since the day he’d met her. If only time and fate had aligned themselves differently…

But in a selfish sense, a sense that made him angry with himself, at least it was better for him. He’d been willing to think of her as a scholar’s daughter in order to make her acceptable, then anxious to bring her to London to have her meet possible suitors…No. He’d been too near to death for any more self-deception. It was time to admit more. He’d brought her to London because he’d wanted her near. Now this revelation?

He didn’t blame her for not telling him. But it only proved once more that she wasn’t for him, no matter how he ached for her. And he did. He couldn’t deny it any longer. When he’d held her in his arms just now and felt her shivering against him, he’d had the surging desire to set her shivering in expectation of his lovemaking.

She’d been cold, but as she’d warmed he smelled the sweet summertime scent of honeysuckle rising from her body. It took the chill from this dank place, but it warmed more than his heart. It was an agony to feel her so close, those firm breasts, those smooth arms, that supple body. He was relieved she’d pulled away when she had or she’d have realized how much he wanted her.

That shocked him. He’d been astonished by how his body rose to her, unbidden. He’d lost control.

The nearness of death was what had fueled his desire for her, he told himself now. He’d been in enough dangerous situations to know that. Sex was the best
way a man could prove he was alive, his body made demands when his mind feared extinction was close. He had to overcome that. She deserved more than his attentions; she needed life. If he won it for her, he wanted her to leave here as free as she’d been before she came in but he had to remain free of obligation to her too.

He was a gentleman, but it was more than that. He wasn’t the man for her—he’d known it when he’d thought she’d had only a dull life, not a degraded one, before they’d met. And if the vagrant thought occurred to him that here was a solution, for such women made excellent mistresses, he strangled it at birth. He refused to add to her sad history. It wasn’t just that. He wasn’t so noble, he thought bitterly. Because in all honesty he also wondered if once having had her, he could ever let her go, or go himself to any other woman. Their situation was impossible and had been from the beginning, though he’d twisted and turned to try to deny it.

He still could do something for her, though. He could keep her alive. It was the only thing he could do for her—the best thing he could ever do for her. But he had to discover how, and fast, before their luck and his control ran out, because the door at the top of the stairs was locked.

She was sitting on a crate again when he got back to where he’d left her. The glow of her pretty rose-colored gown was extinguished by the gloom. Her lantern had sputtered out. She shook her head. “I tugged and tugged, but the door didn’t even move. It must have been sealed over, there’s no other way out,” she said in a breathy voice he realized was on the edge of panic.

“There will be,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “I’ve an idea or two. Let me try one now.”

He took the lantern and went to the door Fitch had left by. He knelt and ran his hands along the sides of the door. It was solid, but old, and the place was damp, so it didn’t fit precisely anymore. He took out his stiletto. He could just slide the tip of it in between the door and the frame, and slowly forced it upward. It was hard going, even though the door didn’t fit. The space between it and the frame only admitted the tip of his knife. He gritted his teeth and slid the blade up—until he felt it hit an obstacle. He was sure it was the bolt on the other side.

“Do you think you can raise it?” she asked from behind him.

He shook his head without turning it. “I can try. If I can’t, maybe I can see how much room there is, maybe we can insert something stronger, perhaps we…” He cursed beneath his breath.

“What?” she asked excitedly, kneeling beside him.

He let out his breath, and drew the knife back so she could see. The end had snapped off. “Well,” he said, “it was a thought. I’ve others. We can try hacking away at the door until we can reach the bolt.”

They both were still. They had only the one knife. The door was a thick slab of weather-hardened oak. It would take hours, maybe days. They each silently wondered if they had those days.

“I’ve other ideas,” he said quickly, “but the best one is not one I’d try now.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out his watch. “No doubt Dubbin had his eye on this,” he murmured. “I’m glad he didn’t lift it with Fitch’s eye on him,
though he probably planned to take it later. But my father gave it to me and it’s seen me through much…Oh God! It’s way past midnight. No wonder I’m not thinking clearly. We’ll do better in the morning, especially if some light enters here in the daytime. If so, we can certainly see and do more then. We should save lantern light too. I think we should try to sleep and try again in the morning.”

“Sleep?”
she asked, looking at him as though he were mad.

He chuckled. “Yes. It’s possible. I’ve slept in worse places, at worse times, believe it or not. The mind needs rest as much as the body does in times of crisis. There’s nothing else we can do now but wait until dawn. Would you prefer we sat up and talked about our problem all night?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes wide.

“No,” he laughed, rising to his feet. He offered his hand to help her up. “That would only make us more weary and much more anxious. We need our wits about us to get out of here.”

“But sleep?” she asked, confused. “Where? On the
floor
?”

“Not quite,” he said, his hands on his hips as he gazed around the vast room.

In the end, he found a huge crate in a corner and dragged it to a spot not far from the door, but to the side, so anyone coming in wouldn’t see them right anyway. He tipped it over on its side so it made a sort of impromptu cave. He bent double to step in, and crouching, took off his jacket and laid it over the wood. Then he backed out, turned down the lantern, and left it at the entrance to the crate. He bowed.

“Your room, m’lady,” he said. “I wish I had a coverlet but at least you won’t have to lie on the floor. And you’re protected from the breezes and…anything else,” he added vaguely.

He didn’t want her to know he thought the place was likely home to other sorts of vermin than the ones they’d met today. People might have deserted the district but he doubted the river rats had. Nor did he tell her he wouldn’t close an eye. He’d rest his body but not his vigilance. Fitch was dead; he’d suffered a wound no mortal could survive. But who knew who else might frequent this place? River rats came in all sizes, shapes, and species. The banks of the Thames were home to mudlarks, scavengers and foragers who earned their livings picking what they could from the river. It was also a hunting ground for other vagrants, thieves, and riffraff of every stripe.