by Lavinia Kent
“No, you don’t understand. It’s the brandy.” Happiness caught up with Lily and she twirled in a circle. “It’s the brandy.”
“Slow down. You are quite correct that I do not understand. What is the brandy?”
“All the problems. The brandy is the problem.” Lily twirled again. Then stopped. “This changes everything. I must go to London. Do you think Simon’s old enough? I’ll have to ask Nanny.”
“That is the first comprehensible thing you’ve said. Yes, I do think a trip to London might be just the thing. If my nephew can’t find his way home, it’s about time you searched him out and settled matters. I am tired of this foolishness. Of course, I’ll come along just to oversee the affair. The two of you are not managing on your own.”
Lady Smythe-Burke, obviously considering everything settled, was preparing to call her maid to pack her portmanteau when Jeffers suddenly hurried up the stairs.
“There’s a letter, your grace.”
“A letter?”
“From his grace.” Jeffers could not hide a smile.
He had written. It seemed like a sign that it should arrive now. She could not contain her giddiness as she took the neatly folded parchment from Jeffers. With some impatience she ripped through the seal.
Unfortunate happenings require your presence in London. Please come as soon as possible, and bring Simon. I will explain all when you are here.
Westlake
Had nobody ever taught the dratted man to write a letter? She was gratified that he had sent for her, but couldn’t he have given some indication why?
And he had signed it Westlake. He had probably just forgotten, signed without thinking, but not even this thoughtlessness could trouble her now.
“He wants me to come. It’s a bit confusing, but he wants me to come.” She handed the letter to Lady Smythe-Burke. “I must go to Nanny. Surely, Simon is old enough to travel.”
Lily ran skipping to the nursery, her mind racing ahead. It had been years since she had been to town, and then she had been still in the nursery herself – or hiding under tables.
What would it be like to arrive as a duchess? Her stomach fluttered briefly with new worries. She’d never been presented, attended a ball, or stood on her own against all the fine ladies of society. The season must be starting soon, and she had no idea how to behave. Thank heaven Lady Smythe-Burke would accompany her.
“Your grace,” Jeffers began, “as you requested, I have inquired into unfortunate happenings that might require your presence. I have been able to learn nothing. There is no time to send a reply before you must depart.”
Lily nodded. She had not expected better. Of course, there was no time to send to London and await a response.
She had compelled herself to concentrate on packing all that would be necessary for the travels of one small duchess and her son. Privately, she was horrified at how much Lady Smythe-Burke and Gertrude thought she would require. How could she possibly wear all those gowns and bonnets? Indeed, where had they all come from?
Sensing her lack of attention, Jeffers cleared his throat. “As I was saying, your grace, there has not been time for a reply. Yet, I have taken the liberty of glancing at his grace’s newspapers, which arrived with the mail, and I noticed this.”
He held out a crisp, ironed paper to her, pointing at an article. Admiral Lord Burberry had died. It didn’t seem possible. Not long before, Lily had clung to the thought of seeking refuge with him. She had been so busy with her own affairs that she had not thought to write him.
“I believe you mentioned that he was your father’s commanding officer?” Jeffers asked.
“Yes, Father served under him for years before I was born. He started with Burberry when Burberry was only a midshipman. I don’t remember much. Father died when I was only an infant, but Burberry did come to see us later.”
“Did you know him well, then?”
“Before my mother died, he was a fairly frequent visitor. He was with Father at St. Vincent. I think somehow he always felt responsible for the piece of shrapnel that killed my father. Burberry was the only one to tell me stories about him. Mother would never talk about him; it made her too sad. Burberry always said he’d be there if we ever needed him.”
Jeffers nodded authoritatively. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“That’s the unfortunate happening. His grace wants you to attend the memorial. As your father served under Lord Burberry, your attendance would be fitting. Such attendance makes an odd debut but, under the circumstances, is perhaps appropriate.”
