The Wild One (26 page)

"He destroyed my door! My painting is
ruined! I had it imported from France, do you know how much it cost
me?! It's priceless! My carpet is ruined, my wall cracked, my
reputation will never recover from this!"

Gareth straightened up, raking his hair back
from his face, feeling a little sick to his stomach. "Look,
Lavinia, I'll pay you for the picture," he muttered, wiping a
trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just
tell me what it costs, and I'll pay you for it."

Lavinia Bottomley, however, was
inconsolable. "
It's priceless!
" she shrieked, stamping her
foot in rage. "Don't you understand?
Priceless
!"

"My husband
said
he would pay you,"
Juliet ground out, knowing there was a price for everything. Her
arm was still around Gareth's waist, anchoring him, controlling
him, when the great brute who lay unconscious on the carpet could
not. "Send the bill to de Montforte House. I'm sure His Grace will
see that you are reimbursed for all damages."

"Damn right he will! Now get out of here,
you and that screaming brat, before I have you all thrown out on
your ears! Mario!
Mario
!"

The Italian, confused and dismayed by this
turn of events — not to mention wary of Gareth's deadly fists —
took a doubtful step forward.

"No." Gareth put out a hand, staying him,
not wanting to have to hurt him. "There is no need to exert
yourself over me, my friend. There's been trouble enough here for
one night." He pulled Juliet close, so fiercely proud of her for
defending him, for standing by him, that he felt near to bursting.
But when he turned to the abbess, his eyes narrowed, and anyone who
knew the de Montfortes would have recognized the dangerous threat
in that lazy blue gaze and shuddered with dread.

"We're leaving, Lavinia. And if word gets
out that we were even here tonight, I'll make sure that none but
the lowest scum in London ever again frequents this house. I'll
make sure that no person in polite society will ever come near this
place again, that you're closed down for lack of the right
patronage. Do you understand, Lavinia? In short,
I will ruin
you.
"

The abbess, one hand on her bosom, took a
step backward, her face as white as paste.

Gareth let his icy gaze sweep over the lot
of them. He pulled his wife close and escorted her back into their
room, where they silently gathered their things and wrapped up
Charlotte against the chill of the night.

Then, silent and tight-lipped, they made
their way down the stairs, Gareth's hand resting on his sword hilt
in case anyone challenged them further.

Not a person spoke as they filed past.

And neither of them saw the sly, silent
figure who slipped outside after them.

Chapter 20

The door shut behind them, and they were
alone.

Cast out into the street, into the darkness,
into the mercy of the night and all the dangers it held.

It was raining. Hard. Water poured out of
the black sky in gusting torrents, one moment vertically, the next
at a stinging angle, peppering the puddles, running in twisting,
meandering rivulets down the uneven cobbles and into the gutters in
hundreds of mad little races. Wind tore at their hair, whipped
Juliet's skirts around her ankles like a loose sail, flung the
odors of London into their wet faces: coal smoke and filth, the
dirty river, wet stone, mud, dung, and despair.

Standing there with his small family, Gareth
felt like the most hopeless failure in the world. Charles would
never have done this to her. Charles would never have got them
thrown out of warm, dry shelter. Oh, what must Juliet
think
of him? His fury that he'd let his temper destroy what had been a
safe, comfortable night was nothing compared to his shame at
letting them all down.

Beside him, his wife gave an involuntary
shiver, drawing her cloak around herself in a pathetic effort to
shield the infant in her arms from the rain. Gareth swore beneath
his breath. It was chilly, as English evenings often are after the
sun goes down, and no night for a woman and baby to be outside.
Hastily, he doffed his surtout and laid it over Juliet's cloak,
wanting only to keep his two ladies as dry as he possibly
could.

"No, Gareth, you'll get soaked," she
protested, raising her voice to be heard over the angry drumming of
the rain against the pavement, the street, the gutters. Her gaze
was caught by his bleeding knuckles as he positioned the surtout
over her shoulders and pulled her own hood up so her head would be
shielded from the rain. The wind blew it straight back off again,
releasing her cloud of dark hair and flinging it across her cheeks
and eyes. She reached up, hooked a mass of it with her finger, and
cleared it away. "I've already got a cloak, and if you give me your
coat, you'll have nothing."

