“I’m so sorry.” Inadequate consolation, for after so many years the man still mourned.
“If she had lived, I would be your uncle.”
“Yes.”
Lord Fanthorpe looked out into the ballroom, but he seemed to gaze on a different scene. “I’ll never forget seeing her body lying there on the grass, her poor face battered beyond recognition, the blood welling from the wounds in her breast. It was a horror from which I have never recovered.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. This was not party conversation, but Lord Fanthorpe was lost to his memories, and she…she had never heard the whole story. It was as if Lady Pricilla had never existed, and Eleanor hesitated to stir up hurtful memories by asking about the dreadful incident.
Lord Fanthorpe’s hand twisted on the head of his cane. “That bastard, that commoner who had killed her, held her body. He was covered in her blood, and he cried as if he had had nothing to do with the tragedy.” He almost spit as he said, “As if he were innocent.”
His virulence took Eleanor aback. “He was deported, was he not?”
“To Australia. Mr. George Marchant had an alibi.” Lord Fanthorpe said the word as if it were an abomination. “Three noblemen swore he had been with them. Men of good character. Pah! So the authorities wouldn’t hang Marchant. Myself, I would have drawn and quartered him, for daring to imagine he was worthy to soil Lady Pricilla with himself.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Lord Fanthorpe looked at her, and his brown eyes were bleak. “He had fallen in love with her, and he wanted her to run away and wed him.”
Eleanor covered her mouth with her hand. “And when she refused, he killed her?”
“The lower classes have all those emotions—love, hate, happiness, melancholy—roiling inside them, and when it all becomes too much, it explodes into violence. Do you remember when the peasants in France stormed the Bastille, my dear?”
She shook her head. “I was just a child.”
“You look so much like your aunt, I forget how young you are. But the Bastille proved the peasants’ bestiality, and why we rightfully hold the power.”
“We?”
“The aristocracy.” He waved his long, narrow hands. The fingers were bent sideways, as if he’d been tortured by some terrible disease. The knuckles were swollen, but his fingernails were manicured and shaped. “We have the whip hand. Thank God someone does, or this country would be in the same shambles that afflict France. The Little Colonel, indeed.” His voice rose. “Napoleon’s nothing but a Sicilian thug.”
Eleanor held a lurking regard for Napoleon; she might not agree that he should control the world, but she admired his confidence. Yet she had too much respect for the old lord to say so. Instead, she nodded and smiled.
“I never thought to see Lady Pricilla again, but you’re the living image of her.” Lord Fanthorpe’s shaking fingers reached out and tilted her chin up. “So beautiful, with your black hair”—his gaze scanned the shaggy cut as if it bewildered him—“and your big blue eyes. Do you know, I still dream about her eyes, looking at me in adoration? As I age, I think about her more and more, and to see you sitting there makes my silly old heart leap.”
“Well…I’m glad.” Eleanor had never felt so ill-equipped to make conversation, yet at the same time, she felt sorry for him—and horrified by his revelations. The vague tragedy of long ago had acquired a face, and that face was her own.
“Here comes your young man.” Lord Fanthorpe’s sharp eyes picked out Mr. Knight and watched him make his way through the crowd, holding her glass and smoothly evading collision with dancers and drunks. “Handsome enough. Yet a mongrel, too.”
Lord Fanthorpe echoed the conviction of almost everyone in English society, but as much as Eleanor disliked Mr. Knight’s high-handed ambitions, she couldn’t mock him behind his back. “He’s very determined.”
Lord Fanthorpe turned his chilly gaze on her. “You are like Pricilla. Softhearted. Foolish. Who is he? Who are his people? Where did they come from?” His wrinkled lips curled in a sneer. “From America, the land of mongrels. All mongrels.”
“But Mr. Knight’s feelings are quite refined.” Her jaw dropped when she heard her own voice spouting nonsense. Mr. Knight? Refined? She couldn’t believe she had said such a thing.
But neither did she want this old aristocrat, with his blind prejudices and his casual insults, to malign Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight might lash back, and the old man would suffer an embarrassing loss at the hands of the younger, ruthless American.
