“The lady is not going anywhere with you,” Alexander said, drawing her to his side and placing his left arm around her. In the other hand he held a lethal-looking pistol.
Magda sagged against him in relief. “Alexander! I thought you were injured. Or worse.”
“Not for lack of trying,” he said, his eyes firmly fixed on d’Aiguillon. Glancing up, she could see that Alexander’s hair was disarranged and there was the beginning of a nasty bruise on his chin. But he was real and solid and his arm around her was a comforting anchor of stability in a world gone mad.
Le Duc d’Aiguillon glanced around the garden, then took a step back into the library, as if to retreat.
A voice came from the library. “Just keep on walking, Monsoor Duke,” Bob Parker said. “Nothing would make me happier than having an excuse to plug you where you stand.”
The Frenchman wisely stood still.
“Now drop your fancy sword like a good chap,” Bob said.
Le Duc showed no emotion at this sudden turn of events. With a careless flick of his wrist he tossed the swordstick away from him. It landed point first in the garden, the blade vibrating slightly from the force of the throw. “I am a well-respected member of the court in exile and an adviser to the rightful king,” he said haughtily. “You can not hold me. You have no proof. And what fool would believe a lying Gypsy slut over the word of a nobleman like myself?”
How dare he! Magda itched to slap his face, but Alexander’s arm restrained her. Instead Alexander gave a sharp whistle, repeating the sound twice. The garden gate opened and two of Bob Parker’s cronies entered.
“I think you’d be quite surprised at what people will believe,” Alexander said. “Particularly since both Bob Parker and I heard you confess to two murders. You’ll find that English justice takes a very poor view of foreigners who commit mayhem on our soil.”
She hadn’t been alone, after all. He had been there the whole time, protecting her, just as he had promised, and she felt ashamed of her earlier doubts.
The runners laid hands on the Duc. Magda forced herself to look at her mother’s killer. Staring into his eyes, she saw no trace of regret, only icy fury at having been apprehended. This was no man. This was a monster.
“You can leave things to us, my lord,” Bob Parker said. “Bow Street has its own score to settle with this one. We’ll be sure to take good care of him…to see that he makes it to the hanging.”
“You did very well,” Alexander said, uncocking his pistol and placing it back in his pocket as the criminal was led away. “Please convey my regards to your superiors and be certain that I will inform them of my appreciation as well.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Bob said. “But this one was a pleasure.” His gaze softened as he turned to look at Magda. “It took us a while, but we finally got our man.”
“Yes, you did,” she said, breaking free of Alexander’s arm. She gave Bob an awkward hug and planted a kiss on his cheek, causing the old runner to blush. “I can’t ever begin to thank you.”
Bob mumbled that it was nothing as he followed his men and their prisoner.
“What about me?” Alexander asked. “Don’t I get at least a thank you?”
He looked so pleased with himself that she grew angry as she remembered how worried she had been over his safety. “You! Where were you? What was the meaning of making me wait like that? I nearly died of fright, thinking that I was all alone with that monster.”
“But if I had broken in earlier, it would have ruined everything,” he said as if explaining the obvious. “D’Aiguillon would never have boasted to you of his cleverness. Without his admission of guilt, we had nothing against him. But you were never in any real danger. I was just outside and I knew Bob Parker was there, behind the stack of unfinished canvasses.”
How could he be so calm? His words made sense, but her insides were boiling with a mixture of emotions; she seized on anger as being the one most familiar. “I suppose now you will say that you knew it was him all this time?”
She needed to be angry. If she stayed angry she could push aside the grief that was beginning to stir as she realized that she had come face-to-face with the man who had robbed her of her childhood when he murdered her mother.
His face turned serious again, the teasing light fading from his blue eyes. “Honestly? I was as surprised as anyone when we realized that d’Aiguillon was our man. Even after he sent his thugs to get me out of the way, I still wasn’t sure it was him till I heard him speaking with you.”
She shivered with the memory of those moments. Alexander drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms and pressing her head against his chest. “It is over now,” he said, one hand gently brushing back the strands of hair that had fallen on her face. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around him and wishing she could stay there forever, safe in the circle of his embrace.
“The lads have just left with their prize,” she heard a voice say. Turning her head slightly, she saw Luke coming through the gate into the walled garden. “I suggest you depart through the side door as well. Lawson and the last of his guests are under the impression that you departed quite some time ago.”
“Understood,” Alexander said, but he did not move.
Magda closed her eyes briefly, trying to comprehend all that had happened. It was finished, she told herself, and yet she could not bring herself to feel the joy this should bring.
“We have done it. It is finally over,” she said aloud, but the words held no conviction. She could have stood there, clinging to Alexander and absorbing his strength, forever. But it was not right, and she forced herself to draw back from his embrace. “We had best leave.”
“I will take you home,” he promised.
If only he could. But she no longer knew where home was.
