Читать книгу The Lord and the Wayward Lady - Louise Allen - Страница 9

Marcus sat back against the carriage squabs and waited, patient as a cat at a mouse hole, his eyes on the back door of the smart little shop with its glossy dark green paint, gilt lettering and array of fancy hats in each window.

It had taken Hawkins just twenty-four hours to identify three milliners using the plait. It came from a small Buckinghamshire village and cost double the price of the more common patterns, he reported. Armed with Marcus’s description of Miss Smith, one of the Hawkins daughters had penetrated the workrooms of each, pretending to be seeking employment, and had reported back that a young woman answering to that description was working for Madame Elizabeth’s establishment in the City.

He had been there since four, the carriage drawn up off Poultry in St Mildred Court, as if waiting for someone to come out of the church. Ladies had gone in and out of the shop, deliveries had been made, a few girls had run out to the pie seller and scurried back, but there had been no sign of the thin girl with hazel-green eyes.

Now—he checked his watch as the bells of the City’s churches began to chime—it was six and the fog was dark and dirty, full of smoke, swirling in the wake of the carriages, turning the torches and flares a sickly yellow.

Blinking to try to maintain focus, Marcus missed the door opening for a moment, then half a dozen young women spilled out onto the street, pulling shawls tight around their shoulders, chattering as they split up and began to make their way home.

‘John!’ The coachman leaned down from the box. ‘The taller one heading up past the Mansion House. Don’t let her see us.’

She looked tired, Marcus thought with a flash of compassion, wondering how early she had arrived at the shop and how it must be to sit bent over fine work all day. As the carriage pulled out into the traffic, he saw her pause on the corner of Charlotte Row to let a coal heaver’s cart past. She put her hand to the small of her back and stretched, then set her shoulders as though bracing herself. After the cart passed, she darted across, zigzagging to avoid the worst of the waste and the puddles. With a glance at her drab skirts, the crossing boy turned away and began to sweep assiduously for a waiting lawyer, bands fluttering, wig box in hand, a likely prospect for a tip.

Yes, she was certainly a working woman. That much at least had been true. Marcus quenched the glimmer of sympathy with the memory of his father’s face that morning, grey and strained, although he had protested he had slept well and had managed a smile for Lady Narborough.

But Marcus had not been able to rouse his father’s enthusiasm to give a personal message to Hal, and the earl had waved away an attempt to interest him in plans to plant new coppices at Stanegate Hall. He was sinking into one of his melancholy fits and, in the absence of the mysterious dark man, Marcus had only one person to blame for that.

She was hurrying up Threadneedle Street now, deeper into the City. John was doing well, keeping the horses to a slow walk, ignoring the jibes and shouts aimed at him for holding up the traffic. In the evening crush there seemed little chance she would notice them. Then she turned north into Bishopsgate Street, walking with her head down, hands clasped together in front of her, maintaining the steady pace of someone who is tired, but is pushing on to a destination despite that.

Just when Marcus was beginning to think she was going to walk all the way to Shoreditch, she turned right into a lane. It took John a moment or two to get across the traffic. Widegate Street, Marcus read as the carriage lurched over the kerb into the narrow entrance. Named by someone with a sense of humour. He dropped the window right down and leaned out. The street was almost deserted. Ahead, Miss Smith was still keeping the same pace, not looking back. Then one of the pair shied at a banging shutter, John swore, and she glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus caught a glimpse of the pale oval of her face below her dark hat brim. He saw her stiffen, then walk on.

‘Steady, man,’ he ordered softly as the coachman cursed again, under his breath this time. Ahead, the lane was narrowing into an alley, too tight for the carriage that was already glaringly out of place in the maze of back streets. ‘Stop.’ He got out as he spoke, pulling up his collar against the raw air. ‘Can you turn? Wait for me here.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

Marcus glanced up as he entered the narrow way. Smock Alley. He tried to get his bearings. They were heading for Spitalfields Church, he thought, his eyes fixed on the figure ahead, keeping in the shadows as much as possible as he padded in her wake.

