Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  The door opened and a portly butler with a ruddy face regarded her.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “May I help you?”

  Irenna cleared her throat, which did not seem to want to issue words. “Is Lord Percival at home?”

  Boom, boom went her heartbeat.

  “He is.”

  Thank heavens. Relief made her a bit lightheaded, but her troubles were not over yet. Indeed, they might just be beginning.

  The butler moved back and held the door open so that she and the maid might step into the foyer.

  “Whom might I say is calling?” he asked.

  “Miss Irenna Brunner,” she said, in as firm a tone as she could manage.

  “You may wait in the parlor. This way, please.”

  Whatever the butler thought about an unchaperoned young woman paying a call upon his master, his face and voice showed not a trace of judgment. He led Irenna and her companion to a room furnished with comfortable chairs and a colorful Turkish carpet, with a window overlooking the side yard. She was too nervous to sit, however, and ended up pacing before the empty hearth.

  In a very short time, Viscount Percival stepped into the room. He glanced at the maid, but went directly to Irenna and took her hand.

  “Miss Brunner, what is the matter?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, thankful that he was at home, and that the man greeting her showed no trace of foolish mannerisms. At least, not yet.

  “Lord Percival,” she said, “I hope you might be able to help.”

  Something flashed across his expression, and she held her breath. Would he revert to the foppish and feather-headed viscount?

  “Come, sit.” He led her to one of the chairs, then nodded at the maid to take a seat as well.

  Irenna was going to have to reveal the embassy’s secrets—but there was no help for it. He correctly interpreted her hesitation, for he took the chair in front of her, his face serious.

  “You may trust in my discretion, Irenna.”

  “I hope so,” she said, giving him a level look. “I pray I have not misjudged you, my lord.”

  If she had not, then it meant he’d been lying to her—to all of them. The implications shivered through her, but she pushed them away. For now, she must concentrate on the matter at hand.

  He met her gaze. “I am at your service in any way possible. Tell me how I may assist.”

  She hesitated, but it was too late to turn back now.

  “Two things you must know,” she said. “Sardinia has declared war on Austria. And the men who assailed me at the opera have been released.”

  He gave a short nod, as though he’d already been in possession of one or both of those facts. “Have they threatened you?”

  “No.” She leaned forward. “But the ambassador received a message, ostensibly from Count Rossi, and is even now on his way to the Sardinian embassy. As soon as he left, I came straight to you. I fear for his safety.”

  “As you should.” He rose and gave the bell pull three sharp tugs. “I’ll go to the Sardinians directly, and take my stoutest footmen. Don’t fear, Irenna.”

  Her heart gave a huge thump, then settled. Viscount Percival was not the man all of London thought him to be. Her gamble had paid off—though the consequences still remained to be seen.

  She stood. “Take me with you. There is the third man who must be identified, after all. Unless you were able to get a good look at him before he fled?”

  The viscount’s face hardened. “I was too busy dealing with the others, I’m afraid.”

  “I cannot sit about waiting for you,” she said. “Especially not here, in your town house. After all, even the most discreet of servants gossip.” It might already be too late for her reputation—but if the ambassador was saved because of it, she would bear the consequence.

  Lord Percival frowned slightly. “It’s no more proper for you to go off in my carriage with me. No, you’d best return to Chandos House.”

  The butler appeared at the parlor door.

  “My lord,” he said, handing the viscount a cloth-wrapped bundle, “your carriage is ready.”

  The barrel of a pistol peeked out from under the cloth, and Irenna caught her breath. It was one thing to hope the viscount would rush to the ambassador’s rescue, and quite another to see him armed.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to her. “I’m a crack shot.”

  “Goodness, Lord Percival,” she could not help but say. “Who are you?”

  He snared her with his bright blue gaze. “We can discuss that later.”

  There was a mix of emotion in his eyes, but foremost was a steely determination. Whatever happened, Irenna knew that he would save Count Dietrichstein.

