“Driver! Driver! Stop! You must stop.”
This time, he heard her. He pulled the coach over. Fiona opened the coach door and Holburn all but bowled her over to climb outside.
They were in a section of the city not far from where Fiona lived. This neighborhood was not as shoddy but the buildings were just as crowded. Fortunately, because of the cold and the hour, there weren’t many people on the street.
Holburn had the good grace to move toward an alley. Fiona looked to the driver. “We’ll only be a few minutes. Please, wait for us.”
“Not without being paid what I’m owed,” the driver said, not bothering to come down from his box. “This has been an adventure in hell. I’ll take my money now.”
“If I give it to you, you’ll leave,” she said.
“No, I won’t, miss.”
She knew better. “I will give you your money in a moment. His Grace’s purse is in your coach.”
The moment the words left her lips, Fiona wished she could call them back.
“Your Grace?” the driver repeated, shocked. “Someone was trying to murder a duke? In my hack?” He swore under his breath at his bad luck. “They shot and killed the woman who hired me, didn’t they?”
“Apparently,” Fiona admitted, feeling more than a pang of guilt. “But we should be fine now.” Or, at least, she prayed they would be. Who knew where the Irishmen were or if they had followed. “So, wait. I’ll be right back. I have to check on the duke.”
She didn’t wait for his response but headed for the alley.
Fiona found the duke leaning against the side of a building, heaving his guts up. She stood a distance away, undecided if she should comfort him while he was sick or remain where she was. Watching his distress, she felt terribly guilty. She had overreacted to their kisses. When she’d pushed him away, he hadn’t forced himself on her. She’d been aware from the very beginning he wasn’t like the soldiers who had attacked her.
In fact, she was relieved she could tell the difference, and that their brutality hadn’t destroyed the will to be close to a man. That didn’t mean she trusted easily.
The duke stopped his terrible retching. He leaned one shoulder against a building’s brick wall as if exhausted. His back was to her.
She approached him, daring to say, “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” he said in a guttural voice. It probably hurt his throat to speak.
Fiona moved close enough to place her hand on his back, but she didn’t. She knew better than to touch him right now. “I’m sorry.”
His reaction was so quick, it caught her off guard.
He turned and flattened her against the brick wall with his hand on her chest. His face close to hers, his eyes burning with sickness, he said, “When I recover, you’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
Before Fiona could respond, his hand dropped away. His body started heaving again. He turned, collapsing at the waist, attempting to fight off the inevitable.
She watched in indecision. Here was her chance to escape, but she couldn’t leave him like this. She had to return him to the coach and then she’d let the driver take care of him. She glanced back at where the hack waited and was shocked to see it was gone.
The driver hadn’t waited for them.
Bitterly, she realized she had only herself to blame. She shouldn’t have told the driver about the money. It was the sort of mistake no one made twice in London.
The duke had sunk to the ground as if too exhausted to stand. He rubbed his head, his movements weak. Murdering Irishmen aside, the city was no place for the defenseless, and Fiona had seen enough violence this night to last her a good long while.
She pushed her heavy hair back over her shoulders and quickly braided it into a plait to keep it out of her way. There was nothing else she could do but take care of the duke. He’d not thank her for it, but at least her conscience would be clear.
Of course, there was the tricky problem of his blaming her for all of this.
She’d deal with that later.
Right now, she had no choice but to take the duke home with her. Putting up with his foul temper would be her penance.
Kneeling beside him, she said, “Excuse me, Your Grace, can you stand?”
He was too far gone to respond. He was also alarmingly pale, even in the alley’s shadows, and his breathing shallow.
Fiona lifted his arm over her shoulders. “I’m going to help you to your feet.”
Holburn raised his lids enough to give her an accusing stare.
“I know it’s my fault,” Fiona said. “You’ve made that clear. Now, come along. We’ve no choice but to go forward.”
To her relief, he managed to rise, using the wall for support. She took his arm, put it around her shoulders. “Lean on me, Your Grace,” she said. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”
He made no response.
Their movements were awkward as they walked toward the street. Holburn could barely place one foot in front of the other, although he kept going.
Fiona took stock of her surroundings and was relieved to realize they weren’t that far from where she lived. “Come along, Your Grace. It won’t be far.”
They moved like two drunkards. Holburn’s steps grew slower and heavier as they went. Fiona whispered words of encouragement. She was thankful he didn’t have another bout of sickness. She prayed the worst was past.
Her building was pitch black inside. The people who lived here could not afford to waste money on candles and the landlord, Mr. Simon, would never provide them. However, Fiona had never been so happy to reach anyplace in her life. At least, now, she didn’t have to worry about the streets or the Irishmen.
She felt her way across the front hall. Four steps and then her toe hit the bottom tread of the staircase. “Your Grace, we must climb two flights of stairs.”
He didn’t respond; however, when the time came to go up them, he did so. It was a slow, exhausting journey. Her breathing became as labored as his. They were both drenched with sweat, although his had a sickening sweet odor—another sign that Hester Bowen had tricked her. No innocent potion could have done this to him.
