by Isobel Carr
He emerged into darkness that was only vaguely pierced by the greasy glow of the streetlamps. Leo cocked the gun and took the scene in with a clarity that seemed to come only in times of crisis. One of the horses was down, thrashing in its traces. Its mate was sideling, tossing its head in terror.
His father’s coachman, Tompkins, was struggling to cut the wounded horse free, while the footmen were locked in combat with multiple ruffians armed with cudgels and knives. Leo shot one of them, then turned the gun about and hit a second man with its heavy butt. He went down silently, but with a sickening lurch. Leo stepped over his body and pulled a man in a rough frieze coat off one of the footmen.
A shot rang out from behind him, and the man in the frieze coat fell back, screaming. Leo spun about to find Mrs. Whedon, the second pistol drooping in her hand. Their eyes met, and he thought she smiled, and then she was falling back into the coach, screaming.
For the first time in his life, Leo actually understood what it meant to see red.
He got halfway to the coach before someone grabbed his arm. Nothing existed except his fists, the fools who had undoubtedly been sent by his cousin, and the need to get to Mrs. Whedon. To Viola.
Leo didn’t realize that it was over, his cousin’s men either dead or fled into the night, until Tompkins—wig missing and livery coated in blood—caught his wrist. “My lord, have done.”
“Mrs. Whedon?”
“Here.” Her voice was high, clearly frightened. Rage flushed through him anew. This wasn’t how a man did things. Wasn’t how he or Charles had been raised to treat a woman. But Charles had turned his back on everything he’d been raised to believe, been raised to be. And tonight Leo was ashamed to call him cousin.
Leo pushed away from the body on the cobbles and stumbled toward the coach. Mrs. Whedon was sitting in the doorway of the coach, her gown in ruins, hair tumbling down her back, and blood trickling down one side of her face, dripping onto her chest.
Leo swallowed hard as his heart missed a beat and attempted to crawl up his throat. He pulled her up—perhaps a bit roughly, judging by her hiss of pain—to examine her head. A bloody scrape marred her temple, but that was all. Thank God. “Well, aren’t we rather rough and ready with a pistol?”
Viola flashed a wan smile, shrugging almost imperceptibly. Blood trickled over her brow. Her eyes fluttered, lashes batting against the dark stream. One feather bent ridiculously over her forehead while the other stuck straight out.
She was more than she presented herself to be. More than he—or the world—gave her credit for. And it was his fault she was hurt. He should never have shown those damn letters to Charles.
Leo wiped his thumb over her brow, clearing it for the moment. “We need to get this seen to immediately.”
“It’s just a head wound. They do bleed. I’ll be fine once it stops.”
“Perhaps…” Arm still locked about her waist, Leo glanced over his shoulder. All of his servants were still standing, but they were clearly the worse for wear. One of the footmen had found his wig and was beating it against his leg, sending up a cloud of powder. The other was clutching his arm, a grimace turning his face into a mask.
A crowd had begun to form; coaches and sedan chairs built up behind them as their owners disembarked to goggle at the scene. A sudden disturbance ran through the gathering horde, and a familiar silver-headed man sauntered forth like a champion come to save the day.
“Sandison,” Leo said with relief. “Please do me the favor of seeing Mrs. Whedon home. Mrs. Whedon”—he swung her up into his arms and nodded to Sandison to lead the way—“you can trust Mr. Sandison as you would myself.”
“So not an inch further than I could push him,” she said with a brave attempt at a chuckle.
“As you would myself,” Leo repeated, giving her an extra squeeze for reassurance. “I’ll be with you as quickly as I can. Have Sandison send for a surgeon. No arguments.”
She blinked, eyes huge, as though she were still trying to make sense out of the evening’s events. Leo placed her in Sandison’s coach and stooped to rest his head against hers, nose to her ear, lips briefly brushing the corner of her jaw. That simple promise was all he could give her in haste.
Knowing she was as safe as he could make her, Leo clapped his friend on the shoulder and waded back through the crowd to the scene of misery his cousin had created.
