“Ha! You’re trying to make me into a fool,” he returned, “but I am not a fool! Charlemagne Griffin is lying out in the garden with his throat cut! And those swordsmen are out on the balcony, waiting for us!”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Melbourne growled, and headed for the balcony. Half the ballroom fell in behind him.
Sarala stopped in the window. “There’s no one out here, John,” she declared. “This is beyond anything. Shameful.”
“I am not…” Still unsteady on his feet, DeLayne stalked out to the balcony. With almost comic exaggeration he looked around the empty space. “They’ve gone. No doubt they didn’t want to be arrested for murder. But Charlemagne is right down there.” He pointed, though he stood well away from the railing.
Melbourne leaned over it, looking down. “There’s nothing down there but flowers and shrubbery.” He rounded on DeLayne. “You have a great deal to answer for, sir.”
The viscount charged the railing, leaning out so far that for a moment Sarala thought he might go over. “But I saw—The blood! There must be blood!”
Someone brought a candelabra out to the balcony, but the stone floor was clean except for a few scattered leaves. By now people had begun whispering and giggling, and the story Eleanor had suggested was spreading faster than ever.
“Let’s return inside, shall we?” Melbourne suggested, taking the viscount bodily by the arm. “And I think we’ve all tolerated enough from you.”
DeLayne shrugged free. “If I’m lying, then where is Charlemagne? Where is Lord Charlemagne? You see, he’s dead! They must have dragged his body off somewhere!”
Everyone began looking about, muttering. “There he is!” someone shouted.
The crowd surged toward the gaming room door, where Shay emerged, a half-empty glass of claret in his hand. “What the devil is going on?” he asked.
“Shay,” Sarala shrieked, and threw herself on him. “Oh, thank goodness. John said some Chinese people had killed you!” As she grabbed his lapel she felt a leaf, and swiftly clenched it in her fist.
“Some what?”
“The—but—I saw—” DeLayne appeared frantic, his eyes wide and darting about.
“I went to find a bottle of champagne,” Charlemagne explained, his voice still quizzical. Right on cue, a footman appeared with a bottle. “Ah, there it is. It seems my betrothed has named our wedding date. I wanted to celebrate.”
“Oh, Shay,” she breathed, not having to pretend her tight hug. “I was so frightened.”
Charlemagne faced DeLayne. “Whatever it is you’re playing at, it wasn’t amusing. I think you owe Lady Sarala, and everyone else here, an apology.”
“I will not,” the viscount returned, backing away. “I know what you’ve done. I see it now. It’s because you don’t want anyone to believe me. Well, I know, and you can’t fool me, now.” He gestured from himself to Sarala. “I took her to bed, and they don’t want anyone to know.”
Taking a single step forward, Shay punched him in the jaw. DeLayne dropped like a stone. “Your weak-mindedness is one thing,” Shay growled, as the viscount reeled to a sitting position, “but I will not tolerate you insulting Sarala simply because you want attention or admiration or whatever the devil it is you’re after. If you mention her name in that tone again, I will kill you.”
“Shay,” Melbourne said, stepping in front of his brother, and from his expression not quite certain whether Charlemagne was playing or not, “that’s enough excitement. We can’t fault someone for being weak-minded. We can only pity him.”
Lord Ellis and his butler yanked DeLayne to his feet. “You need to go home, Lord DeLayne,” their host stated. “And please do not return. This is the most shameful display of self-indulgence I have ever seen.”
Lady Ellis batted at the viscount with her reticule. “For shame! You, orchestra! Play another waltz, if you please. Dance, everyone, and we’ll simply pretend this never happened.”
The rest of them could pretend that if they wanted, but Sarala didn’t ever want to forget it. “He said Yun threw you over the balcony,” she whispered, wrapping her hand around Shay’s sleeve.
“I landed about an inch from a blasted rose bush,” he returned in the same low tone, “even with the rope. And then I had chicken blood all over my cravat, and I had to change it. Yun’s starting to enjoy this just a little too much—he nearly broke my neck.” He gestured at the footman still standing close by. “I think we deserve a bit of champagne now, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” she said, smiling at him.