  “You also have another visitor,” the butler said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Who is it?” the viscount asked.

  “Let me by.” Aunt Sophie spared the man from answering as she pushed past. She saw Irenna and stopped, her eyes widening in surprise. “Wren! Whatever are you doing here?”

  A ridiculous stab of jealousy went through Irenna. It was not outside the realm of possibility that she’d stumbled into the middle of an assignation between her aunt and the viscount.

  “I might ask the same,” she choked out. She could scarcely breathe, as though her corset laces had been tightened almost beyond bearing.

  “I came to speak to Lord Percival. About you, in fact.” Aunt Sophie’s mouth firmed. “And what is your excuse, young lady?”

  Irenna’s lungs eased. Judging by her aunt’s reaction, there was nothing romantic between her and the viscount.

  “This isn’t what it seems,” the viscount said, stepping forward. “And we have very little time for discussion. I’m very glad to see you, Countess Dietrichstein. Please do me the favor of escorting your niece home. I must be off immediately.”

  “It’s true,” Irenna said. “We mustn’t keep Lord Percival any longer.”

  “Hmph.” Aunt Sophie turned to Irenna. “I expect a detailed explanation from you the moment we depart.”

  The viscount ushered the ladies, including the maid, out the door. His carriage waited just behind the Austrian embassy’s vehicle, and was manned by two large footmen.

  “Don’t fear,” he said. “I’ll call upon you later this afternoon.”

  He tipped his hat, then strode to his waiting vehicle. A heartbeat later, they were off.

  “Explain,” Aunt Sophie said as they clambered into their own carriage.

  Irenna quickly outlined the situation, watching her aunt grow more agitated as she spoke.

  “What? My Fritz is in danger? I won’t allow it.” Aunt Sophie stuck her head out the window in a most unladylike fashion and called to the driver to make all haste for the Sardinian embassy.

  “Are you sure that’s the best course?” Irenna asked. A shiver went through her at the memory of the hate in the Sardinian’s eyes.

  “If the men are being difficult, Countess Rossi and I can prevail upon them to see reason.” Aunt Sophie patted Irenna’s knee. “Truly, I’ve often thought that women ought to be made the official ambassadors of countries. Things would be so much easier that way.”

  They had a frustrating delay in Regent’s street, where a cart had broken an axle and had to be hauled out of the way, but at last carriage reached their destination. Irenna leaned forward and peered out the window. The front of the grand brick townhouse the Sardinians used for their embassy seemed perfectly peaceful. For a moment she wondered if Count Dietrichstein had decided not to come after all.

  Then she saw the barouche with the Austrian coat of arms on the side parked nearby, and her heart clenched.

  Viscount Percival’s carriage was there, too, though there was no sign of him. Heart clenched, Irenna stared at the blank windows and closed door of the embassy, and said a quick, silent prayer for his safety.

  Chapter Eight

  When Anthony’s butler had announced Irenna’s unexpected arrival, he’d had only a moment to de
cide if the foppish Lord Percival would greet her.

  But that serious and steady young woman would not have come to him hoping for a flirtation or seduction—no matter how sweet their kiss had been.

  No, the fact of Irenna’s presence could only mean something was very wrong. Which meant that, however unwise a choice, there was no time for his foolish persona. Besides, he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she’d already seen past his mask. Why else would she have come?

  Seeing her pale, anxious face when he’d stepped into the parlor only confirmed his decision. And when she said she hoped she’d not misjudged him, a very strange sensation flowed through him. He’d shoved the reaction away to examine later. The current crisis was not the time to indulge in any kind of emotion, whether it was relief or fear or equal parts of both.

  During the carriage ride to the Sardinian embassy, he’d briefed his men, checked his weapon and tucked it into his belt, and concentrated on clearing his mind of all distractions.

  As soon as they halted before the embassy, he leaped from the carriage, his men right behind. The three of them pushed past the doorman and into the marble-floored halls of the Sardinian embassy. Though it might not be the polite approach, direct action was the best course. If it transpired that Count Dietrichstein was not in any danger, Anthony could apologize later.

