by Jade Lee
Then if God smiled on her, she would be safely married before anyone discovered the truth.
Yes, she decided, it was a good plan. She could manage it. She must manage it.
Feeling better, Gillian stood and stripped off her dress, taking time to wash the perspiration from her face. She needed an ally. Someone quick, part of the earl's household, and totally loyal to her. Someone not strictly moral who would help her achieve her goals.
Only one person fit that description.
Tom.
Perhaps it was time to visit the mews.
Chapter 4
Rule #5:
A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats.
Gillian went straight to the window and looked out to judge the distance to the ground. Although not an expert climber, she had extensive experience working her way over the rough Yorkshire terrain while looking for herbs. She would have no difficulty managing the trellis, assuming she could swing out through her window far enough to grab it.
She could, of course, try to sneak out of the house through the servants' stairways, but Stephen was still awake and about. She could not risk him finding her. It would have to be the trellis.
Gillian eased open the window and squeezed her way through headfirst and backward until all but her legs were outside. She sat there a moment, breathing deeply of the London night, then abruptly changed her mind. She was used to moonswept moors, the near silence of the country, and the sweet, fresh scent of heather. By comparison, London felt crowded, noisy, and choked with noxious odors. The buildings seemed to huddle together, trapping the stench inside. Even the moon had no room to peep through. The only illumination came from gas lamps, which shed tiny pools of greasy yellow light.
It was very much like those gothic novels Amanda had so loved, and Gillian repressed a shudder of mixed fear and excitement.
Then she shook her head. She was in a perfectly respectable area of London about to cross a cobbled back alley to sneak into the mews. There were no mad Bedlamites or hideous ghouls lurking about, and it was foolish to even imagine such things.
With calm resolve, Gillian pulled herself upright to stand on her windowsill, one arm hooked inside to anchor her. The sill was slick from the evening rain, so she quickly kicked off her slippers. Her bare toes would maintain a better grip than the flimsy footwear. She braced herself for the swing to the trellis, but before she could move, a low whistle cut through the night.
She froze. It was clearly a signal, but by whom and for what? The sound came from down the alleyway, but she saw nothing except gray shadows. She waited, her body tense as she half hung out her window.
Nothing.
Then it was repeated, this time more shrill, more insistent.
Twisting, Gillian watched the doorway to the mews open and a small figure slip out. The person carried something large and heavy, but he still managed to move smoothly and silently through the night, slinking from shadow to shadow. It took a full minute before the figure crossed a slim finger of moonlight and Gillian recognized his face.
Tom. Carrying one of the earl's saddles.
Gillian did not stop to think. She managed the slight leap to the trellis and climbed nimbly down, heedless of the flower buds she crushed along the way. She could not let Tom escape. She needed him. And from the looks of things, he needed her, too. Only a fool would run away from an opportunity in the earl's household, and Tom was no fool. That meant he was in trouble—whether from the earl's servants themselves or from someone else.
Whatever it was, Gillian was determined to stop it.
She jumped the last couple feet to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the chilly cobblestones. Now she wished she wore her slippers to shield her toes from who knew what slimy things she stepped in.
Suppressing another shudder, this one from the cold seeping through her feet into her very bones, Gillian slipped around the corner following Tom's path. She caught up to him quickly. The huge saddle was heavy and slowed him down considerably. She glanced around, looking for the person who had whistled.
No one.
She took a breath to call out to Tom but stopped as a large, hulking figure stepped out of the blackness. Tom stopped and dropped the heavy saddle with obvious relief.
" 'At all?" The two words were gruff and businesslike, their very callousness sending chills up Gillian's spine.
"Couldn't carry... nothing else," came Tom's panting response.
The dark figure bent down and easily hoisted the saddle. "I got this. Git some flash from the 'ouse."
"No," came Tom's urgent response. "The earl's still awake."
"Do as I say, boy. Quick-like."
"No—Ow!"
Gillian had been creeping closer, trying to hear better, but Tom's cry of pain launched her into action. She surged forward, landing a swift blow to the huge man's midsection as she bellowed at him.
"Let him go, you brute!"
She threw another punch, and like her first blow, it landed solidly and squarely in the man's chest—to no noticeable effect.
With a saddle in one hand and Tom's ear in the other, the huge man could not defend himself, so he merely stood still while Gillian tried to hurt him.
"Well, well, wot 'ave we 'ere? A litde mouse for my den?" In one swift movement, he released Tom and grabbed hold of Gillian's upper arm, hauling her backward far enough that she could not kick him anymore.
"Let go of me!" She tried to spin out of his hold, twist or drop in unexpected ways to loosen his grip, anything, but he was too strong. She succeeded only in hurting herself as his fingers dug deeper and deeper into her arm.
"Pipe down, little mousy, afore I squash ye."
"Run, Tom!" she cried. Then the brute dropped the saddle and clamped his meaty hand down over her mouth and nose. The scents of dirt and gin were overwhelming as he hauled her backward against his body. Then, abruptly, he released her mouth, wrapping his meaty forearm across her throat, giving him both a better hold on her body and a way to choke off any of her cries.