His heel struck a bottle in the gutter and it spun away and shattered. She turned, stared back into the shadows, then took to her heels. Marcus abandoned stealth and ran too, his long legs gaining easily on the fleeing figure with its hampering skirts. Then his ankle twisted as he trod on a greasy cobble; he slid and came up hard against the wall, splitting the leather of his glove as he threw out a hand to save himself. When he reached the spot where he had last seen her, she was gone.

Marcus looked around. He could see the dark entrances to at least five streets and alleys from where he stood. Impossible to search them all. He walked slowly back to the carriage, cursing softly.

Nell flattened herself against the wall of the stinking privy in Dolphin Court, her ears straining as the sharp footsteps grew fainter. Finally, when the stench became too much, she crept out and studied what she could see beyond the narrow entrance. Nothing and no one. He had gone, for now.

Who had it been? Not Lord Stanegate; he at least could not know what she did or where she worked. Mr Salterton, wanting to know what had happened—or worse, intent upon silencing the messenger? Or was it as simple as some amorous rake bent on bothering a woman alone or perhaps a thief after her meagre purse?

Only, thieves did not drive in handsome, shiny carriages. Which left Salterton or a predatory rake. Shivering, Nell decided she would rather take her chances with the rake; she doubted that a well-directed knee would deter Mr Salterton.

When she reached Dorset Street she walked to the end, past her own door to the corner and watched for almost ten minutes, but no one at all suspicious came into sight.

It was an effort of will to force her legs up the three flights of stairs to the top of the house and even more of one not to simply fall onto the bed, pull the covers over her head and hide. Nell made herself build up the fire, fill the kettle from the tub of water the shared maid of all work had left on the landing and take off her pelisse and bonnet before collapsing into her chair.

A woman on her own was so defenceless, she thought, her fingers curling into claws at the thought of the men who preyed on those weaker than themselves in the crowded London streets. Or behind the anonymous walls in little rooms like this. Her vision blurred for a moment and her stomach swooped sickeningly. She would not think of that.

For the first time in her life she felt a treacherous yearning for a man to shelter her. Someone powerful and strong. Someone like Viscount Stanegate. She closed her eyes and indulged in a fantasy of standing behind his broad back while he skewered the dark man on the point of an expertly wielded rapier or shot him down like a dog for daring to threaten her.

In reality, that would probably be a horrible experience, she told herself, getting up to make some tea. The last thing she wanted was to witness violence, and the viscount was hardly going to act the knight errant for her in any case. But the vision of a handgun stayed with her. Somewhere, there was the little pistol that Mama had always carried in her reticule. Mama had never had to threaten anyone with it, and it probably wasn’t even loaded, of course. But the sight of a weapon might give some randy buck pause.

Nell found the pistol after a prolonged search. She peered down the barrel, wondering how one told if it had shot in it. Eventually she opened a window, pointed it out over the rooftops and pulled the trigger, braced for a bang. Nothing happened; she could not even pull the trigger back properly. So it was at least safe to carry.

Despite that, her snug eyrie in the roof no longer felt quite so secure. Nell turned the key and wedged a chair under the door handle. Was it time to move again?

By the next day, Nell’s unease had hardened into something like defiance. She was damned if some man, whoever he was, was going to frighten her out of her home. It wasn’t much, but it was clean, it was dry and she was surrounded by good-natured, honest people. She had her pistol, she was forewarned. She would stand her ground.

That was easy enough to resolve in the brightly lit, warm surroundings of the workroom with half a dozen people around her and a large pair of sharp scissors to hand, she realized as she walked home.

Wary, she checked behind herself, yet again. There were no carriages following at walking pace tonight, no suspicious pedestrians behind her. It must simply have been a lone buck taking a chance. With a sigh of relief she ducked through Smock Alley and turned left and then right into Dorset Street. Home.

The keys were slippery in her chilled hands and she fumbled getting them out of the reticule. They caught on the pistol and she heard a sharp click as she pulled them free. Then she saw the man: big, dark, menacing and striding towards her out of the gloom, just yards away. The breath left her lungs and she tugged the little pistol out of her reticule and held it in front of her.

‘I am armed. Keep away!’ Her hand was shaking, so she lifted the other to support her wrist.

