Zanthe stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Oh, you are as stupid as my brother. Only I can stop this. He will listen to me.’
Nothing Parry or Mr Critchlow said—and they said a great deal—could change her mind. So, with a good deal of reluctance, both agreed to escort her to Launceston’s lodging, although, considering the time of night, it was most likely he had already set off for Avon Street.
‘I must first just run inside and tell Mama-in-Law and Susannah that I am leaving. I shall ask Mr Fallowfield to escort them home.’
The crowd was very much diminished, and Susanna was easily found sitting between the Dowager and Mr Templeton, smiling rather wearily upon them both and stifling a yawn.
‘My dear, you are exhausted. I am so sorry I have kept you waiting about in this chilly hall. Thank you for taking care of her, Ma’am. She has been working so hard all day and must be longing for her bed.’ She caught sight of Mr Fallowfield, who was talking earnestly with his cousin.
‘Mr Fallowfield, Lord Fallowfield, poor Susannah is very tired and must be taken home, but I am unable to do so at the moment. Something urgent has come up. I won’t bore you with the details, but I would be so grateful if you could convey her and Lady Brookenby to the Royal Crescent. Did you come in your carriage?’
Both gentlemen bowed, and Mr Fallowfield said, ‘Of course, it would be a pleasure. But can we not render you any assistance, Ma’am. Forgive me, but you appear to be a good deal distressed.’
She smiled at him but shook her head. ‘Thank you, Sir, for your concern, but, no. My brother and one other will be all the escort I need.’
Susanna stood and said in her sweet low tone that nevertheless carried effortlessly across the room, ‘Thank you, Uncle, and dear Zanthe, but, if she has no objection, I would prefer to return home with my mother.’ During the stunned silence that greeted these words, Susanna crossed the room towards the Signora with her hand held out and a pleading look in her big eyes.
‘I know you wish to protect me. You think I should be ashamed to be known as your daughter and that you will drag me down to the gutter. But, don’t you see, I am so proud to be your daughter, and if you are in the gutter—why, then, so am I.’
The Signora gave a strangled sob, sprang forward, and gathered her daughter into her arms. There was a collective sigh, and then Mr Fallowfield began to clap his hands together in loud applause. The rest of the company followed suit, and a few cheers were raised. Even Lady Fallowfield, after glancing uneasily around the room, tapped two fingers of her right hand against the palm of her left. Mother and daughter released each other and, smiling through their tears, acknowledged the applause.
Mr Fallowfield, his own eyes a little wet, held out a hand to the Signora. ‘May I have the inestimable pleasure, the very great honour, of escorting you and your daughter home?’
The Signora laid her hand in his palm, and his fingers closed upon hers possessively. ‘If that’s what you want, Johnny.’
‘That is what I want.’
Zanthe whisked out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. It seemed that Susanna would have her career, her mother, and a new, and very delightful, father. No need to worry about her anymore. And, for self would intrude, there could now be no room for Launceston in Signora Villella’s life. If she could but save him from the machinations of Sir Marmaduke Carlyle, he must realise where he belonged and, like a cat with buttered paws, adapt to his new and comfortable abode.
Parry’s head appeared around the door jamb. ‘I say, Zan, better get a move on. It’s half-past-ten now, and Launceston is supposed to be meeting Duke at eleven.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, I’m coming now.’ She sniffed and put away her handkerchief in her reticule. ‘Lord Fallowfield, I would be so much obliged if you could convey Lady Brookenby home.’
He bowed, but his attention was clearly focused upon the sight of his cousin bending solicitously over the prima donna. ‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said absently.
‘Oh, are you going, dearest Zanthe?’ Susanna left the shelter of her mother’s side and ran across the room. ‘Thank you, again and again for everything you have done for me.’ She bent forward to kiss Zanthe’s cheek so that, for a moment, the gold and ebony ringlets were intermingled. ‘I shall sing at your wedding,’ she whispered into Zanthe’s ear, ‘if you will let me.’
Zanthe embraced her lightly. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she promised. ‘Parry, I’m ready, let us leave.’