  “Halt!” the doorman called, but Anthony ignored him.

  The Austrian ambassador was somewhere in the building, judging by the barouche outside. Boot heels thudding from the length of his strides, Anthony led his men to Count Rossi’s study. He’d never set foot in the building, but had familiarized himself with the floor plans of all the embassies. One never knew when it would be handy to duck into the servants’ corridors or quietly slip through a door into the garden.

  “Stop at once!” a man shouted in Italian.

  Anthony broke into a run and slammed open the door of the study. There, in a somewhat theatrical tableau, sat Count Dietrichstein, his arms pinned by one of the young Sardinian men, while the other held a knife at his throat. Count Rossi leaned across his desk, his expression full of anger. Not directed at his Austrian guest, however, but toward the young men.

  “Let him go,” Count Rossi demanded.

  Anthony didn’t bother saying anything, but stepped up to the knife-wielder. Grasping the man’s wrist, he forced the blade away from the ambassador’s throat, then twisted it until the fellow dropped the knife.

  “Curse you, English,” the man snarled, swiveling out of his grasp.

  “Grab him,” Anthony called to his footmen, while he scooped up the blade.

  Too late. The two Sardinians wrenched free and pelted through the door.

  “After them!” Count Rossi cried, and Anthony’s men raced away.

  Before following, Anthony spared a glance for the Austrian ambassador.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Count Dietrichstein rubbed at his throat, which was, thankfully, unmarked. “I owe you a debt, Lord Percival.”

  “Dio mio, I am sorry.” Count Rossi came out from behind his desk. “My most profound apologies, Count Dietrichstein. I see you were right about those lads, but, despite declarations of war, I never thought they would threaten a guest.”

  The Austrian ambassador gave him a stiff nod. “They must not avoid their punishment this time.”

  “As to that, I’m going to assist my men in capturing those ruffians.” Anthony strode to the door. “There is a third one, as well. Do you know where he might be?”

  “Tonio?” Count Rossi shook his head. “I do not know.”

  Damnation. Anthony hurried back into the hall. Shouting echoed from the front door, and he sprinted forward just in time to see one of his footmen brought down by a lucky punch to the jaw.

  The Sardinians darted outside, and apprehension settled in Anthony’s gut. Unspoken curses blistering the back of his throat, he raced to the door. Past the stunned-looking doorman, past his downed man and a clot of confused servants.

  His blood went cold when he saw Countess Dietrichstein alighting from her carriage in front of the embassy. Even worse, the fleeing Sardinians veered toward her, and it appeared their missing comrade had joined them.

  “Stop!” Anthony cried, but no one paid him any heed.

  One of the Sardinians leaped for the driver’s seat of the Austrian carriage. He shoved the driver off the edge and took the reins, calling for his companions to hurry. The other two men grabbed the countess and pulled her back to the carriage, clearly intent on taking her hostage.

  If Countess Dietrichstein was there, then Irenna could only be inside the vehicle as well. The knowledge set a knot in Anthony’s throat that he could scarcely breathe past.

  “Arresto!” Anthony yelled, pulling his pistol from where he’d tucked it inside his coat pocket.

  The men glanced over their shoulders, then finished stuffing the countess back into her carriage. Moments later, they leaped in after her. The vehicle lurched into motion, and the door swung closed.

  No. Anthony hadn’t finally found his perfect match only to lose her again—and especially not to a trio of murderous Sardinians. He skidded to a stop and raised his revolver. He didn’t dare fire into the carriage. Hitting the man driving would a difficult shot, especially as the carriage picked up speed, but Anthony planted his feet. He took a steadying breath, made adjustments for the moving vehicle, and squeezed the trigger.

  Despite Irenna’s misgivings, when they reached the Sardinian embassy Aunt Sophie insisted on disembarking from the carriage and going in search of her husband.