The way he felt, he
deserved
nothing.
"Now, now. I've already played the fool, so now let me play the
gallant rescuer," he said, securing and tying the hood of her cloak
beneath her chin. He did up the top buttons of the surtout around
the baby so that only her nose and the top of her head peeked out.
"I won't have either of you catching a chill. Now come. I don't
trust that lot of scoundrely rascals in there, not in the least. It
is unsafe to linger."

Juliet's trunk, hastily packed, stood on the
steps where Mario had set it; Gareth picked it up, easily hoisted
it to one shoulder, and, with Juliet beside him, began to slosh
through the puddles that stood like oil on the dark, grimy
pavement, heading vaguely south. Rain slashed his face. Water
streamed from his hair, and pain flared through his shoulders where
he'd hit the wall. He felt a dull, pounding ache in his head,
though whether that was because of that same impact or his own
throbbing fury with himself — and those bastards back at Lavinia's
— even he would've been hard pressed to know.

Neither spoke. They hurried through the
streets, heads down, walking quickly. Gareth hadn't the faintest
idea where to take them. Back to the mews, he guessed, to collect
Crusader, and then — then he'd have to figure something out. Soon.
He couldn't have his wife and baby out on a night like this. Danger
lurked in each alleyway they passed, in the darkened, miserable
streets, in the shadowed doorways. And now the rain was coming down
harder, drenching his face, his hair, the back of his neck beneath
his cravat, soaking through his clothes and chilling his skin. It
did nothing, however, to dampen his fury with Lavinia and her lot,
and as Gareth stole a glance at his wife, hurrying along beside him
with her head bent over Charlotte to protect her from the rain, he
fought the impulse to go back to the brothel and take out his wrath
on not just the one who'd happened to be nearest, but each and
every one of the vulgar louts who'd been spying on them. If they'd
received the privacy they were promised, none of this would've
happened — and they'd be safe and warm instead of walking the
dangerous London streets after midnight in the pouring rain.

He glanced sideways at Juliet, hurrying
along beside him. She had barely spoken to him as they'd dressed
and packed. He knew that she was not angry with him for fighting
and getting them thrown out of Lavinia Bottomley's. No, it wasn't
that. It was that she was dreadfully embarrassed about their
session on the bed, and everything about her carriage — from the
way she could not meet his eye to the way she seemed to huddle
protectively within herself — told him so.

Bloody hell.

The mews were only a few minutes away. He
would get Crusader and bring his family to a hotel, that's what
he'd do. He'd spend the money and take them to the finest one in
London to make up for what had happened back at the brothel. If
frugal Juliet complained of the expense, so what. It was their
wedding night. He cursed himself for not taking her to a decent
establishment in the first place, as he'd wanted to do all
along.

They had just turned the corner onto New
Bond Street when Gareth realized they were not alone.

His hand went automatically to his
sword.

Juliet faltered, shooting him a concerned
glance. "Is something wrong?"

"Keep walking, Juliet."

"What is it?"

"I think someone's following us."

She was no silly, vaporous female who was
likely to go into hysterics. She hugged Charlotte even tighter and
did as she was told.

They hurried through the rainy darkness of
New Bond Street, walking quicker now, neither speaking, Gareth's
surtout flapping around Juliet's slight body. Puddles splashed
underfoot. The rain beat down, and the wind gusted through the
streets as though alive. Gareth glanced over his shoulder, seeing
something that might've been a shadow.

Something that was no shadow at all.

Hell and damnation. The mews were still a
good distance ahead, and so was Berkley Street, Piccadilly, his
club on St. James. Safety.

"Faster, Juliet."

She complied. The footsteps behind them kept
pace. Sensing her mother's tension, Charlotte began to whimper from
within the heavy folds of Gareth's surtout.

"Juliet?"