‘One moment, Zanthe!’ The Dowager was at her side, her face dark with suspicion. ‘Where is Margery? I have not seen her since she went off with that Cholmondeley woman to the cloakroom.’
‘Ah—yes—well— Oh, I do not have time to stay for this!’ She thrust Margery’s letter into her mother-in-law’s hand. ‘This will explain all! It is for the best, Ma’am. Truly it is, and it is too late to stop them now!’ With that, she ran from the room, leaving the Dowager staring.
As it was a fine night and but a short walk to Launceston’s lodgings in Westgate Buildings, Zanthe refused a chair and, instead, with one hand firmly tucked in Mr Critchlow’s arm, almost ran down York Street, ignoring the stares of the few pedestrians still abroad in that respectable locality. They drew a blank at the Viscount’s lodgings. The respectable couple who kept the apartments and ‘did’ for the lodgers reported that he had left the building much earlier in the evening.
‘Then we have no choice,’ said Zanthe. ‘He could be anywhere in Bath by now. We will have to wait for him at the Bird in Hand.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, but you will do no such thing, my Lady.’ Mr Critchlow was polite but determined. ‘You’ll wait with my Martha in the ‘ouse and trust me to see your gentleman don’t come to any ‘arm.’ She opened her mouth to protest, but he did not let her speak. ‘Lor’ Ma’am, the poor cove‘d never live it down if you come runnin’ in to rescue him, a little slip of a thing like you. He’d a good deal rather be dead than a laughing stock!’
Appalled, she looked to Parry for confirmation. He nodded, ‘Good God, yes. You’ve got to keep out of it, Zan.’
She sighed. ‘Very well, but—’ in minatory tones, ‘I am trusting you to look after him.’
Westgate Buildings was a respectable, if unfashionable, neighbourhood, but it was a mere step from thence to a decidedly insalubrious quarter of the town. Zanthe, who had never ventured into this vicinity at night, was shocked and a little frightened despite the reassuring bulk of Mr Critchlow at her side. She had, at Critchlow’s insistence, stripped off the earrings, necklace, and bracelets she had worn for the concert; and they were now concealed in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward to cover as much of her face as possible, but she was still aware of the bold, admiring stares of men they passed along the way whenever her charming countenance was illuminated by a street lamp or flambeau.
She was relieved beyond measure when they finally reached the sanctuary of the tumbledown building where she had previously visited the Critchlow family.
‘Critchlow, is that you?’ called Martha as her husband turned the handle and found the door bolted on the inside.
‘Aye, it’s me. Let me in, my lovely, you’ve got a visitor.’
‘Well, if that isn’t just like a man?’ said Mrs Critchlow as she pulled back the bolts. ‘What did you want to bring the young lady here for? It’s not fit.’
Zanthe entered the little apartment, pushed back her hood, and said impetuously, ‘Oh, pray do not blame poor Mr Critchlow. He tried to stop me.’ She took her reluctant hostess’ hand. ‘Please let me stay here with you. Indeed, I could not sit safe at home knowing he is in danger.’
‘Well, I don’t have to ask who he is, I daresay. What a sweet, pretty lady sees in a— Oh, well, mum for that!’
Zanthe clasped the other woman’s hands. ‘Thank you!’ She turned to Critchlow. ‘Don’t wait, please don’t wait. Find him and warn him!’
Critchlow turned towards the door with Pa
rry at his heels. ‘Parry! Where are you going?’
‘With Critchlow, naturally.’
‘But you cannot. You are still weak. You must stay here with me. I won’t have you putting yourself in danger.’
Parry laughed. ‘You don’t think I’m going to miss this turn-up do you? Duke’s a famous bruiser, but I’ve heard rumours that Launceston’s a better one.’
‘Parry, this is serious! It is not a fight between a rat and a ferret but between the man I love and the man who—who tried—you know what I mean!’
He came back to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and hugged her. ‘I know, Zan, I know. I’m not making light of it, but I might be able to help, you know.’ He indicated the stick he still used to help him walk. ‘I can trip the villains up with this thing if nothing else.’
Her lip quivered, but she managed to smile and patted his arm in a motherly way. ‘Thank you, dearest Parry.’