Le Duc d’Aiguillon would never again trouble Magda, and Alexander felt a cold satisfaction at having stopped the vicious killer. A part of him regretted that the Frenchman had surrendered so tamely, rather than giving Alexander an excuse to settle his account personally. But he had faith that d’Aiguillon would find English justice to be merciless and lethal.
His satisfaction over d’Aiguillon’s capture was marred by his puzzlement at Magda’s lack of reaction. Not that he had expected her to fall on him with gratitude, showering him with kisses and praise for his bravery. But instead she merely expressed mild satisfaction, and then had retreated into herself.
He studied her face, but the closed expression gave him no hint as to what she was thinking. She resisted his attempts to draw her out until finally he left her in peace, holding one of her hands in his, lending his support. He resolved to be patient with her. After all, she had just survived an encounter with the man who had murdered her own mother and tried to end her own life. It was no wonder she needed time to come to grips with these emotions.
He drew the carriage to a halt.
“Why have we come here?” she asked.
He blinked in surprise, realizing that he had driven them to his residence rather than returning her to the Stanthorpes’. It was an odd mistake to make, and the only excuse was his absorption with his passenger.
But he would not admit to woolgathering in front of Magda. “If I appear at Lady Stanthorpe’s as I am now, it will only cause talk,” he said, improvising rapidly. “Come inside while I let Perkins fetch me a new coat.”
He gestured with one arm, revealing the sleeve that had been torn in his scuffle with the second-rate thugs that d’Aiguillon had set on him.
“I will wait here,” Magda said stiffly. Her face was grim and white, and he did not like the looks of her at all.
Perhaps it was a good idea that he had come here first rather than bringing her to the hustle and bustle of the Stanthorpes. “It has been a terrible afternoon,” he said. “I could do with a stiff drink and a chance to talk in private before we see Lady Stanthorpe. You know she will only pester you to death with questions,” he added.
“We should talk,
” she agreed, allowing him to help her down from the phaeton.
Magda went off to freshen up while Alexander went to his rooms to do the same. A quick wash removed most of the street grime, although there was nothing he could do about the bruise on his jaw. Already a tender lump, it was going to be even more impressive in a day or two.
Shrugging on a new jacket, he joined Magda in the study. Seeing her there again seemed somehow right, and he was reminded of how empty the house had felt after she left.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
“Thank you, no.” Tea was all well and good in its place, but he felt in need of something a bit stronger after the adventures of today. And for all his logical words to Magda about how she had never been in danger, it had still been an agony for him to stand there, waiting, balancing the need to protect her against the need to have d’Aiguillon confess.
Crossing over to the sideboard, he poured himself a generous snifter of brandy. Carrying the bottle with him, he came over to where Magda sat. “I think you could use some fortification as well,” he said. He knew better than to offer her straight brandy, so instead he poured a small amount into her teacup.
He took the chair opposite hers. She took a small sip, and he was relieved to see that the color had come back into her face.
“I never did thank you, did I?” she asked.
“No, but I knew you would get around to it eventually.”
He had enjoyed holding her earlier, and half hoped that she would feel inspired by gratitude to leap back into his arms. But it was not to be.
“I am sorry I was so rag-mannered. You have been so wonderful—I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
It was a nice speech. It would have been better if she had thought to give him a kiss, but he supposed he could not have everything.
“I know I will never forget you, or all you have done for me,” she added, her eyes lowered.
“What do you mean, never forget me?” How dare she dismiss him so casually, as if they meant nothing to each other?
She leaned forward, twisting her hands together, but she still would not meet his eyes. “So much has happened, it is hard to believe we have known each other only for a few weeks. But now it is time to go our separate ways. You have your business affairs and your friends and acquaintances, all of whom have missed you these weeks. And I must start living my life again.”
“Nonsense. There is no need to decide anything in haste.”
Her eyes flashed with temper as she looked over at him. Good. At least she was showing some emotion. “We had an agreement. But we have unmasked the killer, and now there is no reason to stay and every reason for me to leave. I can not take your charity forever. And I am certain Lady Stanthorpe will be happy to give up the pretense.”
“You don’t have to stay there. You can come back here. With me. It will be as it was before.” He rose abruptly from his chair and began to pace, frustrated that what was so clear to him seemed so unreasonable to her.
She shook her head slowly. “We both know that can not be.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.” She rose from her seat and came to him. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached one hand around his neck and bent his head down. His lips met hers for the first time as he tasted her sweetness and reveled in the feeling of her firm body pressed against his. He needed no encouragement to deepen the kiss and to probe her mouth tenderly with his tongue, exploring her secrets.
Eventually one of them ended the kiss. He was not sure who. They stood for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes.
“Forgive me, but I have wanted to do that for a long time,” she said.
“There is no need to apologize.”
“I am not sorry for what I did,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “But we both know that if I stayed here, it would hardly stop at a kiss.”
He had wanted to do more than kiss her for quite some time now. “Would that be so wrong?”
