by Edith Layton
Her maid shivered back against the cushions. The poor creature, Francesca thought sadly, seeing her terror, was foreign, after all, and didn’t understand London. But the girl had come from just such a place in Paris, and understood all too well.
“You needn’t come with me,” Francesca told her, and taking a breath the way a swimmer might take in air before a plunge, she stepped out of the coach. But she couldn’t hold her breath forever, so her next intake of air told her as much about her surroundings as her eyes had done. For the stake, leather-scented, horse-tainted scent in the closed coach was as perfume to what she breathed in now.
“Please wait for me,” she told the coachman evenly.
And as she sought and found the cracked bit of marble that surely had read “Three” before urchins had defaced it, she heard the coachman’s whip crack, and saw him gone done the street, eyes front, face set, carriage and horses and maid and all but her courage gone with him, even as his had fled.
She wasn’t brave in the least, she knew. But she couldn’t sit on the filthy street and weep, nor could she pick up her skirt and rush after him, nor would it be sensible to wander away now. There was nothing to do but do what she’d come to do, and, she thought, noting the legless old black beggar inching toward her on his rolling platform, and the two rough-looking young men uncoiling from the darkened doorway where they’d hidden, she’d better get on with it.
It made no sense to rush into the darkened entry of number three. So she walked there, quickly but deliberately, for it made less sense to stand in the street to be accosted. She’d little faith in the protectiveness of strangers in this neighborhood, and knew no one who could help her there, but someone she knew who lived within number three might. If he was there, if he was at home, she thought, her breath and her thoughts keeping rhythmic pace with her slippers as she climbed up the stairs and tried to ignore the sounds of other feet following. There were two of them, and for all her increasingly labored breathing as she followed the spiraling steps higher and higher, and for all her busy, frantic thoughts, she could clearly hear them coming, laughing, laughing ever louder as she picked up speed, although her heart would burst from the effort of it. At the summit, she did not so much as knock as fall upon the single door in the narrow hall, and she beat her fists upon it as the two men, breathless too, both from the climb and the look of their prey close up, came on a level with her.
“Oh, here,” breathed one, a young and pale-haired one, so gently her spirits rose, so tender was the look of admiration upon his gaunt, unshaven face. “Oh, look at what we got here, ain’t she something? Ain’t she?”
“Oh, yes,” his companion said, this one less gently, this one darker of eye and hair, and though no older, far bolder of eye and surer of himself, as well. Although just as plainly and poorly dressed, he wore, she saw, a great deal of hair pomade, and the scent of it was as strong as that of her fear as he stepped up to her.
“Me first,” he said to his companion, “then you. You take all day,” he said disdainfully, ignoring Francesca even as he reached out to clasp her shoulder hard. “I’m ready now, see?” He gestured where Francesca was appalled and sorry she’d looked. “And then you,” he promised, still looking at his companion, “if you don’t take a year at it this time, ’ear? ’Cause then it’s to Mother Carey’s with ’er, and wiv that in our pockets and ’er under our belts, that’ll make a fine day’s work.”
“But,” the young pale-haired one said hesitantly, and she took heart, “ortn’t we to hold her to ransom, then? Better profit in it than selling her to Mother Carey.”
“Gawd,” the dark-eyed one sighed, never looking to Francesca yet, though he still held her shoulder tightly, as he fumbled in his clothing with his other hand, “what ’ave you got for a brain—wot I got in my ’and now? ‘Old ’er to ransom where, fool? Inna street, in our lodging ’ouse? They’d ’ave word of ’er inna day and take ’er away from us wiv nuffin’ but a beating for our reward. Nah, Mother Carey’ll give us sumpt’n for ’er, at least.”
Still glowering at his companion, he began to push Francesca backward with the hand that he’d hard upon her shoulder. There was no desire in his voice or face, indeed, he seemed far more interested in squabbling with his companion than in molesting her. But there was no doubt of his intent. She was, after all, fair game. Females who traveled unescorted in the better parts of London were open to insult and invitation. Those who ventured here alone were clearly welcoming abuse. If they weren’t for sale, they were mad or misled. It made no matter. Neither malice nor lust really inspired the young men; in their world, where nothing was easily come by or discarded, simply, such opportunity couldn’t be wasted.
Even knowing this, it seemed incredible to her that she’d be taken in any fashion, casually or not. She refused to think of being portioned out, or of exactly what it would all mean, for if she did, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t fight them, though she would, she knew, when she had to, whether or not it would avail her. She would beg them too, if she had to, when she had to. But for now, she couldn’t give up her one real, rational hope of escape. So she spun around, her shoulder still held in that heavy hand while she beat upon the door and cried, “Harry…oh, Harry…Harry, I’m here!”
“Oh, yeah, ’Arry, she’s ’ere, all right,” the bold one said, brusque and impatient as he turned her around and began to pull up her skirt. “’Urry ’Arry,” he said mockingly, “or you’ll lose yer turn.”
“Let her go!” the voice commanded, thinner and higher than she remembered, but determined. “Let her go or die,” it said.