“Aren’t you a fright.” Anthony Thane stood like the mountain he was in the center of the street. He took a pinch of snuff and surveyed the wreckage rather like a traveler viewing some impressive foreign vista.
Leo yanked his cravat loose and passed it roughly over his face. No amount of laundering would save the frill of ruinously expensive lace, so he might as well make use of it.
“It’s a certainty that blood and hair powder don’t mix.”
“Very helpful, Thane.” Leo scrubbed at his face one last time and thrust his cravat into the pocket of his coat. “Am I reduced to a minor horror? Yes? Excellent. I see the night watchman has arrived, for all the use he’ll be. Can you handle him while I see what can be done to clear the road? I don’t think I’m prepared to be polite at the moment.”
Thane spun on his heel and marched off in the direction of the watchman, who stood with his club dangling from his hand, a look of pure shock upon his face.
“Tompkins?” Leo called for the coachman. “How bad?”
“I’ve had to put the gelding down, my lord. Joseph’s arm is broken, and Hamul has a nasty cut down his ribs. Oh, and the coach door is ruined. Other than that, I’d say we acquitted ourselves quite nicely.”
CHAPTER 7
Viola accepted Mr. Sandison’s proffered handkerchief and held it to her temple. The edge drooped, obscuring her vision. The blood was already drying, the tightness on her skin distracting with each and every breath. Her hand shook as she pressed the linen more firmly in place.
She’d shot a man. She’d never shot at anything but the pips on playing cards, and tonight she’d shot a man, maybe even killed him. It had been absurdly easy. Seemingly unreal. Lord Leonidas had leapt from the coach, gun in hand, leaving the pistol’s mate glinting in its secret box.
It had been in her hand before she’d even realized she’d reached for it…
As the coach rumbled into motion, Vaughn’s friend opened a panel behind him and withdrew a large, double-barreled pistol. The panel closed with an almost silent snick, and he sat, leg braced against the door, gun resting loosely in his hand: a guardian at the portal.
“Do you all go about armed? Does every coach in London have a secret panel?”
Mr. Sandison chuckled, his whole demeanor seemingly relaxed as he swayed with the coach’s motion. “Life in London does seem to call for a weapon far more often than one might assume.” He pushed the curtain aside with the barrel of the gun and stared out into the dark street. After a moment, he let the curtain fall closed again. “Or at least my life certainly does.”
“Lord Leonidas’s as well.”
“Yes.” Mr. Sandison nodded in agreement. “Vaughn does seem to lead a most exciting life.”
He was looking directly at her, and Viola felt a blush rise in response. Ridiculous. She never blushed. Never. Though that seemed to have changed of late… She pursed her lips, refusing to be baited. She pulled the handkerchief away from her head and was relieved to see the flow had greatly lessened.
Mr. Sandison glanced at her. “Best keep it there a while longer.” He pushed the curtain aside again and returned his attention to the streets. The occasional flash of light as they passed a streetlamp illuminated the coach for brief moments before plunging it back into darkness.
The plush seat embraced Viola as she sagged backward, only her stays keeping her from crumpling into a ball. The invasion of her house had been terrifying, but this, to be attacked on the streets, to see men wounded defending her… It was too much. She simply couldn’t make sense of it. This clearly hadn’t been about seizing her manuscript. It had
been about her. She’d never imagined Sir Hugo would go to these lengths.
Did he think killing her would stop publication, or was he merely that angry over his humiliating encounter that evening? And he was in breach of their contract. Had been for months, ever since he’d failed to make the quarterly payment that was due. Ever since the first volume of her memoir had thrown him into an inexplicable rage.
Her hands began to shake, her stomach churning violently against the pressure of her stays. Her mouth watered as though she were going to be sick. Viola shut her eyes and concentrated on the simple act of breathing.
The sooner she finished her manuscript and handed it over to her publisher the better. Once it was gone, she would be safe. There would no longer be any reason—logically—to harass her. Though Sir Hugo might burn for revenge when he read his chapter.