She tried to struggle, but as before, he was too large, too overwhelming, and Gillian experienced a moment of sheer panic. She could not even stand straight, since her feet kept slipping on the slick cobblestones. Her one hope was that Tom had escaped, but the brute's next words killed the thought.
"Get me somethin' to tie 'er up with, Tom. She'll fetch a prime price—"
"Let her go." Stephen's low voice cut through the night air, and Gillian nearly fainted with relief. Now she would be released. But the monster did not act as she expected. He simply shrank back a little into the shadows and dragged her closer to his massive body.
"Ain't none of your affair, mister. She be my wench and 'e's our brat, so's go about your business, afore you get 'urt."
"You will release her or I will put a bullet between your eyes." Stephen's voice was soft, but it carried the full weight of deadly authority. That and the flash of moonlight on the barrel of a pistol was enough to make the villain pause.
Which gave her her chance.
Planting her feet as best she could on the slick stone, Gillian threw her elbow backward straight up and under her captor's ribcage. It was no more than a minor annoyance to the huge man, but it surprised him enough to loosen his hold while she dropped to the ground, easily slipping out of his grasp.
The man bellowed in rage, but the roar died abruptly as Stephen's lightning fast fist connected with his jaw. The brute stumbled backward, and Stephen followed, landing more well-placed blows until the man collapsed on the ground.
Gillian felt her mouth grow slack with astonishment. She knew Stephen was muscular, even athletic, but never had she thought him that powerful, that brutal with his fists.
"Listen closely for I will say this only once." Though he was slightly out of breath, Stephen's voice carried easily through the murky night. "I am the Earl of Mavenford. This boy is in my employ and this... wench is under my protection. Touch either of them again and I will kill you. Now g
et out before I decide to use my pistol after all."
At first she thought the villain too dazed to understand because he did not move. But then the moon peeped out from behind a cloud to catch his bloodied face in a look of pure hatred. Gillian gasped in shock, not because of the expression, though it was horrifying enough. She was stunned by its target.
The man did not direct his malevolence at Stephen, but at Tom, who shrank around the corner of a building, his small face ghostly white. She stood up from her crouch, her feet splashing in a puddle as she took a step toward the prostrate man.
"You horrible bully! He is just a child!" She would have advanced farther, but Stephen yanked her roughly backward.
"Shut up, wench," the earl said in a growl.
Gillian started to spin. "Wench!" she exclaimed, but Stephen's tightening hold cut off the rest of her words as he shoved her behind him.
"Get out of here now," he said to the fiend, his voice filled with deadly threat. The man needed no further encouragement. He stumbled to his feet and ran to the shadows before Gillian could remember to breathe.
"Is he gone?" she asked as she squinted into the darkness. "I cannot hear or see anything in this city. There is too much noise. How do you stand it?"
Stephen turned, his eyes glittering focal points in the shadows. "I wear shoes and carry a pistol."
It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did, she felt the rising heat of a blush flood her face as her bare feet twisted beneath her. "Yes, well, I would, too, except it would make it difficult to climb up and down the trellis." She flashed him a triumphant grin. "You did not think of that, did you?"
He made a strange choking sound, but when he spoke his voice was dry and controlled. "No, Amanda. I must confess I did not think of that."
She nodded. "And they say men have superior minds." Then she glanced around, looking for Tom. She found the boy inching his way around the neighboring house. "No, Tom. Pray do not run away, not after I went to all this trouble just to save you."
Stephen turned to stare at her. "You saved him?"
"Well, we saved him. I delayed that beast until you could finish him off." She turned long enough to send him a grateful smile. "You were magnificent, by the by. Wherever did you learn to fight? And will you teach me how?"
Stephen gaped at her. "I most certainly will not!"
Gillian shrugged as she turned back to Tom. "Oh, well. Perhaps I can find someone else."
"Amanda—"
"Oh, do not start lecturing me now," she interrupted. "It is Tom we should think of."
Stephen paused, clearly torn between scolding her outside or hauling her inside to rake her over the coals in private. She never gave him the chance as she addressed Tom.
"Well, what have you to say for yourself, young man?" she asked.
The boy shrank even farther into the shadows.
"Do not try to hide from me, Tom. Stand up straight and tell me he was a horrible, mean brute, and he frightened you."
"But—"
"Say it."
"E—'e was a 'orrible brute, and 'e—" The small voice slid away.
"He frightened you into doing things you never would have done on your own."
Tom appeared to think. Then, when he spoke again, his voice contained a good deal more earnestness. "I never would, mum, never, 'cept 'e frightened me 'orrible."
Gillian nodded, sparing a glance over her shoulder to see if this little speech had any effect on Stephen. It did, but not in the manner she hoped. Even in the pale yellow light, she could see the rigid clench of his jaw and the still-tight balls of his fists.
Hastily she turned her attention back to Tom. "And... and now that you are safe from him, you swear you shall not do anything like that again. You will not sneak off in the middle of the night, you shall tell me immediately if you see him again, and you will serve the earl to the best of your ability."
"Oh, I will, I swear it! I will."
