Gripping the neck of the bottle tightly, concealing it in the generous folds of the red brocade skirt, I took a deep breath as the key turned clumsily in the lock. Sure was takin’ ’im long enough, I thought as the key continued to rattle in the hole. There was a loud click. The door was pushed open slowly, stealthily. It wasn’t Hogan. It was Matlock. He’d been at the gin after all, reeking of it as he stood there holding the door back, brown eyes burning with malevolent lust. I stared at him coldly, calmly.
“You an’ me ’re gonna ’ave us some fun, slut.”
“Think so?” I said.
He grinned. He lurched toward me. I swung the bottle up as high as I could and slammed it against the side of his head. Matlock stared at me for half a second, shocked, stunned, and then he toppled to the floor with a heavy thud, arms and legs akimbo. The bottle hadn’t even broken. Amazin’, I thought, still holding it tightly. I stepped over Matlock’s body and moved quickly through the door and into the hall, red brocade swirling, swaying, rustling with the sound of dry leaves.
I almost bumped into Hogan. He stepped onto the landing just as I was darting past the stairwell. I whirled, startled. He looked at me without expression. I swung the bottle. He seized my wrist, twisting it brutally. I dropped the bottle. It rolled down the stairs, clanking loudly on each step, still not breaking. I doubled up my fist and drove it into Hogan’s jaw. He saw the blow coming, turning his head quickly so that my knuckles merely grazed him. I kicked his shin and tried to get at his groin with my knee. He released my wrist, grabbed my shoulders and hurled me against the wall. My head banged against the wood and lights seemed to explode, orange-yellow-red. Black clouds claimed me an instant later, shrouding my brain. I was dimly aware of the rustle of silk as I slid to the floor, and then there was nothing but darkness.
I moaned. The sound came from a great distance and seemed to echo inside my head, distorted, dying away. The black clouds billowed like smoke, thick, dense, gradually thinning, black melting into gray, and I was swimming through them, moving upward, reaching for the light that shimmered on the surface. I could see it clearly now, lovely light, softly diffused, growing brighter and brighter as gray clouds evaporated. The light touched my eyelids, golden white, burning brightly, and I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for several moments, disoriented, still groggy.
I was in the bedroom. I was on the bed with the royal blue counterpane, my head resting on a satiny pillow. I sat up, resting on my elbows. The back of my head ached dreadfully, but no serious damage had been done. I blinked a few times and things gradually came into focus. They’d taken Matlock’s body away. I wondered idly if I’d killed him. Hoped so. Bloody bastard. The door was closed and locked. The fire had burned down completely, pink gray ashes glowing dimly. The candles in the wall sconces had burned down, too. Only short wax stubs were left, the flames dancing wildy. I must have been unconscious for at least two hours, maybe more. It must be well after midnight, I thought, climbing shakily to my feet. My legs wobbled slightly as I moved over to the window.
Holding back the drapery, I peered through the bars at a sky black as ebony, faintly streaked with silvery gray blurs of moonlight. The moon was a thin, white disc, almost transparent. I let the drapery fall back into place, feeling weak, dispirited, all bravado gone now. I wanted to curl up in a corner and cringe and cry, but I had too much self-pride to allow myself to do that. No tears for Duchess Randy. Tears were for cowards. I could feel them welling up in my eyes nevertheless, and I fought them back, scolding myself for such weakness. You’re down, Randy, an’ you’re dispirited, but you ain’t about to give up.
Time seemed to drag, each minute stretching out interminably, and the tension mounted. Why didn’t ’e come? I couldn’t do anything till ’e got ’ere. Locked up ’ere like this, ’elpless, I ’adn’t a thing to do but think, building up th’ dread in my mind, growin’ more an’ more skittish. Me, I was made for action. Face to face with danger I was quick-witted, nimble, able to cope, but this waitin’.… I folded my arms around my waist, pacing the room. One of the candles spluttered out, then another. Wonderful! ’Alf an ’our more an’ I’d be in total darkness, an’ that’d be just dandy. ’Elp a lot, it would. I’d probably start screamin’ my ’ead off.
