How To School Your Scoundrel (5 page)

Yours but to do or die.

A
t first, Luisa thought there must have been some mistake. Nothing about number 11 Ponsonby Place distinguished the house from its row of narrow brothers: All were dressed in the same tired stucco, chipped here and there to reveal the underlying brick; all were fronted by the same modest portico and the same dull black door, flanked by a single sash window.

The street was quiet, thick with acid fog that burned her lungs. She turned to tell the cabman to wait while she rapped the knocker, but the hansom’s wheels were already clattering against the pavement, as he hurried off down the road in search of a busier district.

Luisa stared with open mouth at the departing flash of wheel against cobble. The adventurous rhythm of her heartbeat turned a trifle hollow.

She had been rash, hadn’t she?

How had that happened? She was Luisa. She was the measured one, the regal one, the responsible one. She had never committed a rash act in her life.

She glanced down at her black masculine clothes. Well, up until a few weeks ago, at any rate. Until she’d been kidnapped in her own state carriage, until she’d only just managed to flee by coshing her guard over the head with her state scepter. Until she’d raced back to the palace to concoct a plan with Miss Dingleby, and stolen across Europe with her sisters, and agreed to her uncle Olympia’s mad scheme for disguise.

What had happened to her life? Her royal routine, her road map of duty, stretching out with perfect regularity unto eternity?

Luisa filled her lungs with foggy air and strode up the steps to the door of number 11. She let fall the knocker with a decisive clang that echoed down the entire length of Ponsonby Place.

There was no answer.

She knocked again.

Her foot tapped against the stone step. She craned her neck to the window to peer at the crack in the curtains.

For an instant, she pictured herself returning to Chester Square, standing before the huge square shoulders of the Earl of Somerton, and informing him that no one had been home, and her errand was still unperformed. That this test of her mettle—of course it was a test—she had utterly failed.

She reached for the knob.

To her surprise, it turned without a whisper.

No. Surely she wouldn’t actually walk through that door like a common housebreaker, like a burglar in the night. Surely she hadn’t forgotten herself that far.

Luisa pushed the door open and stepped into the dark hallway.

•   •   •

F
rom his point of vantage in the dining room, within the shadow of the half-open pocket door, the Earl of Somerton watched the slim black-clad figure ease into the hallway and crane his head, first rightward and then leftward.

The sharp uptick of his pulse surprised him. Something stuck in the back of his throat, a slight paralysis. Perhaps it was the innocence of the young man, his sinuous and wary grace as he stood there, backlit by a distant streetlamp, foolishly brave. Not even knowing what he didn’t know. When was the last time Somerton had beheld something so guiltless? A deer, perhaps. A wild animal, caught unaware of human observation.

His wife, the first time he’d seen her. Or so he’d thought at the time.

He made a signal with one hand.

Erasmus Norton stepped forward from the doorjamb and wrapped his left arm around Mr. Markham’s slender neck.

To his credit, the young fellow didn’t scream. His body stiffened, his hand grabbed for Norton’s thick arm, and then he let out a long and silent breath and relaxed. As if he’d been expecting this.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Well, now,” said Norton. “Seeing as your pretty little neck is about to be snapped by my good left arm, I think I might be so bold as to turn that question around, lad. Who the bloody hell are you?”

“My name is Markham.”

“State your business, Markham.” He shriveled his voice menacingly on the
Markham
.

An instant’s pause. “I’m looking for a shipping list.”

“A what, lad?”

“A list of shipping entering British ports from the Baltic states during the past year.” Markham’s voice rang out with confidence, despite the lethal forearm pressed against his neck.

Norton tightened his arm and gave Markham a jiggle. “Are you having a go at me, you bloody squeaker? Shipping?”

“I am not. I was at the Foreign Office to inquire after my list and received a message to come here instead, on behalf of my employer.”

“Who’s your employer?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Somerton was trained in the art of holding himself precisely still, of keeping each flicker of muscle under exact control. Yet the shock of those clear and unexpectedly loyal words hit him like a blow. He flinched, a tiny tension of his shoulders. Norton caught the movement and glanced into the darkness of the living room, to the half-open pocket door beyond.

But he didn’t hesitate. He lifted his right hand. “This knife”—the tip caught the feeble light in a silver gleam—“says it’s my business.”

“And I say it isn’t,” said Markham. “So if you haven’t got this list, we have nothing further to say to each other. Release me at once.”

“I’ll release you when I feel like it, lad.” Norton hauled him up close. “Is it Somerton who sent you?”

“Release me at once.”

“No need to struggle, Markham. You’ll only hurt yourself, and wouldn’t that be a pity.”

“You can’t hurt me. My employer will kill you if you do.”

“So it
is
Somerton, isn’t it?”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Markham dug his fingers into Norton’s arm and twisted his body.

“Stop yer wriggling, for God’s sake. We don’t want any accidents, does we?”

“Let go!”

“Now, now. You listen to me a bit, nice and steady. I know you come from Somerton, right enough. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Just stop by for a pleasant little visit, every so often, right here at this house. Let me know what he’s up to. Bring me copies of his letters, the names of the coves he sees.”

Markham’s body stiffened.

A strange weight pressed against Somerton’s chest, as if a small but deadly mortar had been accidentally dropped on his ribs. He stood without moving, counting the solid knocks of his heart.

Waiting for Markham’s answer.

Damn the lad. Why the devil should Somerton care if he were loyal or not? Another secretary would be found, and another. They lay thick about the London streets, these eager young clerks, desperate for a position with a powerful patron.

But this one. His cheek so smooth in the dimness, his constricted breath rough in the cold hallway. His eyes so warm and brown in Somerton’s study. His brave young frame now swallowed by Norton’s aggression.

