Night Shadow

by Catherine Coulter

  John managed to keep a straight face. “It is something of a rabbit warren, but we will enjoy exploring, I doubt not. I was even told that there are priest holes. Perhaps we can find one.”

  Lily said a quiet good-morning and took her place, listening to John and the boys.

  “—and in the early eighteenth century, it is said that the then Princess Anne stayed here a fortnight before she became queen.”

  “Mama showed us a picture,” Theo said. “She was a very fat lady.”

  “I also pointed out, if I recall correctly, that she was ill and that was the cause of her being fat.”

  “Yes, well, then Castle Rosse was also a meeting place for some of the high-ranking ministers of George the Second.”

  Sam yawned over his toast and Lily shot him a look. He began, very quietly, to torment Laura Beth.

  Lily realized after some minutes that she kept looking toward the door, waiting for Knight to enter. It was absurd. She found she had no more appetite.

  Castle Rosse was a rabbit warren, but an immensely beautiful one, Lily discovered during the next several days in the company of Mrs. Crumpe. Floors dipped and rose, several feet at a time; stairs ended abruptly; small rooms of no use whatsoever gave onto smaller passages that led nowhere in particular. And it was cold, dreadfully so. The children’s nursery was on the third floor in the West Wing, and it took a good ten minutes to reach it from the drawing room on the second floor in the North Wing, if one didn’t lose one’s way, that is.

  “This is ridiculous,” Lily said the second morning. “John, I’m going to have all of us moved together in the East Wing. There are so many vacant rooms, and many of them adjoin, two and three at a time.” John heaved a sigh of relief. He was getting chilblains.

  And so the Winthrop party occupied the second floor in the East Wing of Castle Rosse. The servants were appreciative of this collective grouping. “I vowed I would stop breathing,” Mrs. Crumpe said, beaming at Lily. “It is very kind of you, ma’am, to stay all together like this.”

  The only bedchamber that wasn’t taken over was the master suite, located at the very end of the corridor.

  “I remember your husband, Mrs. Winthrop,” Thrombin said unexpectedly one afternoon as he straightened the tea tray on the low marquetry table in the drawing room. “A very fine gentleman. I am sorry that he is gone.”

  “Thank you,” Lily said. “We all miss him.”

  She looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, unabashedly listening.

  “Come in, Sam. Perhaps Mr. Thrombin will tell you about your father.”

  To her pleasure, Thrombin did. He hadn’t seen Tris in over ten years, but he remembered the handsome, brash young gentleman and his impact on his cousin, Knight Winthrop. “A dasher, your father was, Master Sam, always ready for any trick, any dare. Your cousin Knight, our master, you know, well, he worshipped your papa. Followed him everywhere, and your papa, he was the real gentleman, he was, and nice as could be to his younger cousin.”

  But it was from Mrs. Crumpe, one day later, that Lily discovered Knight’s precepts of life.

  Twelve

  “His lordship was such a cute lad, and so very well behaved,” Mrs. Crumpe said, a maternal light in her eyes. She paused, frowned a bit, then added, “Well, most of the time he was well behaved. Like all gentlemen, he was occasionally a wild young stallion. But not malicious, no, never petty or mean was our little lordship.”

  Lily smiled at that, just imagining the kinds of scrapes young Knight had got himself into. He most certainly had been more like Sam than like Theo. She and Mrs. Crumpe were touring the long, narrow portrait gallery in the West Wing. Lily couldn’t take her eyes off the nearly life-size portrait before her. It showed a fifteen-year-old Knight standing beside a bay gelding. He was tall, straight, and there was humor in his eyes, mocking, fun humor. He was a winsome boy who gave promise of becoming a handsome man, which he had.

  “His mama died when he was ten, you know. He’d never seen much of his father, as his lordship believed firmly that a child shouldn’t be cursed with the faults of his sire but left to develop a set entirely his own.”

  That bit of information startled Lily into exclaiming, “What? That is absurd. You mean that the former Viscount Castlerosse simply ignored his own son?”

  “Why, yes, but on purpose, you understand,” Mrs. Crumpe said, now dusting the portrait. “He was an older gentleman when our lordship was born. He didn’t wed until he was forty, and his viscountess was a girl not yet twenty. But he got her with child almost immediately and then took himself back to London and his life there.”