She turned in her captor’s arms even as he dropped his hand from her, and saw the man standing in his shirtsleeves, in the now-open doorway, his serviceable army pistol lowered, held in two hands, and pointed straight at the dark man.
“’Ere guy, just ’aving some fun,” the young man said, smiling in a terrible sham or mirth as he backed away, although not so far away as his companion had already sprung to the head of the stairs. “Just fun, mister, just fun,” he said on a rising note as he grunted with the effort and then vaulted the banister and was away, before his terrified companion could try to shoulder him aside, away and down the stairs.
“Harry,” she said weakly, “Harry,” she said with prayerful relief, “Oh, Harry,” she said, coming into his arms and feeling his body trembling as much as hers was.
When she’d got her breath in one long unshaken draft again, she walked with him into the room, his arm still tightly around her. It was a huge, almost empty garret, with a skylight to illuminate the makeshift bed and the few sticks of ancient furniture and an old paint-encrusted easel in the corner.
“I like high places,” he said on a shaky laugh, gesturing to his realm with the gun he still held, “and it seems artists do too. Francesca,” he said, “oh, my dear, I wish I were an artist so I could have had a picture of you to sustain me all these weeks. But I came even without one, I came just with the memory of you in my heart. And now I’ve you,” he said, gazing down at her with wonder. “But how did you find me? Never mind,” he said quickly, “we haven’t time for that now. We must be gone from here. You never know when they’re coming back—I made enemies there,” he said nervously, listening, for a moment, to some distant tumult on the lower stairs.
“Later,” he said, smiling tenderly. “We’ve all the rest of our lives for it later.”
He looked thinner and worn, not so much agile as slight, not so much fine-boned as fine-drawn now, but that, she thought, as she stared at him critically as he bent to drag his portmanteau out from a corner, might be because her eye had got used to a different sort of masculine ideal and was used to admiring a more substantial gentleman. Then she remembered everything that horror had chased from her mind.
“I cheated and lied to find you, Harry, for I had to find out why you’d harmed Arden,” she said as he stopped in mid-motion and looked at her. “They’ve recognized you—some army friends of his—and I ha
d to connive to discover what they knew,” she added as his look of surprise changed to something like the mindless fear she was sure she’d shown only moments before.
“Then we must leave at once,” he said tightly.
“Why did you do it?” she asked firmly, standing in front of him. She’d bar him from the door bodily if he didn’t answer her, she thought, bizarrely, even to herself. “Why, Harry?”
“For you,” he said simply, “all for you. You had to be free of him. I knew. What was it you said back in France?… Ah, yes. You told me he was a great beast. And so he is, or was—is that why you’re here, is he gone now? I hope so. I had to destroy him for you, to set you free. For you’re a lady, Francesca, and life is no fairy story. All your kindness wouldn’t convert him from being a beast. And that, you were right, truly was the case.”
Well, he knew that, Arden thought as he stood there at the open door, his lips half-open on the glad utterance of her name he’d begun when he saw her standing there safe and whole and alive. Warwick looked away, and Julian, shocked and saddened, looked straight at him, but he didn’t move. His back hurt, after all, from his exertions with the two villains he’d met upon the stairs, the two old legless Black Bob had told him followed her here. So they’d all understand his silence.
But it was true, of course. Even if he could admit the pain of it only in little bursts, because the whole of it taken in all at once would kill him, surely. He was never angry at her for voicing it, only at himself for deluding himself for even a moment, thinking he could ever be a lover to that lovely lady. For so he was, he thought, just as she’d said, a beast—a great cumbersome beast. Hadn’t the world always told him so? Or would have, if they’d dared, and if he hadn’t always saved them the bother by telling them first. And a stupid beast, at that, for forgetting that, he thought, staring at the pair lost in contemplation of each other in this dim, bare skylit room open almost to the sky it lay so close beneath. He gazed at her in that fading twilight as he would at something beautiful come to him in some odd, idyllic dream that was already fading into dawn, thinking how idiotic he’d been to so much as imagine she’d ever have him as anything but a friend or take him close to herself unless she’d been in dire need of a sanctuary. A big, safe one—only that, he thought dumbly. Yes.
She paused and closed her eyes and swallowed hard. But couldn’t rid herself of the distaste she felt remembering that lost girl who’d said that, who’d been herself so long ago, those short weeks ago, in France. Then she opened her eyes and yet looked within herself. And so smiled in a sweet remembrance that came to her so clearly it took her breath away, along with the sight of the dismal room and all its contents, and the sour taste of her green judgment made in her green years, those weeks ago.
“And so he is,” she said slowly, each word clear, tolling clear in Arden’s ears, “And so he is,” she agreed, actually grinning now, “And so, thank the Lord, he is—a very great beast is my Lion. Bold and strong and brave and fine is my Lion,” she said proudly. “Only no—not mine,” she corrected herself hastily, as Harry stared at her, “for he won’t have me, Harry, not in any way. You came to free me, you said, and so I’ve come to tell you that though you may have thought your intent noble, you did a terrible thing. If you want to free me, do it correctly, by leaving me, and let Arden alone. For I won’t go with you, Harry, not anywhere. I don’t love you. I’m sorry, but there it is. But because I thought I once did, I warn you now—don’t you ever attempt Arden again, do you hear? Because if you take his life, you’ll take mine—as well as yours. For he is my life, and I vow I’ll never rest until I take yours in turn. I, too, can hold a gun. Yes, that’s so,” she said fiercely, standing stiffly and looking directly at him.
