“Milady?” he said, breaking her train of thought.
“Yes?”
“I...” he cleared his throat. “I have something to say.”
“Yes?” she frowned. Her heart thumped. His face was earnest. She waited to hear him, her emotions a maelstrom of feelings.
“You...sorry,” he laughed, shaking his head. “My lady, I am useless with words. I have tried, in vain, to learn a whit of poetry, but I'm afraid it never stuck. My lady, to you I must speak, and speak plain. You are, frankly, the woman my heart loves and always will. I have met no other like you. I know I will not. You are remarkable. I had to tell you that now, before...” He shook his head. “Well, while I had the opportunity.”
Mirabelle stared at him. Something was happening inside her – some great force building and building, like water behind the stone wall of a dam. She stared at him. He had said...what had he said? Her mind had slowed, and she could not make sense of the words.
You are the woman my heart loves. I know I will not meet another like you.
She tried to say something, but her voice was choked by the lump in her throat and she had to cough.
“My lord,” she said. “I...” she trailed off. What could she say? It was just so remarkable, so unexpected! At once, a wariness crept over her. What had Marguerite said? A cad? Charming?
She looked at him and knew it was sincerity she saw written there. All the same, she had to take things slowly. She had risked everything, by trusting him like this. Ought she to be more open? Risk absolutely everything by telling him the unutterable truth within her heart?
He just risked everything, a voice said inside her. Tell him. Tell him you love him, while you can. While you are still alive to do so, and he alive to hear it. You might never have another chance.
Mirabelle opened her mouth. She couldn't trust herself to say those words. She bit her lip, closing it again. When she felt as if she was more composed, she spoke.
“I will always esteem what you said most highly,” she said, hating the stilted, conventional words. They burned her throat like fire. “I...value your trust in me, to say such things. It is... unusual. And valuable. And I thank you for entrusting me with such words.”
He looked startled, as if she had slapped him. She looked away out of the window, and felt herself close to tears. What could she say? He was here, so close she could reach out and touch him. And she was a widow, alone, and could not afford any scandal.
“Yes,” he said tightly. “Well.”
They said nothing else. What were they to say, when all that was said.
And this time tomorrow we might both be dead. There is no reason for more words between us.
Mirabelle sat and watched the town slide past; patterns of buildings, light and shadow. She watched it, drinking in the sight of familiar things. She felt distantly fond, as if she were already dead, and saw them with the warm nostalgia of memory.
That is where I used to walk with Aunt Marlena. That is where I wore my first party-frock.
She sighed. It was all distant memories of another life, more remote than the French novel she had read.
“Sisley street,” the cab-driver called down. The coach stopped. Neither of them moved.
“So,” he said. His voice bled.
“So,” Mirabelle said.
He stood and wordlessly opened the door, got out. He posted himself at the door and reached up a hand for her, and she took it, to exit the coach. His hands were cold.
Outside, the morning was fresh and cool despite the sunlight that poured down from a mercifully-clear sky. Mirabelle drew her coat tighter about her, shivering. She looked around.
The area was ordinary – a part of London that was neither well-to-do, nor overtly poor. Small houses, their bottom floors shops, clustered together, window boxes and cheerfully-patterned curtains decorating some of them. Somewhere a child cried, and was hushed. Mirabelle looked around.
“Number thirty-four,” Lord Bradford said. “It must be here somewhere.”
“Yes.”
Mirabelle followed him down the street, feeling as if she floated above it, wraith-like. Her skin was tissue-paper, each current of air apparent to her, making her shiver. She felt raw, but also fiercely alive. The world was a riot of colors and scents and she could have wept that she only noticed now, when it seemed likely she might soon leave it.
“I'll go up.”
Mirabelle wanted to protest, wanted to ask him to wait, to never do it. But Bradford was already walking up the stairs, knocking at the door.
“Yes?”
