by Darcy Burke
It was early yet, not quite noon, and a crisp, early fall breeze brought fresh air into the otherwise stagnant city. He drew a heady lungful and tried to eradicate the stench that seemed to cling to him. Mold, human waste, and fear. Sweat so putrid, it could make a man vomit just to smell himself.
Suddenly the wind changed. A warm updraft carried the putrid fetor of the hulks bobbing on the Thames right to him. Or was he imagining it? He hacked, trying to get the stench out of his lungs, and the spasm caused him to choke. He stopped walking and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees while his body wracked with the need to expel the violent odor before it became a part of him.
Oh, God, he was terrified.
He kept his head down as two gentlemen passed. When he was alone again, he straightened and doffed his hat to wipe his hand across his brow. He didn’t want to go back to gaol. Bart had been no help with providing possible punishments. The Act was still too new; moreover, he wasn’t a common criminal, but the son and brother of a marquis. His fate would be up to the court, and a jury of his peers.
But oh, God. If he had to spend another night there… Gaol had been worse than he’d recalled. Newgate made King’s Bench look like Carlton House.
No. He wouldn’t go back. And for God’s sake, he must get hold of himself before he was no use to anyone. That was what he must concentrate on. Wedding the woman he loved.
He set off toward the church. Stretching his legs with long, sure strides felt like freedom to him. He extended his stride even further, until he felt like a stilt racer at a country fair. Ten hours in a musty, damp cell had cramped his muscles beyond what even a day in a carriage would do. It was a maddening kind of confinement, made all the more frightening because he didn’t want to die there.
The streets became more crowded as he left St. James. He couldn’t shake the feeling that people were looking at him. As if they could have any idea he was on this street due only to the donation of one hundred guineas and the benefit of his own recognizance.
It was ridiculous to think that. No one could possibly know.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. He turned down an alley, wishing to get away from the prickly discomfort of having a target on his back, and nearly blacked out when something long and confoundingly hard clobbered him in the back of the head.
The sudden blow knocked white lights into his eyes. Immediately, he felt sick and doubled over, but whoever had perpetrated the blow came around and kicked him in the forehead. His head snapped back. His arms flailed and a second attacker swooped beefy arms under Con’s shoulders, effectively locking him against the man’s bulk of a chest.
And the smell. Oh, God. The smell.
Con hardly had time to open his eyes to see the pug-like face of his attacker before another fist sailed into his cheek. New pain eclipsed the throbbing in his head. He forced his eyes open to get a better look at the man pounding his face in. His attacker was stocky, with two meaty fists and a conspicuously fine greatcoat that hung too long on his short frame. His pudgy bottom lip protruded and deep folds creased over his small eyes. He didn’t waste a second before sending both of his fists into Con’s belly.
Con’s breath whooshed out of him, taking with it any chance of calling for help. He struggled feebly for release. For his trouble, his arms were yanked back cruelly. He didn’t even have the breath to yelp in pain.
“Get ’im in ’is pretty face again,” the man pinning him upright egged. “’E won’t be spending ’is nights at the table wi’ ’is nose all bashed in.”
Table? Con could barely think through the blinking lights and nausea spinning his head, but even in his savaged state he realized they’d confused him for Darius. “I’m not—”
“Stop yammering!” Whack. The sickening crack was followed by a rush of blood into his mouth. Not his nose.
“We told you last time. You owe us. Shoulda killed you then.”
Two more blows to his stomach. Con could barely breathe through the agony.
“It’s not that much blunt,” the man behind him taunted into his ear. His fetid breath caused Con to gag. In response the man pulled Con more upright, using Con’s arms like puppet strings. “We know you ’ave it. You’ve always ’ad it before.”
Con’s voice wheezed from him. “Wrong. Man.”
The little villain before him laughed. “You always say that. ‘Wasn’t me, was my brother.’ Gets old, scarin’ me an’ Billy here into thinking we’re ’urting some poor fella who ain’t got a clue.” He brandished a knife.
Con kicked out with his booted foot but only succeeded in losing more of his weight to the man holding him up. “I am,” he panted, “Lord Constantine.”
“A fancy-pants lord? You ’ear that, Billy? Maybe we should just forget this whole thing about ’im owing us eight thousand fecking quid.” His eyes turned hard and beady. “Or we can give ’im something to make sure ’e don’t forget.”
Before Con could even worry what that might mean, the man rushed forward and jabbed the knife into Con’s stomach. Agony radiated through him. This time, he managed to yell. But it was barely loud enough to ricochet through the alley, let alone draw attention on the street.
The pull of the blade leaving him almost caused him to lose consciousness. He wished he had.
Oh, God. He was going to die. Here. In this dirty alley. All alone.
The man holding him suddenly dropped him and Con buckled to his knees. His captor started kicking him: in his head, his side, his legs, his shoulders, until he collapsed onto his elbows and then onto his side, shielding his face with his arm as best he could while holding onto his bleeding wound. The man who’d stabbed him laughed and dropped to his knees. He rifled through Con’s coat. Con heard the tear of his coat being rent. Then the villain cooed. “Look at this, Billy. At least ten pounds in ’ere. And ’e said ’e didn’t ’ave a thing.”