“Yes,” she said, turning her face away. “It seems silly, does it not? For all that I have lived among theater folk, I could never bring myself to live as they do. I can not be your mistress and pretend that this is some casual affair. I am too afraid of being swallowed up by you, of being shattered when you walk away, as you must someday, to find a respectable wife who can give you legitimate heirs.”
He raked his hand through his hair, trying to think. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he temporized.
“Please don’t lie to me.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but there was a firmness in her voice that told him she would not be swayed. Strange. He had admired her for the force of her convictions, and yet that very quality was driving them apart.
She was slipping out of his grasp. He could feel it. If he did not do something now she would leave his life forever.
“You could always marry me.” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider this mad notion.
“Marry you? You must be mad.”
Her opposition only strengthened his resolve. “But why not?”
“Have you forgotten who I am? Society has played along with our little charade for these past weeks, but how do you think they will feel when the truth comes out? What will your friends think when they find out you’ve married a sewing girl?”
“They’ll compliment me for finding a woman who is both beautiful and courageous.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “It will be the scandal of the Season. They’ll paint me as a grasping temptress, and you as the foolish victim of my schemes. Your friends will pity you, society will mock you, and your family will be horrified.”
Society would be appalled, but what of it? He had never lived his life to conform to its dictates and saw no reason to do so now. “Why should it matter what they think?”
“That’s what you say now, but what will you say when your fine friends cancel their business contracts with you, fearing that your marriage is a sign you have lost your intelligence? Or in the years to come, when you find the doors of the ton closed to our children?”
There was some truth in her words, but he refused to give in. “So instead of being my wife, you want to go back to your old life? To living in the slums and sewing your fingers to the bone for women who haven’t a tenth of your courage or innate character?”
“Ha! You don’t love me,” Magda said. “You just want to rescue me. Well, you are not King Cophetua and I am not a beggar maid. Such romance works only in Shakespeare, my lord Kerrigan. It does not happen in real life.”
He knew he could keep her. All he had to do was to tell her that he loved her. But he would not lie to her. He had strong feelings for Magda, but it was not love. He did not think he was capable of romantic love, the kind of love that the poets raved about. He was too cautious, too controlling to give himself over to the foolish excesses that women expected from their lovesick swains. He cared for Magda, but he felt no urge to write sonnets praising her beauty. Nor did he feel that if she left, he would perish. It would hurt, yes, but it would not end his life.
“I do not want to let you go,” he said finally.
There was a wistful look on her face, as if she had expected this all along. “Thank you for being honest with me,” she said. “If things had been different—”
“If things had been different we would never have met,” he said. “Are you sorry that we did?”
“No.”
“Neither am I,” he said. There was more he could have said, but he bit back the words, not wanting to mar these moments together with bitterness. Her rejection of him had hurt. Magda claimed that she was being wise, but she was a fool. She would never find anyone as well matched to her as he was. What woman would give up marriage based on admiration and friendship to return to a life of poverty and an uncertain future?
He could feel her withdrawing from him, even as he escorted her back to the Stanthorpes. But he said nothing more. Emotions had run high today. It was
only natural that they both needed some time to step back and to assess their future. In time she would see the sense of his proposal.
“Promise me that you will decide nothing in haste,” he said, as he turned her over to the care of Lady Stanthorpe. “And do not disappear until we have a chance to speak again.”
“Very well,” Magda said. “But my answer will be the same.”
Chapter 11
What was wrong with her? It had been two days since the unmasking of d’Aiguillon as her mother’s killer, yet Magda still felt no joy, no sense of triumph. She had waited over half her life to see justice served. Surely she should be rejoicing. Or relieved that she was finally safe, and that the long nightmare was over.
But the most powerful emotion she felt was not happiness or relief. Instead it was an aching heartbreak that grew stronger with each hour as it grew closer to the time that she would take her leave of the Stanthorpes and say goodbye to Alexander forever.
When had she started to love him? She could not say the hour or day. Was it when he first rescued her from the streets of London? Even then, arrogant and suspicious as he was, she had found something to admire in him. Or was it when he cared for her when she was ill after the attempted poisoning? Perhaps it was neither of those times, but rather in the quiet times, when she had been privileged to see the kindness and warmth he hid behind his forbidding manner.
Before she knew it she found he had crept his way into her heart, until she could not imagine what her life was like before she had known him. Having tasted such happiness, it would be hard indeed to resign herself to a solitary, loveless existence.
She had known all along that her time with him would be fleeting. She had been privileged to enjoy his friendship. It should have been enough. But she wanted more. She wanted his love, and that was the one thing he had not offered her.
Alexander had spoken of friendship and admiration. He had hinted at the passion that had simmered between them. And when she refused to be swayed, he had asked her to stay with him as his wife.
Not that marriage had been his first thought. No, his first offer had been more understandable, if less honorable. She had been tempted to go with him, to take what pleasure she could from such a relationship. But she had refused, knowing that her pleasure would come at the cost of her self-respect. Not to mention the torment of knowing that she was only his mistress, liable to be cast off at any time when his affections turned to another.
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