Lily looked at Jeffers doubtfully. She was not sure how Arthur could know her connection to Burberry. They had barely discussed her father. Still, perhaps he had heard her mother say something all those years ago. Or, perhaps, he had it from Burberry himself. It was just the sort of considerate thing Arthur would do. He must have sensed how much Lily would wish to do this last kindness for a man who had helped her mother so much, and spoken so kindly of her father.
Yes, it was just the sort of wonderful gesture she would expect of her Arthur.
His prey had been sighted.
Arthur relaxed in his wing chair, the barely-sipped glass of brandy between his fingers. Its sweet scent drifted up. It would not be long before he could return.
In the weeks spent apart from her, only the thought of Lily brought him joy. None of the entertainments that would have delighted Arthur only a few months before held appeal. He attended one card party and a musical afternoon put on by an elderly friend of his mother, but both events left him indifferent. He sought out his friend Wulf, but was informed he’d left his rooms, leaving no forwarding direction. Arthur had worried about his friend’s dismal mood on their last encounter, but his own concerns were more pressing.
He needed to be at Blythemoor with Lily. He suppressed the discomfort that arose when he considered how ferocious that need had grown. Instead, he sought refuge and contentment in imagining his future life – the festive Christmas mornings surrounded by a bevy of children, the joy of introducing Lily to his friends, his pleasure in watching her assume her place in society as his duchess when he returned after Easter for the opening of Parliament – and most of all, the passion-filled nights he knew would follow. Somehow he would find a way to fan the flames he knew dwelt in his young bride’s bosom.
Not till he’d actually written that last note had the words come to him. Take care, my love. His hands had written the words before his mind could follow. He’d panicked at the sight. Love. Love was for silly maids and young fools. But, he’d written the words. Words he had never uttered, or ever heard said to him, not even by his mother.
Yes, he had expunged them quickly enough in an unaccustomed black cloud of India ink, blotted them from existence, but that didn’t change their power.
Once he’d taken care of St. Aubin, he would be free to return to Lily and woo her back. Already, his letters must be softening her. It might not be easy, but he had faith in himself. He was Westlake.
He rolled the brandy snifter between his palms, warming the liquid. Sighing deeply, he put away thoughts of future pleasure. First, he had to corner St. Aubin and take the last steps necessary to cast over Lily and Simon the thick cloak of protection he had been weaving.
St. Aubin had not fled as feared. Evidently, the sale of certain household fripperies had set him in ready funds. If only Arthur knew what the man planned. It was tempting to hire a bunch of thugs and have him tossed aboard the next vessel bound for the Far East. The thought of St. Aubin facing the harsh realities of sea life twisted Arthur’s features into a wistful smile. But Arthur knew he had to confront the man. It galled him to speculate that the answer might be as simple as an opening of the ducal purse. Fantasies of revenge were sweeter.
Arthur downed the remaining brandy in a single swallow. He rose to his feet and called for Mathers. He would dress for the evening and go out. The time had to come to give in to his restlessness and let the hun
t begin.
Lily snuggled back against the wide seat of the coach. Traveling had never been so comfortable. She had dreaded the days in the coach with Simon, but it had been surprisingly easy. She barely noticed the carriage jolting over the rutted roads, for they rocked Simon to sleep. Lily gathered him close and inhaled his powdery scent. Even the long delay caused by a cart tipped across the road had not dampened her excitement. She was eager to rejoin her husband. They should arrive that evening if the early dusk did not hinder them. Her stomach fluttered with joyous butterflies. Arthur had sent for her. She pulled the luscious furs tight around herself and the sleeping baby.
She rubbed her chin over Simon’s downy hair, enjoying the delicate sensation. Truly, nothing could be sweeter. She closed her eyes, listening to the rumbling of the coach and the gentle snoring of her son, and the not-so-gentle cacophony of snoring that Lady Smythe-Burke and Nanny emitted from their respective corners. The draught they had taken to settle their stomachs had evidently been soporific.
