Night Shadow

by Catherine Coulter

  Knight chuckled. “It has a way of soothing all the world’s ills. That is why, I think, gentlemen drink it after their meals. It helps digest their food and fortifies them for the female company waiting in the drawing room.”

  “How very cynical you are.”

  “I used to be, in any case,” Knight said and frowned.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “Those two men. You’re positive that you’ve never seen them before?”

  “I don’t think so. No, I’m sure. I haven’t the faintest idea who they are.”

  “But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Obviously they knew of you from Brussels. Could it be that they were cohorts of your father’s? Of Tris’s?”

  “It seems likely,” she said. “After Duckett slammed the door, I went upstairs and saw them across the street in the park. They’re truly horrid-looking men, candidates for Newgate, as my father would have said. What could they have had to do with my father? Or Tris, for that matter? I assure you, neither my father nor Tris hired assassins.”

  “Why did they call you Lily Tremaine?”

  She didn’t move a single unnecessary muscle. “I haven’t the remotest idea.”

  “It does give rise to speculation, does it not?”

  “If one is a speculator, I suppose.”

  He laughed, then asked quickly, “What did Tris do to support all of you?”

  “I don’t know, he never told me, but—” She broke off, her eyes flying to his face, knowing that he’d baited her into unwise speech and she’d almost given too much away.

  “Continue, Lily.”

  She shook her head, mute.

  “What could you possibly not want to tell me? What does it matter? Tris is dead, well beyond our mortal coils. I must confess that you confuse me, Lily.”

  “Very well,” she said. “If you are so interested, I can tell you that with Tris things seemed to be either feast or famine.” Careful, Lily. You didn’t live with them until six months ago. But she remembered the previous two years when Tris would visit her father. “More feast than otherwise,” she said. “My father was just the opposite.”

  “More famine than feast?”

  “Exactly.” Lord, that was certainly true. If it hadn’t been for Tris, she and her father would have been booted out of their small house in Brussels innumerable times.

  “Feast or famine,” Knight repeated, looking into his brandy. “That must have been difficult for you, as his wife, during the famine times. And as a daughter during your father’s lean times.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You have no idea how Tris made his money?”

  “No, I truly don’t know, except—no, that’s ridiculous, just a feeling I had, but—”

  “What feeling? Come, tell me.”

  “I understand that ladies consider such things as money quite beneath their notice, as do gentlemen.”

  “I don’t. You might as well spit it out. What were you going to say?”

  Lily frowned. “I said that my father or Tris wouldn’t ever have needed assassins. Well, that’s true, I’m sure. But occasionally Tris would be gone for up to two weeks at a time, without explanation, really, and he invariably came home with money, lots of it. He’d just laugh if I or anyone asked him what he’d done while away, and give the children the most outrageously expensive presents.”

  “You’re thinking perhaps that Tris was involved in some shady dealings?”

  Lily shrugged. “I don’t know. You wanted me to tell you and I did. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Did you ever see him with other men? The criminal-looking sort?”

  He saw the look of surprise on her face as she nodded. “Yes, once I did. Not those men who came today, but two others who were equally repulsive. When I asked Tris about them, he just laughed again in that dismissive way of his and told me my imagination was far too active.”

  “Possibly it was.” She’d given him a lot to think about. He said after a moment, “Drink your brandy, Lily. Then perhaps you’d care to play piquet with me?”

  Lily hedged. She wasn’t a complete fool. To spend more time alone with him would lead to her complete undoing, she knew it. “I’m really not very good,” she said at last, giving one final look at the mashed potatoes.

  Knight chuckled. “Lily, don’t lie to me. Tris was a gambler; more than that, he loved any card game. I will not believe that he didn’t teach you every single game of chance in existence during your five years together.”

  Lily rose and tossed her napkin onto her plate. “Very well, my lord. I shall trounce you. I was merely trying to save face for you.”

  Knight, an excellent card player, said mildly, “I appreciate your consideration, Lily, I surely do.”