  Lily was appalled to the tips of her toes. Goodness, a little boy should have a father, she thought blankly. A mother should have a husband.

  “I’m sure all this is nothing new to you, Mrs. Winthrop, knowing the viscount the way you must,” Mrs. Crumpe continued in her comfortably certain voice. “He holds the very same philosophy as his father. He won’t marry until he’s forty. I will tell you, Mrs. Winthrop, Mr. Thrombin and I were surprised—yes, we’ll admit it—that you and the children actually stayed with his lordship in his London house for such a long time. His lordship, like his sire, feels that children should be left strictly to their nannies and tutors.” She marveled out loud again, shaking her head in wonder. “Almost two weeks. I fancy he was near insane with all the children’s noise and shenanigans.”

  No, Lily thought, he’d been wonderful. Not to be married until he was forty? He was only twenty-seven.

  Something deep inside her protested in a dull, thudding way.

  “And this was his mother, Lady Elysse. Lovely, isn’t she? His lordship has her eyes—fox’s eyes, everyone called them. It’s that gold mixed in with the brown, you see. Very unusual.”

  “Did the former viscount love his young wife?”

  Mrs. Crumpe allowed a bit of reproof to show through. “Indeed not, Mrs. Winthrop. He thought such emotions pure sham and absurd. Love, he would say in that contemptuous way he had, was for weak heads and for those who hadn’t the wit to see six inches in front of their faces. Love wasn’t for a strong-headed gentleman like himself, oh, no, indeed. I fancy it’s but another of the beliefs his lordship holds dear.”

  Lily trailed dutifully after Mrs. Crumpe, taking in everything she was saying. Somehow she couldn’t seem to picture Knight as a mirror of his father’s beliefs.

  For some unexplained reason, the beautiful house and immaculate grounds, first beheld as a sanctuary and a home, now seemed a prison. There was no love here, she thought, no caring—no shouting, no arguments, no life.

  NEAR WINTHROP HOUSE

  LONDON

  Knight was whistling. He felt marvelously drained, quite sated; all in all, very pleased with itself. Everything was set into motion now. It was just a matter of waiting. And keeping alert. Whistling always helped.

  The only thing was, he thought, frowning as he recalled yet again his session with Janine, Lily’s hair was a richer, more variegated blond than Janine’s and it was softer. At least he thought so. He had touched Lily’s hair the evening he’d saved her from Ugly Arnold, then attacked her in the carriage. Whistle louder, he told himself, and think about other things.

  Mr. Wheat, one of the Runners who had escorted Lily and the children to Castle Rosse, had dutifully reported to him. No sign of the men. All was well. Monk and Boy were nowhere near Castle Rosse. They had to be here in London.

  That was a relief. He wondered when Monk and Boy would make their next move. They perforce had to make one. It was just a matter of time and opportunity, and for the past two days and nights, Knight had been giving them more than ample opportunity. Now he was walking alone, a perfect target.

  He grinned. It obviously hadn’t occurred to Lily that he would have to be their target, since she’d left the scene. Otherwise he hadn’t a single doubt that she would have insisted upon somehow protecting him.

  He saw a cloaked man turn out of a side street, pause for a moment ben
eath a light on the eastern corner of Portland Square, then nod politely toward Knight and continue on his way. Knight wanted to laugh aloud. That certainly wasn’t Monk or Boy. This gentleman was the epitome of civilization.

  Knight began whistling again.

  When the attack came, it was quick and quiet. Knight felt their presence rather than saw them, and was able to free his sword stick.

  “Ah, ’tis the fancy governor, all right,” Monk said with great relish. Knight finally made him out in the shadows, crouched over and feinting back and forth as he tossed the gleaming silver stiletto from his right hand to his left and back again. “Circle ’im, Boy, but stay out of the way of ’is sticker.”

  “Gentlemen,” Knight said loudly, all amiability, “finally you show yourselves. Why don’t you question me rather than try to cut out my innards?”

  Knight saw Boy’s figure from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t a stealthful mover, thank the powers for small favors.

  “Awright, ye fancy cove, ye tells us where the sparklers are and we’ll let yer innards stay in yer gut.”