Gillian smiled as the color came back into the child's dirty cheeks. Not daring to look behind her at the earl, she flashed Tom a reassuring smile and shooed him toward the mews.
"Very good then, Tom. You may go back to bed."
Not one to miss an escape, Tom scampered away, disappearing into the mews before she could draw a second breath. Now if only she could manage a similar disappearing act. She turned to the earl, giving him her best smile. "Well, that is taken care of. I believe I shall be off to bed as well. I am still adjusting to these town hours."
Stephen made no answer, and Gillian felt a surge of hope. She might actually escape unscathed. Then she felt his hand on her chin, tilting her face upward with hard, uncompromising fingers.
"You will come to the library in ten minutes." He glanced significantly down at her bare toes. "After you have suitably attired yourself." Then he hoisted the saddle onto his shoulders and walked away, his heavy tread ringing on the cobblestones.
He stopped at the servants' entrance, holding the door open wide as he waited for her. She followed him slowly, pausing briefly at the base of the trellis, but he cut off the thought before it fully formed.
"Through the doorway, Amanda!"
His bellow gave her feet wings. She scampered past him up the stairs before the echoes died away.
* * *
"Do you know I am accounted a generally good judge of character?" Stephen did not stop to hear her answer, but continued to pace behind his desk, only occasionally glancing up to make sure Amanda maintained her demure pose. "Well, I am. So when you promised to behave as a lady, conducting yourself as would befit the ward of an earl, I judged you to be honest and forthright. I took you at your word. Was I incorrect? Did you not indeed intend to behave like a lady?"
He stared at her as she sat so sweetly, with her hands folded in her lap. She looked remarkably pretty for an incorrigible, recalcitrant hoyden. She had brushed the leaves out of her hair and scrubbed the dirt smears off her face. Her feet were once again shod in pale pink slippers, and her dress was a fresh white and pale yellow confection that covered the essential parts of her anatomy. In fact, the only remaining indications of her ordeal were the rapidly darkening bruises on her forearm where the cutthroat had restrained her.
He glared at those dark splotches as though they were to blame for the fear still pumping through his body. Good God, when he thought of what might have happened if he had not heard her climbing down the trellis... Thank heaven the library was situated just below her window. She had been quiet slipping down the wall, but there were enough soft scratches for him to go investigate with his pistol.
"Are you quite sure you are unhurt?" he asked for perhaps the fifth time.
"I am fine, my lord. Really, I cannot see what the fuss is about. Tom is safe. I am safe. You have a marvelous right hook, and it is late. Can we not just go to bed?"
He whipped around, nearly sputtering as the last of his fear translated to anger. "No, we cannot just go to bed! You promised to behave as a lady, and yet not twenty-four hours later, I find you climbing out the window to apprehend a cutthroat nearly twice your size!"
"I could not very well let him have Tom."
"Why did you not call for me? Your lungs are certainly capable of it."
Amanda glowered at him for that cutting remark, but it did not deter her. "I could not go find you because he might have escaped. If I screamed, it would only alert him, and he would disappear that much faster."
"So you chose to confront him yourself, barefoot and weaponless?"
She bit her lip and looked away, a puzzled frown on her face. "In my experience, bullies back down when confronted. And failing that, a few well-placed punches have always served me well."
"And you have a lot of experience with London bullies who prey off of young boys and run thieving rings?"
A faint tinge of red colored her cheeks. "Uh, no. London does seem to grow a particularly nasty form of bully. He seemed remarkably impervious to my jabs."
Stephen felt his
blood run cold with shock. "You punched him?"
"Oh, yes. Repeatedly, but he only sneered at me. That is why I wish you to teach me how to fight." She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and hopeful.
He reached for his brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he swiftly opened his desk, drew out a few sheets of foolscap, a pen, and ink, and shoved them forward to his odd ward.
"My lord?"
"Write this down, Amanda. In large print so that it will be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you read before closing your eyes at night."
"But—"
"Write the following at the top: Rules for a Lady." He glared down at her until she obediently scratched the appropriate words. "Number one. A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats."
"But slippers were too unsafe on the trellis."
"Write!"
She hastily set his words to paper. "Does not run barefoot after cutthroats," she murmured.
"Number two. A lady does not climb up or down trellises." He paused, waiting for her to catch up to him. "Number three. A lady does not punch people."
She glanced up. "Even when they are villainous brutes?"
"A lady screams or calls for help so a sufficient number of men can come and knock out the villainous brute."
"Seems remarkably inefficient to me," she commented. "Especially when I could do it just as well." She glanced up, her mouth turned down into a distinct pout. "Or rather, I could if someone would teach me how."
Stephen groaned. "Number four! A lady does not brawl!"
"I thought that was number three."
"You seem to need it twice."
She sighed and continued to write.
"Number five. A lady does not ride on the top of a stage."
"You never forget anything, do you?"
"Some things are etched upon my memory," he said dryly. "Especially since it occurred only yesterday."
She shrugged and quickly wrote the words. Then, when she finished, she glanced up, her face set in an expression of long-suffering patience. "Is that all?"
"For the moment. Though I am sure I will find occasion to add to your list."
