Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (23 page)

II

It was after ten o’clock one night at the beginning
of April when Isobel finally finished the last of the changes in
her symphony. Faircourt and the musicians had long since gone home
and she was alone in the huge rehearsal hall. Her manuscript was
full of corrections, but she was confident that when it came back
from the printer’s this time the only changes necessary would be
corrections of the printer’s errors. She stretched, stood to gather
the papers strewn over the desk into a neat pile before putting
them into her case, then walked to the door, pulling on her coat
all the while. She called out to her coachman to bring around the
carriage and waited impatiently for it to come, for, in spite of
her overcoat and heavy clothes, she was cold. The air felt heavy
with moisture and she was certain it would soon rain. “To Albemarle
Street,” she instructed when the coachman finally pulled up.

The linkboy stifled a yawn as the door shut after
Mr. Boxham, and when the coachman climbed back up to his seat, he
pulled his coat closer about him. The light of the linkboy’s torch
made a dim yellowish halo that bounced with each trotting step he
took.

The exhaustion Isobel had been holding at bay all
day hit her as soon as she sat down. She told herself that after a
nice hot bath she would climb into bed for some much needed sleep.
Or maybe, she thought, as her eyes began to droop, she would just
climb into bed; a bath could wait until the morning. It had been an
exhausting few weeks. She was working feverishly to have the
symphony perfect in time for the performance in May, just six weeks
hence. The rehearsals were tiring, but she never put down the baton
without a feeling of regret or without looking forward to the next
time, especially now that she was so much more comfortable in front
of the orchestra.

She was asleep when shouts and the sudden halt of
the carriage jolted her to wakefulness. There was more shouting and
then the carriage door was pulled open and rough hands dragged her
out onto the street. It was dark and almost impossible to tell
where they were, but she guessed it was somewhere around Charing
Cross.

“
A bit young to be out so late,
aren’t you, lad?” drawled the man who had pulled her out of the
carriage.

Her coachman was lying on his back in the street,
his contorted face so still that Isobel knew he was dead. She
looked away from the dark pool of blood around his head.

“
Don’t you know it’s dangerous to
be out so late?” said another shorter and stouter man, laughing to
himself as he spoke. There were five or six of them; all were
armed.

“
I haven’t any money, if that’s
what you’re after.” Isobel was surprised her voice was not
trembling with the fear churning in her stomach. She clutched her
packet of music to her with one hand, and with the other slid her
fingers around the dagger she kept in her pocket.

“’
Tis a bloody shame if true,
young fellow,” said the tallest of them, apparently the leader. In
the dim light cast by the carriage lamp she could not see his
features, except to tell he was dark-haired. “Surely you have
something of value.” He stepped into the faint circle of light
emanating from the carriage, eyeing the case she was holding.
Isobel was shocked to see he was a handsome man with a pleasant,
friendly look at odds with the threat in his stance.

“
There’s nothing in it except my
music, of value to no one but myself.” As her fingers tightened
around the case, her only thought was that she would prefer to die
than risk losing her symphony.

“
Do you believe him, boys?” There
was a chorus of no’s from the group behind him. The man shook his
head ruefully. “The lads don’t seem to believe you.” He took a step
forward, reaching out for the pouch.

“
One more step and you’ll lose the
hand!” Isobel clenched the dagger in her fist and backed up against
the side of the carriage.

“
Surely, whatever is in there
isn’t worth your life?” the leader said and, with a lightning-quick
movement, leaped forward and twisted her arm around behind her. Her
numb fingers loosened around the knife and she felt him take it out
of her now-shaking hand. He grinned as he took it and she found
herself with the point of the dagger at her stomach. “Perhaps you’d
care to rethink the matter?”

Slowly, she held out the pouch. The man took it and,
not taking his eyes off her, handed it to one of his henchmen.

“
He was telling the truth,
George—’tis only paper!” The ruffian sounded exasperated. They had
all had their hopes raised by the boy’s fierce protection of the
case. He threw the pouch down in disgust. George smiled wickedly
and pressed the point of the dagger into her stomach.

