Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  “You Austrians think you can crack the whip over us?” the tallest man said. “We will show you who is in command now. Too bad the ambassador is not here to taste our wrath—but I promise he will. For now, you will do as a substitute.”

  He reached for Miss Brunner’s arm, and she shrank back.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “Or I shall scream.”

  “Ha! No one will hear you over the yelling they call singing up above.”

  In a moment, Anthony was upon them. He pulled the tall fellow away from Miss Brunner, tumbling him backward over an adroitly placed knee to the back of the leg. With a curse, the man unrelated to Count Rossi turned and bolted away down the hallway. Anthony rounded on the last Sardinian.

  “I believe the lady asked that you leave,” he said.

  The man glanced at his retreating comrade, then sneered at Anthony. “Not all of us are cowards.” His breath carried the fumes of something stronger than champagne.

  The man Anthony had tripped stood, an angry scowl on his face. He leaned forward, hands balled into fists.

  “If you consider yourself a friend to the Austrians,” he growled, “then you deserve equal punishment.”

  Anthony saw the punch coming and stepped smoothly out of its path. Pivoting, he used the man’s momentum against him, sending him careening against his companion.

  “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he said. “Rather unsteady on our feet, aren’t we?”

  “You!” The tall man turned and rushed at Anthony.

  A sweep of the leg brought him down this time. His friend took a step back, then unexpectedly grabbed Miss Brunner and yanked her close.

  “I have a knife,” he said, raising his hand to display the weapon. “It is small, but sharp. Just as our people have suffered, so shall this girl feel our pain.”

  He brought the knife up to Miss Brunner’s face and Anthony dove forward. No more time for pretty moves.

  “Ah!” The Sardinian swore and jerked back, even as Anthony hit him squarely in the chest.

  The man stumbled, then went down hard, his head thunking against the carpet. Anthony rolled forward onto his feet then whirled to face the other attacker.

  “For Milano!” the man cried, coming at Anthony with his fists raised.

  It was simple enough to trip him, sending him sprawling beside his companion. The first man moaned and fluttered his eyes, and Anthony plucked the knife from his hand.

  “I should use it on you both,” he said. “Instead, I’ll be reporting this to the authorities.”

  He paused, surprised to see a long welt scoring the man’s cheek. Then Miss Brunner came to stand beside Anthony, a crochet hook clenched in her hand, and the wound was explained. Admiration flashed through him at her resourcefulness. Quickly followed by anger at himself that she’d been in danger at all.

  “Would it be wrong to kick them?” she asked, frowning at the men lying before them.

  “While I understand your motives, I’m afraid it’s considered unsportsmanlike to attack a downed opponent.” Much as he would like to do the same. “Memorize their faces as best you can, so that we may make an accurate report.”

  “This is not ended,” the taller man said, sitting up and spitting at Anthony’s feet. “We will have our revenge yet.”

  “That will be difficult to do from behind bars.” Anthony put his arm around Miss Brunner’s shoulders, ignoring the empty threat. “Now, we’re going to speak to the manager, and I’ve no doubt there’s a policeman stationed somewhere nearby. Come, Miss Brunner.”

  As they turned away he felt her trembling, and the urge to pummel the men who’d threatened her roared through him. Instead, he must be satisfied with the quieter justice of the law.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, when they were some distance away. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You kept a clear head, and used what weapons you had at your disposal.” He nodded at the crochet hook she still held. “Well done.”

  She pulled in a breath that shuddered slightly at the end. “I was lucky to have it in my reticule. Whoever thought a crochet hook might be a weapon?”

  Anthony glanced behind them to see that the Sardinians had gone—no doubt taken to their heels and fled the opera house.

  “You were very brave,” he said.

  “I don’t feel brave.” Her voice shook. So did her hands as she tucked the crochet hook back into her bag.

  Anthony steered her to a nearby bench and reached into his coat pocket for the flask he kept in case of emergency. Not just for steadying the nerves; the alcohol was handy as a rough disinfectant, to clean blood spots from his clothing, and for the purposes of appearing drunk.

  “Have a sip,” he said, sitting beside her and unstoppering the flask.

  She did not argue, only took it with a shaking hand and raised it to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful, then coughed. Deftly, he rescued the flask and took a drink, too. It was impossible not to think of her lips touching the metal mere seconds before his, but he forced down the awareness that filled him.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come to find me,” she said, looking up at him. “They might have…” She caught her breath and her eyes filled with tears.

  Before he could help himself, he gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, not sobbing, but her body shook with the aftermath of her fright.

  “Hush,” he said. “I did come, and I would never let you be harmed.”

  After a few breaths, she quieted. Anthony gently wiped away the single tear that had trailed down her cheek, far too aware of the softness of her skin.

  “Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Three against one were not good odds, and yet you didn’t hesitate to rush in. How did you defeat them so handily?”

  She should not be asking such questions, especially not with such a clear, bright light in her eyes. It was past time for a distraction, so he did what he was best at. Gathering her closer against him, he bent his head and kissed her.