  Knight was still awake when the clock at the end of the corridor struck twelve. Lily hadn’t quite trounced him, but she had won two out of three rubbers with a more than respectable difference in their scores.

  “What a Captain Sharp you are,” he’d remarked after she’d caught him holding a spade guard, and been delighted at her light, carefree laughter. He wanted more lightheartedness from her. He wanted to rid her life of worries and fear and insecurity.

  “I fancy,” she’d said quite honestly, “that you also have been called that in your lifetime. You aren’t an opponent to be despised, my lord.”

  “What an accolade,” he’d said. “Should you care to wager on the outcome of our match?”

  She’d cocked her head to one side in question, but her eyes were sparkling with excitement, with challenge. “You know I will win, Knight, so why do you wish to lose a wager to me?”

  “Ho, madam, you grow cocky. It’s just one rubber we’ve played. And you did hold the better cards. Now about that wager.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t much money and I’m not such a fool as to believe myself invincible. There is such a thing as bad cards, you know.”

  “Your skill isn’t great enough to overcome bad cards?”

  “I’m something of a gambler, I’ll admit that, but I’m not an idiot, nor will I play fast and loose with my few guineas.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of wagering money, Lily.”

  “What, then?”

  He sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. He tapped his fingertips together and knew that Lily was watching him closely. What was she thinking? Perhaps she wanted him again? Knight shook himself.

  The wager was set, though his had made her suck in her breath in surprise and look at him with ill-disguised excitement.

  “It’s too much, Knight, far too much.” But he knew she wanted him to insist; he saw it on her face.

  Ah, but that leap of pleasure in her eyes—he set himself to convince her and she let him.

  As for what he would gain if she lost to him, she just shook her head and told him he was being quite silly, inappropriate, and most importantly, he wouldn’t win in any case.

  He shrugged. “Then what matter?”

  Their play became more serious, their concentration greater. Her mind was agile, her decisions made quickly with no regrets, her game sharp and decisive. Even her voice changed, from soft and serene to crisp and cool. A different Lily. He enjoyed himself thoroughly.

  They played three rubbers and he lost. He would have liked to continue, but he knew that she was tired, knew that Laura Beth would more than likely be hopping up and down on the bed at the break of dawn, wanting her mother’s attention.

  “I lost,” he said and grinned at her. The candle at his left elbow was nearly gutted.

  “You sound pleased about it. That is not natural in my experience.”

  “Still, you now own your own mare, Lily. You two are perfect for each other. Violet’s bloodlines are impeccable, you know.”

  “Thank you, Knight. She is wonderful.”

  Knight wasn’t about to tell her, ever, that he’d already bought Violet for her. Well, perhaps someday. His brain stopped cold. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Someday?
He wondered what Lily would have done had she lost to him. Would she have accepted a new wardrobe from him? With him in attendance to help her with the shopping? He grinned again, wickedly.

  “What is it?”

  “Had I won the wager, I was wondering if you would have paid up, so to speak.”

  “Justice was done in my opinion,” Lily said, trying to sound forbidding and failing woefully. The humor came across quite clearly to Knight’s ears. “You are impossible. Further, the only reason I agreed to your very improper wager was because I knew I would win. You really shouldn’t make wagers that will make your pockets to let no matter what the outcome. Now, I am going to bed, my lord. Good night, and thank you for Violet.”

  He rose and stood there for a moment. He didn’t say anything, merely towered over her. He raised his hand and lightly stroked his fingertips across her smooth cheek. “Good night, Lily,” he said, leaned down, and lightly kissed her mouth.

  He turned away quickly, leaving her to stare at his rigid back.

  Now the damned clock was moving quickly toward three-thirty in the morning. Next time he would wager the same thing and next time he would beat her. He smiled at the thought and finally fell into a deep sleep.

  John Jones said in a humorous voice to Lily, “My youngest brother is just like Sam, ma’am. My mother used to tear her hair and call him her tow-headed nemesis. His name is Robert. He’s all of eighteen now and terrorizes the dons at Oxford.”

  Lily groaned at that. “Does it never end, then?”

