Cecilia forced herself to breathe. She counted seconds until she lost track. She clutched the sill of the hackney so hard, coarse slivers worked their way through her gloves.
Inside the building, a shot rang out.
She jumped from the hackney and raced across the street. Vaguely, she heard the driver call after her. She reached the front of the building. Scrambling for the door, she pulled, then pushed. The slightly charred wood wouldn’t budge. She pressed her ear to it but heard nothing.
Something clattered on the street. She whirled to find the hackney speeding away. Cecilia cast hackney and driver from her thoughts and raced around the corner of the building.
The rickety carriage was there, filling the narrow alleyway. She slowed and crept along the side of the building toward the carriage. Her heavy skirt dragged along the rough wood wall. She bundled the fabric close to eliminate the telltale swish.
The driver wasn’t in his perch. She squeezed between the carriage and the building. The rough plank wall cladding snagged and tore at the fabric of her gown. Gritting her teeth, she pressed forward. Voices reached her…Mister Porter, William and, to her relief, Lord Robert. Inching forward, she reached the open doorway.
Chapter Eleven
“Careful, Porter, you already wasted one shot.”
Where he sat, tied to a rickety chair, Robert regarded his masked son-in-law with concern. Though William’s easy words and the sleek, loose black fabric of his shirt hid the evidence in the dimly lighted warehouse, Robert knew Porter’s first shot had found its mark. William must be in considerable pain and was certainly losing blood. He gave no indication of such, though, save a tightening at the corners of his mouth.
“This is no business of yours, Lefthook,” Porter snapped. Porter faced away from Robert, his intentions unreadable save by the set of his shoulders and timber of his voice. “What’s it to you if a duke goes missing? He’s not one of your whining cretins.”
“It doesn’t occur to you that caring about justice only for the downtrodden is just as evil as caring about it only for the wealthy?” William asked mildly.
Experimentally, Robert shifted against his bonds, which secured his ankles to the chair legs and his hands behind his back. The knife Porter’s unkempt associate pressed against the base of Robert’s throbbing skull jabbed deeper into his flesh. The chair he’d woken bound in was so decrepit, he was sure toppling it would smash the spindly frame and free him, but that was difficult to accomplish with a knife point stuck in the back of his neck. The trickle of blood, warm as it seeped from him, cooled where it absorbed into his cravat.
“Look, we’ve all backed off,” Porter said, pistol pointed at William. “We’ve left your precious borough alone. Don’t get greedy, Lefthook. Leave the duke to me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” William tensed.
Robert prepared to fling himself to the side. He had to help or get a blade in the neck for trying. He would not sit idly and watch William die.
A feminine scream split the air behind Robert. Porter whirled toward the sound, bringing the barrel of his pistol in line with Robert’s head. Wood splintered as something slammed into the man at Robert’s back. The knife wrenched sideways and slashed across his shoulder.
Before the blade hit the floor, William launched himself. Robert dove aside. William slammed into Porter. The chair crashed to pieces around Robert. He rolled, taking in a dizzying swirl of lavender skirts.
Hands still bound behind him, Robert used his legs to swipe Lady Cecilia’s out from under her. He rolled toward her, to get his body beneath hers as she toppled. A pistol report ricocheted through the warehouse just as Porter’s unkempt minion struggled back to his feet. The bullet slammed into the man’s chest.
A crash sounded beyond Robert’s head. He craned his neck, Lady Cecilia’s light frame atop him. William and Porter tumbled across the floor.
William came up on top. He slammed a fist into Porter’s face. The would-be kidnapper went limp.
William rolled free. He slid onto his back, flat against the dirt-and-soot-caked plank floor, panting. The face beneath his mask was white. Sweat slicked his skin.
“Oh,” Cecilia cried. She scuttled across Robert, reached William and dropped to her knees beside him. “Where?”
“Right side.”
“Again?”
Robert could read the tension in Cecilia’s shoulders. Grimacing, he levered himself into a sitting position and shook broken chair legs and now-loose rope free of his legs. A glance assured him that Porter’s lacky wouldn’t trouble them, or anyone, again. Not wishing to distract Cecilia, he swiveled to come up on his knees so he could look about for the knife. Hopefully, he could sever the rope that still bound his hands.