Worried and afraid, Fiona should have felt relief when they finally reached her floor.
Instead, she pulled up short, confronted by a new problem because all was not dark up here. A line of light seeped out from beneath her door.
Someone was inside…waiting.
Chapter Four
Fiona stood indecisively in the hallway.
Holburn rested his head on her shoulder. He was practically asleep on his feet and would be of no service whatsoever if they were attacked. She would have to work this new dilemma out for herself.
She could go to Annie’s rooms, which were right next to hers and the closer of the two doors. Annie was notorious for leaving her door unlocked, but she’d left this morning to run off with her lover and hadn’t planned on returning. Certainly the landlord Mr. Simon would have locked the door if she hadn’t.
A scratching started at Fiona’s door. It was Tad. The big wolfhound knew she was home. He whimpered and she was caught.
The door opened.
Fiona leaned back into the hall’s shadows.
Tad came out with a wagging tail as a slim, feminine figure appeared silhouetted in the doorway. Fiona released a sigh of relief, followed by a flash of anger. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Grace McEachin, her former roommate, stepped back into the light. She was a lovely lass with coal-black hair and sharp blue eyes. They’d both come from Scotland together but their lives had taken different paths. Fiona had chosen decent work; Grace had turned to the stage. The argument over Grace’s decision had made them part ways.
“That was a pleasant greeting,” Grace replied stiffly.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona countered, “but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you for two months and now you appear? Giving me the scare of my life?” Tad happily waited with shiny black e
yes for the pat she couldn’t give him because her arms were full of Holburn.
“How did I scare you?” Grace answered. “I thought you would be happy to see me. I brought candles. I knew you could use them. These are the stubs the theater tosses away.”
If Fiona had her choice, she would have left Holburn in the hallway until she’d sent Grace on her way. Naturally, he didn’t cooperate. He groaned loudly.
“Fiona, are you all right?” Grace asked. She peered out into the darkness.
Well, there was nothing that could be done for the matter. Fiona had to move the duke to a bed. She hefted him up on her shoulder and whispered, “Come along, Your Grace.”
It was a sign of how weak he was that he let her lead him in. His feet barely moved. “A bit more,” Fiona urged. He protested with a heavy sigh, not even bothering to open his eyes.
Grace had picked up one of her candle stubs and held it so she could see better in the dark. As Fiona came through the door, Grace almost dropped the candle in surprise.
“What do you have there? Or rather who?” She didn’t wait for Fiona’s answer but launched right into, “Fiona Lachlan, don’t tell me you’ve taken a lover. Especially after all the fine words you threw at me the day I moved out. I don’t know whether to be happy or spitting mad.”
“Be spitting mad,” Fiona muttered.
Her “rooms” were really one long room. By the door, there was a hearth, a table, and three chairs. The fire had died yesterday and Fiona had not had money enough to start another, but apparently, Grace had brought coal along with her candles. The room was toasty warm for the first time in a week and a kettle of water was heating over the flames. The only other furniture was a trunk holding Fiona’s meager possessions and a chest by the hearth for cooking utensils.
The other half of the room had the window overlooking a back alley and her bed. Fiona had created two rooms by hanging a curtain she’d sewn out of some damaged muslin she’d received from Madame Sophie. The curtain gave her sleeping quarters a sense of privacy. She now dragged Holburn though the curtain and dumped him face down on her bed. He was so tall, his feet hung off the end and his boots almost touched the floor. He seemed to take up every inch of her narrow cot, but that didn’t prevent him from immediately taking up a more comfortable position.
He looked so peaceful, she wished she could collapse on top of him.
Unfortunately, Grace was here. “Is he drunk?” she asked from the curtain doorway. She held a plate with several candles burning on it.
“He’s not your worry, Grace.” Fiona felt Holburn’s brow. It was cool, a good sign. He’d live.
She stood and drew a deep breath, planning her next course of action. She could still feel his hand holding her against the brick wall. His threat echoed in her ears. She was going to have to do something to protect herself when he regained consciousness until she could talk sense into him.
“No, he’s not,” Grace agreed. “It’s you I’m worried about.” She still had on the makeup she wore for the theater, but she looked good, well-fed. Her clothes were of far better quality than those she’d owned before she’d left.
“Being an opera dancer must suit you,” Fiona couldn’t help but comment. If it sounded as if she was jealous, well, she was. It was hard to be self-righteous when the sinner was eating well.
She picked up the empty slop bucket from the corner of the room and placed it beside the bed in case Holburn needed it. Then she turned her attention to his person.
His jacket and clothes were filthy and he needed a cleaning up. She needed to take off his boots first. Tad had been sniffing them. Fiona shooed him away and set to work, grabbing the heel of the boot nearest her.
“It does,” Grace said, her chin up. “I earn a decent wage.”
“On your back,” Fiona couldn’t stop herself from saying as she pulled Holburn’s boot off with a grunt. “What did he do? Have these things molded to him?”
Anger clipped Grace’s words as she took the boot from Fiona and said, “Possibly. This boot was done by Hoby. The best bootmaker in the world.” She tossed the boot aside where Tad hurried over for another smell. “And I’ll have you know, I’ve not been with any men, Fiona. I dance. That’s it.”