  “Who knows? I have to say, though, that one is never bored in Robert’s company.”

  “At least you have experience, John.”

  “I love my brother a good deal, ma’am. I found that if he had direction and activities that ran him ragged, he tended to fall into fewer scrapes. Now, may I meet the boys?”

  Lily made the introductions, then stood back to watch. Sam did a thorough, very nearly rude examination. Theo smiled shyly at the new tutor but was noticeably wary. John remarked to Theo, “His lordship tells me you’ve undertaken the cataloging of his library. Lord, what a task. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me about it.”

  Score one for John Jones, Lily thought, smiling to herself.

  “I shall be an artist,” Sam announced, interrupting Theo after a good four minutes had passed. Lily was pleased at his un-Sam-like show of patience. Four minutes was an eternity for Sam.

  “An artist?” John said, turning.

  “Yes, Cousin Knight said I should begin with one of the Winthrop ancestors up in the eastern corridor. The fellow in the portrait needs a mustache. He has no upper lip.”

  John didn’t crack a smile. “Perhaps it would behoove you to practice drawing mustaches a bit before you attrempt the real and lasting one. Once drawn, you know, it’s there for all succeeding generations to observe. You wouldn’t want your great-grandson to say, ‘That’s my great-grandfather’s handiwork. He had talent, obviously, but he didn’t practice enough.’”

  Sam appeared much struck by this display of logic until he remembered his duty. He shot a look at Lily, then said, “Sir, Theo and I must ask you your intentions toward our mother.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Theo added, unconsciously moving closer to Lily.

  Lily laughed at John’s aghast expression. “I—I don’t understand, boys,” he began. She could see the red flush creeping up his neck above his collar.

  “We must be careful of our mother,” Sam said. “Men act stupid around her and we have to protect her.”

  “Sam, do stop it.”

  “I swear to you,” John said, getting hold of himself and the situation, “that I shan’t ever have one single stupid thought of your mother.” He placed his hand over his heart.

  “Or act?” Sam said.

  “That’s enough,” Lily said, stepping toward John. “You’ve quite embarrassed him, you know, and probably insulted him as well.”

  “No, no, ma’am,” John said. “Really, Theo, Sam, I shall be the model of rectitude around your mother.”

  “All right,” said Sam. “But we’ll be watching, sir.”

  “Are you certain you still wish their company, Mr. Jones?” Lily asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I think we shall all suit wonderfully.”

  “Very well. I shall leave you now. Boys, do as Mr. Jones tells you. I’ll be with Laura Beth.”

  Well, Sam thought, kicking a pebble from his path, he’d practiced a good fifteen minutes. Indeed he had. He’d even shown John the portrait, pointed out that just a few brush strokes would cure the ancestor’s problem, but John had insisted he practice more. Sam had filled up the drawing paper with mustaches, so many he knew he’d dream about them, not a pleasant dream either. He’d slipped out of the room, bored, tired of listening to Theo prose on about those steam engines of his. And it appeared that their new tutor was equally enthralled.

  It was enough to drive a fellow out-of-doors, which was exactly where Sam had been driven. Duckett hadn’t been at his usual post, and no one observed him leave. The afternoon was overcast and cold. The wind cut right through Sam’s jacket. But he didn’t want to go back. It wasn’t fair that Theo held all John’s attention. He was nearly as bad as Laura Beth.

  Sam walked a good four feet off the path to kick another pebble. At least tomorrow they’d go to Castle Rosse. He wondered if there were other children, if they’d be able to play outside, if there’d be a stable and lots of horses. He felt a moment of guilt at disobeying Lily. But who cared? He would just be outside for another ten minutes, then he’d go back into Cousin Knight’s house and no one would be the wiser.

  He started whistling.

  “My Gawd. Ain’t that one of Tris’s nippers?”

  Sam’s head came up at the sound of his father’s name. He saw two vastly ugly men, both bundled up against the shrill north wind. They were staring at him. One of them was gesticulating wildly at him.

  “Aye, his littlest nipper, I think. No, there’s a little girl, too.”

