Silver Splendor (2 page)

Then, as the brougham neared the end of the block, he spied a black shape half swallowed by the shadows of a tenement. The shape moved, transforming itself into the hulking figure of a man. A man whose hands encircled a woman’s throat.

Rage rose in Nicholas. Before the carriage came to a complete halt, he flung open the door and sprang out.

The man whirled; the light of the lanterns caught the surprise on his brutish features. He hurled the woman aside and she crumpled to the wet ground.

He made a move to dart off into the night. Nicholas’s fists closed around the rough tweed of the man’s coat and jerked him around. The cutthroat fell sprawling to the rain slick cobbles. For a second he lay there, his porkpie hat askew. Then he leapt to his feet again. In his hand flashed the deadly gleam of a knife.

Nicholas swung aside. The plunging blade met the sleeve of his frock coat and rent the velvet cuff. In one swift motion he sliced the edge of his palm onto the ruffian’s wrist. The man howled in pain; the knife clattered to the wet pavement and skittered into the shadows.

In the blink of an eye, the burly man scuttled pell mell into the darkness, like a rat seeking shelter.

“I’ll nab him!” shouted one of the footmen. Nicholas turned to see Dobson scooping up the knife from a gutter and bolting after the villain.

The earl shot a look at the other lanky footman, who stood beside the brougham, staring as if dumbstruck. “Assist him, Pickering!” Nicholas commanded. “Take one of the lamps.”

Pickering gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “M-me, m’lord?”

Nicholas glared a reply and Pickering hurried to fetch a lantern. Then he dashed off, the yellow light wavering over the impeccable blue and gold of his livery.

Nicholas hastened to the woman. Heedless of the damp, dirty pavement, he dropped to his knees beside her. Her face lay in shadows, her body deathly still. “Miss?” he called softly.

She gave no response. Alarmed, he touched her throat, seeking a pulse beat. She moaned and stirred restlessly.

At least,
he thought grimly,
she was alive.

“Greaves, bring that light here.”

The carriage springs creaked as the coachman clambered from the elevated front seat; then the glow of the remaining lamp shone over the woman’s slight form. Quickly Nicholas examined her for injury. She wore a neat but shabby violet gown embroidered with fanciful silver flowers; its soft and flowing folds were peculiar yet pleasing. The bodice was cut far too demurely to brand her a whore. Was she perhaps an actress at one of the nearby Drury Lane theatres? Or a shop girl attacked on her way home from work?

He turned his eyes to her face… and felt a weakening rush inside him, as if the ground had dropped away.

Like a blow to his midsection, the uncommon sensation left him momentarily without breath. She was strikingly lovely, yet certainly he knew women of more classic beauty. Disciplining his reaction with cold logic, he analyzed her features. There was nothing unusual about the jet black spill of her hair, nothing singular in the milky hue of her complexion, nothing exceptional in the fine line of her cheekbones or the pale curve of her lips. She brought to mind the wildness of a gypsy; he preferred a woman to be more polished.

So why did he feel this absurd elation, as if he had unearthed a rare jewel buried in a rubbish heap?

The feeling or wonder evaporated as he spied the red marks bruising the swanlike curve of her throat. The sight fired his fury and quickened his concern. He swiftly removed his frock coat and wrapped it around her.

“D’you suppose she’s dead, m’lord?”

Greaves’s voice startled Nicholas; he had forgotten the coachman’s presence. “Of course she isn’t dead,” the earl said curtly. “But as soon as the footmen return we must get her to a doctor.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

His mission concerning Cicely could wait,
Nicholas decided. Taking great care, he tunneled a hand into the woman’s tumbled hair and the other beneath her knees, lifting her against him. She felt warm and pliant, childishly light and alarmingly limp. Her scent was redolent of herbs and damp earth, an oddly pleasing combination.

As he turned toward the brougham, she made a small sound and shifted in his arms. He halted expectantly. Her eyelids fluttered; her lashes lifted.

His insides took another heart stopping plunge.

Her eyes were a luxurious lavender, entrancing and intelligent. She looked up at him without a trace of surprise or shyness, as if awakening to find herself cradled in a strange man’s arms were nothing unusual. Her gaze drifted over his face, scrutinizing every detail, and er dark brows quirked into a fascinating frown.

