Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  He hadn’t walked very far when he was surprised by a streak of brown and white bounding past him and into St. James’s, which was crowded with carts and carriages at this time of day. The creature barely avoided being trampled by a horse pulling a cart filled with produce. It scurried away from the large hooves and wheels and then huddled, frozen, in the center of the street.

  “Watch out!” a woman’s voice called right before she barreled into him. But as he was large and she was much smaller, the impact sent her reeling. He might have caught her and set her on her feet if she hadn’t scrambled away, heading directly into the street.

  Ewan watched in disbelief as she stumbled directly in the path of a coach and four, whose driver had obviously given his horses free rein. She looked up, saw the approaching conveyance, but instead of jumping back onto the curb, she ran into the coach’s path and scooped up the little brown and white scrap of fur. Now both she and the furry creature would be trampled and run down.

  Ewan didn’t think. He acted. Heart pounding in his suddenly tight chest, he jumped into the street, crossing to the woman in two huge strides. He yanked her out of the path of the coach and four, feeling the breath of the horses on his neck as he shoved her to safety on the other side of St. James’s. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs with what he recognized as fear and panic. They’d almost died. For a moment, St. James’s became a blood-soaked field, and the clatter of hooves was the sound of rifles. Ewan closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. And then he shook the memory off and came back to the present.

  But his hands were still shaking.

  Ewan had shoved the woman a bit hard, and she’d fallen to her knees. He would have to beg her forgiveness, though she should really be the one groveling at his feet with gratitude. But instead of looking up at him with appreciation in her eyes, she scowled. “I almost crushed Wellington.”

  Ewan looked right then left for the duke. Not seeing the general, Ewan glanced in confusion back down at the woman. She pointed to the fur ball. “My dog. You pushed me so hard I almost crushed him.”

  So the dog was named Wellington, and she blamed Ewan for the danger to the animal. Ewan frowned at her. Was he supposed to apologize for saving her life and that of the beast? Perhaps she had become momentarily disoriented by the tumult. “You ran into the street,” he pointed out. Anyone could see the street was busy and dangerous.

  She waved a hand dismissively, as though the fact that she had almost been flattened under the hooves and wheels flying past them was but a small matter. “Wellington escaped his collar and leash at Green Park. I have been chasing him all this way.”

  That explained why she had been on St. James’s Street, which was typically the domain of men, and why the dog was running. It did not explain why she did not thank him, but he’d come to expect women to be difficult. Ewan grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Belatedly, he realized he should have offered her his arm, but now it was too late. “Where do you live?”

  Now it was her turn to frown. She had light green eyes framed by delicate brows, which slanted inward in confusion. Then she blinked. “Oh dear, no. You must not escort me home. You look like some sort of Viking warrior or Norse god. My mother would… Well, best not to discuss what my mother might do.”

  Ewan crossed his arms and stared down at her. This pose usually elicited tears from those of the fairer sex. But this one shook her head again in defiance. “My maid is probably wringing her hands at the park. I must return.”

  He hadn’t looked very closely at the woman, but now he noted her fine-quality dress and spencer. Both were soiled with dirt and animal hair. She was a lady. Now the lack of gratitude made sense. He’d known many such ladies. They looked down their nose at everyone. This time Ewan made certain to offer his arm. She looked at it in horror. “Do you want my mother to confine me to my room?” she asked.

  Ewan did not know the answer to this inquiry, so he merely continued to stand with his arm crooked. She pushed it down—or rather he allowed her to push it down. “No, thank you, sir. I am perfectly capable of returning to the park on my own. If I encounter any difficulty, Wellington will protect me.”

  Ewan glanced at the fur ball. The dog wouldn’t have scared a flea.

  “Good day.” She hoisted the wriggling creature in her arms, cradling it like an infant. She must have been completely daft. That was the only explanation for her delusions.

  Or perhaps she was just a woman. He did not claim to understand women. He left that to Rafe. The daft woman marched off, thankfully looking both ways before crossing St. James’s, and disappeared into the hawkers and vendors on the other side. He could have gone after her, but if he did, it would only be to protect anyone else who happened to fall into her path.