He heard a scrape of movement behind him and twisted. He took in William’s foundling, Dodger. The boy let out a low whistle. In both arms, he clutched a large leather satchel.
“Dodger, quickly,” Cecilia called.
The boy scurried to her side and handed over the bag.
She yanked it open. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes on the contents as she searched inside. She withdrew a bundle of bandages. “We need to clean this, but not here.”
“I’ll say,” Dodger agreed. “The watch is on their way over. That hackney driver went for them. Got stuck again, your lordship?”
“Shot,” William muttered.
“The watch?” Robert took in William’s prone form. “We have to get him out of here. Did you bring a carriage, boy?”
Dodger shook his head. “Too slow. I rode. There’s a carriage by the door, though.”
Robert nodded, recalling Porter had employed one, although he didn’t remember how he’d gotten into it or out. As if reminded of the assault, the throbbing in his head seemed to double. For a moment, the pain nearly blinded him. He gave his head a shake. “Dodger, help me with these ropes. We’ll get William into the carriage. I can wait here to press charges.”
The boy hurried toward Robert.
Cecilia cast Robert a sharp look over her shoulder. “Don’t you think leveling charges will be complicated?” She turned back to William. “Press your hand here. I have to sit you up so I can tie it in place.” With obvious effort, Cecilia levered him up.
“You’ll never be able to explain all this,” William said, each word forced through clenched jaws.
“Stay still, your lordship,” Dodger advised as he knelt behind Robert.
Dodger started to saw his bonds. Robert looked about at the broken chair, the dead lacky sprawled in a pool of blood. Nearby, Porter lay completely limp, the darkening bruise on his face bespeaking of Lord Lefthook, as surely as a signature.
“Nearly have them,” Dodger said.
Robert felt the rope loosen and pulled. A few more swipes of what he assumed was the boy’s knife, as Robert had finally spotted the lacky’s red-tipped blade, and his bonds came free. Muscles in his shoulders, arms and back cried out as he brought his hands around to rub his chaffed wrists.
“Help me,” Cecilia said. She’d maneuvered herself to William’s side and propped him up with a shoulder under his arm.
“I can manage,” William muttered.
“The hell you can.” Robert pushed to his feet. His knees protested kneeling for so long. He crossed to William, forced both hands under the other man’s arms, and lifted him to his feet.
“Show off.” William flashed a weak grin.
Robert pulled one of his son-in-law’s arms across his broad shoulders. “Walk with me or I’ll show off more by carrying you like a child.”
It took a bit of maneuvering to get William into the rickety carriage and to persuade the pair of old nags harnessed to it to back out of the alleyway. Hoping the dirt coating his clothing hid its fine cut and that the black of his coat hid the blood caked at the base of his skull, Robert took the driver’s seat. Cecilia, medical bag in hand, climbed inside with William.
“Climb on back,” Robert ordered Dodger. Recalli
ng how the boy had gotten there, he looked about. “Where’s your horse?”
“It’s his lordship’s horse, and I’ve hidden him. Can’t leave a horse that fine standing in these streets.”
Robert nodded. “Well, fetch him and we’ll tie him to the back.”
Dodger, looking smaller than usual from Robert’s perch, shook his head. “I’m going to hold up and see what happens here. Usually, don’t nobody wake up from one of his lordship’s punches anytime soon, but I want to see the watch take Porter. He’s nobody you want coming after you, my lord.”
Robert considered arguing, but the boy was right. They should know the outcome of the watch’s intervention. If William trusted Dodger to take care of himself on the streets, then Robert would as well. “Don’t take any risks.”
“I won’t, your lordship, and I’ll catch up before you get far, so as to show you the way in.”
“The way in?”
Dodger nodded. “Can’t carry his lordship in through the front door when he’s like that.” He glanced over his shoulder. “That puff of dust is the watch coming. They always gallop about like the world’s on fire, but they never get anywhere when you need them. You best be off.”