Unexpectedly she put a hand to his jaw. The subtle brush of her fingers along his skin ignited a fire in him that flared fiercer than any sparked by a more intimate caress.

“Perfect,” she murmured, her voice as soft and unique as the rest of her. “You have the most perfect bone structure I’ve ever seen.”

Nonplussed, he stared down at her. She stared back, those remarkable lavender eyes unblinking. He had braced himself for hysterics, for tears, for a fit of the vapors… for anything but this unnervingly frank assessment.

Brusquely he asked,
^“
How are you feeling?”

The question seemed to surprise her. Her brow furrowed and her lashes flickered. “My throat hurts,” she said slowly, touching tentative fingers to the reddened area. A shudder coursed through her slender frame; comprehension washed over her face like a cloud over the sun. “That man” — her voice broke, sounding husky and exotic — “he tried to strangle me!”

“You needn’t worry,” Nicholas said to allay the alarm in her eyes. “He won’t harm you anymore. I’ve seen to that.”

“But why did he attack me? I haven’t anything of value.”

“Perhaps he didn’t realize that.”

With inbred chivalry Nicholas didn’t voice his guess about her assailant’s probable intent. He started toward the brougham, Greaves trotting behind at a respectful distance, the light from the lantern swaying. She wriggled; Nicholas shifted his grip.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Out of the rain.”

She squirmed again. “I want to go home.”

“I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“Put me down!”

The fine edge of panic in her tone broke through to him. Beside the carriage Nicholas lowered the woman to her feet. She retreated a few steps, half slipping on the wet cobbles, looking lost in the dark folds of his frock coat. Her eyes were wide and wary and winsome, her hair a stunning spill of inky silk around her shoulders.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” he said gently. “I’m only trying to help you.”

She seemed to relax. “Thank you. I do appreciate your coming to my rescue, but there’s no need to make a fuss.”

“I’m not making a fuss, I’m only being logical,” he said with a trace of annoyance. “You’ve had a bad shock. I insist that you get into my carriage and sit down.”

She made no move to accept his preferred hand. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I’m really all right. Truly I am.”

Her refusal of support was disconcerting. The other women of his acquaintance would have been milking the situation for all it was worth, wilting and clinging and weeping.

“Then I insist on escorting you home.”

She waved at the nearest tenement. “I live right over there.” She glanced at the brougham, where Greaves stood holding the door open, his bushy browed eyes focused into the darkness, his fleshy face barren of expression. Her hand went to her mouth; her gaze went to Nicholas. “My apologies, sir. I hope I haven’t caused you to be late for an appointment.”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait.”

“I’m sorry to have been such a bother.”

A bother…
her?
“Think nothing of it.”

She drew in a breath. “Well, then, I suppose I should go.”

But she didn’t go; she just stood there in the cold damp air, gazing at him with those lovely lavender eyes.

Again Nicholas had the unnerving impression that she was committing every detail of his face to memory. For the first time in many, many years he found himself blessing the whim of heredity that had graced him with physical handsomeness. Only belatedly did he remind himself the opinion of a common street woman was of no consequence.

No,
common
was the wrong word for her. She was rare, remarkable, standing there with his coat enveloping her slight form, her hair tumbled around her shoulders. She looked as poised and proud as a queen, as fragile and fanciful as a nymph.

And like a nymph she might melt into the mist, never to be seen again. The thought filled him with the most peculiar sense of desolation.

From the alley came the crunch of footsteps and the sway of a light. The footmen emerged onto the street, Dobson stepping smartly in the lead, Pickering trailing with the lantern.

“We lost him, m’lord,” Dobson said, looking disappointed.

“Too many dark alleyways,” Pickering added, looking relieved.

“I was ready to beat the bugger to a bloody pulp,” Dobson said, loudly smashing his fist into his palm.

“Er… me, too,” Pickering concurred, furtively running a finger inside his collar.

“Never mind,” Nicholas said. “There must be a thousand holes around here where a rat could hide.”

He turned to address the woman. “This incident must be reported at once. Since I got a good look at the scoundrel, I’ll take you to Scotland Yard.”

