The Love List

by Deb Marlowe

For several months it continued. I will not speak of the horrors I suffered. I escaped twice, but if there was a house or hamlet within miles, I failed to find it. Both times I was found and dragged back.

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Brynne looked Francis in the eye. “Go,” she whispered. “Run. Find Aldmere if you can and bring him here.”

  She rose to her feet and spun about to face the stairs, keeping the girl tucked behind her skirts. Hatch descended, glaring knife-sharp fury with each step. At her side came a tall gentleman Brynne did not recognize.

  “Where the hell is Rent?” Hatch demanded.

  Brynne didn’t hear a step or feel even a wisp of air, but suddenly Hatch’s anger was directed past her. ‘You little shite! Get back here!” The other woman brushed past Brynne as if she meant to give chase.

  “Hold!” the gentleman commanded. “It is but a child. Let it go. We have no time to waste on unimportant matters.” He left the stairwell and crossed to Brynne. He stood too close, his gaze following the trail of embroidery on her bodice and pausing to linger on the expanse of flesh the gown left bare.

  Her face aflame with anger, Hatch rounded on him. “Don’t think to tell me what is important and what is not,” she hissed. “What do you know of the matter—or anything of how we have accomplished so much here? I know how to handle my own people and that light-fingered little whore-in-training has interfered with me twice—”

  Brynne gasped as Hatch’s words were cut short by a vicious blow. The pimp flew backward several feet and landed in a heap against a wall.

  “You will hold your tongue and keep to your place, woman!” The foreign gentleman’s words had lost their smooth quality. His lip raised in disgust. “In my country you would be shot before you would be allowed to parade about in such a costume.” He crossed over to her, nudged her pant leg with a foot, then reached down and grabbed her by the jaw.

  “Men’s trousers!” he spat. “I do not know what Marstoke is about, involving you in these affairs, but you will follow orders when they are given.” Hatch’s eyes were dazed, blood ran from her mouth and nose. He tossed her head roughly back to the floor. “And you will do it quickly and without venting your spleen upon your betters again!”

  He turned and walked back to Brynne, danger and tension melted away from him, the transformation quick and startling. He raised a suggestive brow. “Now, this one? I know exactly what Marstoke wants from her.” A sickeningly familiar light began to grow to life in his eyes.

  Brynne had learned her lesson in hard school. Without a word or a moment’s hesitation she turned on her heel and ran.

  The echo of his laughter followed her. She put on a burst of speed. She’d nearly reached the antechamber when he slammed into her, forcing her against the wall. Grabbing both her wrists, he spun her around, raising her hands above her head.

  She tried to raise her knee and strike him a blow in the genitals—another trick learned from the girls at Hestia Wright’s house—but he avoided her easily. She struggled to free her hands, but he held her tight. The bastard’s eyes were alight again. He enjoyed her struggles, relished her helplessness. She strained to turn her head away, refusing to gratify him.

  “I see, now, why two such men would squabble over you,” he mused. He bent down to put his face close to hers. It was what she had been waiting for. As his head descended, she whipped her head back around, hard and fast, and struck him in the nose with her temple.

  “Ungh!” He reared back. She tried to yank free, but he held tight. He transferred both her wrists to one hand and pressed up against her as he gingerly pinched his nose, then, gripping her jaw, he forced her chin up.

  Above their heads a great, cheering tumult began. The foreign dignitaries must be taking their seats in their box. The man holding her—surely a member of that entourage—paid it no heed. “Spirited indeed,” he said thickly, the weight of him crushing her into the wall. “No wonder Marstoke had some difficulty with you.” He grinned. “He was melancholy when you left him. He shall be happy to have you back tonight, though. You shall not be so lighthearted, I fear, for his plans are—”

  A soft click sounded. With her neck stretched so unnaturally, Brynne could only see the barrel of a pistol press behind the stranger’s ear. Her eyes widened. It was a small and delicate barrel, in fact. The same as the pistol she’d carried her cloak pocket earlier.

  “I believe his plans were to give her over to me. Untouched.”

  Aldmere! Relief and a fierce joy thrummed through her veins, though none of them moved an inch.