Chapter 22
Charlemagne stood to one side of the splendid white stateroom, Sarala beside him. Closer to the middle of the room Melbourne and Lord Hanover waited at Prince George’s side as the Regent chatted with Yun and his companions.
Prinny had been only too happy to sign a proclamation declaring Britain and China friends and allies. Charlemagne wasn’t surprised; the Regent was mad for anything in the Oriental style.
“How is your neck?” Yun asked a few minutes later, strolling up to them.
“Better than if you’d actually cut my throat,” he returned. “I owe you a great deal, Yun.”
The soldier glanced behind him. “When Emperor Jiaqing hears of your Regent’s enthusiasm for trade, I believe I shall find myself in a favorable position.”
“Good.” Charlemagne offered his hand. “If you find yourself in England again, our home is yours.”
“And if you ever come to China, I will introduce you to my world.” He flashed a grin. “If you are able to keep your head long enough to see.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Sarala stepped forward and kissed the soldier’s cheek. “Thank you, Yun.”
Melbourne with Hanover joined them to watch Yun and the other two soldiers out the door. “That went well,” Sebastian said, clapping Charlemagne on the shoulder. “Prinny’s sending a sixty-piece Wedgwood dinner setting back to the emperor as a gesture of friendship.”
“And what about Captain Blink?”
“He’s to face charges of theft here. A detachment of soldiers was dispatched to collect him from the warehouse where Yun had him stashed. He should be at the Old Bailey by now.”
Charlemagne nodded, relieved. “He caused a fair amount of trouble for us, but under the circumstances I’m inclined to forgive him. He gave them my name rather than Sarala’s.”
“Shay!”
He turned to face Prinny in the far doorway. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Invite me to the wedding.”
“With pleasure.”
“That settles that,” Melbourne said, as they all left Carlton House. “There’s no chance of elopement for you now.”
“Are you certain you want to see us at Westminster Abbey?” Sarala asked, putting a hand on the duke’s arm.
He covered her hand with his. “I am certain. Hanover and I are going to White’s for luncheon. Where are you off to?”
Charlemagne looked down at Sarala, warmth coursing through him. “I thought I’d take her about for a bit more sightseeing. And I want a word with Captain Blink, if I can get in to see him.”
“Don’t be too grateful to him,” his brother returned. “He began this mess.”
“It ended well enough.” Shay lifted Sarala’s fingers and kissed them.
She smiled. The sight she most wanted to see was Shay naked again, but she would do her best to be patient. Four more weeks.
Jenny waited for them, and Shay handed them into his coach. “Where are we going, then?” Sarala asked as the coach rolled into the street.
“Since you were only able to view the Egyptian room at the British Museum, I thought you might enjoy seeing the Roman collection there.”
“Yes, please,” she said with a smile. “But first tell me this: Have you heard anything about DeLayne?”
“Melbourne heard through his cousin that he’s making plans to return to India.” Gray eyes gazed at her. “You’re not sorry for him, ar
e you?”
“No. I just keep thinking that he went from believing he owned the world to being the laughingstock of all of his peers.”
“He would have done the same to you.”
She sighed. “I know. In a sense, though, it’s hardly fair that he gets India.”
“And you only get me?”
The wooden panel at Shay’s shoulder exploded inward. Sarala shrieked as he tumbled sideways. “Shay!”
He clawed to his feet, kicking the door opened as he straightened. “Wait here,” he growled, and launched outside.
She was blasted well not waiting there. Sarala jumped to the ground to the sight of absolute chaos. The coach was stopped in the middle of the street, pedestrians running and yelling and mostly rushing forward to see the tangle of dark suits and greatcoats smashing into one another in front of the bakery. John DeLayne.
Charlemagne heaved the viscount to his feet and swung a fist at him. DeLayne blocked the blow, grabbing the lapel of Shay’s coat and hurling the two of them through the bakery window. In the confusion of feet as everyone swept forward to get a better view, Sarala saw a pistol. Pushing hard, she made it through the crowd and crouched to grab it. The muzzle was still hot.