“
What a bloody shame.” He shook
his head in disappointment.

“
Do you remember the time we
stripped old Geoffrey Shoringham?” one of the men sniggered. The
memory was amusing, for it caused general laughter among the
group.

“
All he had left was his peruke!”
one called out.

George reached out and yanked on Isobel’s hair.
“This one hasn’t—” A surprised expression came over his face as the
wig came off in his hand. “What have we here?” He cocked his head
at her. “Damme, ‘tis a wench, lads!”

“
Someone’s coming!” The man
holding the horses shouted the alarm.

Isobel struggled when George clamped a hand around
her arm, and she held onto the door of the carriage as he tried to
shove her inside. She cried out in terror before his hand covered
her mouth. She screamed anyway when she felt a sharp pain in her
arm.

III

Rupert Selwynn was headed for White’s for an evening
of cards when he heard a commotion down the street. He put his head
out the coach window so he could instruct the driver to go around
if there was trouble. He cursed when his carefully curled hair was
bombarded by several large drops of rain. Just as he was pulling
his head back inside, he saw that a group of men had surrounded a
carriage and seemed to be in earnest conversation with a smaller
man who had his back to it. The taller man reached out and pulled
on the other one’s hair. Surely, Rupert thought to himself,
gentlemen might be left to settle their differences in peace. He
was just on the point of telling his coachman to go another way
when he heard a cry for help. To his horror, his driver suddenly
shouted and whipped up the horses and they careened down the street
toward the group.

“
You fool!” Rupert shouted. “Stop
this instant!”

The men scattered when they heard the carriage
coming, and Rupert caught a glimpse of a frightened young man
sitting on the street where one of the men had shoved him. From
what Rupert could see, he appeared to be reaching for his hat.
Rupert’s coachman jumped down and ran toward the man who was now
calmly placing his hat back on his head. As soon as Rupert was sure
the men were gone, he started to step down from the carriage. It
was raining in torrents now and he paused with one foot on the
steps so he was still protected from the rain. At that moment, his
linkboy arrived, breathless from running after the carriage.

“
You all right, Mr. Selwynn?” he
asked, panting, barely able to hold up the torch that, in any
event, had been effectively quenched by the downpour.

“
Make sure they’re all gone!”
Selwynn peered out into the dark and then swung his head back to
the other carriage. His driver reached the man just as he was
picking himself up and held out a hand to help him.

“
My music!” he cried when he was
on his feet. He pointed at a leather case lying where it had been
thrown to the side of the road.

The coachman bent to pick it up and handed it to
him.

“
Oh, thank you!” he said as he
hugged it to him. His hat perched on his head in a tilted,
bedraggled mess.

“
Are you all right, sir?” asked
Selwynn’s coachman.

“
I think so,” he responded. “What
about my driver?” The coachman shook his head.

The linkboy came back to report that the gentleman’s
driver was dead, and he was about to go investigate the gentleman
himself when Selwynn shouted at him, “Come back here!” He trotted
back obediently. “Tell the gentleman he is welcome to any help he
may need.” The fact that the young man’s carriage was a fine one
was not lost on Selwynn. The boy nodded and picked his way back
through the puddles forming on the road. A few minutes later, the
young man sat down with a squish of his overcoat on one of
Selwynn’s fine leather seats. “Mr. Rupert Selwynn, at your
service,” he said.

“
Mr. Ian Boxham,” Isobel responded
after a momentary silence. “Thank you, Mr. Selwynn. You have my
most sincere gratitude.” She brushed away the water dripping down
her cheeks. “I do think they meant to do me harm!”

“
What can I do to help you, Mr.
Boxham? I’m afraid your driver has suffered the worst.” He was
about to add he would lend his postilion as a driver, but he was
interrupted.

“
I’ve got to get home! Can you
take me to Albemarle Street?”