  Ewan stared after her for a long moment before being jostled back into motion. The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and Ewan arrived at the club just as Jasper, the best tracker Ewan had ever known, was leaving. Porter, the club’s Master of the House, stood in the doorway, silver head held high.

  The two former soldiers paused on the steps and nodded to each other. Jasper’s face had been horribly scarred during an ambush that cost Draven two men, and he wore a length of black silk tied about his hair and a mask that hid most of one side of his face, including the scarred flesh. “You looking for Wraxall?” Jasper asked.

  Ewan nodded.

  “He just finished yaffling.”

  Jasper worked as a bounty hunter and spent time with the thieves and rogues. He often lapsed into their cant, speaking it as fluently as if he’d been born in the rookeries rather than to one of the oldest noble families in England. At the mention of yaffling—the cant for eating—Ewan felt a pang of hunger in his belly. Was the club still serving or had he missed the meal and would now have to wait until supper?

  Jasper slapped Ewan on the shoulder. “You always did have a wolf in the stomach, Protector. If the soup is gone, the cook will always serve you gallimaufry.”

  Ewan pulled a face. He didn’t particularly want scraps and leftovers. The tracker patted his arm, then started back down the steps. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you only came here to grub.”

  It wasn’t far from the truth. If the club hadn’t served meals, Ewan would have attended far less frequently.

  He entered and Porter closed the door behind him. “Good to see you again, Mr. Mostyn,” the distinguished older gentleman said. “The dining room, sir?”

  Ewan cocked his head in that direction.

  “Very well. This way.”

  Although he could have found the way with his eyes closed, Ewan followed Porter through the wood paneled vestibule lit with a large chandelier. A suit of armor stood on one wall and two Scottish broadswords on that opposite. The place looked like the sort of establishment Henry VIII would have frequented. But the object that always drew his attention also made him more than a little melancholy. It was a large shield mounted on the wall opposite the door. A big medieval sword cut the shield in half. The pommel of the sword had been fashioned into what Neil had once told him were fleur-de-lis. A skeleton stared at him from the cross guard. Around the shield were small fleur-de-lis that marked the fallen members of the Survivors—those who hadn’t made it back from the war. The shield reminded Ewan that his lost friends were here in spirit.

  Still following Porter, who only had one leg, Ewan was forced to move slowly. Porter’s wooden peg thumped on the polished wood floors as he led Ewan past the winding staircase carpeted in royal blue and into a well-appointed dining room. Like the entryway, the dining room was paneled in wood. The ceiling was low and whitewashed, crossed by thick wooden beams. Sconces lined two walls and a fire burned in the mammoth hearth. Four round tables covered with white linen and set with silver had been placed throughout the room. At a fifth table, Neil Wraxall, a.k.a. the Warrior, sat with a glass of red wine centered before him. Neil liked
order. He liked both giving orders and order in his life. He dined at the club four days a week precisely at noon. He always sat at the same table and in the same chair. No one else ever dared sit in that chair if there was a remote possibility Neil might drop by the club. And if he came unexpectedly, the man in the chair vacated it without being asked. They’d all served under Major Wraxall long enough to know that while he could be flexible when the situation called for it, he preferred routine and predictability.

  Neil looked up when Ewan entered. Porter paused, waiting for a sign from the de facto leader of Draven’s troop. When Wraxall flicked his gaze to the empty chair at his right, Porter led Ewan to it and pulled it out. He sat.

  “Wine, sir?” Porter asked.

  Ewan nodded.

  “And would you like dinner, Mr. Mostyn?”

  He looked at the man as though he’d asked if Ewan wanted to be run through with a bayonet.

  “Very good then. I will bring the first course. Mr. Wraxall, more wine?” Porter inquired.

  The Warrior looked at Ewan. “Will I need it?”

  Ewan shrugged. Neil shook his head. “No, thank you, Porter.”

