A Scot in the Dark

by Sarah MacLean

  “Do you?” Sesily asked. “Wish to be married?”

  Yes. But to another.

  “No. Not like this.” She looked to the earl. “Again, no offense, my lord.”

  Stanhope grinned, seeming to be enjoying himself immensely. “Again, none taken.”

  The afternoon had apparently unlocked Lily, and she could not stop speaking her thoughts aloud. “The point is, I don’t wish to saddle some nice man with a betrothal that will end in disgrace, or to . . .” She paused. “Or to . . .”

  She stopped, mind whirling.

  “Or to?” Sesily prodded.

  The solution crystallized.

  She looked to Sesily, then to Stanhope. “I must go.”

  That evening, Lily did not attend supper at Dog House.

  Alec arrived on time and took his place at the head of the table, waiting for minutes that stretched into half an hour. As the time passed, he prepared himself for the confrontation that was sure to come—the explanation of his deserting her in the center of Hyde Park in the wake of her peril, all of London looking on. Of what he’d been thinking.

  The truth was, he’d been thinking of nothing but chasing down the imbecile who’d entered Hyde Park on a horse he could not control. The moment Alec had made certain that Lily was alive, breathing, and would be well, he’d headed for the nearest horse, pulled some pompous aristocrat down, and, with barely a word, headed off in the direction of the runaway steed, leaving the baron he’d upended sputtering in anger.

  It hadn’t made him feel any better about the situation, which had sent his heart straight to his throat as he’d watched the horse bear down upon her, running at full tilt, desperate to get to her and terrified that he might not reach her in time. And then he’d had her in his arms and it hadn’t mattered where they were or who was watching; all he’d cared was that she was safe.

  He’d loathed the panic in her eyes when she’d struggled to regain her breath, he’d wanted to chase it away, and then do serious damage to the man who’d been responsible for it.

  He’d caught up with the rider—a young man barely out of school who was as frightened as he was unskilled, even before Alec arrived to frighten him more. When he’d returned to find Lily, she’d been gone, returned home by the ladies Talbot, he’d been told when he burst through the front door of the Dog House. Returned, along with both hounds.

  Angus had been there to meet him, but Hardy, the four-legged traitor, had obviously cloistered himself with Lily.

  Alec had assumed he’d be reunited with his missing housemates at the evening meal, but as thirty minutes had turned into forty-five and then a full hour, he’d realized that, once again, Lillian Hargrove had left him alone for a meal.

  If he wished to speak to her, he was going to have to go looking for her.

  Also, to retrieve his errant hound.

  Exiting the dining room, Angus on his heels, he nearly ran down the aging, curious housekeeper.

  “Your Grace!” she announced, as though she hadn’t been loitering in the hallway beyond, no doubt wondering what he was doing, alone, in the dining room.

  He had no patience for pleasantries. “Where is she?”

  Mrs. Thrushwill’s eyes went wide. “Your Grace?”

  He looked to the ceiling and begged for patience. “Miss Hargrove. Where is she?”

  “She asked for a tray earlier this evening. I think she is ill.”

  Was she hurt?

  It was possible that she’d been hurt more than he thought. She might have cracked a rib. Or struck her head when he’d pulled her to the ground. He took a large step toward the housekeeper, until he was close enough to tower over her. “Did she call for a doctor?”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “No, my lord.”

  Shit.

  He was already on the way to her. “Call a damn doctor.”

  He headed to the upper floor that housed the bedchambers, immediately bypassing the larger rooms for the smaller ones, reserved for guest use. He opened several doors before Hardy came from around a corner and stopped short with a little bark.

  Alec looked to the dog. “Where is she?”

  As if he understood, Hardy turned tail and disappeared around the corner once more. When Alec followed, he found the dog standing at attention, face to a mahogany door, tail wagging and sighing little, urgent cries.

  “Good boy.” Alec pet him absently. “I’ll deal with you later. We’re going to discuss your shifting loyalty.”

  But first, he set his hand to the door handle and turned.

  Inside, the room was pitch black.

  “Lily?” he said, moving quickly toward the bed, heart pounding. It was early and she was already dead asleep—perhaps she was hurt.

  Or worse.

  He said her name again in the darkness, concern flooding him. “Lily.”

  No answer. No movement from the bed.

  He fumbled for a flint on the table and felt to reach the candlestick there, dropping the little box from his hand as the flame burst into being, and turning to the bed.

  Lily wasn’t there.

  Neither were the bedsheets.

  That was when he noticed the open window, and the string of sheets running over the sill and across the floor to the leg of the oak bed.

  She had escaped.

  Absconded in the night.

  If, of course, she’d made it the three stories without killing herself in the process. He rushed to the window and leaned out into the dark garden beyond, looking down to the ground with no small amount of terror that he’d find her broken body below.

  All he found was a dangling rope of bedclothes, swaying in the wind.

  Cursing, he surveyed the rest of the grounds, hoping to find that she was practicing some kind of military maneuver instead of actually escaping Dog House in the dead of night to go God knew where with God knew whom.

  The thought gave him pause.