Twilight gradually pervaded the interior. Lily hoped it did not grow too dark for travel; stopping at an inn would only heighten her impatience. Her mind filled with wondrous dreams. She could barely wait to share her secret with Arthur. She hoped he would not miss his brandy too much.
Sleep had almost claimed her, when a gunshot rang out, followed closely by the shrill shattering of glass, and the horses slowed to an unexpected halt. Lily leaned forward in her seat, drawing back the window curtain to peer out. The lamps lighting their way had fallen dark, and it was hard to make out even the rocks that lined the road.
She remained still, waiting for the coachman to call down what had happened. Probably just a poacher taking a shot that had startled the horses. Or, maybe, an animal of some kind had stopped in the road and the coachman had fired a shot to startle it. That must be it. They’d resume in a moment.
But they didn’t. Lily counted the seconds as the silence grew. She rapped firmly on the roof. She heard a slight rustling from above, as if somebody shifted in the seat, but there was no reply. A cold sweat enveloped her. Carefully, she wrapped Simon in the fur and cushioned him on the seat. She placed her hand on the cold door handle. She eased the handle down and cautiously opened the door.
“What’s happening,” Lady Smythe-Burke asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.
“I am about to inquire,” Lily answered, as she stepped out of the coach, shutting the door behind.
The brisk January air bit into her lungs. She hopped down to the road. She glanced up to John Coachman, who sat unmoving. He didn’t even look down at her as her boots crunched on the frozen pebbles. His eyes shone in the moonlight, and she followed their gaze. Above her, just over the crest of the embankment, stood the largest man she had ever seen. The moon behind haloed him like an avenging angel. She stepped back until her small body pressed against the coach.
“Well child, what is it?” Lady Smythe-Burke called from the interior.
“Just stay inside. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The man moved towards her, the cold iron of his musket glinting. The crackle of dry leaves near his side momentarily drew Lily’s attention, and she swallowed as she saw that he had company. Two more men, pistols drawn and aimed at her coachman, led their horses forward.
The dark angel approached until he stood right over her. She could feel the mist of his breath feathering her face. This close, his features were more rugged than she had expected. He looked as if he’d seen more than his fair share of violence. A small scar cut across his upper lip. His darkened eyes bore into her. She felt her breasts heaving beneath her heavy cloak as she struggled not to yield to her fears.
“What do you want?”
“We just want the babe. Then we’ll be off. No harm done.” His deep voice resonated softly.
“Simon?” she gasped. Even in her worst nightmares she had not imagined this.
“That his name? I was just told to get the baby, a boy.”
Lily tried to count her breaths, tried to think, but her mind, in this crisis, refused to do its work. She couldn’t give up Simon. She would rather die.
She tried to stall.
“Why do you want my son?”
“I am taking him to his rightful guardian. I’ve been advised against your charms and wiles, my lady. I suggest you hand him over.” The deep voice should have frightened her, but it lacked the malice she would have expected.
“You cannot have my son.”
“I can do whatever I wish, my lady. I learned long ago what happens if I let others stand in my way. Give me the baby.”
“No.” She flattened against the door of the carriage, pressing it shut, wishing she had a pistol. Why had she never learned to shoot?
A pounding came from the other side of the door. “Lily, what is going on out there? I am coming out. Blast, the door’s stuck.”
Another male voice interrupted. “Come on. Get the child and let’s go. Grab a bit of that glimmer too.” If the dark angel unexpectedly lacked malice, this man more than made up for it. Thin and weasel-like, with a stench she could smell from ten feet away, his eyes fastened on her golden ear bobs.
She pressed tighter against the door, determined that nobody would get past her.
“Don’t make me move you, my lady. I’ve a job to do and I will do it. I always pay my debts.”
“Lily, I hear voices. What are you about?” Lady Smythe-Burke shoved again, almost sending Lily to her knees.
“Just give me a minute.” Lily pressed on the door. “Take care of Simon.”
