A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

  Bloody woman! What was she about? There was no reason for her to go that way unless…unless she hadn’t come to the ball alone. Unless the footman he’d seen her talking to wasn’t really a footman, but rather an accomplice. One she feared had either shot someone…or been shot themselves.

  Truce? She hadn’t wanted a truce! She’d just wanted to distract him long enough for her friend to get his hands on whatever it was they’d come to the ball to steal. Once again he’d been played for a fool. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.

  “Out of the way,” he demanded sharply as he began to push and shove his way through the chaotic swarm of lords and ladies clutching their reticules and breathing heavily into their handkerchiefs. “I said out of the way!”

  Bursting through the double doors, he stormed up the stairs, his fury at Juliet’s newest deceit increasing with every step.

  Then he heard her scream. The gut wrenching sound was immediately followed by the sharp crack of a second gunshot…and the only thing he felt was fear.

  Her heart in her throat, Juliet sprinted up the stairs two at a time, her slippers sinking soundlessly into the thick red carpet. She’d told Bran to put his pistol away. Hadn’t she told him? When she got her hands on him she didn’t know whether she was going to strangle him or hug him. Strangle, she decided. Then hug. Then strangle again, just for good measure.

  Unless he’s dead, a tiny, terrified little voice interceded. Her mouth setting in a mulish line of stubbornness, she immediately quelled the dark thought. Bran wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. As impossible as the sun not rising or the tides not receding or – or – oh hell, she didn’t know! As impossible as falling in love with a runner.

  At the top of the staircase she stopped short, her gaze darting wildly left and right. She had no way of knowing for sure where the gunshot had come from, but the acrid smell of smoke gave her a good idea. Firing a gun was a messy business, especially indoors, and it always left a trail behind.

  Her nose wrinkling against the burning odor of gunpowder, she shouted Bran’s name as she tracked the scent to a private bedchamber at the end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar and black smoke billowed out from underneath of it, obscuring her view and making her cough as she threw the door open without a thought to her own safety.

  “Bran!” she cried when she saw him leaning back against a canopied bed, his face pale and sweating. He had his hand pressed against his side and blood, dark and red, seeped between his fingers. When he heard her cry out his name he lifted his head, and his blue eyes, glassy with pain, flashed with warning.

  “Jules, no,” he choked out. “Ye need to run! Jules, get the ‘ell out of here!”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve been shot! You need a doctor.” She ran to him and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Lifting up her dress, she ripped off a strip of her petticoat – thank goodness she’d worn undergarments – and slipped it beneath his hand in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. He grimaced, but she didn’t lessen the pressure. She may not have been a sawbones, but she knew blood was better in the body than out.

  “It’s all right,” she crooned even as if she wondered if the bullet had pierced any major organs. “You’re going to be all right. We’ll get a doctor, and then–”

  “Actually,” a horribly familiar voice drawled from behind her, raising every single hair on the nape of her neck. “A doctor ain’t goin’ to be necessary. ‘Ello, Jules. I was wonderin’ when ye would show up.”

  “Edward.” She hissed his name even before she turned to see him looming in the doorway. “I should have known.”

  He was taller than she remembered. Leaner as well, like an alley cat that had gone too long between meals. His cheeks were gaunt, his shoulders bony beneath a brown jacket that had seen better days, his dark hair flat and greasy. But his eyes – those cruel, beady black eyes – were the same. They bored into her as she slowly stood up, her hands creeping into the air when she saw the pistol he held. The muzzle was still smoking.

  “Ye’re lookin’ like a peek dame, ye are.” His tongue slithered across dry, cracked lips. “Like a real lady.”

  “What do you want?” It was odd, but she wasn’t afraid. The anger she felt for the vile creature standing in front of her was too overpowering. Her blood burned with it, filling her with a wild, reckless rage. This despicable excuse for a man had betrayed her. He’d hurt people. Killed people. And he’d shot Bran. If he wasn’t holding a gun, he’d already be dead.