I heard noises coming from downstairs—loud, thudding noises as though furniture was being banged about, only there was no furniture. I frowned, then tensed as I heard footsteps pounding up the steps. In a ’urry, ’e was. After all this time th’ bastard was in such a ’urry ’e was racing up the stairs, couldn’t wait. Almost without thinking I grabbed the silver ice bucket, emptied the icy contents onto the floor and raised it high, ready to hurl it at his head. Th’ sonuvabitch might ’ave me, but ’e was goin’ to ’ave a fight on ’is ’ands. ’E’d ’ave to kill me, an’ I fully intended to do everything in my power to kill ’im first. A furious rage filled me, driving away doubt, driving away fear, and I was truly like a wildcat now, fierce and cornered and as dangerous as Black Jack Stewart ever hoped to be.
He pounded on the door. What’d ’e think I was goin’ to do, open it for ’im? Bloody sod ’adn’t even bothered to stop for th’ key. ’E was bangin’ ’is shoulder against the wood now, ’e was goin’ to break a bone, ’e was. I gripped the silver bucket tightly, holding it over my head, ready to sling it with all my might. My eyes were flashing. My blood was racing. He was kicking the door now, his boot making a duller thud. The door shook, giving. He kicked it again. It flew open and slammed back against the wall. I threw the bucket. Cam Gordon ducked, raven hair bouncing, the skirt of his black frock coat swirling. The bucket crashed into the door frame, splintering wood.
“Jesus!” he cried.
“Cam!”
I flew to him, flew into his arms, and he held me in a crushing grip against his chest. I buried my face in the curve of his shoulder and began to sob uncontrollably. His arms tightened even more, squeezing the breath out of me, and I wrapped my arms around his back and clung to him and a thousand questions popped into my mind, but they weren’t important now. He’d come. Somehow he’d found me and he was here and he was holding me and that was all that mattered. There was more noisy thudding from below, shouting as well. Cam Gordon took my shoulders and held me away from him, frowning.
“Bancroft seems to be having some trouble. I thought we got them all. More of ’em must have come in.”
“Ban—Bancroft’s ’ere, too?”
“Later,” he said gruffly.
He pulled me toward him and slung an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the room and down the hall to the staircase. We started down the steps, and I let out a cry as I saw Black Jack Stewart climbing toward us. He was wearing the same bottle green breeches and black satin frock coat with dirty gold braid, tattered white lace at throat and wrists. His face was ashen, making the shiny black eye patch seem even darker, and his thin lips curled in a lethal smile as his one good eye glittered darkly. He had a knife, gripping the hilt so tightly his knuckles were white. The blade gleamed, catching the light. Cam shoved me behind him. I stumbled, falling on my behind, red brocade skirt rustling loudly. Gordon stood very still, utterly calm. One hand rested on the banister. The other hung loosely at his side.
“It—it’s ’im!” I exclaimed. “It’s Black Jack!”
“Shut up, Miranda.”
“Cam! Cam, be careful—’e’s a killer!”
Black Jack moved slowly up the stairs toward us, the blade gleaming, the thin lips smiling that horrible smile. He was twelve steps below us now. Ten. Nine. He paused, drawing the knife back and forth in front of him.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said in a dry, hoarse voice, “but you’re going to die. The woman is mine.”
“On the contrary, she happens to be my property.”
Gordon’s voice was perfectly level, almost pleasant. He might have been discussing the weather. Black Jack moved up one more step, swishing the knife, slicing the air, his eye glittering with evil relish.
He paused again, and I caught my breath as I saw him tense, that tall, wiry body coiling tightly for the attack. Gordon didn’t move a muscle. Legs spread wide, he stood there on the step below me, perfectly still. There were more banging, thudding noises from below, another shout. My throat was dry. My heart seemed to bang against my rib cage. Black Jack let out a cry and lunged forward, charging up the remaining steps.