Alfred Stilton himself appeared, peering out. He saw Bradford and his eyes went wide with surprise. Then he saw Mirabelle, standing behind him. She saw the fear flare in his eyes, briefly. She wasn't sure if that was a good sign. His face clouded, then went blandly still.
“Ah,” he said, raising one brow. “Lady Mirabelle, I know you. But who is this gentleman?” he inquired, frowning up at Bradford mildly. “Sir, I think I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance?”
“And you won't, either,” Bradford said. Mirabelle stared at him, somewhere between horror and astoundedness. “Nor anyone else's. Not if you don't do precisely as Lady Mirabelle instructs.”
Mirabelle saw Alfred's throat work in horror. She felt her fear turn to a savage triumph, then fought it down as he turned to her, face gray.
“Lady Mirabelle,” he said tightly. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I do not appreciate being threatened,” Mirabelle said. “Nor coerced. And you, sir, have tried to do both. Now, I am here to give you very clear instruction. You will cease your dealings with me. You will talk directly to my solicitor. And you will accept his terms. This blackmailing will stop.”
“Blackmailing?” Alfred asked, brow raised. “Milady! I assure you, I have done nothing of the sort. Merely sought to convey the information I have from your late husband's dealings...”
Mirabelle felt anger rise up in her throat, choking her. “You had me followed,” she spat. “Your man would have killed me. He said so. And for what?”
“Milady,” Alfred said, smiling blandly at her. “Come. You're overwrought. Come inside, why don't you? I will have my maid prepare a good posset and then we can discuss matters when you are...of sound mind.”
“Sound mind?” Mirabelle felt her temper fray. At the moment that she rounded on the fellow, Bradford stepped forward. He didn't make any visible move, but the cane Mirabelle had not noticed he carried was suddenly level with the captain's chest-bone.
“You ought to know this is a sword-stick,” Bradford said tightly. “I would have no qualms about running you through. There's not a court that would blame me if it was in self-defense. Now, I suggest you listen to what Lady Mirabelle is saying, if you wish to draw more breath.”
Alfred was no longer gray, but white. Mirabelle saw him draw one breath, and then another. He looked, she reckoned, about as terrified as she had felt, that day in the street when his servant chased her. She found it hard to feel any compassion.
“My lady! I...” Alfred trailed off. “I tell you the truth! I only told you...to save you the trouble. I...ouch,” he added, as Bradford leaned in a little more. He hadn't yet pulled the little catches that would reveal the sword within the walking-cane, but Mirabelle had the sense that he was itching to do so at the slightest provocation. She frowned.
“Captain, I suggest you come down those stairs and talk to us. And don't make any move to get away. Or try and evade telling us the utter truth.”
“I am telling the truth,” he insisted. Mirabelle looked at him. Bradford looked back.
“I think we should let him tell us.”
Bradford nodded. The cane moved back fractionally. The man straightened up. He drew in one gasping breath after another. Mirabelle waited.
“Your husband was involved with these merchants,” he said after a long pause. “He...yes, I too...traded their tobacco when it had no dues paid on it. We d
id well. But now, with things as they are, the merchants want their dues. And so, not knowing where to find Lord Steele, they came to me.”
“And you waited three years before coming to tell me,” Mirabelle managed to say. “And then, conveniently, when I arrive in town with a reasonable chance of paying, you come and threaten me.”
“Milady! I couldn't find you! How was I supposed to know where to look? You were out of town!”
“If you were a confidant of my husband's, you would have known where his estate was,” Mirabelle said. She saw him stare in shock and knew he knew himself outmatched.
“Should I kill him, milady?” Bradford asked. He sounded mild, as if she asked him to fetch a jar of unguent from the apothecary.
“I think we don't have to,” Mirabelle said, her voice so level it surprised her. “He's told us all he can.”
“So you believe me?” the man said, sounding relieved beyond reason. “I...Oh, milady!”
“I don't believe you, no,” Mirabelle said. “I said you told us everything you could.”