For no other reason did she defend Mr. Knight.
“I doubt that. I believe your father lost you in a card game. I admire your filial duty—and your loyalty. All women should be so proper.” Rising, Lord Fanthorpe bowed to her, then hobbled away without acknowledging Mr. Knight in any way.
Mr. Knight took the seat Lord Fanthorpe had abandoned. “Who was that?”
She watched the old man depart and wondered at the strange encounter. Lord Fanthorpe had suffered a dreadful tragedy, and she felt sorry for him. So sorry for him. “His name is Lord Fanthorpe. He was once betrothed to my aunt Pricilla.”
Mr. Knight watched Lord Fanthorpe with the same intensity Lord Fanthorpe had used to ignore Mr. Knight. “Why didn’t he marry her?”
“She died.”
He looked down at the glass he held, then up at her. “That won’t happen to you.” Putting it down, he stood and extended his hand. “Let’s go home.”
“There’s our carriage.” Mr. Knight assisted Eleanor and Lady Gertrude down the porch steps while the London fog swirled around in an endless, maddened dance that the lanterns scarcely pierced. A long line of carriages snaked away from the Picards’ door as the tired guests at last headed home.
The footman handed Eleanor and Lady Gertrude into the dark interior, and Mr. Knight followed. They settled into their seats, the ladies facing the front, and with a jolt the wheels turned.
Lady Gertrude patted her hand over her mouth as she yawned. “It’s very late.”
“Yes.” Eleanor stared into the darkness and fog. She could see nothing, yet her every sense was alert to Mr. Knight, seated across from her. In the tiny interior, his knees jostled hers, and she knew he was staring toward her, watching with brooding intensity. Her conversation with Lord Fanthorpe had swept through him like a strong wind, removing all softness and compassion and leaving only the harsh bedrock of his character. She didn’t understand it, but the shadows that encircled him made her uneasy, and she glanced out the window as if anticipating danger.
She could see nothing out there. The lanterns on the carriage barely penetrated the fog, isolating them within the shelter of the carriage.
Insensible to the atmosphere, Lady Gertrude spoke again, her voice slurred with weariness. “The perfect ball to introduce you two as betrothed! Everyone was there. Even that dreadful Lady Shapster. I tell you, children, the day Lord Shapster married her was a sad day for the family.”
“Most assuredly.” Eleanor knew Mr. Knight was as aware of her as she was aware of him. It was odd, to feel close to a man who threatened her and everything that she was. Yet irresistibly, he drew her.
The carriage rolled on, separating from the other carriages, moving deeper into London.
Lady Gertrude fell silent, and a soft snore sounded from her corner of the carriage.
With a sigh, Eleanor tried to relax. It had been such a long day, and tomorrow would be just as difficult. She needed to sleep…she must have drifted off, for she roused at a roar from the street. The coachman shouted and pounded on the roof.
Lady Gertrude snorted and woke. “What…what is it?”
Mr. Knight said nothing, but Eleanor heard him pick up his cane. Her heart beat faster, her breath caught. Outside, the commotion grew louder. She recognized these sounds.
The carriage lurched to a halt.
“We’re being robbed,” Eleanor said to them quietly.
“Ro
bbed?” Lady Gertrude sounded panicked and indignant at the same time. “I’ve never been robbed in my life.”
“I have.” Sliding her hand along the wall of the carriage, Eleanor sought the pistol she’d seen on the ride to the ball.
“Really?” Mr. Knight sounded interested and not at all worried by their situation. “Where?”
“In the Alps. The bandits there are fierce.” The pistol had disappeared. Did he have it? “I can fight if I have a weapon.” She never had had to, but she would if it was necessary.
“I think not.” Mr. Knight placed his hand on her shoulder. “Stay in the carriage.” Before she could reply, he kicked at the door, knocking it violently open. Outside, someone yelped as he went flying, and Mr. Knight launched himself into the street.
At once Eleanor peered out the window. In the dim light of the carriage lanterns, she saw two burly thieves leap at Mr. Knight.