Spittle landed on Con’s cheek. The man tugged brutally on Con’s ear, then smacked him hard. A solid kick to his back nearly broke his spine.
It surely broke his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. He felt blood trickling from him, making a sticky mess on his fingers, and his eyes were starting to swell shut. If they’d meant to kill him, they were close. He might still bleed to death. Or suffer a fatal infection. And all before he was to marry Elizabeth, and protect her from men like her father and Captain Finn.
He ground his teeth together, kicking his legs slightly as he tried to get up. He couldn’t die here.
“You better not die yet,” the little man said. “Eight thousand, and if you don’t ’ave it by the end of the month, it’s going up to ten. Don’t make us come to your ’ouse to get it, neither. You know the place.”
The men’s boots scuffled on the cobblestones. The sound grew fainter, or else Con was finally losing consciousness. Then, from what must be the alley’s entrance, Con heard the little man yell out, “Oi! There’s a man dying in the street ’ere. Someone ’elp ’im!”
Because really, who’d be around to get them their money if he died?
***
Elizabeth rose from her desk at the sound of a man’s voice coming from the hallway. The low, insistent tones clipped along with a sense of urgency. Her own man’s responding concern frightened her almost as much. She went into the hallway. Empty.
Faster now, she went to the foyer. Her heart thudded against her breast. Naught but premonition, for she had no reason to worry now that Con was freed. But she did.
A dark figure loomed in the foyer. Lord Bart. She touched her hand to her throat. “My lord? What’s wrong?”
He turned to her with a grave expression. “Constantine has been attacked.”
“Attacked?” She didn’t understand. “By whom?”
He grimaced.
Rand, once a prizefighter and now the protector of this house, came to attention. “May I be of service, my lord?” A glint in his eye reminded her that he could be counted on at any time to defend her.
&nb
sp; Lord Bart shook his head. “The constabularies have been dispatched. But I fear not much will be done. There are… circumstances.” He grasped his hat between his hands, almost crushing the felt. His mind seemed elsewhere. Then he turned to Elizabeth. “He’s badly beaten. I—” He looked away but a moment, but it was enough to tell her Con’s injuries were very, very bad indeed. Her throat choked. Why? Why had this happened? Would her father have stooped so low as to call thugs into it? Was arresting him not enough? Or had Nicholas taken matters into his own hands? Frustrated by the slow pace of the law?
“I think he would want you to come,” Lord Bart finished, breaking into her thoughts. “I will escort you to Merritt House when you are ready.”
She looked around herself, feeling disoriented. What did she need to take with her? She could think of nothing she required more than to be at Con’s side this very instant. “I’ll go now,” she said. “If I require anything, I’ll send for it.”
Her insides were cold. Cramped. She struggled for answers, but asked no more questions.
Her carriage was brought around and she woodenly entered its dark confines. Lord Bart followed her into the blood red interior. He sat rear-facing. He offered her no sense of Con’s plight, even after the horses tugged the carriage wheels into motion. She didn’t think he was intentionally severe. He was simply different than Constantine.
They left each other to their own thoughts. She didn’t want to consider what he might be thinking. About her. About Constantine. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked out of the window. London rolled by. At three in the afternoon, people crowded every street, swarming the walks and making a racket that could be heard even over the clatter of the carriage wheels. It was her home, and she loved it. But it could also be a dangerous place.
“Do you have any notion why?” she asked at last. He hadn’t wanted to elaborate in front of her man, but maybe now that they were alone, he’d share his suspicions. Her stomach turned. Please, don’t let it be her father’s work.
Lord Bart didn’t take his eyes from the window. “I’m not sure how much you’re aware of our youngest brother’s proclivities. But then, perhaps you do know. Constantine has been paying off his debts. They’re monstrous.”
She did know that. But why would the moneylenders have beaten him now? She’d paid all of his debts to the cent, with blunt to spare.
Unless he had new debts. She felt numb. “I wish he would have confided in me,” she murmured. Had he worried she’d find him pitiful? But she knew it wasn’t his habits that caused his debt. And they’d been so close with the canal…
Remorse wracked her. If she’d told him about the quarry, might he have paid his brother’s creditors before they took it out on his face? Was this partly her fault? Surely, she was culpable.
Lord Bart drummed his fingers on his thigh. He still didn’t look at her. “Your offer of bailment is no doubt noble in your eyes, but it’s no help to Constantine or Darius. They must both learn responsibility. They’re almost thirty, for God’s sake.”
“I see.” She frowned and hugged herself. He was right. Settling Con’s obligations kept him dependent on her. She knew that. It was why she hadn’t mentioned the quarry. She’d thought he’d leave her.
What a horrid, horrid thing to have done to the man she loved. She gripped her elbows until her nails dug into her skin. She had to come clean to Constantine. She’d never forgive herself for not trusting him, not when it was so markedly clear that he’d go to any lengths to aid a person he loved.
Lord Bart sighed, a deep exhale that gave evidence to his worry and his weariness. “It wasn’t Constantine who drew the toughs. In a stroke of injustice, he was mistaken for Dare. As if it isn’t enough that Constantine has sold his soul to you for Dare—” For the first time, Lord Bart grinned. Even tense as he was, the effect was devastating. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re the Devil, Lady Elizabeth.”