‘Miss Smith, put that thing away before you hurt yourself.’ Lord Stanegate? He stopped, perhaps two feet from the end of the muzzle. The lighting was poor, his face was in shadow, but she would recognize that deep voice anywhere. He was apparently hanging on to his temper with an effort.

‘It is you it is pointed at, my lord,’ she observed. ‘It is not I who will be hurt.’ Her heart was thunderous, her stomach was churning and there was nowhere to run to, but she would not let him see her terror.

‘Have you any idea how to use it?’ He sounded more interested than alarmed. Nell wished she could see his face properly.

‘Of course I have! I aim it at the brute who is threatening me and then I pull the trigger. I can hardly miss at this range.’ If she could keep him standing there long enough someone might come out of the house. Or Bill Watkins might come home. Bill was a bricklayer, at least the height of the viscount and built like an ox.

‘I was not aware I was threatening you, Miss Smith,’ he said in a voice of infuriating calm, standing his ground. ‘I merely wish to speak to you.’

‘As you did before, I collect? That involved me being locked up in your house and intimidated with threats of Bow Street. And yesterday—was it you who chased me? Hunted me through the streets?’

‘Yes, I must apologise if I alarmed you. That was not my intention.’ He shifted a little so that light fell feebly on her hands and on the dark muzzle pointing at his chest. She could see his face better now, or at least the profile. Long nose, uncompromising jaw, high cheekbones.

‘Oh no, not at all, think nothing of it,’ she retorted with honeyed politeness. ‘Alarmed? I merely thought it was either some buck set on rape or Mr Salterton thinking to dispose of his messenger. It would have been foolish of me indeed to have been alarmed.’

‘Hell.’ He put up a hand, rubbed it across his mouth, the first crack in his composure she had so far detected. ‘I intended merely to follow you home and to make myself known. To talk to you. When you ran—’

‘I see. Like a hound you chase anything that runs away. How civilised.’ For such a tiny thing, the pistol seemed to be made of lead. ‘How is the earl?’

‘Better, a little, no thanks to you, Miss Smith.’ The apologetic note in his voice was gone again. ‘He is resting more easily, I think. In poor spirits, it depresses him to be so weak.’

‘I can imagine. My mother—’ She bit back the words. This man did not want to know about her mother, nor should she weaken enough to confide in him, perversely tempting though that was. It must be something about the solid strength of him, she thought, renewing her grip on the weapon.

‘Please go away,’ Nell said firmly. Movement at the end of the street caught her eye. A black carriage, its glossy sides catching the torchlight, pulled in against the kerb a few yards behind the viscount. ‘I do not wish to speak to you.’

‘But I want to speak to you.’

‘And what you want, you always get, my lord?’

‘Mostly.’ His mouth twisted wryly as though at a private joke. ‘It is warm in the carriage and comfortable. I only want to talk.’

‘No.’ Nell edged back, searched for the step with her foot, found it and realized she needed a free hand for the keys. But if she opened the door he could force his way in. ‘Stay there.’

The muzzle of the gun waved more wildly than she intended as she scrabbled for the key. The viscount moved suddenly to the right, she swung the gun round, he feinted and caught her wrist, the weapon trapped between them.

‘Let it go!’

‘No!’ Part of her realized he was not exerting his full strength and that even so, she was completely powerless. Nell opened her mouth to scream and a gloved hand covered it. She bit and got a mouthful of leather. She kicked and he moved sharply; their hands, joined around the pistol, jerked and the gun went off.

Reeling with shock and half deaf, Nell fell back against the railings. It had been loaded? It was a miracle no one had been hurt. And then she saw that Lord Stanegate was clutching his left shoulder.

‘Damn it,’ he said as she stared, aghast. ‘Do you want to kill us all?’

‘No! It was an accident—it wasn’t loaded! I tried it. It wasn’t loaded!’ The driver must have whipped up the carriage, for it was there beside them. Behind her, windows were flung open and people were shouting; in front of her, the big man she had thought so solid was swaying on his feet as the coachman jumped down from the box.

‘My lord!’

‘Get her into the carriage.’