  Had she enjoyed Stanhope’s company so much that she’d decided to leave?

  Was it possible they were eloping?

  It was preposterous, of course. Alec wanted her married. He wouldn’t withhold his consent. But still, he couldn’t stop himself from conjuring the image of the largely nefarious things she and the perfect aristocrat might do once absconded into the night.

  If Stanhope kissed her, Alec would remove teeth.

  And that’s when he saw her.

  The back of her, barely there in the darkness, scaling the garden wall as though she’d been stone climbing for all her life.

  In men’s clothing.

  “Where is she going?” he said aloud to the dark and still and dogs.

  None of the trio answered, not even when Alec tested the strength of her handmade rope and, without hesitation, followed her into the night.

  He was down the surprisingly well-constructed rope, across the garden, and over the wall in three minutes—quickly enough for him to see her, hair tucked up into a men’s cap and breeches revealing far more than they should, duck into a nearby alley.

  He nearly got her.

  But as he came out on the far end of the pathway, it was to find the door to a hack a dozen yards away closing with a perfunctory click. He’d missed her by seconds.

  Turning, he hailed a hack of his own, climbing up onto the block with the driver instead of into the carriage behind.

  “Oy! Don’ care who y’are, sir. Ya ride in the carriage.”

  Alec ignored the words. “Follow that hack.”

  The driver was not green, thankfully, and he snapped the reins without hesitation, even as he said, “Followin’ costs ya double.”

  “I’ll pay you triple. But don’t you dare lose them.”

  He would not lose her. He would keep her safe if it killed him.

  The driver continued with renewed vigor, trailing Lily’s hack as they wove through Mayfair, south and east, the streets becoming narrower and grittier.

  Where in hell was she headed?

  Stanhope held a ven
erable title, with an ancient row house in Mayfair. He was also a gentleman. There was no way he would have summoned Lily in this direction on her own.

  Perhaps she wasn’t on her own.

  Perhaps he was inside the carriage with her, doing God knew what.

  Alec knew, as well. Knew the feel of her. The taste of her. Remembered every moment he’d spent with her in his own carriage two nights before.

  If Stanhope was doing anything like that, he’d murder him.

  He growled aloud at the thought, knowing he had no right to think it.

  This carriage was far too slow. “Give me the reins.”

  The driver shot him a look. “No, sir.”

  “I’ll pay you five times what you’re asking.”

  “I’m not lettin’ you drive, mi’lord.”

  “Fifty pounds.” The reins went slack. The horses slowed. Madness threatened. “I’ll give you fifty pounds if you let me drive.”

  It was enough to buy another gig. A nicer one than this hack.

  “Who are we followin’?” The coachman asked in shock.

  Alec took the reins and with a mighty, “Hyah!” they were off, the horses seeming to understand that they were driven by a man with power, skill, and a desperate desire.

  They careened through the streets, wheels rattling on the cobblestones, cool wind on Alec’s face, easing the frustration that had lurked—grown—since he arrived in London days earlier. He wanted a race. He wanted his curricle and matched horses and the wild roads of Scotland in the dead of night, terrifying and freeing and his alone.

  Instead, he had the tight turns of London, chasing after a woman he wanted more than anything to keep safe.

  He loathed London.

  “Who are we followin’?” The coachman shouted above the clatter of wheels, clutching the driving box in panic.

  Alec flicked the reins again. “No one important.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” the man asked with a laugh, “but fifty quid ain’t no one important.”

  Alec ignored the words. Of course she was important.

  She was slowly becoming everything.

  The coach crossed into Soho, storefronts suddenly ablaze with lights, prostitutes and their clients spilling onto the streets, pubs and gaming hells tempting passersby.

  “Where the hell is she going?” he said as he tempered the horses, his frustration threatening once more.

  “Looks like Covent Garden, if I ’ad to say, sir.”

  And, like that, he knew what she was doing.

  It wasn’t Stanhope she was going after. It was Hawkins.

  Derek made me feel loved.

  The memory of her story, of the way the pompous ass had manipulated her with his pretty promises, sent a thread of rage through him. The rage was followed by fear, which came with a second, possibly worse memory. A memory of Hawkins offering to take her to mistress. Of Alec leaning over the pompous git in the dimly lit back room at Eversley House, looking over his shoulder at a wide-eyed Lily and asking her if she wanted him.

  No.

  She’d said the word, but Alec hadn’t believed her. He’d heard the doubt in it. The uncertainty. He’d asked her to say it again.

  Pushed her to do it.

  She had, but perhaps she hadn’t meant it. Perhaps she did want him. Why else would she be here at—

  “They’ve stopped, m’lord.”

  He pulled up on the reins, gaze focusing on the carriage several dozen yards ahead in front of a nondescript row house tucked behind Bow Street. The door to the hack opened and Lily descended in her ridiculous outfit—trousers and shirt that billowed around her, clearly lifted from a wardrobe belonging to a much larger man—hat pulled low over her eyes, hair tucked up beneath.