Alone with Martha Critchlow, Zanthe accepted a glass of warm milk and sat by the window, alternately sipping and sniffing. Glancing around the room, she was pleased to see that the work she and Margery had sent out to Martha had already made a difference. There was an air of comfort about the little room, and even a bunch of flowers upon the table, now covered with a snowy cloth.
‘Don’t fret, Ma’am,’ Martha said kindly. ‘Critchlow won’t let any harm come to your young gentleman.’
Zanthe chuckled. ‘Which one?’
‘Neither of ‘em. Sometimes, you know, you just have to let men be men.’
‘Let them go, you mean?’
‘Aye, then likely they’ll come back o’ their own free will.’
‘It is very hard.’
Martha nodded. ‘I know.’
Twenty-four
The door of the Bird in Hand opened and, as two men lurched out into the street, Zanthe caught a glimpse inside. She could see into about half of the crowded little tap room, which was dimly lit with oil lamps. There was an astonishing mix of types, from young bloods to pickpockets, sprawled at the few tables and chairs, while the noise that flooded the street through the open door was loud and strangely menacing. It was as though the inn were a bubbling pot that might at any time boil over.
Above the babble of rough talk, a fiddle, and a few voices raised in ribald song, Zanthe’s ears caught another sound. It was a sweet, melodious whistling. She recognized it as the song Susanna had sung that evening at the concert. As she pressed her forehead against the window-pane, a male figure came into view, strolling down the street very much at his ease, his hands in his pockets and his hat tipped forward at a rakish angle over one eyebrow.
What happened next was indelibly burnt upon her memory and often visited her in nightmares for years afterwards. From out of the shadow, four dark shapes surrounded Launceston, shoulders hunched, fists bared. He did not even break his stride but, in one fluid movement, drove his fist into the soft belly of one man and thrust the stick he carried between the legs of another, bringing him down. As Critchlow, cursing under his breath, entered the fray, the first man, wheezing but game, rushed at Launceston and was stopped dead by a vicious slice across the throat from the side of his hand. Launceston brought up his foot to the other man’s groin and, as he bent over in agony, his nose smashed against the Viscount’s knee. He fell to the floor and curled into ball, moaning. In the meantime, Critchlow had overcome a third assailant by the simple expedient of catching him in a bear hug and squeezing until he became unconscious. The fourth, less gifted with courage, or more intelligent than his comrades, ran for it but fell victim to Parry, who rolled an empty beer barrel he had found in the inn’s back alley down the street after him. It caught the man behind the knees and brought him down with a satisfying crash.
The second man had got his wind back and was up. He was shorter and more agile than his fallen comrade. And he had a knife. So, too, it appeared, had Launceston. The two men circled each other. The paid bravo was laughing, confident. He tossed the knife from one hand to the other to show his contempt for the flat who thought he could fight. ‘Come on then, cully, if you thinks you can,’ he urged.
Launceston shrugged, stepped back and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the blade flying into the other man’s chest. The man’s mouth fell open in shock, he looked down at the hilt sticking out of his ribs, and then toppled over and lay still.
‘Is ‘e dead, Sir?’ Critchlow peered over Launceston’s shoulder.
The Viscount stirred the fallen man with his foot. A low groan rewarded him. ‘No. I didn’t mean to kill him. If you hit it just right the ribs deflect the blade. He has merely passed out with the shock.’
‘My God, Launceston, where did you learn that?’ demanded Parry, hobbling up and surveying the fallen bravos. ‘Never seen anything like it.’
The Viscount shrugged. ‘Pass a couple of years among the Camorra in a Neapolitan prison and you’ll learn a few dirty tricks, too.’
Screened by the curtains in the bow window, Zanthe exchanged a speaking glance with Martha. Two years in prison! So that was why he believed he was so far beneath her. She would have to convince him that she did not care one jot whatever he had done. And that nothing in her life had thrilled her so much as the scene she had just watched played out in front of her.
Launceston, having assured himself that none of his recent assailants was likely to offer any more violence, pushed Parry gently back into the alley with a brief command, ‘Stay out of sight.’ He jerked his head to Critchlow, who fell into place at his shoulder, and the two men opened the inn door and walked inside.