Robert offered a salute and set the team in motion. He hunched his shoulders, both to ease the strain and to appear smaller, to better play his part. He was nearly to the end of the street when the watch erupted around the far corner, behind him. Robert kept the nags’ pace steady, not that they had any speed to give, and didn’t look back. A weight of tension lifted as they turned onto the next street and no voices rose, no hooves came pounding after them.
They were halfway back to William’s London home when Dodger caught up, reporting Porter’s arrest. Maneuvering his borrowed mare out in front of the carriage, he led Robert to a stable on the street behind the townhouse. As it wasn’t William’s stable, Robert had never looked twice at the nondescript structure, assuming it belonged to one or another of the nearby homes. Inside, there turned out to be a tunnel that passed under the garden and into William’s basement. Robert was impressed at his son-in-law’s ingenuity, and a bit dismayed at his dedication to Lord Lefthook.
He was further dismayed when they emerged from behind a false dry goods rack to find Lanora seated at a desk in the small room, appearing as if she reviewed the housekeeper’s books. She looked up as they entered. Her eyes fixed on William, who leaned heavily on Robert. Her face remained expressionless. Movements slow, she placed a bookmark in the ledger and closed the heavy volume. She stood, one hand going to her lower back, belly protruding before her. Her eyes narrowed.
Cecilia stepped from the tunnel, coming to stand at Robert’s elbow.
Lanora turned a flat stare on her. “How bad is he?”
Lady Cecilia, small, smudged and wan, let out a sigh. “Once we have him cleaned up and stitched, two weeks, at a minimum.”
“Two?” William protested, but his voice came out weak. He cleared his throat.
“We’ll make it three.” Lanora’s tone brooked no argument.
“But the borough. I’ve only recently--”
“Your work won’t crumble in a day. Dodger will keep an eye on things for you,” Lanora said. She placed a hand on her belly. “Keep protesting, because I’m feeling in need of bedrest. It’s at least four weeks until the baby is due. Would you care to become a doting husband and spend every moment between now and then at my side, where I can keep an eye on you?”
William offered a lopsided grin. “I’d like nothing better.”
Lanora’s expression softened, but her emerald eyes took on a hard glitter as she turned to Robert. “Is this your fault, Father?”
Robert grimaced. His head had returned to a steady, sharp throbbing that threatened his vision once more. Easy as lifting William had been back in the warehouse, his son-in-law was beginning to grow heavy as he leaned on Robert’s protesting muscles.
“It’s mine.” Cecilia tipped her chin into the air.
Lanora pressed her lips into a thin line. “I have my doubts on that, but I suppose now is not the time. Tell Dodger and I what you need. I’ve already had the servants ready a bath for William. I’ll also have one drawn up for you.”
“And for your father,” Cecilia said.
Lanora turned surprised eyes back on him.
Robert shrugged. “Not on my account.”
Cecilia whirled on him, expression surprisingly vehement. “I will dress your shoulder and look at that knife hole in the back of your neck, but you will be clean first. Just because you didn’t manage to get shot, doesn’t mean I shan’t see to you.”
“Shoulder? Knife wound?” Lanora repeated.
“Slight scratches,” he assured her.
Lanora shook her head. “How many of them were there?”
“Only two.” William’s tone was rueful.
“But I was bound,” Robert added defensively.
“Off, up the stairs, the lot of you.” Lanora flapped her hands toward the room’s exit. “I’ll have the story later. You both look ready to drop. Don’t worry, I’ve sent Grace to the doctor for her shoulder and the servants on various errands. Your tubs will be cold, but your secrets safe.”
“I’ll see to the horses,” Dodger said somewhere behind Robert.
As he helped William across the room, Robert heard the false shelving swing closed, accompanied by a gentle swish of air. Lanora, for all her assurance about the servants, went ahead of them, peeking around each corner. They made their slow way above stairs, where Robert deposited William in his room, then took himself to the one Lanora ordered him into.