  The pistol stroked down, beneath the foreigner’s ear and up to his temple. “Stop touching her,” Aldmere ordered.

  The stranger’s hands slid away.

  “Aldmere!” she gasped.

  “I didn’t have to go far—I found him at the front entrance,” Francis piped up from behind him.

  Brynne slid back against the wall, her knees too shaky to hold her. The foreign gentleman stepped away, his hands in the air. “Alas, I deemed it uncivilized to bring my dueling pistol into the theater.”

  “Blücher! Blücher!” Above them the entire theater shouted their approval for the arriving Prussian general—and both men ignored the cries completely.

  Aldmere, his eyes never leaving the other man, reached down and pulled Brynne to her feet. He turned his handgun around and held it out toward her. “If he touches you again, kill him. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  Their eyes met. A hundred unsaid things passed between them. His hand was warm and comforting on her shoulder. She reached out to take the pistol—and the foreign stranger struck her wrist hard, sending the gun skittering across the corridor and into the antechamber. In shock and dismay she saw it slide under a tangle of stacked furniture.

  “Now,” the stranger grinned at Aldmere with satisfaction. “We shall end this here. I knew earlier that you and I would have to settle things between us.”

  “No!” Brynne protested. She tugged at him. “Aldmere, listen to them up there! We’ve more important things to worry about!”

  Clearly he did not intend to take his eyes off of the foreigner again. He shook his head. “Go. Do what you can. I’ll join you after I’ve dealt with him.”

  Brynne hesitated. Whoever this stranger might be, he was dangerous. She couldn’t leave Aldmere if there was a chance . . .

  “Go, Brynne!” She jumped as Aldmere barked the order. “Take the girl out of danger.”

  She swallowed and beckoned Francis to her.

  “No!” Suddenly the stranger held a blade in his hand and he leaped forward, slashing it toward her. She gasped and fell back, pulling Francis with her.

  “The woman does not leave. Not until I take her to Marstoke myself.”

  * * *

  Aldmere swept Brynne and the girl behind him. He pressed her hand for a moment, letting the warmth of his touch say all that he could not. There was no time for anything more.

  Marstoke’s foreign ally had sunk down into an experienced fighter’s crouch, his knife already in hand. Aldmere reached down to pull the knife from his boot. His opponent, casting aside a gentleman’s rules, lunged, aiming a long swipe right at his face. Aldmere leaned back, just far enough. He let the blow go by him, then struck a hard punch to the man’s kidney. He followed up with a boot to the arse that sent the man stumbling—far enough so that he got a chance to draw his own blade.

  Rodya—yes, that was the name Marstoke had given him earlier this evening—didn’t waste time or breath on words. He charged back, poised for an efficient thrust to Aldmere’s gut. No doubt, the stranger knew what he was doing. But Aldmere had a longer reach, damn near equal speed and a better reason to win. He spun away, keeping the motion smooth and controlled. He shot out a quick try for his opponent’s flank, but the bastard knew the trick and twisted away.

  Overhead the applause had died down at last. The orchestra struck up. The first act had begun—the grand tribute to the forei
gn dignitaries—one of whom he was trying to kill. Footsteps sounded above again. The theater people, all those not on stage for the Spectacle, had got their peek at the grand visitors and were beginning to drift back to work. They had to finish this quickly.

  His opponent clearly had the same thought—and thought he knew how to accomplish it. He feinted hard, slashing quickly in succession. Aldmere was forced to step back several paces, across the corridor and towards the small room left open at the end of passage. Damn it—this left Brynne and the child vulnerable. Rodya took advantage of the fact and lunged again for Brynne.

  She ducked and pushed the child away. He missed them both.

  With a snarl he grabbed again. This time he caught Brynne’s sleeve. Aldmere lunged toward them as the stranger tugged hard, pulling her toward him. She didn’t fight the bastard’s pull. She watched his knife hand and came willingly—and continued her forward motion right past him—throwing him off balance. In the split second that he wavered, Francis Headley darted close, stuck out her tiny foot and tripped him.