  “What sparklers are you referring to?”

  “Tris’s fancy piece knows, oh, ah, she does. Ye tells us or she does, and we’ll find ’er, don’t ye doubt that.”

  Tris’s fancy piece? Knight shook his head. “I repeat,” he continued, taking a quick step away from Boy’s outstretched arm. “What sparklers?”

  “Billy’s Baubles, ’tis wot Tris called ’em,” Monk said. “It was this cove named Billy who ’ad these sparklers made in Paris for ’is little lady friend, a female sort named Charlotte. Then this Charlotte breaks off their betrothal and Billy sends back the sparklers, only we get ’em and snab off afore anyone’s the wiser.”

  “Tris ’id ’em, no doubt about that,” Boy put in. “Then ’e shoots us the trove, ’as us snabbled and tossed on our ears in jail, ’e does, and takes the sparklers. Now, ye tells us and we’ll let ye go. Surely Tris’s little whore told ye. Ain’t ye taking care of ’er now?”

  Jewels, in other words, Knight thought as he mentally translated their cant. So Tris was a jewel thief, was he? And he double-crossed these two. Not a wise move. What the hell had happened to his devil-may-care cousin? A damned criminal?

  “Sorry, fellows,” Knight said as calm as could be, “but you’ve got the wrong cove. I don’t know a thing about Billy’s Baubles, not a damned thing.”

  This announcement didn’t endear him to either Monk or Boy.

  Knight carefully positioned himself. Monk and Boy weren’t strategic fighters. They were dirty fighters, sewer rats, but Knight was dirty enough himself and he knew he could best them. “I regret to tell you, gentlemen, but I think my best course of action is to dispatch the both of you to hell. You do most certainly deserve it. I assume you murdered Tris?”

  “’O, the proud cove’s got quite a big dose of arrogance, eh, Boy? Old Tris turned traitor on us, I done told ye that, so there wasn’t no choice, now, were there?”

  Those were the last words Monk spoke. Knight lunged forward, his form perfect, his sword finely balanced and deadly. He caught Monk off guard and felt the tip of the sword sink into the man’s shoulder, fluid and easy.

  Monk yelled and dropped his stiletto, jerking back against the building wall as Knight pulled the sword out of his shoulder. “Damned bastid! Kill ’im, Boy, we don’t need ’im! We’ll go after Tris’s little whore.”

  Knight whirled on the quickly advancing Boy. Damnation, the fellow had a pistol. His own pistol was tucked inside an inner pocket. No time to pull it out. He darted to the left as Boy fired. He felt the bullet graze the side of his head. He heard Monk yelling at Boy as he felt himself slowly, slowly, sink to his knees.

  “Damn and blast, there’s another cove coming. Let’s get the blue blazes outa ’ere!”

  The last thing Knight saw was Boy, clasping Monk under his arm, half dragging him away, cursing and wheezing with every step.

  “Good God. You’re hurt!”

  Knight managed to cock his right eye open. Julien was bending over him. “I was stupid,” he said. “That damnable Boy had a pistol, and like a bloody fool, I left mine in my coat pocket.”

  “I was coming, but they moved too quickly. Now, let’s get you home. Your face is covered with blood.”

  When Julien St. Clair, the Earl of March, strode through the front door of Winthrop House carrying an unconscious, blood-covered Viscount Castlerosse over his shoulder, Duckett actually moaned.

  “Oh, my God. Sir, he isn’t—”

  “No, he’s not dead,” Julien said quickly. “Have his physician fetched immediately, Duckett.”

  Duckett screeched for a footman and gave him disjointed instructions. God, all that blood. What if his lordship was fatally wounded—what if—oh, God, no. But he couldn’t ignore his duty.

  The Winthrop physician, Dr. Tuckman, as old and fragile as a venerable first edition, soon arrived.

  Dr. Tuckman had seen everything in his nearly sixty years, but the young viscount, his face streaming with blood, was still an unwelcome surprise.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” he said, moving Julien aside.

  After Knight’s face was bathed, Dr. Tuckman said in a voice of mild reproof, “Why, it’s barely a scratch. Look here. The bullet grazed along just above his left temple. Messy, but not at all deep or dangerous.”