Zanthe could have screamed with vexation. ‘I cannot just sit here, waiting. I have to know what is happening to him in there—that Carlyle has not harmed him.’
‘From what I seen of your gentleman, my Lady, any ‘arm that’s bein’ done will be to the other gentleman, not yours.’ Martha smiled. ‘A proper man ‘e is. Just like my Bob.’ She laid her hand over Zanthe’s. ‘Never fret.’
A dark shape slipped out of the alley and peered through the inn’s dirty, diamond-paned casement. Parry had grown tired of hiding. Zanthe, with some difficulty, managed to slide up the sash window and called to him in a carrying whisper. ‘Parry! What is happening?’
He jumped and cursed. ‘Damn it, Zan! You scared the life out of me.’
‘Never mind that. Can you see anything?’
He pulled himself up by the window sill and peered into the interior. ‘Just a lot of fellows milling around—wait—I see Duke—where’s Launceston—I don’t see— Oh, there he is. They’re talking, can’t make out what about. Oh—!’
‘What! What is it?’
‘Launceston just struck Duke across the face with his glove!’
‘Why—is—is that bad?’
Parry crossed the narrow street and talked to her through the cracked window. ‘He’s called him out, Zan. Yes, it’s bad. If he kills him, as I swear he means to do, for if ever I saw murder in a man’s face—well, it’s still a crime as far as the law is concerned, be it never so much a fair fight. He’ll have to leave the country, or they’ll hang him.’
She turned pale and clenched her fists. ‘Oh, I could kill him!’
Parry was shocked. ‘Here, steady on, you can’t say things like that, Sis.’
‘Just when I thought everything is settled, and now— It has to be stopped! You must go and summon the watch or—no—a magistrate—yes, that’s it! A magistrate can put a stop to it!’
‘Where shall I find a magistrate at this time of night?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Well, neither do I, so think of something else.’
‘Go back and see what is happening.’
Obediently, he positioned himself at the window. ‘They’re still talking,’ he called to her. ‘Hold on a minute. Critchlow’s coming out.’
Before Martha could prevent her, Zanthe had dashed out of the house and into the street. ‘Mr Critchlow, where are you going? You cannot leave him in there alon
e!’
The big man smiled at her and said in his deep countryman’s voice, ‘E won’t come to any ‘urt. ‘E just sent me over to Westgate to fetch ‘is duelling pistols.’
‘Please, before you go, tell him I’m here and need to speak to him.’
‘’E won’t like it.’
‘I don’t care in the least what he likes or does not like.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a right ‘andfull, my Lady, and no mistake. All right, I’ll tell ‘im, but you got to get back inside wi’ Martha.’
Zanthe retreated back into the ramshackle little house as Critchlow departed on his errand. A few minutes later, he emerged with the Viscount. The two men separated, Critchlow striding off down the street, and Launceston crossing the cobbles to rap upon the worm-eaten front door.
Martha retreated tactfully into the back-room while Zanthe went to the door. As she opened it, she was assailed by the wrathful Lord Launceston. ‘What the devil are you doing here? Have you lost your mind? Don’t you know what kind of a place this is?’
‘Yes, I do know. This is Martha Critchlow’s house, and it’s a very nice place.’
‘You know very well that is not what I meant. This part of the town is not fit for you.’
‘You are always so very concerned about what is fit for me. Let me see.’ She began to count on her fingers. ‘You are not fit for me—the Signora is not fit for me—Sir Marmaduke is not fit for me—Avon Street is not fit for me—’ She chuckled, ‘I seem to be very hard to accommodate.’
‘Zanthe, why did you send for me?’
She opened the door wider. ‘Do you mean to stand on the doorstep all night, or will you come in. It is immaterial to me, but you are always so concerned about my reputation that I probably should not be seen talking to you in the street at this time of night and in this—this—locality.’
He stepped inside, and instantly the little room seemed to shrink. ‘I could wring your neck.’
She took a step towards him and lifted her chin, displaying the long, lovely line of her throat. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyelids lowered so that her lashes cast shadows on the fine ivory of her skin. ‘Could you, Jarvis? Could you really?’
A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Page 15