  She’d often wondered if she had what it took to rob another human being of their life. If, when it came down to it, she would be able to do what needed to be done. To steal something that could never be replaced. Staring at Edward, she finally had her answer.

  And it was a resounding yes.

  “Don’t ye worry yer pretty little head about that.” His gaze dipped to her breasts, lingered until she felt nausea begin to rise in her throat, and then flicked back up to her face. “Jest find me the tiara. An’ be quick about it. Yer mate took too long an’ look what that got ‘im,” he said, leering at Bran.

  He used to be your mate too! Juliet wanted to scream. But she knew it would be useless. The boy they’d played with, lived with, grown with, was completely gone. Erased by jealousy and spite and darkness.

  “So you want the tiara.” Her eyes narrowed as a thought suddenly occurred. One she should have had long before now. One she undoubtedly would have had if she hadn’t allowed herself to become so distracted by Grant. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? I thought it might be a runner, but it was really you.”

  Which meant she’d led him straight here.

  “Aye,” he said, and he sounded proud. “An’ I’ve built meself an empire. I started small. Merchant ships an’ the like. But it took too much manpower and the takes were hard to fence, so I moved on to better an’ bigger things.”

  “Jewelry. You’re the one who’s been terrorizing the nabobs in Mayfair.” She’d heard of the robberies, of course. Everyone in the East End had. But they’d been so messy and violent, she’d assumed they were being carried out by a couple of inexperienced thugs. Not by someone who should have known better. Who had been taught better. “You’re hurting innocent people! If you’re not careful you’re going to kill someone.”

  “And?” he said with a negligent shrug.

  She stared at him in amazement. “And you know that’s not what we do! Yeti always said–”

  “Yeti’s an old fool. He’ll get what’s coming to ‘im soon enough.”

  “If you harm a single bloody hair on his head I swear to every piece of blunt in London there won’t be a hole small enough for you to crawl into. Do you hear me, Edward?”

  “It’s Mallack now,” he said, sounding more like a petulant child than a violent criminal.

  “Call yourself whatever you want,” she sneered. “As far as I’m concerned a pig is still a pig, and a worthless piece of shite is still a worthless piece of shite.”

  “Jules,” Bran rasped. “What are ye–”

  “I’ve got this,” she muttered under her breath. It was just another game of distraction, albeit with higher stakes. Damnit Grant, she cursed silently as her gaze flicked past Edward to the door. Where the devil are you? She couldn’t have been that far in front of him. Any second he was going to come bursting through that door. She was certain. More certain than she’d ever been of anything in her entire life. Because Grant wasn’t the sort of man who ran away danger. He ran towards it. To help. To heal. The right the world’s wrongs, one problem at a time. It wasn’t just what he did, it was who he was.

  “Ye’re going to pay for that,” Edward growled. He tapped his pistol against the scar she’d given him. White and puckered, it stood out in ugly contrast against his dirty skin. “And ye’re going to pay for this too.”

  “What are you going to do? You’re weak, Edward,” she said derisively. “You’ve always been weak, and you’re always g
oing to be–”

  “SHUT UP!” Spit flew from the corners of his mouth. “SHUT THE FECK UP!”

  “I say, what is all this ruckus?” Completely oblivious to the dangerous situation she was walking into, the Dowager Duchess pushed open the door and toddled right past Edward. “Miss Williams?” she said, squinting at Juliet. “What are you doing in my room? And who is that man by the bed? My heavens! He’s – he’s been shot! Miss Williams, we must call for a doctor at once!”

  “Who the ‘ell is this old biddy?” Edward demanded as he kicked the door shut. Lifting his gun, he pointed it straight at the dowager whose mouth promptly dropped open.

  “No one,” Juliet said quickly. “She’s no–”

  “I would you have address me with some respect, sir!” Recovering from her shock at discovering an armed brigand in her private bedchamber with admirable speed, the dowager lifted her chin and, even though she was several inches shorter, managed to look down her nose at Edward. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Glastonbury and you are most decidedly not welcome in my home. Leave at once!”