“
Albemarle Street?” Rupert was
suitably impressed.

“
Yes, number ten Albemarle
Street.”

“
I’d be delighted to take you
there.”

“
Oh! But what about my
coach?”

“
I’ll have my postilion drive it
back.” Before Boxham could object, Selwynn leaned out the window
and gave the instructions. “Well, Mr. Boxham,” he said after he had
pulled up the window, “very few men can call number ten Albemarle
home.”

“
I’m staying there only for a few
days.”

IV

The butler pulled open the door of Hartforde House
and Mr. Selwynn smoothly filled in the silence that elapsed when
the boy said nothing. “Tell my Lord Hartforde that his guest, Mr.
Boxham, has been robbed, but he is quite safe now.”

The butler looked nonplussed and was about to answer
when a voice behind him saved him the trouble.

“
Mr. Boxham?”

Selwynn was sure he saw the young man wince at the
sound of Lord Hartforde’s voice.

“
And Mr. Rupert Selwynn.” Lord
Hartforde stepped into the entranceway.

“
My lord.” He bowed. “I happened
to be on the scene just as Mr. Boxham was being robbed. He gave me
to understand he is your guest, and as his driver was killed and
his linkboy fled, I offered to see him home in my carriage. I’ve
had my postilion drive the carriage back.” He pulled out his watch
and looked surprised at the lateness of the hour. “’Pon my word!
’Tis past eleven! If you will excuse me, my lord, I have an urgent
appointment. Good evening.”

“
Thank you, Mr. Selwynn!” Mr.
Boxham said fervently as Rupert turned to go. “You saved my life. I
shall not forget it.”

“
Mr. Boxham, would you be so kind
as to come with me?” Alexander’s face was tense and his green eyes
were dark with an emotion Isobel was convinced meant no good for
her. “Smatherson, please take Mr. Boxham’s coat and send a bottle
of brandy to my rooms.”

“
Yes, milord.” His expression was
blank while he helped Isobel struggle out of her sopping-wet
coat.

Alexander got a firm grip on her arm.

“
Let go of me!” she snapped,
vainly trying to pull away from him.

He held her firmly by the arm and propelled her
forward. “You’re coming with me, you little witch!” he hissed.

“
You are quite mistaken, my lord,
I am not going anywhere with you!” She planted her feet resolutely
but found herself being pushed along anyway. He kept a tight grip
on her shoulder as he guided her up the stairs to his rooms. “I
don’t think you’re being quite the gracious host to force me into
your rooms,” she said snidely when he had closed the door behind
them.

“
You may go, Peters. I won’t be
needing you anymore tonight.” When the valet was gone, Alexander
turned to Isobel. “It isn’t as though you haven’t been in here
before,” he remarked. He saw her flush at his words and an amused
smile came to his lips.

A servant arrived with a bottle of brandy and two
glasses soon after them. He took the tray and set it down on a
table, then locked the door when the footman was gone. He filled
the two glasses and handed one to Isobel, waiting until she had
sipped from the glass before saying anything. “Miss St. James,
would you be so gracious as to tell me what were you doing out so
late?” He seated himself in the only comfortable chair in the
anteroom. His mouth was set in an angry line as he gave her a cold
stare.

“
I fail to see how it’s any of
your affair, Lord Hartforde,” she retorted, pulling off her hat and
throwing it onto one of the chairs, where it landed with a slap.
She was tired and wet and getting colder by the minute. He had to
know she was longing to sit down, not to mention that she needed
some dry clothes. She remained standing because it would suit her
just fine if she fainted dead away from his shocking treatment. She
pictured his lordship bending over her prostrate body after she had
finally fainted, her sopping-wet clothes staining the expensive rug
beneath their feet, his face ashen with distress as he clasped her
limp body to his breast.

“
It is my affair,” he said, “when
you are visiting my house and you endanger your life in such a
reckless fashion. I have a duty to your father to see you are safe
here, however unwelcome a guest you might be.” He sipped from his
glass.