Killing her after the book was in production would only ensure it was the biggest hit of not just the Season but possibly the century. The murder of the Earl of Sandwich’s mistress—also committed as she left the theatre, now that Viola thought of it—was still being talked of in lurid whispers four years later. If poor Martha had written a memoir, it would have been a sensation. Viola shivered and thrust the memory of her dead friend away.
The carriage rolled to a clattering stop, and Viola opened her eyes as Mr. Sandison leapt down, the magnificent silver braid that edged his coat sparkling in the welcoming light of her home.
“Stay inside while we check that the street is clear,” he said before shutting her up again. The distinct sound of knuckles on wood was followed by muffled conversation. The coach rocked gently as one of his footmen swung down. Minutes passed in tense silence. The door opened, and Mr. Sandison’s gloved hand appeared.
“All clear, Mrs. Whedon. Let’s get you inside before that changes.”
Mrs. Draper stood in the doorway, crowding aside Sandison’s bulky footmen like a broody hen making room for her chicks. As Viola’s foot touched the cold metal of the coach step, she remembered her shoes were missing and that she was wearing only one stocking.
Mr. Sandison swept her up into his arms. “Pretend I’m Vaughn. Better yet, pretend I’m someone far more handsome and desirable than my deplorable friend.” He smiled, flirtatious, but harmlessly so, as they ascended the stairs.
In moments, she was in her own boudoir with her maid and housekeeper fussing over her. Mr. Sandison made her a profound leg and excused himself. “I’ll be downstairs until made superfluous,” he said, before whisking himself out of the room, the skirts of his coat swinging with an almost jaunty air.
Viola stared at the door. Sandison was enjoying himself. It was appalling, and yet she found herself smiling. What sort of man enjoyed such an evening?
Dismissing him from her thoughts, Viola crossed the room and collapsed on the seat before her dressing table. Tentatively, she leaned forward to examine the damage. Blood streaked her hair, covered one side of her face and neck, and crimson and burgundy rivulets traced a path down her chest to bloom onto her gown like some exotic Chinese flower. Against her powdered skin and hair, the effect was garish. She turned her back to her reflection and began to strip off her gloves.
“Mrs. Draper, can you please get me some hot water?”
Her housekeeper nodded her head decisively, enormous nightcap flapping about her ears. She rushed out the door, bellowing for the maid of all work at the top of her lungs.
Her ladies maid gave her a wan smile as she stood. Viola tossed her gloves on the floor with a shudder. Nance tsked over the state of her gown as she stripped it off her. “At least your stays haven’t been touched, and I think it’s likely I can get the few spots on your shift clean if I wash it immediately.”
“Never mind about that.” Viola flicked the pile of expensive silk away from her with her foot. “Burn it all, throw it in the midden. I don’t care. Just get rid of it.”
Viola pulled on her oldest and most comfortable dressing gown, its frayed velvet cuffs oddly comforting. Mrs. Draper reappeared with a pitcher of steaming water and an armful of towels. Behind her, little Sally bustled in with a tray of small lemon cheesecakes and a glass half full of amber liquid.
“Brandy, ma’am. Mr. Sandison’s orders.” She said it as though that made it law.
Viola felt a bubble of laughter swelling within her chest, pushing the cold horror of the evening to the fringes. While her servants fussed about the room, Viola returned to her dressing table and forced herself to eat. The filling was sweet on her tongue, the crust simply melted, a thousand layers of buttery flakes. She washed it down with a healthy amount of brandy, letting the warmth seep through her, from lips to throat to stomach and out to her frigid limbs.
Nance lit the candles that flanked her mirror, smoke curling up from the twisted length of paper in her hand. Viola turned her head to the right, and a pristine, if tired, woman gazed out at her. Only the deep circles under her eyes spoke to her true state. Turning her head to the left revealed the ghostly apparition of a murdered queen. Something right out of Shakespeare.
She picked up a towel, soaked it and rung it out, and began cleaning the blood from her face. The hot water stung, but she held the cloth firmly to her wound, loosening the clot that matted her hair.