  Their lips touched. Fire and need and the sweet burn of brandy ignited through him as their mouths met. His arms tightened around her, and for a long, desperate moment, his mouth devoured hers. He felt like a man lost at sea, at last sighting the beacon of a lighthouse flaring through the dark.

  Then the common sense clamoring in his ears won, and he pulled away. She blinked at him, her eyes unfocused, and he reminded himself that sexual impulses were a natural reaction to the stress of an attack.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “That was ungentlemanly.”

  She straightened and pulled out of his embrace, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I don’t know what has come over me, my lord. I assure you that, despite my behavior, I’m not a loose woman.”

  “I never thought it for a moment.” He took her hand and pressed it in reassurance. “You’ve had a scare, that’s all, and the body reacts strangely to such things.”

  Stop it, he told his own overreacting body sternly. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her away somewhere safe.

  But the world was not safe, and Miss Irenna Brunner was not his to sweep away. The knowledge steadied him, cooling the firestorm raging in his chest. He could not afford an emotional reaction, especially now that tensions with the Sardinians were out in the open.

  “Are you well enough to speak to the authorities?” he asked, rising.

  She let out a breath, then nodded. “Yes, but first I must tell my aunt what has transpired.”

  “Of course.”

  Countess Dietrichstein was probably safe enough in the opera box, but he did not like leaving her alone for so long. Not that he was expecting another attack, but both ladies were his to protect.

  To his relief, the countess was quite unharmed. As soon as he’d given his whispered explanation of the attack, she insisted they speak to the police immediately. He agreed, and without further ado they gathered their things and left the opera.

  The
lamentation of the soprano followed them out of the box. Despite the burning urge to touch Miss Brunner on the arm, or back, or cheek, Anthony kept himself in check. He knew he’d let his persona slip, but didn’t have the heart to utter any more foolish witticisms that evening. Let the ladies think the attack had unsettled him—which it had—and pray they thought no more of it.

  On the morrow, he would be back to his usual foolish self. But for tonight, he would remember how it had felt to kiss a woman he could not afford to fall in love with.

  The tragic thing was, he feared it might already be too late.

  Chapter Five

  Irenna did not sleep at all well. Her dreams were full of menacing figures trying to pull her beneath the surface of a dark lake. Every time the water closed over her head, she woke with a gasp, convinced she was drowning. After the third waking, she lit the oil lamp on the bedside table, then lay back against the pillows, heart racing.

  The small flame was a steady glow, reassuring her that all was well. She was in her bed in Chandos House, not trapped in deep, icy waters.

  Trying to calm herself, she stared up at the ceiling, tracing the flowering garlands painted along the edges. Her breathing eased as she followed the ribbons and petals, and even spotted a bird or two perched on the vines

  It was just a dream. I’m safe.

  After they’d reported everything to the authorities, and then again to Count Dietrichstein, the ambassador had insisted on increasing the security of Chandos House. Even now a footman stood guard outside her door—provided he had not dozed off.

  She was half tempted to call out, to see if he would answer and provide some company against the darkness. But that would be inviting scandal. Instead, she must suffer her nightmares alone. There was no one to rescue her, no Lord Percival to dash in and fight off the amorphous fears of her dreams.

  Or to kiss her.

  The memory sent a flash of warmth through her chest. Though she should not dwell on it, every detail was engraved in her thoughts: the feel of his surprisingly strong arms around her, the touch of his lips, at first gentle and then hungry, the way her body reacted, filled with a sudden, inexplicable yearning.

  She could see why, despite his foolish ways, Viscount Percival was known as an accomplished seducer. Of course he was very handsome, but she’d discounted his reputation in the face of his sometimes appalling absurdity. Now that she’d been kissed by him, however, it made perfect sense.

  The only thing she did not understand was why he had kissed her. Baron Andris had made it very clear she wasn’t attractive in the least.

  She ought to be afraid of Lord Percival. Considering her wretched history with gentlemen of his ilk, it would behoove her to be careful in his company so that he would not lead her astray.

  She let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh in the dimness of her bedroom. Her fears had come true. And rather than turning tail and running like a sensible young lady would, she only desired more.

  Even if his head was stuffed with feathers.

  Although… The man who’d dispatched her attackers last night had been steady and quick-witted. Nothing like the behavior she expected from Lord Percival. Afterward, he’d explained to the police that the Sardinians had been quite drunk, stumbling about and practically falling in a heap at his feet all by themselves.

  It wasn’t what she’d seen, but Irenna had kept quiet. She’d heard that sometimes, when faced with great danger, people were capable of acting far beyond what was usual. Indeed, she’d never imagined that the crochet hook in her reticule could be a makeshift weapon, or that she’d have the courage to use it, but somehow she’d managed to slip it out and wield it against her attacker.

  Perhaps something similar had happened with the viscount.

  Oh, she was all in a muddle about him. The only thing she knew absolutely was that his kiss had made her feel extraordinary. Far different than the baron ever had. She shouldn’t think of it any more, of course, but remembering the feel of Lord Percival’s lips helped keep the shadows at bay.

  She closed her eyes and let herself imagine she was back in his arms, his mouth warm and demanding on hers, their bodies pressed together, her senses spinning like a golden pinwheel.