  Edward’s mouth thinned as his finger curled around the pistol’s trigger. “I ain’t got time for this.”

  “No!” Juliet screamed. Launching herself forward, she knocked the dowager to the ground. There was a deafening roar, an explosion of smoke, and then there was only darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A runner was expected to go where angels feared to tread, but to do so carefully. Methodically. In a way that did not endanger themselves or those around them. In short, they were supposed to remain level-headed at all times. But when Grant heard Juliet’s scream and the subsequent gunshot, he stopped thinking with his head and thought only with his heart.

  He followed the sharp smell of gunpowder down the hall to a closed door. The door was locked, but one solid blow from his shoulder and it splintered open. The wisest course of action would have been to remain in the doorway and assess the situation. Instead he damned caution to the wind and charged into the room with all the recklessness of a madman.

  The first person he saw was the Dowager Duchess, her beaded gown splattered with blood. Her face was pale, but she was still on her feet. There was a man he recognized as the footman slumped against the bed.

  Then he saw Juliet.

  “No,” he choked out, dropping to his knees beside her. She was sprawled lifelessly on her side, one arm flung over her face. Blood seeped from a wound behind her right ear. It trickled down across her ashen cheek to pool in a circle of dark red on the floor. Feeling his own blood run cold, he lifted two fingers to check her pulse, but before he could place them under the delicate line of her jaw he heard the dowager shout out a warning.

  “Behind you, Lord Hargrave!” the elderly woman cried, pointing past him to the door.

  Grant didn’t think, he simply reacted. Throwing himself over Juliet while simultaneously drawing his gun, he aimed and fired. Sparks flew into the air as the bullet came flying out of the chamber and struck his target in the shoulder. The man fell back against the wall, the pistol he’d been aiming at Grant’s back falling uselessly to the ground where it bounced once before settling at the feet of the dowager. She immediately picked it up and aimed it at the man Grant had just shot. Her hands, though frail with age, were surprisingly stable.

  “This odious villain tried to kill me,” she said darkly. “Were it not for Miss Williams, I would be dead. What would you like me to do, Lord Hargrave? Should I shoot him? I’m an excellent shot. You should see me take down a partridge from twenty yards.”

  “No, Your Grace. I don’t think that will be necessary.” Were the situation not quite so dire – and Juliet not quite so still – Grant would have had a good chuckle at the sight of an eighty-two-year-old noblewoman holding a criminal at bay with his own weapon. “But you could go send for a doctor. With all haste,” he added as his gaze slid back to Juliet. Crouching beside her, he gently took her hand in his. Her delicate fingers were cold, and when he squeezed she didn’t squeeze back. His throat tightened.

  “What about this scoundrel?” the dowager demanded.

  “Don’t worry about him. If he moves so much as a bloody inch the next bullet is going straight through his heart.” It was not an idle threat. Had Grant been in a better position when he’d fired his gun, the bastard would be dead already.

  “Very good.” The dowager gave the criminal’s pistol to Grant, who slid it into the waistband of his trousers. She looked down at Juliet and tears shimmered in her eyes. “She really did save my life, you know. I’ll be back with a doctor as quickly as I can.” Then she was gone, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  “Is Jules still alive?” This from the footman – who of course wasn’t really a footman – leaning against the bed. He tried to stand, but with a grimace he clutched his side and slid back down to the floor, his face turning a pale, ghastly gray.

  “He shot you as well?” Grant questioned. By the look of it the bullet was still lodged somewhere in the poor bloke’s belly. If he didn’t receive medical attention soon he was in danger of bleeding out.

  “Aye. Edward got both of us. Jules. Is she still alive?”

  Grant was afraid to check. He’d never been afraid before. At least not like this. The fear pushed down on his chest, making it difficult to draw a deep, steady breath as he slowly slid his fingers along Juliet’s jaw. If he couldn’t find a pulse…

  But wait! It was there. Thready and inconsistent, but there.