  Ewan wasn’t certain how much Neil drank away from the club, but he was always moderate in his consumption at their club. Once, Neil had told him he always kept a bottle of gin beside his bed to calm the tremors when he woke fighting a battle. Ewan had known what he meant. They all had nightmares about the terrors they’d seen during the war. It was the horrors they’d committed themselves that woke them up at night, a scream lodged in the throat.

  For Ewan, life in London had gradually begun to seem more real than the memories of the violence and battle. But he suspected it was different for Neil. He suspected Neil was still fighting the battles nightly, hoping to change the outcomes.

  For a long while, he and Neil sat with only the crackling of the fire to break the companionable silence. They’d spent many nights thus on the Continent during the war against Napoleon—a dozen or more men huddled around a campfire, knowing death would probably come in the morning and willing to make that sacrifice for king and country. If Ewan had to die, he’d wanted to die with Neil at his side. He trusted the man implicitly, and he respected him as much as he respected Draven. When they’d been in the army, they could always count on Rafe Beaumont to break long silences or tension with frivolous chatter. Now, Ewan wished he knew what to say to his friend to ease the pain, but Ewan was not good with words. At the moment, it seemed Neil could not find words either.

  “Knocked any heads together lately?” the Warrior asked at last. It was more of a command than a question. The Warrior almost always spoke in commands and orders.

  Ewan smiled, thinking of the pup last night.

  “Good,” Wraxall said. “Keep in practice. Give me a report on Langley. I should pay him a visit.”

  “He’d like that,” Ewan said.

  Neil gave him a wry look. “I’m sure he would. I always lose at the tables. I’ll order Stratford to accompany me. Then I’ll have a chance.”

  Stratford was another of Draven’s men and known for his skill with strategy. Ewan frowned, thinking of Langley’s losses. But Neil wouldn’t go to Langley’s. Neil didn’t want light and laughter.

  Porter returned with a white soup for Ewan and refilled his glass of wine. Ewan’s belly rumbled again, but he remembered the card. He’d trusted Neil with his life on the Continent. He could trust Neil with whether or not to pay a call on Ridlington. Ewan slapped it on the table before lifting his spoon.

  Wraxall picked the card up and turned it in his fingers. “The Duke of Ridlington? What does he want?”

  Ewan sipped his wine and met Neil’s gaze. Why did anyone seek out the Protector?

  Neil drummed his fingers on the table, probably forming a report in his head. “He’s a good man. I don’t know him well, but I’ve not heard anything said against him. Do you want me to ask the others to report what they know of him?”

  Ewan held the spoon midway between bowl and mouth. Was that what he wanted? A sense of the man before he decided to hear the duke’s proposition? Ewan nodded.

  “I have other business tonight, but I’ll send Beaumont to Langley’s with my findings. I doubt he has anything better to do, and an assignment might keep him out of trouble.”

  Ewan raised a brow. There was plenty of trouble to be had at Langley’s, and Rafe Beaumont was a lodestone for mischief. Still, Ewan appreciated his friend’s thoughtfulness. Most men would have sent a note, but Wraxall knew how arduous reading was for Ewan, though the two men had never discussed it. Besides, it would give Neil the chance to order Rafe about, and Neil did like giving orders.

  Ewan spent the rest of the afternoon in the dining room, then followed Neil to the card room and watched a game of piquet between Neil and another member of Draven’s men. Neil lost, of course. The man was too predictable. It was an enjoyable day, and it took Ewan’s mind off Ridlington and the mad female he’d encountered earlier.

  Finally, Ewan made his way back to Langley’s, the return trip uninterrupted by daft women or racing fur balls, and instructed the footmen to fetch him if Beaumont arrived. Of the eleven other surviving members of the troop, Neil Wraxall and Rafe Beaumont were the men Ewan felt closest to. He saw the other men at the club, and he drank or played the odd game of dice with them, but none knew him like Neil and Rafe. He considered them more than friends. They were brothers.

  About half past eleven, a footman fetched him, and Ewan stepped outside the club where Beaumont had struck a pose. Ewan was not in the habit of thinking men pretty, but there was no other way to describe Rafe Beaumont, also known as the Seducer. He wasn’t feminine in appearance, but he had a perfect face and enough charm for two men. His dark hair and bronze complexion made him the opposite of Ewan, with his white-blond hair and fair skin.

