by Stella Riley
‘Very. But it wasn’t the gown I was looking at.’ Hell. Did I just say that out loud? Yes. It seems I did. He smiled and advanced a couple of paces. ‘You look shocked. Why?’
Lydia swallowed hard and concentrated on trying to sound light-hearted.
‘I suppose because it sounded … flirtatious. And you’re not. Flirtatious, I mean.’
Another step brought him perilously close and this time, when he spoke, his voice was darkly enticing.
‘That’s a damning indictment. Am I truly so lacking in charm?’
‘No!’ Silently cursing her vehemence for what it revealed, she decided it was time to fight back. ‘You’re doing it again, aren’t you? Playing games to see what I’ll do. And if that’s it, you can stop right now.’
‘Or what?’ She’s right. I should stop. I should stop and step back. This isn’t being careful. It’s the ultimate degree of stupidity. And yet … ‘Time was when the twelve days of Christmas permitted a little licence.’
‘But n-not any more.’
‘Sadly, no.’ He smiled and reached out to touch her cheek very lightly with his fingertips. ‘I always wanted to be the Lord of Misrule.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to make of you.’
‘No.’ He stepped right up to her, sliding one arm about her waist to pull her close. ‘No. And, odd as it may seem, that makes two of us.’
This time the kiss was different … still seductive but less tentative; this time his mouth told her what he wanted from the very beginning. And it was neither mild nor flirtatious. He kissed her with an intensity and hunger that suggested that this was no momentary impulse but something very much deeper.
Lydia, with virtually no experience to guide her, understood none of this. She only knew that his arms were holding her close, that his body was hard against hers, that his mouth sent sensation flooding through her and promised untold delights. She forgot they were in the hall and that anyone could walk in at any moment and discover them. She just wanted more.
Eden wanted more as well – a great deal more – but there was still just enough sense at the back of his mind to tell him he couldn’t have it. Not here, not now … probably not at all. On the other hand, that small core of reason wasn’t enough to make him break the kiss and let her go.
Not yet. Not just yet.
The parlour door opened and Nicholas stepped through it. For the space of a heartbeat, he simply froze; then, as Eden slowly released Lydia, he shook his head swiftly and turned back into the room saying clearly, ‘Damn. I forgot. Stupid of me. I left it at home …’ And his voice faded as the door closed firmly behind him.
Eden looked at Lydia. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing, rapid and uneven. Taking her hands in his to toy with her fingers, he said, ‘That was unfortunate. And entirely my fault.’
‘Not – not entirely, perhaps.’ She cleared her throat and tried to sound blasé. ‘And it could have been worse. At least it wasn’t Aubrey.’
‘No. Nicholas will be discreet.’ He frowned down at his hands and hers. ‘Do you still think I kissed you to make a point?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she replied truthfully.
‘No. Neither do I.’ He released her and created a space between them. ‘So this shouldn’t happen again until we do.’
* * *
Later, walking back through the frosty streets to Cheapside, Eden waited for Nicholas to refer to what he’d seen. Eventually, when the younger man remained stubbornly silent, he said, ‘I suppose you are shocked?’
‘Shocked?’ echoed Nicholas, unlocking his jaws. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. It’s been brewing for weeks – if not months. The only question is not where you imagine it’s going, but where Lydia thinks it is.’
Eden blinked. ‘I don’t know. I doubt she does either.’
‘So stop playing fast and loose with her affections. If --’
‘I don’t believe I am.’
‘Then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought – and blind into the bargain.’ Nicholas stopped walking and swung Eden round to face him. ‘That being so, I’ll put this into very simple words. If you break her heart, I’ll do my damnedest to put your head through a wall.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
ELEVEN
The last days of December saw a flurry of loosely-related activity. Thomas Harrison was arrested, then immediately released when he promised to behave; a proposal to offer Cromwell the Crown was made and then withdrawn; and, precisely as Colonel Brandon had feared, Parliament gave itself authority to pass future Bills without the consent of the Lord Protector.