Fiona didn’t know if she believed her. When she’d first met Grace, the lass had been going from one man to another. Fiona had thought she’d been a good influence on her friend and had convinced her to live decently and right but that influence hadn’t held when life grew hard.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Fiona muttered, right now too preoccupied with her own problems to consider the matter. She pulled the heel of Holburn’s other boot. This one came off easier than his other and she couldn’t help but admire his socks. They were of heavy cotton and finely woven. Apparently he only used the best sock maker in the world, too. “You’ve chosen your life,” she said to Grace. “One that isn’t entirely respectable,” she couldn’t help but add as she moved to the head of the bed and began untying the knot in the duke’s neck cloth.
“Says the woman who is undressing a man as we speak,” Grace shot back.
Fiona stood as she folded the neck cloth. “What I am doing is my business.”
“What I am doing is my business,” Grace answered.
“Except this isn’t what it looks like,” Fiona said. “I must clean his clothes, and undressing him is the only way I can do it.” Holburn lay so still, he worried her in spite of his lack of fever. She began removing his jacket.
Grace held up a hand as if to beg for understanding. “I’m sorry. You’ve passed judgment on me ever since I decided to leave Madame Sophie’s—where we were working our fingers sore for a pittance—and take up the stage. I hear Madame Sophie let you go because she had a relative that wanted your position. So much for loyalty.”
Fiona’s temper snapped. She didn’t need Grace right now. “Why are you here anyway?”
“I brought you candles—”
“Besides the candles.” Fiona had half the duke’s arm out of the sleeve and wondered how she could finish the job without having to use scissors. She was tired and worried and had a full night taking care of Holburn before her. “I didn’t need candles, Grace.”
“Oh, yes, you are perfectly fine in the dark,” her former friend answered tartly.
“I am.”
Grace threw her hands in the air. “Your stubborn Scottish pride—”
“Obviously you need more of it.”
“Oh, no, not if it makes me as headstrong as you are,” Grace assured her, but then her manner changed. “I don’t want to argue with you, Fiona. I came here because I was worried. I saw Annie at the theater this morning. She told me you were going to take her place doing an errand for Hester Bowen and why you wanted to do it. Fiona, don’t you have more sense?” she demanded, her Scot’s accent broadening with her frustration. “You could have come to me for money. Look at you. You are down to meat and bones.”
“I’m fine,” Fiona insisted. But she wasn’t. Unshed tears blurred her vision.
And it was all the duke’s fault. Why did he have to be so difficult to undress?
The next thing she knew, Grace came forward and lifted his body so that Fiona could slip his jacket off.
“Now for his shirt,” Grace said.
Fiona moved without thinking. All she could concentrate on was this one task.
Grace helped her pull his shirt over his head. Fiona lowered him to a pillow she’d made from scraps from the dress shop. “He’s a handsome one,” Grace said with approval.
Fiona wouldn’t argue that. Whereas most men of his class were soft from age and an easy life, the Duke of Holburn was all hard muscle. He slept as if drugged and Fiona wondered if this was another effect of the potion.
“Are you going to tell me who he is?” Grace asked. “Or why he is here?” She frowned at the stock-still body. “He is only drunk, isn’t he?”
“It’s a bit more than that,” Fiona said and had planned
on saying no more because the events of the night were all jumbled in her head…however, one word led to another and before she could stop herself she proceeded to tell Grace everything.
Her friend listened, her eyes widening with every new twist to the tale.
When Fiona was done, Grace set the candles on the bedside table and looked at the man spread out on the bed. “You know Holburn is a notorious rake. No one crosses him, and here you’ve gone and poisoned him.”
“He was very angry with me before he passed out,” Fiona confessed. She leaned against the wall. Tad sat beside her. Grace had not called the duke by his title. It made him seem less intimidating than thinking of him as “the duke.” She rubbed Tad’s head. “Holburn was very angry with me the last time we spoke…and I don’t blame him.”
“Fiona, what are you going to do?” Grace asked in round tones.
“I’m going to do what I must,” Fiona said. “I’ll watch and be certain he doesn’t take a turn for the worse and I’ll clean his clothes the best I can.”
“But he’s so angry with you.”
That he was.
“I just have to stay out of his grasp until he listens to reason,” Fiona said.
“The man’s huge.” Grace looked him over. “He could break both our necks.”
“Not with his hands tied,” Fiona answered, an idea forming in her head. She turned and walked into the other room where she kept a hank of rope in her chest.
Grace followed her. “You are serious,” she said in disbelief.
“Of course I am.” The rope was a soft, supple hemp. “I don’t see that I have another choice.” She also took out the makings for nettle tea. It might help with his healing. “How else can I protect myself? Once he accepts my apology, I’ll let him go. You see? It’s simple.”
“Oh, yes, simple,” Grace echoed.
Fiona ignored her sarcasm. She had a man to tie up.
In the bedroom, she lay the rope on the bed, drew a deep breath and began unbuttoning his breeches. The room became very hot.
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