She glanced at him, her face a pale oval
beneath the dark hood of her cloak. Another woman would have showed
fear, but not her. In her face was only a mother's anger that
someone was threatening her baby, her husband, all that she held
dear.

He bent low toward her ear as they all but
broke into a run. "Can you shoot a pistol?"

"Of course I can."

He kept his voice low. "Mine is in my belt.
Push aside the tails of my frock coat and retrieve it — as
unobtrusively as you can. If we are attacked, I want you to take it
and run whilst I hold the blackguard off. Nothing matters except
getting you and Charlotte to safety."

She shot him a fierce look. "You think I'd
run off and leave you?"

"My dear, I can assure you, I am well able
to take care of myself.
Now, take the pistol.
"

She did, hiding it within the voluminous
folds of Gareth's surtout.

Their pursuer was closer now, splashing
through the puddles behind them, his shoes hitting the pavement
with increasing rapidity. Gareth turned right onto Bruton Street,
pulling Juliet abruptly with him. Immediately, he set down the
trunk and flattened himself against the wet stone of the corner
building. As his unsuspecting pursuer also turned the corner,
Gareth's hand lashed out, seizing the man by the throat and
flinging him against the wall with such violent force that his
breath came out in a startled
whoosh
.

Gareth drew his sword, the blade scraping
from its scabbard with a raw, ugly sound that drained the blood
from the other man's face.

"I do not
like
being followed,"
Gareth snarled, tightening his hold on the man's necktie and throat
and bringing the point of his sword up against the undeside of his
jaw. He gave the cravat a savage twist, until the man, bug-eyed and
gasping, flung up his hands in surrender. "Are you alone or are
there others?"

The man coughed, gesturing wildly that he
needed air.

Gareth yanked him forward then shoved him
roughly back against the wall, his sword still held at the ready.
Out of the corner of his eye he could just see Juliet standing in
the rain, the baby cradled in one arm, the pistol in her opposite
hand.

The man put a hand to his throat, coughing.
"I am alone, I swear it."

Gareth was not taking any chances. He
stepped back, glanced quickly down New Bond Street, saw it was
empty save for a few carriages moving off through the rain. And
then he cuffed his wet hair from his eyes and, lowering his sword,
glared at the stranger.

"I recognize you," he said coldly. "You were
at Lavinia's, weren't you?"

"I was." The man was calmly adjusting his
cravat, relaxing now that he realized Gareth was not about to kill
him. "Though I'm surprised you noticed, Lord Gareth. You seemed
quite involved with what you were doing." He smiled politely,
disarmingly. "Never have I seen a man fight as well as you did!
They'll be talking about it all over London tomorrow, I dare
say."

"Don't flatter me. What do you want?"

"Why, merely to talk to you, my lord. But
please, not in the rain. Can we go someplace drier, perhaps?"

"It depends on what it is you wish to talk
to me about."

"An opportunity that might benefit us both.
One that could be quite ... lucrative, if I do say so myself."

Gareth narrowed his eyes. The man was of
middle age, a tall, gaunt-faced fellow with close-set eyes, a long,
narrow face, and a carefully dressed wig whose rolls were already
drooping in the rain. His clothes were fancy to the point of
garishness, his shoes boasted fine buckles, and his sword — still
in its sheath — had an elaborately worked hilt. He was obviously a
man of some affluence. But breeding? Gareth's every instinct told
him he was no gentleman, only one who pretended to the rank by an
excess of trappings.

"If you had something to say to me, why
didn't you say it back at Mrs. Bottomley's?" he demanded.

"Certainly it wasn't the time, nor the
place. And by the time I had the chance to approach you, you were
gone. Which is why I followed you. I
am
sorry."

"Very well then, I'll hear you out." He
motioned impatiently with his sword for the man to move. "Get in
front of me where I can see you, and start walking."

The man shrugged. "Fair enough."

With a deferential smile that was almost
mocking, he stepped away from the building and began moving down
Bruton Street. Gareth kept his sword tip poised just inches from
the man's back, Juliet following quietly beside him.

"Next street on the right, then left into
the mews," Gareth snapped.