“Of course not,” she murmured, but he’d unmistakably let his tongue slip. He very much did think she was the Devil. She could understand why. She’d treated Con despicably, and now she’d dragged his entire family into her misfortune. Even if she’d done it to save her son, she was still to blame.
Lord Bart leaned slightly forward. His fingers ceased drumming and fisted. She suspected this flare up was a side of him that he hid from others, but was about to let loose on her. Simply because she was there with him, closer than he allowed anyone to be. “It’s just so like him. Nothing I ever say or do will convince him to think of himself first. Look at his actions and tell me if he’s responsible or irresponsible, because I can’t decide. Ruining himself for his selfish prick of a brother. Taking a beating to within an inch of his life for him. Getting himself arrested, because he’s decided to protect you just as strongly as he shields any of us. What kind of man does these things?”
She should tell Lord Bart about the quarry now. Admit her hesitation was nothing more than a lapse of trust. She wet her lips. The dryness in her mouth made it almost impossible to speak, and then there was her fear. The quarry affected all of the Alexanders. They would all be angry with her, and then what would happen to Con? She couldn’t tell them she’d hoarded the information without explaining why. They’d demand to know how she could have “forgotten” to tell them.
Her tongue usually worked like quicksilver. She could come up with a plausible excuse, surely…
Enough. If she did nothing else honest for the rest of her life, she wouldn’t compound her mistake by slipping them a falsehood now. But that left her in a quandary. Would Lord Bart continue to represent his brother and try to save Oliver, if he knew he was defending a liar? Or would he wash his hands of her? Of them?
Her indecision lasted just a breath too long. Lord Bart sat back as the carriage slowed. “Don’t disappoint him. He’s always been able to see good in people the rest of us have given up on. If you take that from him, you’ll have destroyed one of Society’s greatest believers. All of his sacrifices will have been for nothing.”
She inhaled sharply. Another consequence of her deceit that she hadn’t foreseen: breaking Con’s heart.
The carriage stopped. Lord Bart helped her down and escorted her to the door. Merritt House suddenly seemed imposing.
Before they stepped inside, he paused. “Don’t let my brother die for nothing.”
She clasped a hand to her mouth. “Will he…?”
Lord Bart shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s in a very, very bad way.”
They entered the house. The walk from the front door to Con’s bedchamber seemed to take years. Her conscience warred the entire way. Did she tell him the truth and unburden herself, or let him die believing in her?
By the time they reached his bedchamber, she was in shambles. She hadn’t had enough time to absorb the idea of living without him. She ran to his bedside and fell against the edge of the mattress. Her hand smoothed the white bandages across his forehead. His eyes were almost covered, but he could see enough to blink up at her. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes, yes, love, I’m here.” She clasped his hand but loosened her grip when he winced.
“Everything hurts.”
Her laugh was a forced attempt to cheer him, for surely drowning him in tears wouldn’t help. “You look like hell.”
“Really?” he drawled. “Because Bart told me I finally look like a man.”
This time, her laugh was real, even if it hitched. She looked over her shoulder at the imposing figure lurking in the doorway. “His bedside manner leaves something to be desired, I’ve found,” she said.
Lord Bart grunted and slipped from the room.
She looked back to the man she loved with all of her heart. She gently traced the purple bruises swelling his cheeks. His nose was red and puffy, and his words mumbled through his split lips. His nightdress fell open at his collar, falling far enough down his chest to reveal thick bandages around his ribs. Still, he didn’t look to have any life-threatening injuries. She felt
some relief at that. Perhaps she should tell him now, before any more time passed—
“I can’t move,” he said. “Three broken ribs. The rest are bruised. My arms and legs are stiff as boards and I’ve got a good-sized wound in my left side. Not to mention what they did to my head—”
“Wound?” She searched his left side but of course could see nothing through the sheets and gown covering him.
He grinned at her rakishly. “You didn’t think they did all of this without having me at a disadvantage? Got me with a knife.”
Her face went cold as her blood drained from it. “You were stabbed?”
He nodded, seeming rather pleased. “Unfortunately, I have a slight fever now. One can only hope infection won’t finish me off.” He chuckled as if this didn’t concern him in the least.
“This is no laughing matter!” she cried, no longer able to make light of the circumstances.
His expression turned to mock seriousness. “I should say not. But at least it will make for a dramatic wedding.”
How could he think of marrying her at a time like this? He needed to concentrate on getting well, or there would be no wedding.
“You’re not going to abandon me now, are you?” he asked in a playfully hurt voice. “I think I’m rather dashing.” He raised a hand to strike a dapper pose but only managed to lift it a few inches off of the coverlet before grimacing. Uncertainty passed through his eyes. Panic welled in her. He knew he was in a bad way, and was trying to keep up appearances. This jovial Constantine was all an act.
What if he died?
She couldn’t speak for the knot in her throat. If he were dying, then she would do as Lord Bart asked. Leave him no reason to doubt her in his last hours.
She couldn’t lose him. Not when he meant everything to her.