Bradford raised a brow and she could almost see the smile on his face. She turned away, not wanting to smile either.
“Come on,” she said to him.
Bradford nodded and stepped away. He walked back a pace or two, cane at the level, but Alfred Stilton seemed a finished man.
He stayed where he was, leaning against the balustrade, while Bradford backed away, with Mirabelle beside him.
“Come on,” Bradford said gently.
“Yes.” She nodded. “We can leave.”
She turned away and walked silently beside him. As they turned the corner, heading to the end of the quiet street, she felt another silence descend on her. This was not a space of fear: rather it was the silence her words should have filled. The words that said that she loved him.
She cleared her throat.
“Thanks,” she said.
He made a small sound that could have been a grunt, or a laugh. Or both. “It was nothing.”
“That's not true,” Mirabelle said quietly, turning to look up at him briefly. “It was immensely valued.”
He smiled. It was a sweet, sad smile. She realized in that moment just how much she'd hurt him. But what could she do? She was a woman alone, her reputation as weak as she felt in this moment. She had no words to say to him. No words she could say, though many she wished she could. I am in love with you. I love you.
But how could she risk saying that? No – better that they stay hidden inside her, a secret.
That was when the shadow detached itself from the darkness by the building, and ran at him.
Chapter 17: Moment of discovery
“Bradford!” Mirabelle screamed. She had no idea that she'd moved – didn't think about it, or care about it – all she cared about was that someone was attacking Bradford, and she was going to save him.
She flew at the assailant, who had his back to her. Not thinking about what she was doing, she grabbed his shoulders and hauled him sideways, wrapping her arms round the musty-scented coat, making herself a dead weight. She went sideways, clinging on him. The fellow, caught off balance, went with her.
They hit the pavement in a flail of limbs and the sound of a startled cry.
“You blackguard!” Mirabelle screamed. She had recovered first from the sudden fall, and found herself kneeling on the coat of the disorientated man, beating down at him with the discarded cane, which she had grabbed as soon as she was up. S
he saw horror turn to fear in his eyes, and winced as he cried out in pain.
“You devil!” she yelled.
She struck down again with the cane, using her full force. She wasn't frightened anymore. She was furious. He had attacked someone she loved, and in that moment, she didn't care that she could, if she hit him properly, likely kill him.
The second blow struck high up on his skull and she saw him fall back to the cobbles, stunned. She stared down. What had she done? Her rage cooled.
He lay still.
She watched for a second and discerned he breathed. The relief washed through her like a tide. She felt her arm go limp by her side, fingers almost dropping the cane she held. She didn't want to be a murderer.
He wasn't dead. But they had to move quickly. If he recovered, he would come after them with full force. The street was truly silent, and people probably wouldn't come to intervene – not in this neighborhood. She turned her attention to Bradford, where he lay on the cobbles.
He was pale as if dead. His face was utterly still. Honey-colored hair made halos round his head, which lay against the gray cobbles. His eyes were shut.
“Bradford,” Mirabelle whispered. “No.”
She felt his heartbeat. It was there. His lips were blueish and, in his hair, she felt something sticky – blood, coagulating.
She drew her hand back, heedless of the rust-colored stains there. It was his blood. She loved each part of him. She wiped her hand on her skirt and then gently stroked over the injury, feeling for a crack in the skull. The whole area was swelling fast, hot to the touch. If it was cracked, it was too swollen for her to discern.
“You need a doctor,” she said aloud, addressing his deathly-pale face.
Head injuries, she knew, were contrary things. A person could be struck like this and lie for weeks, unconscious. Or they could wake in a few hours and be perfectly lucid.
“Oh, Bradford,” she whispered. “I need to get us some help.”
She bent down and lifted his arm. Tucked her own under it. Wrapped her arms around his chest in an embrace, and leaned back, hauling him up. He was heavy. She would never have imagined a person could be so heavy, when they were completely out cold. She leaned back more, and managed to get him onto his knees, his body limp and pressed against her own.