January arrived, bringing flurries of snow. And two days into the month, Eden learned something he rather felt he should have been told in advance and which sent him hot-foot to Lambert’s office.
‘Just when,’ he asked crisply, ‘were you intending to tell me about these new measures against the Royalists?’
‘Ah.’ The Major-General laid down his quill and met his Colonel’s thoroughly annoyed stare. ‘My apologies. That was remiss of me.’
‘Considering you sent me off to gain the trust of Edward Villiers and the rest of them, I think that’s an understatement.’
Lambert’s expression became a little less friendly.
‘I believe I may be said to have gathered that. If you will sit down and master your temper, I’ll apprise you of the situation.’
Having little choice in the matter and wisely keeping his mouth shut, Eden removed his hat and sat.
‘Towards the end of last month there were reports of relatively large quantities of gunpowder leaving London for the country. Further enquiries revealed that sales of muskets and pistols have also increased. Three days ago, two Worcestershire gentlemen were arrested for receiving consignments of arms. Yesterday, other arrests followed on similar charges; one Major Norwood, for example, who we know has been received at the court-in-exile … also gentlemen from Caernarvonshire and Anglesey. The matter, you will appreciate, is already quite widespread – hence the need to prevent it getting out of hand.’
‘And so?’ Eden already knew what was being done. He just wanted to hear Lambert say it.
‘So a regulation has been issued stating that any Royalist found amassing arms and powder will be arrested.’ The Major-General leaned back in his chair. ‘I realise that this will complicate your talks with Villiers but --’
‘Complicate them?’ echoed Eden incredulously. ‘It will bury them – and my integrity, as well.’
‘What did you expect, Colonel? That national security would take second-place to your reputation?’
‘No. I merely assumed that this was the kind of information of which I might reasonably have expected to have been kept abreast. It may interest you to know that Will Compton is back in the City. I had a meeting set up with him for tomorrow which is now a less likely occurrence than that someone will try to stave my skull in.’ He rose and snatched up his hat. ‘I’ll make sure you find out which.’
* * *
Eden had made no attempt to see Lydia for a week – neither had she contacted him. Although he tried to deny it, he knew that this was taking its toll on his temper. A voice at the back of his mind that he couldn’t seem to silence whispered that he was leaving the field clear for Gilbert Wakefield. Common sense asserted that this didn’t – couldn’t – matter. If Wakefield offered marriage and Lydia accepted, both the situation and any questions in his own mind would be resolved. Unfortunately, knowing this and being comfortable with it were two different things.
On the following evening, he went to the Dolphin Tavern in Tower Street and sat down with a tankard of ale he didn’t want. An hour later, he pushed it to one side and walked out into the dark. The fact that he’d never expected Sir William to keep their appointment didn’t really make it any better. He felt like hitting someone.
Ironically enough, someone was about to give him the chance.
Later, he realised that if he’d been paying attention he
’d have had some warning. As it was, however, he’d just turned into Walbrook Street in the direction of the Poultry, when three figures erupted from one of the narrow alleys to his left. The largest of them cannoned into him, sending him crashing into the wall while the other two closed in behind. Then they were on him.
A blow to his jaw sent him careening back into the arms of the first man who promptly punched him so hard in the stomach that the breath left him. Another swift, vicious blow pushed him into the black mouth of the alleyway; and then all three set about the business of beating him to a pulp.
It all happened so fast, there was no time to think, let alone use his training. Years ago, his father had taught him how to ride a blow so it hurt less but there was no possibility of doing that now and the confined space made drawing his sword an impossibility. So he fought back as best he could and mostly on the defensive, using every dirty trick he knew while three pairs of fists pounded into him. Because he knew what would happen once they got him on the ground, he stayed on his feet until it was no longer an option. But eventually a particularly brutal blow to the jaw, resulting in another collision with the wall, put him on his knees and a kick sent him sprawling on the cobbles.