She came half off her seat. “Lady Gertrude, do you have a hat pin? An umbrella?”
Mr. Knight lifted the pistol and shot one man in the chest. At the same time, he used the tip of his long cane to jab the second man in the stomach.
Eleanor blinked in shock and relief. Mr. Knight knew how to fight. Fight like a street brawler.
“I don’t have anything!” Lady Gertrude said.
The footman leaped off his perch and into the fray.
Sinking down, Eleanor said, “I think Mr. Knight will be fine.”
Three more men hurled themselves out of the fog. Before she could scream a warning, the broad side of Mr. Knight’s cane snapped around and smacked one in the throat.
The thief went down, choking and gagging.
Eleanor clenched her fists at her waist and made small, jabbing motions, as if that would somehow help.
The footman smashed his fist into one robber’s face.
The robber’s head snapped back. His hand came up and gave the footman a clout, and the two went down in a brawl.
The carriage rocked as the horses pranced in alarm. The coachman held them and shouted encouragement.
The last bandit rushed Mr. Knight, knife held low.
Mr. Knight caught his wrist and pulled him toward him, stepped aside, and slammed the thief into the side of the carriage hard enough to rattle Eleanor’s teeth.
Lady Gertrude whimpered softly. “Is Mr. Knight hurt?”
“Not yet.” Eleanor removed her cloak and, with a swirl, tossed it out the door onto the staggering villain. Giving a yell, he tried to fight his way out.
With one foot, Mr. Knight kicked the muffled form into the darkness.
Another ruffian charged Mr. Knight—no, it was the second man again. He landed a clout on Mr. Knight’s shoulder.
Mr. Knight staggered sideways. He brought his cane around behind his back.
The thug went down with a blow behind his knees.
Mr. Knight finished him off with a crack to the head.
The footman came up, dusting off his hands.
Abruptly, the street was silent. It was over.
The footman climbed up on his perch.
Mr. Knight leaped into the carriage and called to the coachman, “John, let’s go!” and the vehicle was moving before he finished closing the door.
Before she could ask if he was hurt, or run her hands over him—or, what was more likely, move to her place on the forward facing seat, he crowded her into the corner. “That was amusing.”
“Amusing?” She didn’t like his snarl, or the way he held his arm across her chest like an iron bar. “Terrifying would be a better word.”
“I wonder who sent them.” He sat too close. The aggressive heat from his body scorched her.
“Sent them?” Eleanor didn’t understand, but her hackles rose.
“What do you mean, Mr. Knight?” Lady Gertrude asked. “Do you think this was done deliberately?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.” He smelled of sweat and violence.
To her distress, Eleanor breathed it in as if it were perfume. On some primal level, she liked that he’d fought for her.
“Of all the carriages leaving the Picards’ ball, ours was the one stopped.” He spoke right at Eleanor, as if he were accusing her of something. “I throw Dickie Driscoll off my property this morning,” he said, “and thieves attack my carriage tonight. Thieves who didn’t want to rob you but only wanted to hurt me.”
Shocked, Eleanor asked, “Are you saying Dickie Driscoll tried to kill you?”
He didn’t answer, but she heard—and felt—the heaving of his breath.
“You are!” Eleanor couldn’t believe Mr. Knight’s effrontery. “I’ll have you know that my servant is a good, kind man who would never hurt a flea.”
“Unless that flea bit his duchess.”
“Well, of course he’s totally dedicated to the duchess, but—” Abruptly, she realized how she had incriminated Madeline’s groom, and she couldn’t allow Mr. Knight to be Dickie’s enemy. She knew all too well how very deadly Mr. Knight could be. “I’ve known Dickie Driscoll my whole life, and I swear to you, Mr. Knight, he did not arrange to have you hurt.”
“Hm.” Mr. Knight slowly sat back.
Eleanor released a long-held breath.
He said, “Then I wonder who did.”