DeLayne had actually tried to kill one or both of them. He probably didn’t care which. Shaking, she clutched the pistol, lifting it. “Move aside!” she yelled.
More screams erupted as she waved the weapon, but the spectators moved. She pushed the bakery door open with her shoulder and stalked inside. A knife in one hand, John slashed toward Shay. Shay ducked, striking out with a lightning punch that sent DeLayne reeling backward.
“Stop!” Sarala moved closer, aiming the pistol at John. “Don’t make me shoot you!”
“You’ll have to shoot me!” the viscount sputtered, staggering back to his feet. “You’ve already ruined me!”
He took a step toward her, and Shay tackled him in the chest, sending the two of them through the wooden counter. With a wrench he grabbed the knife away from the viscount and tossed it aside. “Don’t shoot him,” he panted, blood streaking down one cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do this for days.”
“I am not going to allow you to beat him to death, Shay,” she snapped, worried both by the blood and by the ferocious light in his eyes. For the first time she realized just how tightly he’d been holding himself in check, and how serious Melbourne’s warnings for him to mind his temper had been.
“Then what’s to keep him from shooting through windows at us again?” Shay demanded, hitting the viscount again. DeLayne sank to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“What’s all this?” A bevy of men in the garb of Bow Street Runners shoved past the bystanders and into the small bakery.
“Thank goodness,” she breathed, releasing the spent weapon as one of them grabbed it from her. “That man,” she stated, jabbing a finger at the reeling DeLayne, “just tried to kill us.”
“I did not!” the viscount mumbled through bloody teeth. “He attacked me!”
“There’s a hole in my carriage, and one in my shoulder,” Shay retorted, taking a step back only when two men grabbed his arms and hauled him that way. “He’s been running mad for days. Last night at a soiree he was practically frothing at the mouth. I want him arrested.”
“And who are you, sir?”
“Charlemagne Griffin,” he answered promptly. “That’s Viscount DeLayne.”
“The one with the Chinese swordsmen story?” someone from outside the shop called. “I heard he’d been sent to Bedlam.”
The Runners released Shay as soon as he said his name. “We’ll take him to the Old Bailey, my lord,” their captain said. “I take it you’re willing to press charges?”
“Absolutely.”
With DeLayne still shouting his innocence, the Bow Street Runners dragged him out of the shop. As soon as the way to him was clear, Sarala rushed Shay. “You were shot? Why didn’t you say anything?” She yanked him around, searching his shoulder. “You might have been killed!”
“So might you have been,” he returned, wincing. “It’s just a graze. But we’ll settle this in a moment.” Shaking her off, he walked to the corner of the shop where she finally noticed the poor baker still cowering, a sack of flour in his arms. “Will twenty quid pay for the damage?” he asked, still breathing hard.
“Y…yes, my lord.”
Nodding, Shay counted out the money and set it on the counter. “My apologies, sir. And my thanks for helping to catch an attempted murderer.”
Shay took Sarala’s hand as they picked their way through the wreckage at the front of the shop. He staggered a little, and her heart stopped. Good heavens, how badly had he been hurt? “We have to get you to a physician,” she said, helping him to the coach.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You can barely stand.”
“He kicked me in my damned knee. No physicians.”
“Shay, you can’t—”
“My home is right around the corner. Oswald can patch me up.”
She half shoved him into the coach, and followed behind him. “To Gaston House,” she ordered the driver, pulling the door closed. “Now take off your coat. Jenny, help us.”
The maid scooted forward to help Shay shrug out of his dirty, torn coat. His left shoulder was bloody, and she gasped. “Shay, why didn’t you—”
“He might have shot you instead of me,” Charlemagne growled, pulling her forward and kissing her fiercely. “You should have let me kill him.”
“I just didn’t want you to be hurt,” she said, a tear running down her face.