‘No! I—’ Nell was picked up ruthlessly in arms that were more than capable of controlling a six-horse drag and thrown without ceremony into the carriage—to be followed by the viscount who slumped onto the seat.

The front door of the house opened; there were raised voices and someone shouted, ‘Murder! Call the Watch!’

She reached for the far door handle and was jerked back against the viscount with enough force to make them both gasp. ‘You shot me,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘Now you can stop me bleeding to death.’

‘I’ll get you home, my lord, just you hang on there.’

The coachman slammed the door and the vehicle lurched forward.

There was something hot and wet under her hand. Nell held it up in front of her face. Blood.

He was struggling with the buttons of his greatcoat. Nell pushed his hands away and tore it open herself, shoved it back over his shoulders, ignoring the grunt of pain. Stopping the bleeding was more important than worrying about hurting him. He deserves it, she thought fiercely, trying to ignore the panic churning inside her. I have shot a man. Dear God, I have shot a man.

The carriage lurched again and more light came in. They must have reached one of the major streets. Nell yanked at the greatcoat, then his open coat, then the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘Sit still and let me undress you,’ she snapped as he tried to help her—and was rewarded with an unexpected gasp of laughter, choked off as between them they pulled his arms free.

He was in his shirtsleeves now. His neckcloth would be useful as a bandage, she told herself, trying not to think about what would be revealed when she got the bloodstained shirt off him. Nell ripped down the buttons, careless of them flying loose, and dragged at the shirt. He was not helping now; she rather thought he was close to fainting.

She tipped him forward to rest against her while she pulled the shirt free, struggling with the weight of his body, her nostrils full of the metallic smell of blood.

Then she pushed him back to see what damage had been done. She mopped at his shoulder then peered at the wound in the poor light. It was not, she told herself firmly, as bad as it might have been. There was a raw, deep groove torn through his shoulder but the bullet was not buried in his body.

But it was bleeding like a spring, the blood already covering his chest. Nell bunched up the shirt and held it to the wound. He grunted, half conscious. It needed something finer to make a pad she could tie on with the neckcloth.

Nell reached under her skirts, took hold of her petticoat and tugged a ragged length of cotton free. That, at least, was easier to deal with. She made a pad, pressed it to the wound and began to bandage.

The viscount was coming round from his faint, his head restless against the squab.

‘My lord, be still. I cannot get pressure on this if you move.’

‘Hurts like hell.’ He grumbled. ‘Don’t know why I’m so damned dizzy. Hal said getting shot didn’t hurt. Bloody liar.’

‘You are dizzy because you are bleeding. And if it hurts, that serves you right, my lord,’ she retorted, finishing her binding. ‘You really are the most difficult man.’ They passed a row of grand houses, each with a flaring torch set outside. Light flooded in and she saw the naked torso under her hands clearly for a few seconds.

Not the pampered body of an indolent nobleman, she realized. But then, she hadn’t expected it would be. His ribs were strapped with muscle, hard under her palms. There were scars over his ribs, bruises. She frowned, puzzled, then guessed that he boxed, although that did not account for the scars.

Nell shivered, her hands sliding over the muscles, lingering on the scars. Crisp, dark hair tickled her palms. He is magnificent, she thought, suddenly breathless. Then he shifted, the muscle bunching and flexing, and she snatched her hands away, remembering what male strength could do, remembering who this was.

‘Just do as you are told for once and be still, my lord,’ she ordered. Blood was seeping through the linen. Nell put both hands on the bandage and pressed, kneeling up on the seat beside him to apply more force.

‘Marcus,’ he muttered.

‘Who?’

‘Me. My name. You cannot call me my lord every sentence, not when you’ve torn half my clothes off.’

He was teasing her?

‘My lord,’ Nell said with emphasis,’ we are nearly at Albemarle Street. You will kindly have your coachman drive me home the instant you are safely inside.’

‘Oh no, Miss Smith.’ He smiled thinly. Whatever his mood a moment ago, now she could discern no humour whatsoever. ‘You stay with me or John Coachman will take you straight round to Bow Street and lay charges of attempted murder by shooting.’