“Thank you, but there’s really no need to bother. I’ll sketch a likeness for the police in the morning.”

“Sketch?”

“Yes, I’m an artist, you see. In fact, I was just returning from Westminster Abbey… oh, dear!” Without warning, she darted into the gloom near the alleyway and appeared to be searching for something.

An artist? And with that husky soft American accent?
A suspicion tugged at the back of his mind, a suspicion so preposterous Nicholas summarily rejected it.

He followed her into the shadows, motioning to Pickering to bring the lantern. “Have you lost something, miss?”

She flashed a dismayed look over her shoulder. “My satchel! I dropped it when that man attacked me. Oh, dear, all the drawings I did of those lovely tombs… Henry the Seventh, Mary Queen of Scots —”

“Is this it?” Nicholas inquired, plucking a sadly worn leather case from the foul gutter.

“Yes! Oh, thank you so much!”

Her eyes shining, she seized the satchel and hugged it close, mindless of the mud spatters. Nicholas found himself wishing she’d displayed as much enthusiasm when he’d rescued her.

“You’re welcome,” he said stiffly. Spying something else lying in the shadows, he picked up a heap of damp, dark wool. “Perhaps this is also yours?”

Smiling, she took the shawl. “Thank you again. You’ve been so kind.” She bit her lip and added, “I only wish I could repay you.”

Nicholas had a thought at that, a thought he repressed mercilessly. “There’s no need,” he said politely.

“Wait!” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know how I can thank you. I shall do your bust!”

He frowned. “My bust?”

“Yes!” She took an excited step toward him. “You must sit for me. I’d meant to sculpt you from memory alone, just for myself, but instead I shall give you the bust. It will be so much easier if you’ll agree to pose for me. Might we set a time, sir?”

Suspicion resurrected inside Nicholas, as cold as the mist. Disregarding good manners, he asked bluntly, “Who are you?”

“Oh, I doubt you’ve heard of me,” she said apologetically, clutching the satchel close. “It’s difficult for a woman to make a name for herself in the arts. Besides, I’ve only been in London a short while. But you have such perfect bone structure, such marvelous character to your face, I promise you, you’ll love what I —”

“Your name, miss.”

He’d employed that chilling tone to great advantage on certain recalcitrant members of parliament. Her color rose and her smile wilted.

“Elizabeth Hastings,” she murmured.

Despite his anticipation of her answer, Nicholas felt thunderstruck. So this was the dissolute artist Cicely was constantly stealing away to visit. The woman looked so solemn, so anxious. Ruthlessly he conquered the inane impulse to kiss away the grave pucker marring her brow.

Well,” she said with a sigh, “I knew you wouldn’t have heard of me. Very few people have.”

“Oh, but I have, Miss Hastings,” he said with stern softness. “Indeed, I have.”

Her smile reappeared in full glory, like a rose unfurling to the sun. “Truly? I just completed a bust of a Mr. Darby Lovett in Chelsea. He’s a barrister — perhaps you know him?”

“Not personally,” Nicholas said with deliberate evasion. “However, your reputation may be more far reaching than you imagine.”

Wistful pleasure shone on her face. “Do you really suppose so? I’ve sold a few things here and there, you know. Most people aren’t interested in the sort of sculpture I do — the bust for Mr. Lovett only paid the rent — but I would so much like to bring beauty into other people’s lives.”

Her enthusiasm stirred something tender inside Nicholas. Tightening his jaw, he said coldly, “Quite so. I find myself intrigued by your offer to sculpt me, Miss Hastings. Might we discuss the matter further in the privacy of your lodgings?”

Her eyes rounded. “Now?”

“If it isn’t inconvenient…”

“Oh, no, it would be a pleasure.”

Indeed,
Nicholas thought contemptuously as she led him toward the nearby rooming house. All of his suspicions about her were well founded. No woman of virtue would so blithely receive a strange man without a chaperone present. Doubtless Miss Hastings was in the habit of entertaining men. The notion vaguely disturbed him. Good God, why should he care one way or the other?

Because of Cicely,
he reminded himself firmly. His impressionable sister must not be allowed to associate with someone of such loose moral character.