  “She’s alive.” He sent up a quick, fervent prayer of gratitude. “She’s alive.”

  The only question was for how long. Head wounds were unpredictable. If it had been a glancing blow, her odds of recovery were excellent. But if the bullet had embedded itself in her skull…a tremor passed through him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when he’d finally come to realize just how much she meant to him.

  A long, torturous twenty minutes later the dowager at last returned with the doctor as well as the Duke and Duchess of Readington, both of whom breathed audible sighs of relief when they saw their son was alive and unharmed.

  A balding, sharp-eyed man who looked to be in his mid-fifties, if not a bit older, the doctor began to briskly unpack the black leather satchel he’d brought with him. Grant’s gut clenched when he saw him remove one sharp looking instrument after another and line them up in a neat row beside the bed.

  “Who would you like me to treat first?” he said as he slid a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles onto his nose.

  “Juliet,” Grant said, glancing at the footman who immediately nodded in agreement.

  “Aye,” he grimaced. “See to Jules first. She’s far more important than the likes of me.”

  “Very well,” said the doctor. “In that case I am going to need the room.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Grant said flatly, his hand tightening around Juliet’s. Wake up, he willed her silently. Wake up and yell at me. Wake up and point a pistol at me. Wake up and tell me to sod off. Devil take it, just wake up!

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I am afraid you must leave, sir. I may have to remove some of the lady’s clothing, and it would not be appropriate–”

  “I said I’m not leaving,” Grant snarled.

  “Now see here young man–”

  “Darling.” Ever the quiet voice of reason, Caroline hurried forward and gently squeezed her son’s shoulder. “Darling, let the good doctor do his work now.”

  “He can bloody well do it with me in the room!”

  “Darling,” his mother repeated kindly, “I can see this girl means a great deal to you. But I am afraid there is nothing else you can do to help her at the moment except listen to the doctor.”

  “I can’t leave her,” Grant whispered hoarsely as he stared down at Juliet’s pale face. Her auburn lashes stood out in stark contrast against her white cheeks. She looked like a sleeping angel, and his heart ached at the thought of her leaving him for heaven.

  “But of cou
rse you can’t.” Having never seen her son in such a state before, Caroline looked helplessly at her husband, who gave a firm nod. “Except you must. Not only is the doctor correct and it would be inappropriate, but this thug” – she looked scathingly at Edward – “must be taken to Bow Street. I will remain with Miss Williams. If there is any change, I will send for you at once.”

  “I shall stay as well,” said the dowager, stepping forward.

  “There, you see? Miss Williams could not be better hands.”

  “You’re going to be all right,” Grant told Juliet as he gently lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “God knows you’re too stubborn to die.”

  Had the corner of her mouth twitched? It was impossible to know for certain, but it gave him hope.

  “If you would just lift Miss Williams onto the bed before you go, I can begin my work. Gently,” the doctor said, hovering anxiously to the side as Grant carried Juliet to the bed as if she were made of glass. “We don’t want to jostle her any more than necessary. Excellent, excellent. Now if you could help this gentleman into another room…” he glanced down at the footman, who tried to stand but failed miserably.

  “I’ll do it,” the duke volunteered. “Where would you like him, Dorothea?”

  “He can go right into the adjoining chamber. It’s through that door there. That used to be my husband’s room, you know. He would roll over in his grave if he knew a servant was going to use it.” The dowager gave a rare smile. “Serves him right, the fat adulterous bastard. Serves him right.”

  Juliet slept for four days and four nights. On the morning of the fifth day she awoke with a pounding head and a ravenous appetite.

  “You there,” she said, sitting bolt upright and scaring a poor scullery maid half to death. “Where am I?”

  “You’re – you’re awake!” the maid gasped, dropping the pile dirty of linens she’d been collecting onto the floor.

  “Of course I’m awake,” Juliet said irritably. “I’m talking, aren’t I? Is there any food to be had? I’m starving.”