  With those pleasant thoughts, she finally drifted into sleep, and dreamed no more of drowning.

  In the light of morning, she rose and splashed water on her face, banishing both her dark dreams and the memory of Lord Percival’s kiss. Neither of them had a place in her life. She was in London only to let the gossip in Vienna die down. As soon as it did, she had every intention of returning home and resuming her work in the Grand Duke’s library.

  Certainly, being seduced by a notorious rake was not in her plans.

  She dried her face with a lavender-scented towel, then paused to scrutinize her reflection in the looking glass. A rather pale, plain young woman stared back at her. Unfortunately, her unassuming exterior hid what she was beginning to fear was a regrettably sensuous nature.

  It must be suppressed at all costs, of course. Such an inclination could only continue to lead her into trouble. Far better that she return to the company of her books, and stay away from the flirtations of gentlemen.

  Especially handsome ones with blue eyes and hair as black as a raven’s wing.

  With a deep sigh, she pinned her hair up, then let the maid help her into a dress the color of rainclouds. It suited her mood—and was a reminder that should could not let herself slip into frivolity again.

  At breakfast, she reassured her aunt and the ambassador that she’d suffered no lingering harm from the events of the prior evening.

  “You have such circles under your eyes,” Aunt Sophie said, refilling Irenna’s coffee cup for the third time. “I’m worried about you, Wren.”

  “I was thinking that perhaps it’s time for me to return home,” Irenna said.

  “Out of the question.” The ambassador set down the newspaper he’d been perusing and gave her a stern look. “The situation is far too unstable, and travel to Austria at this point would be unwise. Very unwise. No, you must remain with us until the trouble has been suppressed.”

  Irenna let out a breath. “That might be a very long while. And I miss my work.”

  Aunt Sophie gave her a considering look. “Then you might do well to find another musty old library whose books are in need of rescue.” A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. “Perhaps Viscount Percival could use your assistance.”

  “I’m certain his few volumes of Byron are well maintained,” Irenna said. “Maybe the queen would welcome my services, instead.”

  “The Royal Library. Now that’s an interesting thought.” Aunt Sophie tapped the side of her cup, considering. “You’d certainly be safe enough in the palace, with all those red-coated guards about.”

  Irenna hadn’t quite meant it, but the more she thought on the idea, the better she liked it. If she couldn’t work in the library in Vienna, then London would have to do.

  “Make some inquiries, Fritz, if you will.” Aunt Sophie set her hand on her husband’s arm.

  He glanced up again from his paper. “Of course, dear. Whatever you like.”

  Irenna was fairly certain he’d no idea what they were discussing. Regardless, Aunt Sophie usually got her way in things, and Irenna didn’t imagine this would be any different.

  The prospect was a welcome distraction. She needed something to do in London, especially if she were trapped in England for the foreseeable future. And mooning about after an imaginary hero named Lord Percival would most certainly not suffice.

  Anthony spent the morning in clandestine meetings, bringing the queen and her agents up to speed on the events at the opera house, and discussing strategies to deal with the current instability. It was agreed that he would continue to spend as much time with the Austrians as possible.

  He was glad of it, and tried to tell himself that he was relieved to be able to be put to good use in the middle of the current difficulties. It had nothing to
do with his growing affection for Miss Irenna Brunner.

  In addition to his continuing presence, he insisted that a detail of undercover guards be deployed about Chandos House to watch the premises and keep a sharp eye out for any lurking Sardinians.

  Finally, when the afternoon was well advanced, he was able to pay a visit to the Austrian embassy. In order to restore his persona, he’d bought an absurdly huge bouquet of hothouse lilies to give the ladies. The sweet scent of the pink flowers enveloped him as he went up the walk to Chandos House, and he was glad to see at least three plainclothes policemen stationed unobtrusively in the general vicinity.

  The butler showed him into the drawing room, where Countess Dietrichstein and her niece were sitting before the fire. His heart gave a foolish little lurch when Irenna looked up, and he smiled to see that she was crocheting, the hook darting in and out of some soft-looking green yarn.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Anthony said. “I’ve brought you a bouquet.”

  It was difficult to make his usual ostentatious bow with his arms full of flowers, but he did his best. He’d refused to let the butler take the bouquet from him at the door and ruin his grand entrance.

  “How lovely,” the countess said. “Thank you.”

  “Mere blooms cannot hope to compete with your beauty,” he said, gazing over the tops of the flowers and trying not to sneeze. “Or your kind understanding. Please, accept these as a compliment, and an apology.”

  “Both are accepted, though your apology is not necessary. Come, sit with us.” She gestured to the wingback chair across from her own.

  Anthony turned to the butler and gratefully handed off the giant bouquet, then strode to the chair the countess had indicated. Before he sat, he paused before Irenna and gave her a quick, scrutinizing look. She had dark circles under her eyes, and he cursed himself for putting her in danger the night before. Clearly she had not slept well.

  “Dear Miss Brunner,” he said, “I hope you are recovered from the events at the opera. Please tell me if there is anything I can do.” Besides pulling her into his arms and sheltering her from the rest of the world.