  The man went down hard, shock clear on his face. Aldmere dragged the women away. They huddled in the doorway to the little room. He didn’t wait to reassure them, but took a page from Rodya’s book and attacked before he could recover.

  Aldmere caught him half raised and still off balance. Fury fueled him and he swung relentlessly, one reaching blow after another. The foreigner scrambled backward, unable to gather himself or do more than deflect Aldmere’s assault. A first hint of uncertainty crossed his face.

  Behind the stranger, at the far end of the passage, a pair of chorus girls came down the stairs, chattering excitedly. They took one look at the battle raging and let out a duet of fetching screams.

  Rodya lost his focus for a moment. It was enough. Aldmere struck flesh, a quick, shallow stripe across the man’s chest. Fear blossomed in the man’s eyes. Aldmere struck again, a deeper cut across his arm. The foreigner clutched it, met Aldmere’s eye—and turned to run.

  The chorus girls shrank back against the stairwell wall as the knife-wielding stranger ran toward them, but Rodya drew up short before he reached them. He stalled at the corner of the intersecting corridor, stopping quick with a strange, gasping hitch to his breath. Aldmere, his chest heaving, waited.

  Eyes bulging, the stranger turned back. He slid to his knees, a knife hilt protruding downward from under his sternum.

  Hatch followed him around the corner. The blood had crusted on her face and her eye had already swollen shut. “Ten years!” she screamed at the man. Aldmere doubted he heard her. “Ten years and no man has struck me! I swore to every God in the heavens that it would never happen again!”

  Her damaged face twisted, she drew another knife from her coat. With a sob she buried it deep in the man’s shoulder. Rodya didn’t flinch.

  The chorus girls were screaming in earnest now. People had begun to pile up behind them on the stairwell. Aldmere calmly approached the maddened pimp. Gently, he reached up to stop the bloody blade from striking again.

  “Enough, Hatch. He’s dead.”

  She looked up, her eyes blank. “Yes,” she agreed with fervor. “He’s dead. I killed him.” He didn’t think she was talking about the stranger. “Never again,” she whispered.

  “Let’s go now,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Twenty-Four

  Hate bloomed in my heart for the first time, but determination did as well, and several other unorthodox traits. I was not so foolish, either, as to ignore my own culpability. I knew my life was forever changed, but I also knew what I would do, should I be so lucky as to escape with my life.

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  It wasn’t over. Directly overhead the Grand Spectacle continued. Music and the thump of marching and dancing feet provided a dramatic background to the unusual drama playing out in the bowels of the theater. Brynne knew that her focus should be on what was going to happen above, but not only was she not sure just what Marstoke's plans were tonight, but she found she couldn’t go, couldn’t leave. Not now, after watching Aldmere fight for his life. He’d stepped forward, trying to create order from the mess they’d made. She waited. She had to speak with him, touch him.

  He had his hands full with a dead man, a murderous pimp, and a contingent of theater workers leaning towards a panicked frenzy. She went to him and spoke quietly of Rent. He nodded and had Hatch locked away with her lackey in the unfortunate Mrs. Sherman’s dressing room. Aldmere promised a couple of carpenter’s a year’s wages to guard the door and keep anyone from going in or out. He made the same offer to another pair of stagehands—if they would cover the stranger’s body and keep it safe until the authorities arrived.

  His most difficult job, however, was to keep the theater people from indulging in hysterics. He gathered them up and calmed the hue and cry with a simplified explanation. Hysterical questions were launched at him, largely from the disposed Mrs. Sherman, but he charmed her with compliments and thanks for her sacrifice. He charmed them all, in fact, and soon had them settled, quiet and listening.

  “I heard of Drury Lane’s triumphant performance in honor of the Tsar and all the other visiting heroes,” he said at last. “I saw the reviews in the papers, heard Society lauding the players, the music, the spectacle. I would hate to see you miss your own acclaim for your special performance.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “You have an audience primed to be pleased,” he told them. “I heard them going wild, cheering the foreign dignitaries. Now it sounds as if your Grand Spectacle is going off without a hitch. You can let this incident ruin your carefully planned triumph, or you can carry on with the rest of the evening’s performances and show these heroes of war what a proud tradition our English theater truly is.”