Nance finished disposing of her clothing and returned to brush out her hair, carefully stripping out the powder along with the tangles. She was making the small clicking sound with her tongue that she always made when distressed. Pin after pin clinked into the black, japanned box on the table as Nance plucked them from the wreck of her coiffure.
A second towel joined the first in a damp pile draped over the empty ewer before a peremptory knock on the door set Viola’s heart racing, and Vaughn appeared behind her in the glass. Even in reflection, his eyes burned, and the set of his jaw was impossible to miss. He hadn’t calmed down one iota since she’d seen him last.
She’d watched him beat a man with his fists, possibly to death. There’d been rage behind his actions, but there had also been cold calculation, precision, and no hint of indecision.
Viola twisted about to face him. He was dirty, rumpled, and nearly as blood-streaked as she’d been. But even under all that blood and grime, the hard, masculine planes of his face were distinct, like an ancient marble statue just reclaimed from the earth. And her impulse was the same as anyone discovering such a treasure: to revel in its glory.
He was hers, at least for the moment.
“Nance, that will be all.” Viola wet the edge of a clean towel and stood, her robe swirling around her feet in heavy folds. The click of the door shutting signaled her maid’s swift departure. “Sit.”
She took his arm and pushed him into the small chair she’d just vacated. He tensed, then sank obediently.
Viola passed the towel across his forehead, trying to be gentle. “Are your servants all right?” The splinters of window glass had sliced his cheek in multiple places.
As with her own wound, the blood made it look far worse than it was. The only real damage was one nasty slice that ran along his cheekbone like the scratch of some great cat, though it was clear he’d have a black eye come morning.
“Yes.” He winced slightly as the towel passed over the largest cut, his wicked green eye closing tight, tiny rays of smile lines running down his cheek. “A broken arm and a knife wound that needs stitching are the worst of it. Lucky for us, most of my family’s footmen are veterans of the King’s Royal Ethiopian Regiment. They’re a bit more useful in a fight than their London-bred counterparts.”
“Really?” Viola stood back to admire her handiwork. She cocked her head and wiped off one last smudge near his ear, allowing her fingers to linger on the hard edge of his jaw. The faint burr of whiskers pulled at the fabric of the towel. “I had wondered why most of your footmen and grooms were Africans.”
“My uncle was one of the officers in charge. Promises were made for their support. Promises that haven’t been kept for the most part. When he returned after th
e war, he retired, and now he spends his days finding employment for as many of his men as he can.”
She ran her thumb over his cheek, holding her breath to prevent herself from leaning forward to kiss his wound as though he were a child… or a lover. He was in need of a shave; the dark whiskers gave his jaw a faint velvet sheen in the candlelight. It must be later than she thought, for he’d been immaculate at the theatre.
Lord Leonidas plucked the towel from her grasp and rose. One hand caught her chin and tipped her head for his inspection. His eyes narrowed, and he dabbed at her neck. Clearly dissatisfied, he tugged the collar of her robe open, exposing her shoulder and very nearly her breast.
Viola bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Once again, my lord, you’re considerably above my knee.”
“What—”
His look of bewilderment set off a peal of laughter.
“Very funny, my lady.” He thrust her down into the chair and began scrubbing the dried blood from her shoulder with much the same air as an annoyed governess with a recalcitrant and muddy charge.
“Is your uncle an abolitionist?”
“Of the strictest order.” He soaked a new towel and continued his almost rough ministrations. “No sugar. No rum. No cotton. Rides about distributing pamphlets. Even paid for his secretary’s memoir to be published last year.”
“He sounds like an admirable man.”
“He is.” Lord Leonidas tossed the towel into the basin and dropped a casual kiss on her still-damp shoulder. Her lungs seized, shriveling away to nothing inside her chest. “He’s also an incredible bore.”
She shuddered as the ability to breathe returned. “Most reformers are.”
“We’re a wicked, ungrateful pair, you and I.”
“Bound for hell. I’ve known it for years. Makes me all the more determined to enjoy this world.” Viola locked her hand in his lapel and pulled him toward her, raising her face for a kiss. She needed it. The warmth of it, the reassurance of it, the celebration of it. Needed it more than she needed to maintain control.