His hands trembled as he gripped his portmanteau and lowered it to the bed. He’d grown pallid as he stared horrified at her, and so she went on more gently, “What’s done’s done, Harry. Do no more. At least not on my behalf. Because you don’t know my heart. It’s here, with him, and will always be, whether or not he ever accepts it.”
“But I came to England, risked my safety,” he stammered, “it took all my courage and put my own life at risk, it cost me anxious days and sleepless nights, and all for you…” His voice grew shrill though his face still showed shocked sorrow. “I endangered myself for you, and all for nothing?” he asked, unbelieving.
“For something, Lieutenant Devlin,” Arden said as he entered the room, “if only for the sake of knowing that you could run such risks if you felt you had to, that’s worth a great deal, I should think. Hello, Francesca,” he said affably as she gaped at him. “How nice to see you. Do you come here often?”
It might have been the unexpected sight of the big man walking and talking as though he’d never been shot, as though he were a risen ghost, or it could have been the two other gentlemen standing and waiting in the doorway like patient minions of authority, or it could have been the dreaded sound of “Lieutenant” that threatened him the most. But Harry Devlin raised his pistol, and though he took a step backward, he was still close enough to make a far more decisive hole in Arden Lyons this time if he so chose, if he so much as squeezed the trigger his finger was locked on now.
Arden went on talking, not so much as raising a brow, although there was a sharp intake of breath from the vicinity of the door, and Francesca froze in place.
“Oh, put it down, lad,” he said in his deep, smooth accents, scarcely glancing at the death inches away from his eyes. “You heard the lady, she’ll be after you like a vengeful fury if you singe my eyelashes. None of us are here to harm you anyway,” he continued in accents so calm and reassuring that Francesca began to understand his tranquility as well as the purpose of his gentle humor. The very commonplace of it made violence seem out of place, and the comfort of sane discourse itself began to lessen the tension that had been almost palpable in the room. She understood that he was a master of many sorts of unexpectedly effective weapons as he went on off-handedly, “Those are my friends the Duke of Peterstow and the Viscount Hazelton who are so rudely gaping at us. They’ve nothing to do with armies or wars, except for their own private ones. We come to praise Francesca, not to bury you,” he said, smiling, “and it’s all the same to me whether you go or stay in England, so long as she is safe.”
“I shot you,” Harry said, but he licked his lips as he was perspiring like a man whose fever had just broken.
“So you did. Don’t congratulate yourself on it, neither,” Arden said ruefully. “Only a blind man could miss such a fine target, you know.”
“In the back,” Harry said in a strangled voice, his pistol still tight in his hand.
“So you did,” Arden said quietly. “I can’t approve that, but so you did.”
“Do you despise me for it?” Harry insisted.
“No,” Arden answered, “but I believe you do, lad.”
“You think I’m afraid to shoot you now, as you face me, man to man?” Harry asked breathlessly.
“No,” Arden said, looking at him then, keenly and with unblinking gaze, “not at all. But I think it would take a different kind of courage not to. I think it would be extremely brave of a man to allow another he despised and could easily rid himself of, to live. And I’d thank you for it,” he said simply.
Harry lowered the pistol then.
“Thank you,” Arden said.
“Is it to be Bow Street or the army court-martial for me, then?” Harry asked, sinking to the bed and not raising his head as Julian removed the pistol from his limp hands.
“Not Bow Street!” Arden said, recoiling. “And not necessarily a court-martial either, Devlin. I’ve heard Wellington will often make exceptions. There was one chap he recommended for naval duty after he’d fled a battle in Spain. Of course, that’s entirely up to you.”
“No,” Harry said softly, shuddering, “no more war, by sea or land. I want to go back to France and live out my days in peace. I wanted Fancy with me for her brother’s sake as well
as mine, I wanted to save her more pain.”
“As do we all,” Arden agreed. “It was brave of you to come so far and put so much at risk for her, Devlin, that is true.”
“So you’ll let me go?” Harry said then, raising his head and staring at them.
“Of course. Why not?” Arden answered on a shrug.
At a glance from Julian, Francesca recovered herself, and bending to Harry, she whispered a good-bye, and then stepped with the gentlemen to the door. At that Harry spoke again, in a rush. It had been a long while since he’d spoken with his equals, he knew he was in no more danger, and he had more to say than good-bye, for he knew it was the last he’d ever see of them.
“I never meant to turn and run that day,” he said hurriedly. “I’d done it before I knew. It was ghastly—the noise, the blood, the sounds of dying. You cannot know,” he said, speaking to Arden now, and not to Francesca.