  Monk shot Boy an annoyed look at his ridiculous accuracy. “Right into our ’ands, eh, Boy? ’Ey, you. Little nipper!”

  Sam stopped, but he was poised for flight. He watched the larger of the men stride toward him. His boots were dirty, the bottom third of his great-coat covered with mud. He was not a pleasure to behold. However, he didn’t need a mustache. His upper lip was quite thick and prominent.

  “I’m a friend of yer pa’s. Yeah, Tris Winthrop. Me and Boy ’ere was ’is pals.”

  That seemed more than unlikely to Sam. “You’re a lying brute,” Sam shouted.

  “Bloody mouthy little nipper. Ye come ’ere!”

  Sam, no fool, turned on his heel and ran as fast as his legs would pump. Suddenly he felt a huge arm close around his middle and lift him straight off the ground. He could see the Winthrop town house in the distance. Oh, dear, he thought, and sent his elbow backward.

  “Ouch!” The arm tightened and Sam couldn’t breathe.

  “’E don’t look like Tris, Monk. Ye sure ’e’s one of ’is nippers?”

  “Aye, I’m sure. What’s yer name, ye foul little brat?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t know any Tris. I live just over there. You don’t let me go and every Runner in London will be after you. They’ll hang you and put your heads on pikes and cut out your guts and make you eat them.”

  Monk laughed. “Wunnerful creative powers the nipper’s got, eh, Boy? Ye don’t look like yer pa, brat. Ye sure yer mother didn’t play ole Tris false?”

  “Let me go,” Sam yelled, trying again with the elbow in the big man’s belly. Again the arm tightened and choked him and he gasped for breath.

  “Tell ye what, little fellow. Me and Boy ’ere think you’re a gift, just for us. Ye’ll come with us, and then your ma—your pa’s whore, I mean to say—will give us wot’s ours.”

  Sam heard only the insult to Lily. These terrible men would hurt her.

  What was he going to do?

  Even at
the age of six, Sam wasn’t much of a believer in divine providence. Still, when he saw a man in a stylish beaver hat and swirling greatcoat come into view, he was able at first just to stare at him dumbly. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “Help me! Kidnappers! Kidnappers!”

  “Ye damned little brat, I’ll cook yer hash!”

  Eleven

  The gentleman paused, frowned, then shouted, “Drop the boy! Now, or it’ll be the worse for you!” He suited action to words. Quick as a flash the top came off his cane and out came a glittering sword stick. He brandished it in the air and began to run toward them.

  Monk was furious. “Ye damned little brat! Oh, damnation and blast!”

  Boy picked up a rock from the side of the path and threw it at the charging gentleman.

  “Ye blinking ass. Oh, damn, let’s scuttle the pike.”

  Monk dropped Sam like a stone and scurried off in the opposite direction.

  “You bloody cowards!” Sam yelled, waving his fist toward the running men. “You’ll pay, I’ll see to it! My cousin Knight will slice your ears off!”

  The gentleman stopped, carefully resheathed his sword, then offered Sam a hand.

  “Hello, Sam,” Julien St. Clair said. “How nice to see you again. Who were your friends?”

  “Oh, sir, I don’t know, but they knew who I was. They were up to no good, that’s certain.”

  “Doubtless you’re right. Do you remember me? I’m Julien St. Clair, a friend of your cousin Knight’s.”

  “Yes, sir, I remember you. I met you at Gunthers. Your wife is nearly as beautiful as my mother.”

  “Thank you. I’m certain my wife would appreciate hearing that. What are you doing out here alone, Sam, if I may ask?”

  Sam flushed and Julien raised a brow.

  “Of course you have your mother’s permission?”

  Sam wondered briefly if he could get away with a lie but quickly decided he dared not try it. Julien St. Clair knew Cousin Knight. He’d be found out. The deck, as his father used to say, was stacked against him. “No, sir, my mama doesn’t know. She was playing with Laura Beth, and our new tutor was listening to Theo prose on and on about his stupid steam engines.”