Somerton closed his eyes.

A laugh broke out from Markham’s throat, short and incredulous. “Go to the devil.”

“Triple, then.”

“Not tenfold. Not for any amount. What do you take me for, you stupid ox? Release me this instant, or you’ll rue the day, by God.”

“Rue the . . .
ugh!
” Norton’s last words were swallowed in a grunt. Somerton’s eyes flew open. A blur of movement, of Markham’s twisting body. The knife flashed in Norton’s hand.

No. In Markham’s hand.

An almighty thump rattled the bones of the house, as Britain’s most notorious assassin dropped to the wooden floor.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Markham leaned down and pressed the tip of his knife against the middle of Norton’s throat, against the round lump of his Adam’s apple. “Just a little something I learned from my father.”

“Me balls,” Norton groaned.

“They’ll be quite all right, I assure you, though I suggest you apply a cold compress when you return home.”

Somerton opened up his gloved fist and laid it flat against his thigh. The heat of his own body surprised him. He’d felt so cold, frozen solid against the frail wood of the pocket door, watching the scene unfold.

“Which I suggest you do immediately, sir. Return home, I mean. Unless you happen to have a list of Baltic shipping upon your person, in which case I beg leave to lighten you of the burden.” Markham spoke with quiet assurance, perfectly calm. As if the Almighty himself stood behind his shoulder, nodding in approval.

In the first few seconds of the struggle, Somerton’s every instinct had pitched him forward to Markham’s aid. Only the strictest self-control had held him in place, the confident logic that Markham was right: Norton didn’t dare harm the lad.

Because Somerton would kill him if he did.

And now? Somerton gazed at the dim-lit scene in quiet astonishment. Erasmus Norton felled like an oak by a lowly secretary.

By God, the pluck of him. The damned clean-scrubbed ferocity of him. The avenging angel, fighting the good fight.

“That I haven’t,” hissed Norton, “or I’d wipe your scrawny arse with it.”

“How fortunate for me,” said Markham. “In any case, I’m off. And I’ll be taking this”—he twirled the knife in his hand—“along with me.”

He tucked the knife inside his jacket, stepped elegantly over Norton’s prostrate body, and walked out the door.

The hearty slam of wood and brass echoed about the walls.

Somerton detached himself from the shadows and stepped along the direct line through the front room. Norton lay in the passage, his torso in the room and his legs sticking out into the hallway. Somerton stared down. “Dear me. Are you quite all right, my good fellow?”

Norton lay stiff. “Going to be sick.”

“You should have been more careful. The young ones are agile.”

“What sort of gentleman sticks another man in the marbles, I ask you? It ain’t on the level. There’s a code, sir.” He turned on his side and vomited onto the worn wooden floor.

Somerton removed a handkerchief from his pocket—plain white linen, no identifying marks—and dropped it on Norton’s chest. He lifted his chin and gazed thoughtfully at the door. “What gentleman, indeed?”

“It ain’t right.” Norton lay on his side, doubled over. “He might have ruined me forever.”

“Oh, buck up.” Somerton stepped around the body and reached for the doorknob. “You’re a hired assassin, not a curate. It’s no more than you deserve, after all.”

Before Norton could reply, he opened the door and strode down the steps, just in time to see a black shape emerge from behind an area gate at the end of the street and lunge silently upon the departing figure of Mr. Markham.

•   •   •

L
uisa couldn’t precisely say when she detected the presence of the Earl of Somerton in the Stygian depths of the Ponsonby Place front room. No particular movement, no particular sound caught her attention. It was the sense of him, breathing quietly in the shadows. His heavy gaze observing her.

Observing her, and also guarding her. She knew, in that instant, she’d nothing to fear from the thick-armed ox holding her throat. Somerton could call him off with a flick of his fingers.

She’d had only to play her part.

As she strode down the pavement, overcoat swinging, fog stinging her face, she smiled at the recollection of her attacker’s surprise. His heavy grunt at her unexpected maneuver, his body crashing to the floor. For an instant, she’d turned the tables. She’d taken control again, she’d gained the upper hand.

The exhilaration still surged in her veins, making the smoke-scented gloom around her a bit less grim. A bit less threatening. A bit . . .

Her ears registered the sound of footfalls an instant too late.

She whirled about, arms raised. A pair of dark shoulders flashed before her, a menacing face, bared teeth, and her body flew backward to slam against the iron posts of an area fence.

Another test, she thought frantically, but the rush of panic in her veins told her this was real. No hired thug, no careful control.

Breath panted across her face, hot and foul. Something hard and cold laid itself against the tender skin of her neck.

“Empty yer pockets, lad,” growled a voice near her ear, and she realized she’d squeezed her eyes shut.

“I haven’t got any money!”

“Empty yer pockets, afore I does it for ye!”

Luisa forced her arms to move. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and drew out the empty lining. “You see? Nothing.”

It was true. She wasn’t carrying any money. It hadn’t even occurred to her. A few shillings and sixpence sat on her drawer chest, back in Chester Square, along with the Earl of Somerton’s crisp ten-pound note. But the practice of holding and spending money was still too new, too foreign to have become habit.

Stupid, of course. How had she expected to get herself home, without any coin? Every ordinary man, woman, and child knew that.

“Take off your coat!”

“I’ll do no such . . .”

A sharp pain pierced her neck.

Luisa fumbled with her buttons.

“Faster!”

The coat was off. The man’s hands yanked at her jacket; she heard the rip of thread and lost her balance. She crashed to the pavement, hitting her head a glancing blow on one of the iron fence posts. Dimly she felt the man’s weight fall upon her, his legs straddle her, his fingers scrabbling at her clothes.