Gordon whipped back the skirt of his frock coat, pulled the pistol out of his waistband, aimed, fired. There was a deafening explosion, a puff of smoke. A red blossom burst into bloom on Black Jack’s forehead, just above his eyes, spreading, spurting. He jerked, whirled, crashed against the banister, tumbled over it, his legs kicking in the air before they disappeared from sight. His body made a horrible thunking sound when it hit the floor at the bottom of the stairwell. I stared at the empty air where Stewart had been only seconds before, stunned, shaken to the core of my being. Cam Gordon blew on the barrel of the pistol, slipped it back into the waistband of his breeches and turned to look at me with cool blue eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded. He pulled me to my feet and ordered me to stay behind him and we continued down the steps. The noises from below grew louder, more violent. A heavy object crashed against a wall. Something fell heavily. A body was sprawled on the second-floor landing. Hogan. His head sagged to one side at an impossible angle. His neck had been broken. His mouth was open, and a thin stream of blood trickled from one corner. His eyes seemed to bug out of their sockets, staring in sightless horror at the ceiling above.
“Did—did you do that?” I stammered.
“With a great deal of pleasure,” he told me.
I shuddered, following him down to the foyer. Richard Bancroft was battling vigorously with two of Stewart’s henchmen I’d never seen before. Dark gold hair tumbling over his brow, brown eyes alight with excitement, he threw himself into the fray with considerable zest, grinning a merry grin as he slung one man to the floor and planted a booted foot on his throat. He drove a powerful fist into the second man’s stomach and, when he doubled up, grabbed him in a headlock. The man on the floor thrashed, flailing his arms, kicking his legs, making dreadful gurgling noises as Bancroft bore down on his throat with his full weight. Something cracked. The man grew still. Still holding the other man in the headlock, Bancroft raced across the room with him, slamming his head against the wall. When he released his hold, the man crumpled to the floor like a limp rag-doll.
“Finished?” Gordon inquired.
“Thanks for all the help, lad.”
“You seemed to be doing nicely without it.”
Bancroft brushed the golden locks from his brow and looked at us with twinkling brown eyes, his cheeks pink, the merry grin still playing on his lips, and I was reminded of a great, jolly pup who had just had an invigorating romp.
“That all of ’em?” Gordon asked.
“There was a chap with an eye patch, came in with these two a couple of minutes after you went upstairs.”
“He won’t be bothering us,” Gordon said.
Bancroft straightened his emerald green silk neckcloth and brushed a speck of dust from the skirt of his rich brown velvet frock coat.
“Haven’t had such a rousin’ good time in I don’t know when,” he remarked. “We oughta do this more often, Gordon.”
“There—there were two others,” I said in a shaky voice.
“One of ’em’s in the next room,” Bancroft informed me, “big red-haired lad, side of his head smashed in. Somebody clobbered him good. I think he’s breathing, though. The other’s outside in the courtyard with the chap who was guarding the gate. They’re—uh—resting comfortably.”
“Dead?” I asked.
“Chap guardin’ the gate isn’t. I just knocked him out. Can’t say about the big blond lad friend Gordon here was questioning. His arm’s broken, I know that, and his voice was soundin’ awfully funny when he finally told Cam which room you were in. You kill him, Cam?”
“Afraid so.”
“Pity,” Bancroft said.
I passed a hand across my brow, beginning to feel faint again. “There—five other girls are bein’ ’eld prisoner,” I said. “We—we’ve gotta set ’em free.”
“Imagine this’ll do the job,” Bancroft said, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “Took this off the gatekeeper.”
“You might have mentioned it,” Gordon said dryly. “I damn near dislocated my shoulder breaking down that door.”
“You didn’t give me time, lad. Went tearing into the house like a madman soon as you dropped the blond chap. Carriage with three others pulled up not more than a minute later. Any idea where these girls are?” he asked me.
“One of them’s in the basement. I—I don’t know about the others.”
Bancroft moved cheerfully toward the basement stairs, and Gordon took my elbow and led me outside. The night air was cool. Leaves rustled faintly in the breeze. The sky was a soft black now, beginning to lighten, black fading into a deep gray. I shivered. Cam Gordon removed his frock coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, and then he wound his arms around my waist, holding me loosely in front of him. I rested the back of my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks now.
“It’s over, Miranda,” he said.
“You—you came,” I murmured.
“Of course I came. When someone steals my property, I retrieve it.”