  “You and the maid continue on to Chandos House,” she said. “As soon as everything is settled, the ambassador and I will return together in the barouche.”

  “Aunt, I fear—”

  “Don’t worry, Wren. I’ll sort things out.” With a cheery smile, Aunt Sophie left the vehicle.

  A moment later, there was a commotion at the embassy door, and two of the Sardinians came bursting out. Irenna’s breath caught at the sight of her attackers running free. Where was Anthony, and the ambassador?

  The men spotted the Austrian carriage and pelted toward it, and her blood curdled.

  “Take care!” she called to her aunt.

  Too late. The men grabbed the countess and began hauling her back into the carriage. The vehicle tipped suddenly as someone clambered up onto the driver’s seat. This was not good at all.

  “What’s happening, miss?” the maid asked.

  “Scoot back into the corner and try to stay out of the way,” Irenna said.

  She wasn’t at all confident she and her aunt could oust the men, but at least one villain would get a boot heel to the face. She positioned herself against the wall of the across from the door and, heart beating so loudly she felt it was rocking the carriage, she braced herself.

  The door was wrenched open and Aunt Sophie shoved inside. Seeing Irenna waiting, she threw herself sideways.

  The Sardinians crowded in right behind her. Choosing the tall man who’d first attacked her, Irenna lashed out with her foot. There was a sickening crunch as her boot connected with his face.

  He shrieked and fell back against the door, which had, most distressingly, latched shut behind him. The carriage lurched into motion. Irenna hastily scrabbled through her reticule for her crochet hook, though she feared it would do little good against a wounded, enraged Sardinian. Oh, she was in deep trouble.

  “You!” he yelled, one hand over his nose, which was running with blood.

  A shot sounded, and the carriage halted. Fist clenched around her hook, Irenna faced the second man, whom Aunt Sophie was beating about the head and shoulders with her reticule. The maid’s shrieks added to the chaos.

  Then the door flew open. Irenna caught a glimpse of Viscount Percival’s fierce expression as he grabbed the tall man by the shoulders and roughly pulled him out. The viscount was back for the second Sardinian in an instant, twisting his arm behind his back and
shoving him into the waiting arms of his footmen.

  Then, as if Aunt Sophie and the maid weren’t there, Lord Percival leaned forward and looked at Irenna, the light in his eyes softening. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, her throat clogged with tears and gratitude and something more. Something she was afraid to name.

  He lifted his hand, as if to reach for her, then checked himself and finally glanced at Aunt Sophie.

  “Countess Dietrichstein,” he said, “your husband is safe. I pray you are unharmed, as well.”

  “We are all shaken, but unhurt,” the countess replied. “I would very much like to see my husband now.”

  “Of course. Allow me.” The viscount stepped out of the carriage, then offered his hand to Aunt Sophie to help her disembark.

  When he turned and held out his arm to assist Irenna, she dropped her crochet hook and, without quite meaning to, fell into his embrace. He lowered her from the carriage until her feet met the cobbles, but he did not let her go. Neither did she release him. At that moment, it did not matter that her aunt would see her in Viscount Percival’s gentle yet firm embrace. She inhaled, smelling gunpowder and, faintly, his citrus cologne.

  “Forgive me, Irenna,” he said softly. “I never meant to put you in danger.”

  Too late. She feared her heart was lost to him, completely.

  “What’s this?” Count Dietrichstein asked, his voice gruff. “Why are you taking liberties with Miss Brunner, Lord Percival?”

  The viscount let her go. Though Irenna wanted nothing more than to return to the shelter of his arms, she turned and faced Count Dietrichstein. Aunt Sophie had a possessive grip on his arm. His secretary, Hans, stood on his other side, his coat disheveled as though he’d been in a fight. Behind him, the three Sardinian men were being taken back into the embassy under guard, two of them bleeding. This time, she knew they would not be able to elude the justice they deserved.

  “As to that,” Aunt Sophie said, “Viscount Percival is clearly becoming adept at saving our household from difficult situations.”