Chapter 13
The stable was warm and quiet. The morning sun slipped through the cracks and knots in the gray boards, and dust motes rode on the bright rays. Holding the bridle of the staid old mare, Remington said gently, “Your Grace, this mount would suit you. She’s sober and quiet. She won’t run with you, and when we ride, I’ll stay by your side every moment.” He was trying not to alarm the duchess, who had taken a tumble as a child and broken her arm. Fearless in every other manner, she’d ridden nothing but miserable hacks since, and those with trepidation—or so he’d been told.
Yet the duchess paid him so little heed that he might not have spoken, for in the next stall stood a magnificent gray gelding, and she and the gray appeared to be having some kind of communion. Slowly, carefully, she extended her hand. The horse stepped forward and snuffed at her fingers, like a dog that wanted petting. “Ah, you are a beauty,” she breathed. “I wish I had a carrot to give you.”
Remington had been disappointed to hear of his duchess’s timidity. He loved to ride and had plans to parade his ducal acquisition all over London on a fine piece of horseflesh. Now she was behaving like a woman who loved riding. “That horse is called Diriday,” Remington said, “and he’s spirited. He requires a firm hand and a good gallop every day.”
“Of course he does.” The duchess stroked the gelding’s nose and used the kind of slow, gentle voice experienced grooms used to tame a stallion. “Diriday. What a beautiful name. Diriday needs to be groomed and admired and guided. He needs to be”—her voice dropped into a croon—“loved.”
Remington believed the same about the future duchess.
When he thought about the attack last night, that someone had deliberately stopped them, them, and no others, he wanted to beat those men all over again. If he’d been alone, he’d have questioned them, found out who was behind the assault. But with the duchess and Lady Gertrude in the carriage, he’d had to get them away.
Who had it been? Madeline had sworn over and over that it wasn’t Dickie Driscoll. Remington doubted that. Dickie served the duchess faithfully, and he might have feared for her safety. Certainly he feared for her virtue—and in that matter, he was right.
Her long form was clad in a thin white calico morning gown, a fashionable garment that looked to Remington’s eyes to be nothing more than a sheer nightgown that clung to her bare legs. Her half-boots were soft brown leather, her brown velvet pelisse matched, and frivolous blue ribbons decorated her straw bonnet. She stood with her shoulders back, her arms graceful curves, her fingers long and slender.
She was the daughter of his most dire enemy, and it didn’t matter. He wanted her as he had never wanted another woman.
Perhaps the duke of Mag
nus had arranged last night’s attack. He’d lost his daughter to Remington. Remington detained her in his house. Both good reasons to arrange Remington’s death, and Remington knew only too well how lethal Magnus could be.
And although it was unlikely, Magnus might have uncovered Remington’s true identity. If he had, then he most certainly had ordered Remington’s death.
Of course, there were other enemies. Men with whom Remington had had business dealings. Men who despised Remington for trying to become one of the English aristocracy. Remington didn’t discount anyone. That was why he carried at least one weapon with him everywhere—a knife, his gold-headed cane—and watched and weighed every situation. He was not going to die now. Not when he was so close to retribution.
Leaving the mare, he slowly advanced on the duchess, observing how intensely she stroked the horse before her. “Diriday is a handful unless he has an experienced hand on the reins.”
“I can ride him,” she whispered.
“My informants said—”
“I can ride him!”
Was his duchess always going to surprise him? This boded ill for his control of the situation, and he liked to maintain control. That was why he had investigated her. That was why he had had her watched.
Was she testing the limits of her fear in hope of having access to a swift mount? Did she imagine she could escape him?
He would quash those pretensions now. He glanced around. The grooms had vanished as soon as he and Madeline had entered the stable. Only the restless movements of the horses disturbed the silence of the stable. It was time to find out what the duchess was made of. It was time to see if her blue blood was chilly, or if she had warm, red blood flowing in her veins. Moving with the stealth of an army scout, he paced toward her.
Unaware of the danger that stalked her, Eleanor caressed Diriday. She was enthralled by the gelding. She loved to ride; loved the communion with an animal who enjoyed wind and speed. Because of Madeline’s childhood accident, she seldom rode, which had left Eleanor sitting in coaches and sedan chairs, keeping Madeline company while others had galloped past on mounts Eleanor had longed to try.
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