His breath came in raw, useless gasps. His mouth was full of blood, one cheek felt numb and most of his body hurt. Then a booted foot slammed hard into his side and his pain level ratcheted up from merely agonising to beyond excruciating. Instinctively, he rolled – trying to prevent another blow in the same place. And that was when a hand shoved his face into the ground while a knee pinioned the small of his back and a voice said, ‘You’re a busy fellow, aren’t you? Got a finger in all manner of pies. And some of ’em sod all to do with you. Pity that. This is what you get for sticking your beak in where it’s not wanted.’
Any vague notion Eden might have had that this was anything to do with his business for Lambert promptly evaporated. This was to do with Lydia. Somebody wanted him out of the picture and thought they could scare him off. Well, he was scared all right – just not on his own account.
He managed to make his mouth work well enough to say, ‘Quinn sent you?’
This earned him a buffet that made his head ring.
‘See … there you go again, asking questions. Don’t make any odds to you who sent us, does it? Could be Old Noll himself and you’d still be where you are now.’
The hand at his nape, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head up. The movement drove the sickening pain in his ribs ricocheting through the rest of him.
‘Now you’re going to listen very careful-like and you’re going to remember what I say. You’ve gone past being a nuisance. A long way past it. So if you want to stay in good health, you’d better stop poking about in things what don’t concern you. That clear enough for you?’
Eden spat blood and grunted two words that caused the fellow kneeling on his back to slam his head down, then immediately drag it back up again. A chipped cobble scraped the cheek that wasn’t already numb and his ribs screamed again. Then a boot settled on the wrist of his outflung hand and pressed down hard, barely shy of the point where he expected to feel his bones cracking. It was his sword-hand and he thought distantly, Oh Christ. Not that.
‘There’s not a lot of point being a hero when there’s nobody to see,’ said the voice in his ear, ‘and we can carry on hurting you as long as you like. Up to you. But try and grasp that this is just a warning and there won’t be another. Next time we’ll put you in the ground – and, seeing as you enjoy pain, it doesn’t have to be quick. Then there’s that stubborn bitch in Bishopsgate …’ Something must have given Eden away because the man holding him down gave a short laugh and said, ‘So that’s the way of it. Got your attention now, have I?’
‘Yes.’ The sound was a mere breath.
‘What was that?’
‘Yes, damn you.’ Making just those three words audible nearly caused him to pass out but he fought on. ‘Touch her and … better kill me first.’
Laughter erupted, vibrating through Eden’s body and making him clamp his teeth together in an effort to hide just how badly he was hurting.
‘He’s got a sense of humour,’ remarked the fellow standing on his wrist. ‘Got to give him that.’
‘I,’ remarked a new and very different voice from behind him, ‘am not entertained.’ And then, coldly, ‘You have caused me a lot of inconvenience, Colonel. The women removed, my ledger stolen, one of my best men incapacitated and another dead – not to mention five others in custody thanks to a visit from the Militia. Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?’
Eden spat more blood and, his voice no more than a thread, said, ‘Quinn. What do you want?’
‘Several things. To begin with, my fellows out of prison; since, as I imagine you already know, they won’t talk, there is no point in continuing to hold them. I also require the return of the book you stole. It may interest you to learn that it is those things – and only those – that are keeping you alive at this moment. Finally and most importantly, I want the records Stephen Neville kept about matters that didn’t concern him.’
‘Why?’
‘You are in no position to ask questions,’ returned Quinn, sounding bored. ‘Tell the widow to find the papers and surrender them next time she is asked. Then all this will be over.’
Eden heaved in a breath. ‘She can’t. She doesn’t … have them.’
‘She is either lying or mistaken. I know she has them. And this will not stop until she gives them up. I trust I’m making myself quite clear?’