  “Then why is he unconscious?” Julien asked.

  Stromsoe had kept his distance, much to Duckett’s disgust, even though he knew the valet’s distress at the sight of blood.

  “Shock, most likely,” Dr. Tuckman said. “He’ll have a mite of a headache on the morrow, but nothing more serious than that. Footpads shot him?”

  Julien decided on believable fiction. He nodded.

  “Disgraceful, utterly disgraceful that such things still happen in a city as modern as London.”

  At that moment, Knight groaned.

  “Thank the Lord,” Julien said.

  “Nothing divine about his recovery, nothing at all,” Dr. Tuckman said in his sour old voice and began packing his black bag.

  Duckett didn’t know what to do now. He’d tried to do what was best, truly he had. He hoped Charlie had followed his instructions. Who was to guess or know that things would have turned out this way?

  He heard horses come to a halt in front of the house and groaned again. Oh, dear, oh, dear.

  The door flew open and Lily, her riding hat askew, her riding costume, once a rich deep blue, now bedraggled and dusty, came rushing toward Duckett.

  “Is his lordship all right, Duckett? Please tell me he’s not dead.”

  “Mrs. Winthrop,” the butler said, then stopped to lick his very dry lips. “You are here very, er, speedily.” He was starting to sweat; he could feel it on the top of his bald head. “You didn’t take a carriage.”

  Lily waved away what she considered nonsense. “Of course not, we rode. His lordship, Duckett, how—”

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Lily spun about on her heel to see Knight standing at his ease in the doorway of the library, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a white bandage around his head, but he was fully dressed, his color healthy; all in all, quite the picture of blooming health.

  She was flooded with relief. All her frantic prayers had been answered. “You’re not dead,” she yelled and ran full tilt toward him.

  With all the presence of mind he could muster, Knight caught her hands, holding her away from him. “Lily, what are you doing here?”

  Lily blinked, then moved back from him, aware suddenly of her precipitous and utterly unwelcome dash to him. He dropped her gloved hands. “Charlie came for me at Castle Rosse. He said you were shot and possibly gravely wounded. I came immediately, of course.”

  Knight looked over her head at Duckett, who was standing as straight as his five feet would allow, trying to look more self-righteous than a judge.

  “You were covered with blood, my lord. Quit
e covered and horribly, well, dead-looking.”

  “That’s the truth,” Charlie said.

  “Mrs. Allgood had two maids scrubbing the blood off the entrance hall this morning,” Duckett said, deciding to go in the direction of gruesome detail.

  “Quite a lot of blood,” Charlie said.

  “You weren’t even here,” Knight said in an acid voice. He was aware that he was starring at the moment in something of a spectacle. “Mrs. Winthrop, please come into the library. Duckett, send in some tea and refreshments.”

  The library door closed.

  Lily stood, her back to the door, staring at Viscount Castlerosse. He was different. The look in his eyes when he looked at her was different. She didn’t understand. “Who shot you?”

  “Actually our two villains, Monk and Boy.”

  She gasped. “No! But—I knew it, I just knew it.”

  “I see you’re quick to grasp the implications. Yes, Lily, I knew they would come for me with you gone. I’m not quite the fool you must believe me to be.”

  “I’ve never believed you a fool. You are far too noble, if you would know the truth.”

  “Noble? How nice of you to say so. I’m pleased, I assure you. I was hoping they would come to me. I gave them more than enough opportunity. They took their chance last night. My only claim to stupidity is that Boy had a pistol and shot me with it. I hadn’t expected that, and my own pistol was in my coat. Knives in the dark seemed to me to be their style. On the other hand, I’m certain that Monk hadn’t planned on having my sword slice into his shoulder. I would say that he is sorely wounded and on his back now and for the next week. Julien, of course, was part of my plan. He brought me back here. My head wound made me bleed like a stuck stoat, but it wasn’t at all serious.”

  “I see,” Lily said finally. She drew a deep breath. “I’ve been terrified for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and she knew something was very wrong.

  Duckett arrived with the tea tray and plates of scones, cakes, and biscuits.

  Lily suddenly realized that she was starving. She seated herself, then said as she smoothed her riding skirts, “Oh, dear, I’m filthy—”