“I can't...move you.” she said, grunting with her effort to get him up. She stood, and managed to get him leaning against her, his weight braced against her chest. There was no way she could walk like this.
“I'm going to have to try.”
She stepped forward, and he dragged behind her, boots dragging on the cobble-stones. She winced, hoping she wasn't harming.
“Help?” she called out, questioning. “Someone help me?”
She had little breath for entreaties, but she kept it up as she walked, step by slow step, Bradford's body with its lukewarm warmth pressed to her, his legs limp, feet dragging.
She drew him to the corner, bracing his weight on her left hip, hauling him along.
“Help?” she whispered, exhausted now. She leaned against the building on the corner. “Help me?”
Footsteps. Two people, maybe three, trudging over cobblestones. She found strength to shout.
“Help?”
It came out hoarse and cracked, little louder than a spoken word, but one of the three people heard her. Three men were passing, clad in greatcoats and top-hats, the foremost one walking with a cane not unlike Bradford's one.
The man stared. He had a squarish face and auburn hair. His hazel eyes met hers.
“I say,” he said to his companions. “What's this, eh? Milady?” he walked over, face a picture of concern. “Can I help you?”
“Please,” she whispered. “He was attacked. We need a physician...”
Her voice trailed off, exhaustion suddenly swamping her as the promise of some help hove into view. Finally, she could stop being so desperately strong. If only for a moment.
“I say! Lewis, will you hold him? That's a fellow. There. Milady! Don't fall...Here. Take my arm. That's it. Now...Howard? Can you go ahead and hail a Hansom? Where is your abode, milady?”
“D...Dalford house,” Mirabelle whispered. She leaned on the man's arm, breathing in the scent of spiced pomade. She was shaking.
“Fine. You heard, Howard? Let's get a coach for Dalford house. Tout suite.”
“Yes, Lawson. Got it.”
The shorter young man in a gray coat walked hurriedly ahead. Mirabelle watched him go, feeling em
pty inside.
“Thank you,” she whispered up to the man, whose name was Lawson. She knew it was what she was supposed to say, but she didn't feel anything. She had no sense of anything inside.
“Think nothing of it.”
Mirabelle walked beside him, and they went towards a street corner, where the shorter, younger man had hailed a cab. Mirabelle looked up at it, dazed. None of this made sense. Her thoughts were all gone, and she was left with automatic politeness.
“Thank you,” she said to Mr. Lawson. “Thank you so much.”
“That's alright, milady,” he said, giving her a gentle smile. “Lewis, Howard? Can you get the fellow in, please? I'll settle the fees.”
“I can pay,” Mirabelle whispered, but nobody listened.
“There, milady,” Mr. Lawson said, turning to her and smiling gently. “Now, off you go. And, should you need anything, please – contact me at once.” He drew a card out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand. His eyes were the color of tea, and there was a tenderness in them that surprised her. Mirabelle swallowed, feeling regret.
I would have wanted to know you better, if I hadn't met Bradford.
She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“A pleasure,” he said.
She let him help her up and then she was facing the prone, unconscious form of Bradford, who leaned on the side-wall of the coach, utterly still.
“Right, fellows,” Lawson said, turning away. The other two moved off, and he shut the door behind her, smiling crookedly at her, those wistful eyes on her face.
“Goodbye,” she said.
Then they were off.
“Bradford?” Mirabelle said, her voice loud in the almost silence of the rattling, jolting coach. Her heart wept. He lay there, so beautiful, and so still.
I love him. I really love him. And he never heard me say it.
The horror of that stifled her, spreading through her chest like a storm. She gritted her teeth and knew she was going to cry and that, were she to do so, she might never stop.
“I never told you.”
Now it might be too late. The words would be inside her forever: butterflies forever cocooned, their rainbow wings stilled eternally. She looked into his face and the dullness in her heart softened, enough to let her speak. She had this chance.
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 15