  As usual, Beaumont had a woman on his arm. Ewan’s only surprise was that there was but one. “Mr. Mostyn.” Rafe bowed with a flourish. Ewan was used to his friend’s courtly behavior and ignored it.

  “My dear, this fearsome man before you is Mr. Mostyn. He is undoubtedly one of the best men I know. He saved me in the war more times than I can count. Don’t let his glare scare you off. He doesn’t bite.” Then to Ewan, he said, “You don’t bite, do you?”

  Ewan tried to decide if he was required to answer. Rafe often spoke to hear his own voice.

  The woman fluttered her lashes at Ewan. She had reddish hair, freckles, and pretty brown eyes. Her lips smiled broadly. “I could just eat you up, Mr. Mostyn.” She winked at him.

  Ewan gave Beaumont a look of concern. Unlike Beaumont, Ewan never knew what to say to women. He knew what to do with them, but he preferred not to speak while doing it.

  “Save your appetite for later, my dear. Would you give Mr. Mostyn and me a moment alone?”

  “Of course. I’ll wait inside.” She looked up at Ewan as though for approval. He moved aside to allow her to enter through the door a footman held open. The gambling hell permitted women, but most were courtesans or women who thrived on scandal. Clearly, this woman did not concern herself with her reputation.

  When she’d gone inside, Beaumont sighed. “Hell’s teeth! I thought I’d never be rid of her.”

  Ewan gave his friend a look of incomprehension. If Rafe didn’t want her company, why not just tell her so? But then Beaumont seemed to attract women whether he wanted to or not. That was one skill they’d found invaluable in the war.

  “Let me think now. If I mess this up, Wraxall will have my head. I’m to tell you Ridlington is an oak. Those are Neil’s words, not mine. I don’t describe men in terms of foliage, you know. In any case, Wraxall says, no one has a word to say against the duke. Apparently the man does not overindulge in drink, cards, or women. I can’t think why Neil should call this a recommendation. The duke sounds like a bore to me, but there you are. Why does he
want to hire you?”

  Ewan lifted a shoulder.

  “Well, don’t agree unless he pays you at least double what you make at this club each week. You are worth it, Ewan.”

  Ewan couldn’t have said why, but at the compliment, his throat constricted.

  “Now I must be off. I haven’t slept in two days, and if I’m forced to drink even one more glass of champagne, I’ll cast up my accounts. Good night.” He slapped Ewan on the shoulder.

  “What about…?” Ewan motioned to the hell behind him.

  “Good God. Don’t tell her where I’ve gone. I doubt she’ll come looking for me. She’ll find other amusements.” He doffed his beaver hat and strolled off, turning heads as he walked.

  Ewan pulled the card from his pocket and read it slowly. Berkley Street at ten in the morning. He’d go, but he wouldn’t wear a cravat.

  Two

  Lady Lorraine Caldwell, only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ridlington, crumpled another sheet of foolscap and tapped her brow with the feather of her quill. Francis had sent her a love letter two days ago, and she’d been endeavoring to reply since then. She simply couldn’t find the words. His letter had been full of flowery phrases and descriptions of his abject misery without her by his side.

  Lorrie was not one for pretty words, but she could not possibly reply as she had on the crumpled letter: Dear Francis, Let’s elope. That one had been better than the previous one: Dearest Francis, I want you to kiss me.

  Ladies simply did not propose elopements or ask for kisses. It was unseemly, even if that was what she wanted. Lorrie was tired of begging for her father’s blessing, tired of meeting Francis in secret, tired of chaste kisses that fired her blood but left her frustrated. She had persuaded Francis to elope once before. She’d convinced him that once they were wed, her father would relent, give his blessing, and bestow her dowry.

  Lorrie had left a note and sneaked out of the house, but Francis had never arrived at the tavern from which they’d planned to depart. She’d been forced to return home to an irate father and an annoyed mother. Francis had sent a letter of apology. He had reconsidered, worried her father would do as he’d threatened and cut his daughter off. What would they live on?