The angel moved forward. He wrapped one large hand about her arm, the heavy fingers encircling it. She started to pull against him, when he dropped her arm and raised the barrel of his musket towards the coachman.
“Don’t intervene, mister. I’ve survived on knowing when a shot is coming. I don’t think you’re the man to bring me down.”
The third man spoke for the first time. “Get it over with. What’re you waitin’ for? Get the brat and let’s go.”
The tall man turned his head towards his companion, never losing the aim of his musket. “Diver, I’ve told you before. I didn’t want you with me. This would have been simply enough accomplished alone. Let me handle it the way I wish.”
“Who says you get to be in charge? I never heard his fine lordship say that. He just wants the brat. Doesn’t care how.”
“I said I’ll do it myself.” The malice that had been lacking in the tall man’s voice a moment before rang out now. He turned back to Lily and said, more gently, “Open the door and give me the baby.”
Lady Smythe-Burke yelled again. “Lily, let me out. Get the coachman to open the door.”
Lily knew she was starting to shake, but held firm. “No, you will have to kill me first. I won’t let you harm my son.”
“No harm will come to him. I promise on my honor, my lady. Just give me the boy.”
Lily thought she heard one of the others snicker at his words. She braced herself against the door, praying for all she was worth. She knew she could not stand against him for more than a few seconds, and Lady Smythe-Burke was pushing hard, but Lily would die before opening the door.
“I’ll say it again. You’ll have to kill me.”
The man, Diver, stepped forward and aimed his pistol. “If you say so, your grace. I always try to please a lady.”
Lily closed her eyes. This was the end.
“I told you there’d be no killing.”
“It’s not up to you. All that matters is that we take the boy.” She heard the cock of the pistol.
A whoosh of air suddenly fanned her face as some large object flew by. She opened her still tightly closed lids and saw the rifle swing through the air, dislodging the pistol. The small man dived at the dark angel, fists swinging. The third man aimed his own pistol, ready to take down his former compatriot. The first two were locked in the skirmish, limbs swinging. Lily thought she saw the glint of a knife in the smaller man’s hand, but
even with that advantage, he was no match for the giant.
She didn’t know if minutes or only seconds passed before Diver lay flattened on the ground, the tall man standing above him, fists ready to administer a further pounding.
The third man aimed his pistol again, straight at the dark man’s chest. Lily caught her breath at the picture unfolding before her. The dark angel turned and cast her one last look, before suddenly diving across the rough road to knock the smaller man off his feet. The pistol fired once.
“Your grace, hurry, get in the coach,” the coachman called from above. “Westlake will never forgive me if something happens to you or the wee lad.”
Breath entered her body at these words and she spun, opening the door and jumping in as quickly as her heavy skirts would allow. The coach leaped forward before the door had closed. Lily’s last sight was of the two men rolling across the road behind, the glowing white shirt of the dark angel blackened with blood.
She turned to meet an equally unsettling apparition, the angry stare of Lady Smythe-Burke.
Chapter Twenty
How was it possible that he kept missing the man? Arthur had spent the past four hours drifting from club to club in search of St. Aubin. Twice he’d only missed him by minutes, according to one associate or another. He’d even seen St. Aubin’s freshly signed name in the gambling book at White’s, with the wager of a hundred guineas that the newly widowed Lady Burberry would take a new husband at the end of her mourning year. Arthur couldn’t help wondering if St. Aubin didn’t fancy himself a competitor for her hand.
Of course, he’d be a much more attractive package as an earl. Lady Burberry’s income would certainly help if the rumors of the sad state of Worthington’s estates were accurate. This brought Arthur’s mind back to Simon and the need to ensure that St. Aubin never fulfilled his lofty ambitions.
Arthur rapped the table in frustration. How could he, with the resources at his disposal, fail to find that slug of a man? The mantel clock chimed, and he glanced out at the clear, dark sky. If only he could rid himself of this nuisance, he would be back at Blythemoor, with Lily curled peacefully beside him.