  Amidst quiet cheers and scathing criticisms regarding Drury Lane, the theater folk elected to put on their most spectacular show. And Aldmere finally turned to her.

  She’d been sitting and watching from the stairwell, with Francis at her side. She stood as he looked about for her. He strode forward, picking up speed with every step until he reached her and lifted her high. He frowned, his gaze searching and intense, then without a word he lowered his mouth to hers and laid claim to her with a searing, branding kiss.

  “Ugh,” Francis groaned. “If that’s what you are going to get up to, then I’m going to go watch the blokes who are watching Hatch.”

  Brynne’s smile broke the kiss, but Aldmere didn’t let her go. He pulled her tight and buried his face in her hair.

  “Your brother?” she asked.

  “Safe. Upstairs, with Stoneacre, trying to get to the Prince Regent.”

  She pushed back. “Stoneacre?”

  He sighed. “Later. It’s a long story. I just want to hold you now.” He breathed in, his grip unrelenting. “God, I was a fool, wasn’t I? I’m sorry. I never should have locked you in. I only betrayed your trust.” He pulled away and gave her an exasperated look. “It didn’t do a damned bit of good, anyway.”

  “No, it didn’t,” she said fiercely. “It won’t serve, Aldmere—you treating me like a hothouse flower. I won’t be another burden to you.” She met his gaze directly. “I didn’t let Marstoke make me feel helpless or defeated. I cannot let you do it, either.”

  He groaned. “God, you are right. I will never do anything like it again. I promise.” He set her down and ran a gentle finger along her lip, then stopped to gently stroke the corner of her mouth. “You are mine. Always.”

  She set a hand against his cheek. “Think carefully, Aldmere, for keeping that promise might be difficult. You’ve spoken of your tower, your isolation. Shutting yourself alone up there isn’t the answer.” She pursed her lips. “Locking me in there with you isn’t either.”

  “No, I panicked at the thought of losing you—and ironically, almost did anyway.” He pulled her close again.

  She blushed as a passing stagehand whistled at them.


  “Perhaps I should have let them run panicking after all,” Aldmere said with a sigh. “Emptying the theater would have put a definite snag in Marstoke’s plans. But then we wouldn’t know where or when he would plan a new strike.”

  She took a step back. “But I don’t yet know what he’s planning this evening,” she said. “Hatch spoke freely of her discontent, but not the particulars of what they mean to do.”

  “Ah, he’s had his men place copies of his new Harris List under every seat and pit bench in the theater.”

  She gasped.

  “We’ve done what we can,” he began.

  The sound of pounding feet thundering down the stairs interrupted him. “Your Grace! Your Grace?” The call echoed down the stairwell.

  Aldmere’s eyes brightened. “Down here!”

  Footsteps echoed and a lanky figure rounded the landing. He came to a stop at the foot of the stairs.

  Brynne gasped. “Joe? Joe Watts?”

  “Yes, miss.” He dipped his head. “So glad to find you safe.” His gaze raked uneasily over the covered body mere steps away and the bloodstain on the wall. He glanced back. “And up to your usual tricks.”

  “Joe is the reason we knew what the marquess was planning here tonight,” Aldmere said. “Marstoke chased Rudd out of town and confiscated his press to print the List himself. Joe heard everything and came to me.”

  The boy puffed with pride. “I been sent down to fetch you, your Grace, but first I wanted you to know that we did it! Flemming and me, we snuck in and watched the place, as you asked. We saw them come in and place the Lists, just like I heard they would. Then we waited until they left and switched them all—except for the Regent’s box, like you said—before even the first member of the audience showed up.”

  Brynne turned a questioning eye on Aldmere.

  “Joe and my secretary switched most of the Lists out for books of broadsheet ballads.” Aldmere explained. “Just as we thought, Marstoke means to blame the Regent for bullying his wife with the List. He’s hoping to start a riot of discontent against him. Tonight, in front of the dignitaries, where it will elicit the worst reaction and cause the most harm.” He clasped Joe’s arm. “You did well, Joe. It will help to reduce the crisis, if not avert it.”