“’Ow did you know—”
“A little boy across the courtyard saw it happen, finally got around to telling his mother about it a couple of hours later. She hurried over to inform me. I knew it must have been Black Jack’s men who took you. Bancroft showed up then, hoping to talk me into a night on the town. We had one, all right.”
“’Ow—’ow did you know where to come?”
“We came directly to St. Giles and made a few inquiries. We had to use some rather forceful persuasion to get the information.”
Shadows stirred all around us. Flecks of moonlight danced at our feet. Cam Gordon tightened his arms around my waist, drawing me closer. That strong, solid body was like a pillar behind me, and I rested against it, safe, secure, feeling his warmth, smelling his smell, enveloped by him. He had risked his life to get me back, had killed two men. I must … I must mean something to him. Bleedin’ sod would never admit it, but I must be more to him than … than just another servant. I reveled in his nearness, and several long moments passed before he spoke again.
“At least this solves one problem,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“The ending of my book. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Now I’ve decided. A rival gang lord will abduct Angelica, take her to a house like this one, and Burke will come charging to the rescue.”
His book. All this time he’d been standing here in the moonlight, holding me close, and he’d been thinking about his bloody book! At least th’ evenin’ wudn’t a total waste. I tried to pull away from him, but he held me fast. I thought I heard a soft chuckle.
“After all this, you’re going to have to work twice as hard, you know,” he informed me.
“Oh?”
“I fully expect to see a decided improvement.”
“Bugger you, Cam Gordan,” I whispered.
20
Dawn was breaking as the carriage turned down Holywell Street, the pale gray sky streaked with misty pink and soft orange banners, the city below still clothed in night shadows. I was so sleepy and weary I could hardly keep my eyes open, and I only vaguely remember getting out of the carriage and walking under the archway to the courtyard beyond. Cam Gordon opened the door for me, and when I looked up at all those stairs I knew I’d never make it upstairs. I gave a soft moan, shaking my head. Gordon sighed in disgust and swept me up into his arms and began to mount the steps. I was too weary to comment. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and nestled my head against the curve of his neck and closed my eyes, drifting off to sleep
before we even reached the first landing.
When I opened my eyes the sky was a much darker pink stained with apricot and deep gold. I was on my bed in the attic room, still wearing the red brocade gown and black lace petticoat, both sadly rumpled now, and I was ravenously hungry. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. That wudn’t dawn streakin’ th’ sky. It was sunset, and I’d slept all bloody day. No wonder I was hungry. As the dying rays of sunlight streamed through the windows I got up and washed my face and brushed my hair. He had brought me upstairs and dumped me on the bed, hadn’t even bothered to put any cover over me, and it was cold. I shivered, smoothing out the skirts, puffing up the crushed bell sleeves, my stomach making ominous noises. I hadn’t had a bite in over twenty-four hours, not since noon yesterday, and I’d gotten used to eating these past weeks.
The Scot was at his worktable when I went downstairs, his quill flying over a page already half-covered with messy black tracks. Lost in his work, he didn’t hear me, even though I stumbled over a pile of books he had left in the middle of the floor. The place was an incredible mess—books, papers everywhere, his coat over the back of a chair, a platter of food on the floor in front of the sofa. I spied bread, cheese, sausage, half a baked chicken—heavenly manna at the moment—and, plopping down on the sofa, I tore into it with great relish, tearing a drumstick off, stripping it of meat in record time. Sod musta gone out for food ’imself. Fancy that. They probably charged him double, held him up proper. He might write books, but he didn’t know anything about shoppin’ for food, as ’elpless as most men when it came to mundane matters like that.
He cursed loudly, tore up the page he’d been working on, seized a new sheet and jabbed the quill viciously into the pot of ink. I sighed and finished up my meal and then went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. The kitchen was in a dreadful mess, too. It was hard to believe he could create such chaos in such a short time. He’d spilled something on the floor. Looked like soup. The coffee canister had been turned over, beans everywhere. He’d even fetched his own water, I noted, seeing the half-full bucket on the drain board. Good. I didn’t feel like ’andling all those stairs just yet. I put water on to boil and ground up the beans and, a few minutes later, poured the marvelously aromatic brew into a heavy blue cup, adding a generous spoonful of sugar.
Once More, Miranda Page 29