He struggled to think, then to force out the words.
‘Your men … the book … yes. But you don’t … touch Lydia.’
For a moment, there was silence. Finally, Quinn said dispassionately, ‘My men, my book and no further prying by you or visits from the Militia … and I will allow the woman some time. That is all you get, Colonel.’ Then, from what sounded to Eden like a few steps further away, ‘Finish it, Packer. I doubt he’s in any state to follow but you may make sure of it, if you wish.’
Somebody grunted an assent and two things happened at once. The weight increased on his lumbar region but the foot left his wrist. There was a split second of acute relief and before his right arm was grabbed and savagely twisted against his spine. This time the world swam around him and a sound of pure agony forced its way past his lips.
‘You heard the man. Be sensible and take notice.’
Then, without bothering to force a reply, he gave Eden’s arm one final wrench followed by a savage blow to the side of the head … and was gone.
For the space of several heartbeats, Eden just lay there listening to retreating footsteps while he struggled to breathe and fought to retain consciousness. Finally, he gritted his teeth and slowly set about trying to get himself upright. Bit by excruciating bit, he managed to heave himself first on to hands and knees and eventually, by degrees and using the wall for support, to his feet. By that time, he was drenched in sweat and nausea was threatening to overwhelm him so he just leaned thankfully against the wall and shut his eyes while he took an inventory of his injuries.
The pain in his left side was severe and it hurt to breathe; so … a cracked rib or, if he was really unlucky, a broken one. Cautiously, he flexed his sword-hand. That hurt, too, but mercifully didn’t appear to be broken. Just bruising, then; nothing that wouldn’t mend in a few days. For the rest … his lip was split, his right eye beginning to close and his entire body was protesting from the pummelling he’d received. Basically, he felt like hell but had somehow to find the strength to haul his miserable carcass home.
He tried telling himself he’d had worse … but since he couldn’t remember when, this didn’t help much. Further thought suggested that he was no more than a third of a mile from home; just a hundred yards to Cheapside, then a few hundred more to the junction with Friday Street. No distance, really.
I can do this, he thought. I can. It just may take a while.
As it tu
rned out, he had no idea how long it took – only that it felt like hours, with pain increasing every gruelling step of the way. When he finally got inside the house, the relief was so acute that he simply slid down the wall and sat on the floor, looking at the seemingly insurmountable obstacle of the stairs.
A white apron over brown skirts swam into his line of sight, causing him to look up at its owner.
‘What now?’ asked Mistress Wilkes, her concern well-hidden behind a mask of annoyance.
‘Sorry,’ replied Eden hazily. ‘I’ll get up. In a minute.’
‘You’ll stay where you are and wait for Sir Nicholas and me to help you,’ she snapped. And vanished.
He shut his eyes, glad that he didn’t have to move just yet. And slid imperceptibly into welcome oblivion.
* * *
‘Holy hell!’ said Colonel Brandon. ‘I thought Nick was exaggerating.’
It was the following afternoon and, despite his various injuries having been attended to, Eden wasn’t feeling much better. Mistress Wilkes had dealt with all the superficial cuts and scrapes and made him drink something vile to ease the pain; and the doctor, having pronounced his ribs cracked but not broken, had strapped him up so tightly that a deep breath – even if he’d fancied taking one – was impossible.
‘It looks worse than it is.’
‘One would certainly hope so.’
‘And at least I still have all my teeth.’ He’d been worried about that for a time.
‘By all means let’s look on the bright side.’ Gabriel pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. ‘What happened?’
‘Three men helping Quinn to deliver a message.’
‘Quinn? He was there?’
‘I didn’t see him – but yes. He wants his men back and his ledger.’ Eden took a moment to breathe and repeated what had been said. ‘And he wants Stephen Neville’s thrice-blasted and seemingly non-existent papers.’
‘Yes.’ Gabriel frowned thoughtfully. ‘What precautions have you taken?’