  She tossed a coin up to the driver and the hack moved, heading quickly out of sight in search of a new fare. She hadn’t asked him to wait. Which meant she was planning for a long stay.

  Did she not think she would be missed at home?

  Home.

  The word unsettled him. It wasn’t as though the damn Dog House was his home. It certainly didn’t feel anything like his home in Scotland. And somehow, he wanted Lily to feel it was home. He wanted her to feel safe there. To believe that there was something good there for her.

  Something a damn sight better than whatever was inside the building she was skulking around.

  He passed the driver an exorbitant amount of coin. “The rest when I return. Wait for me.”

  The driver did not hesitate, leaning back on the block and tipping the brim of his cap down over his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  Alec was in the shadows within seconds, moving toward her as she paused outside the door and extracted something from her pocket. A key? She had a key to this place, quiet and dark and close enough to the Hawkins Theater for Alec to be certain of what was inside. Of who was inside.

  She slipped through the door, letting it swing shut behind her. The lock clicked as he drew close, and he cursed in the darkness.

  He was going to have to break in.

  Chapter 14

  A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WARDS

  As a man with a powerful sense of self-worth and a minuscule amount of actual worth, Derek Hawkins spent the majority of his time in full view of Society, trying to convince the aristocracy that the former was as well-founded as the latter was a travesty.

  Consequently, he was never at home in the evenings.

  No doubt, on that particular evening, he was at a club, or a dinner, or revealing his outrageous pomposity to a group of simpering women, each more desperate than the last to win the attention of the great Derek Hawkins, if for only a moment.

  Not that Lily did not understand that desperation.

  She had, after all, basked in its glow for long enough to be summarily ruined.

  Lily had no doubt that if he weren’t so obsessed with the world’s perception of him and his genius, he wouldn’t have so summarily ruined her. Certainly, he wouldn’t have paraded the woman in his already famed painting in front of all the world, without hesitation.

  Without consent.

  But no one had ever been important enough to Derek Hawkins to inspire him to act with honor. She knew that now. Was grateful for it, even, as she found she had no qualms entering his home, uninvited, when she knew he was not home.

  If he did not want her there, he should have asked her to return her key, no?

  Locking the door carefully behind her, she turned, ready to climb the stairs to her destination quickly, eager to avoid the housekeeper, who doubled as cook, and the butler, who doubled as valet.

  She had not expected to find the house so dark, however, and eerily quiet. She’d hoped for fires in the hearths along the way, some dim light to reveal her path, but there was nothing. She found a candle on the table near the door, and scrambled to light it.

  When that was done, she should have immediately headed for her destination—but something about the emptiness of light and sound made her curious. She ducked into the front room, which had, when she had played the role of Derek’s muse, been filled with elaborate gilded furniture.

  It stood empty now.

  The discovery sent her further into the bowels of the house, toward the kitchens, where a fire was always lit. The two aging servants were rarely far from the warmth of the room. Tonight, however, they were nowhere to be found. The hearth was dark. And there was a pile of dishware next to the large sink that was unexpected.

  Someone was living here. Alone.

  Returning to the front of the house, she peeked into other rooms, finding each one empty of its contents. A stray chair here and there, but no room ready to receive. Her heart in her throat, she crept up the stairs. Was it possible he no longer lived here? The thought spurred her forward, fast and full of nerves.

  What if it wasn’t here?

  She opened the door to his bedchamber, immediately grateful for the sweet scent of his preferred perfume assaulting her. He lived here. Which meant the painting
was here. She crossed the room, putting her hand to the door that adjoined his most precious space, the room he called his Room of Genius. She tried the handle, only to find it locked.

  Of course.

  Setting the candle on the low table between the bed and the door to his studio, Lily opened a drawer to search for the key. It had to be there. She’d come too far for it not to be there.

  And that’s when she heard the sound, soft and nearly silent from beyond the room itself. There was someone there.

  Heart threatening to beat from her chest, Lily turned left and right, desperately seeking an exit. She was on the third floor of the house, so escaping via the window was not an option. There was a massive cupboard on the other side of the room, large enough for two people, if she had to guess, but far too close to the door to the hallways beyond to consider it as a hiding place.

  The noise came again, and her gaze flew to the door, convinced that she could hear the handle turning.

  Derek was here.

  She was under the bed in seconds, with a little prayer of thanks to her maker for men’s clothing. She’d never have fit with skirts and crinoline.

  She held her breath as the door opened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath and trying with every ounce of her energy to resist the urge to move. To turn her head. To flee.

  The door closed, and he was in the room with her.

  It was only then that she realized she’d left the candle burning. He would know instantly that someone had been there. That someone was there.

  This had been a terrible mistake.

  Footsteps sounded, quiet and firm as he moved through the room.

  The door to the armoire opened quickly. Closed.

  She willed her breath to come easily, desperate to keep quiet.

  He made his way slowly around the foot of the bed, black boots coming into view as he crossed to the table where the candle burned. The light shifted, and though she could not see, she assumed he had lifted the candle.

  And then the bed shifted above her. Just barely, and her eyes widened as the boots moved. And a bare leg came into view.