“Losing you would hurt much more than this.” He backed off a little, running a finger along her cheek. “Melbourne’s not going to be happy, though. I wrecked a bakery.”
A laugh escaped her throat despite herself. “You paid for the damage.” She pulled out her handkerchief and wrapped it tightly around his upper arm. “But how will you testify against DeLayne? What if someone asks you about the Chinese soldiers? They were real, you know.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” he returned, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “I wanted him locked away from us, but I think if I offer him the choice between prison and a permanent residence in India, he’ll take the latter. I’m even willing to sweeten the pot, if necessary, to keep him away from us.”
“That’s probably what he wanted.”
“Then he’s lucky you stopped me from killing him.” He said it lightly, but she heard the steel in his voice. He would have killed DeLayne. She wondered if the viscount had any idea just how lucky he had been.
Sooner than she expected, the coach rolled to a stop. “Jenny, fetch Mr. Oswald,” she instructed, unwilling to leave Charlemagne’s side.
Jenny bolted out the door, and a moment later a large, broad butler in livery appeared in the coach doorway. “You’ve taken hurt, my lord?” he rumbled.
“A scratch. But I’ve learned never to dissuade a woman who wants to coddle me.”
Despite the words, he staggered a little as she and Oswald helped him to the ground and up to the door. For a brief moment Sarala stopped on the front steps, looking up. Gaston House resembled most of the wealthier town houses, fairly narrow but at least three stories tall, two dozen windows overlooking Piccadilly and the park beyond, the front a freshly painted white.
“Where’s your bedchamber?” she asked as they continued inside, pulling his wounded arm over her shoulder.
He hesitated. “The morning room’s fine,” he said, angling them toward the nearest doorway.
“No. You need to lie down.”
“It’s upstairs, first door on the right, my lady,” Oswald contributed.
“Very good. Will you fetch some water and bandages?”
“Right away, my lady.”
On the landing, Charlemagne pulled her into a close embrace. “You’re rather wonderful, you know?” he murmured, kissing her softly. “Jenny, wait downstairs.”
As they climbed to the first floor, Sarala looked about them. Scattered on the walls and on the tables along the upstairs hall she saw a sampling of some of Charlemagne’s antiques and artifacts. He had exquisite taste; she looked forward to exploring.
The door Oswald had indicated was closed. She reached out to push the latch, but Shay blocked her arm. “It’s not ready,” he said abruptly.
“What? I don’t care if your bed’s unmade, Shay.”
“No, it’s not—”
She pushed open the door and walked inside. And stopped dead.
Yellow and gold silk curtained the windows and great swaths of the walls, with pillows and throws draped across the bed and the floor. The bed itself was deep green and gold silk shimmering with gold threads. All the furniture was deep red-brown burnished mahogany, rich and gold-tinged with age and care.
“Oh, Shay,” she breathed.
“I still need a few more pieces. I wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m surprised,” she said shakily. “It’s lovely. You did this for me?”
“Of course I did. I know you miss India, and I thought—”
She grabbed his waistcoat and yanked him forward, covering his mouth with hot, deep kisses. “I love you,” she murmured.
“I love you,” he returned, reaching back behind him to close the door. “I want you to be happy here.”
Oswald scratched at the door. “My lord? The—”
Reluctantly Sarala broke free and opened the door, taking the water bowl and cloths and then closing it again before she set the things aside. Apparently she would see Shay naked again sooner than she’d expected. Slowly she approached him and pulled his shirt free from his breeches.
“Mai khush hu. Mai tum pyar karne,” she said unsteadily, as his hands slid around her waist and his mouth dipped to her throat. “I am happy. I love you.”
About the Author
A native and current resident of Southern California, SUZANNE ENOCH loves movies almost as much as she loves books. She once appeared on an E! special, Star Wars Is Back, as an expert on the romance in the Star Wars movies. Other highlights include winning her third grade spelling bee, receiving an E.T. poster and T-shirt in an alien-inspired poetry contest, and submitting a script for The A-Team (which was not why the series was cancelled).
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