He walked into the clean, cozy guest room, then turned on his heels and walked out again. As much as his head pounded, it wasn’t as if he could simply lay his soot, dirt and blood-smeared self on Lanora’s guest coverlet. It was bad enough they’d already tracked footprints up from the cellar.
Robert trotted back down the steps, firmly ignoring how the motion heightened the pain in his skull. He fetched a bucket and water. First, he dunked his throbbing head in, then he washed his hands. Tentative fingers found a large bump forming where Porter had hit him from behind. As there was little to do for that, Robert sat down and removed his boots. He placed them by the kitchen door. Let the servants make of them what they would, so long as they cleaned them.
Feeling slightly better, he located a mop and eliminated the boot prints leading from the false shelving and through the kitchen. He kept up his work until he reached the lushly carpeted upper hall. Fortunately, their trek through the home had absorbed much of the dirt before they made their way upstairs, but the servants would still have to clean the rug. Robert shrugged. He wasn’t attempting to eliminate their work, just any part of it that might be overly incriminating.
The home oddly quiet with everyone out or in William’s chambers, Robert returned to the kitchen. He used a large kettle to heat enough water to bathe. His breeches were relatively unscathed, acceptable once he beat the dirt and soot from them. His coat, shirt and vest were slashed through at the shoulder and caked with blood. His cravat was stained red. He threw the lot on the fire, rather than explain them.
Rummaging through the pantry, he collected honey and vinegar. He used the vinegar to clean the cuts on his neck and shoulder, deeming both shallow enough not to require stitches, though he could only see the gouge at the base of his skull poorly reflected in shiny pot lids. Promising to purchase the household new linens if required, he shredded several towels for compress and bandages. He coated the wounds with honey before applying his makeshift dressings.
Finally clean and adequately bandaged, but clad only in breeches, he returned to his assigned room. He realized, in burning his clothing, he’d relegated himself there for the time being. He couldn’t very well wander about hardly dressed or return home that way. He supposed he would have to send Dodger for fresh attire from Solworth House. William was correct. The boy was quite useful.
Back in the room Lanora had assigned
him, Robert shoved a ridiculous display of overstuffed pillows from the bed and stretched out flat atop the coverlet. The muscles in his back and shoulders radiated pain, but also relief. Robert gazed up at the light blue canopy above. He was cold, but now that he’d stopped moving, climbing back out of the bed to lift the covers and crawl beneath them seemed an unfathomable amount of work.
His vision turned in a slow whirl. He muttered a curse for Porter. Who hit a man he intended to ransom that hard? He could have killed Robert. As it was, his head wouldn’t be right for days.
Who hired a man like Porter as a kidnapper, anyhow? Robert realized he hadn’t even asked Cecilia what the note demanded. He would need to. He must get to the bottom of this ill-conceived kidnapping.
He shivered. The air was so damp in England, always clinging, cold and wet. He missed Egypt. He missed the warmth, the brightness. He missed the space. Outside the press of Cairo stretched a vastness of sun-drenched, ever-shifting sands. A man could ride to the top of a tall dune, look out across the world, and see forever. It was as if the depth of history hidden in the desert cast a spell over the present, stretching reality endlessly. In Egypt, Robert never felt his forty years. The very air tasted of possibility.
Chapter Twelve
Cecilia set her medical bag beside Lord Robert’s door and knocked softly. There came no reply. She could see no light spilling from underneath the door into the hall, lit now by candles as night had fallen. She bit her lip, unsure what to do. He might not be inside. He may have returned home. She’d all but ordered him to remain, but who was she to order a duke?
Or he might have fallen asleep. He needed his wounds tended. She hadn’t meant to spend so long on William. In truth, he’d suffered much worse in the past. The bullet had merely skimmed his side, leaving a long gash, not entered.
After cleaning the wound and stitching it closed, she’d set his hand to soak as well, taking extra time over him to satisfy Lanora, and her own guilt. William had been shot, again, and it was all Cecilia’s fault. She’d confessed as much while she worked. Then, she’d given in to Lanora’s urging to bathe and don clean clothes. Now, she was derelict in repairing the second man injured today because of her.
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