Wild Lavender

by Lynne Connolly

  Everslade had run to a room in a lodging house, close to Red Lion Square. No wonder he had taken nobody home. He must have worked hard to conceal that address from the people he mixed with.

  After drinking a gallon of tea and allowing Helena to ply him with patties and soothe him with kisses, Tom declared his intention of, as he put it, being in for the kill. Not that, he added, he intended to kill Everslade.

  Although he added a silent promise that if he found Helena was not safe with the scoundrel in the world, he would certainly attend to that small matter. Winterton did not even try to deter him, but he did send to two of his cousins who happened to be in town.

  Tom remembered the twins Valentinian and Darius Shaw, sons of the Marquess of Strenshall, from an incident on the Heath. They were likely men in a fight, and he was glad to have them with him. When they arrived at the house, brows raised only slightly from the fact that their cousin had invited them here, they were dressed plainly and bristling with weaponry.

  “Father wants us back in the country,” Darius explained. “He wants to bring me up to scratch with Charlotte, and he has determined I should be married by Christmas. I had thought of joining your brother abroad. Do you think he has room?”

  “I doubt it, with the number of books he has and the size of his lodging,” Winterton said dryly. “Moreover, he does not live as if each day was his last.”

  Darius, a big dark-haired bruiser, snorted. “Neither do we.”

  Valentinian, just as big as his brother, but with a more sardonic air about him and certainly a greater refinement of dress, grinned. “Papa usually has his way.”

  The Shaw family obviously did not have the same kind of problems offered by the Kirkburton family. Notoriously close and welded together as only a loving family could be, they were a force to be reckoned with in their own right. Being Emperors of London merely made them a bit more formidable. Not that Tom would hesitate to take them all on should there prove a need.

  The twins were in charity with Tom, after he had offered them aid before, and spoiling for a fight, so they readily agreed to join in the raid on the house.

  “But in my opinion,” Darius said, snagging a lone slice of bread and butter from the porcelain plate on the butler’s tray, “we should do it soon, before the man makes a bolt for the continent.”

  “My opinion exactly,” Tom said. He glanced at Helena, who was sitting bolt upright on a sofa. She looked adorable, and he would have liked nothing better than to plead a headache and retire to bed with her. The headache would not have been a lie. He glanced out of the window at the street outside, where several people stood in a bunch, staring up at the house. “Don’t they ever grow tired of stretching their necks?”

  “They’re ghouls,” Valentinian remarked. “They’re waiting for you to die.” He joined Tom at the side of the window. “Nothing they like better than a good funeral.”

  “Unless it’s a good funeral and a scandal,” Darius said sagely. He looked around the drawing room, as if expecting more bread and butter to appear from midair.

  Tom returned his attention to the people outside. They were dressed in nondescript but respectable clothes, the kind of people he would pass in the street without a second glance. “Lamaire, bring me a plain town coat and waistcoat. And my pistols. A decent sword, too. Not a town short sword.”

  “Monseigneur.”

  He touched his ear and winced. At least the bleeding had stopped. “And a large hat.”

  When the valet returned with the necessary items, Tom lost no time getting into them. By that time, William had arrived, similarly attired and armed. William tended to the dandy, but today he had stripped the fancy trappings of society off and looked like the soldier he had always wanted to be. Tom felt for his dilemma, but little could be done about it. Either he joined the army and swore an oath of allegiance to the Hanoverian monarch, or he joined the rebels in what was increasingly a hopeless cause.

  Events like this one gave his brother a chance to use some of the skills he’d practiced relentlessly but had little use for in everyday life. William nodded to the others, but kept his distance.

  Darius eyed him doubtfully. “Do you wish to help your brother?”

  William raised a brow. “Why would I not?”

  The question was a challenge, a dare to anyone who would say, “Because if he were dead, you’d be the heir.”

  Tom had no idea if William knew of his dubious parentage, but he might see this as a way to even the score. But he trusted William. Whether he trusted him with his life was another matter, but he was about to find out. “We’re rooting out the man who shot at me and abducted my wife. I want him alive if possible. For now.”

  Finally in control of his pain and his headache, he strolled across the room to take Helena’s hand and kiss it. “Do me the honor, my lady, of remaining here. On this floor or the one below, out of sight of the windows. I will send a footman to guard you.”

  She met his eyes. “I nearly lost you today. Don’t make the possibility a reality.”

  He was probably the only person who would see the fear lurking deep in her. Not with a twitch or a telltale movement did she betray her anxiety. Her lovely face remained clear of frowns or tightened muscles, and her hand lay quietly in his. But he knew. He needed no outward signs to tell him. “I swear I’ll come back to you.” He could do nothing else.

  Turning, he surveyed his troops. Like him, all were dressed plainly, and also like him, wore substantial swords, not the fine jeweled dress swords most men his kind wore in town, more fancy hilt than blade. The bulges in their pockets suggested other weapons, too. All to take one man. No, to be certain of taking him.

  “Come, then. We should travel separately, otherwise we will draw a crowd all by ourselves.” Five heavily armed men marching through London? Oh, yes, they’d be followed well enough. He gave them all the address and outlined a brutal, effective plan. Two at the back of the house, three at the front.

  Half an hour later they were all at the end of the street. Lace Street was a small thoroughfare at the edge of fashionable London. The house was like a miniature version of the ones many of them used in town, with shallow steps and a portico leading to the front door, but the portico would barely allow one person at a time, and the steps were token rather than a real distinction. The black-painted door was scuffed and muddied. This October had been a wet one, and the building showed every mark of it. No maid cleaned it down every day, as they would even in modest households. This was a lodging-house.

  As he came to that conclusion, the door opened and a well-dressed man stepped out. “Oh, I say! Are you new residents?”

  Tom glanced at Darius and Winterton, who had ordered him to call him Julius.

  “We’re thinking about it. Is it a pleasant house?” Darius spoke for them, since if they were within hearing distance, Everslade would recognize the other two.

  The man shrugged. “The rooms are small, but they are in the right part of town, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

  Oh, yes, Tom knew. A card sharp, fortune hunter or some kind of trickster, he’d be bound. He grinned and nodded, since they were declining into male sign language.

  “Wouldn’t mind a look inside,” Darius said in a casual tone. “I’m always looking for a reasonable place to stay.”

  “The landlord doesn’t live here. If you come back at six, I daresay he’ll be at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tom growled. “Enough.” Pushing forward, he bundled the hapless tenant inside, blocking his cries by the effective if distressingly blunt method of putting his hand over the youth’s mouth.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Julius rolled his eyes. “Now one of us has to look after him.”

  “No, we don’t.” Now they were inside, Tom clipped the man under the chin. Darius caught him and laid him gently aside, propping him against the wall. “Though we don’t know which room he occupies.” He kept his voice low.

/>   “Could we set fire to the place?” Valentinian enquired.

  Julius sent his cousin a disgusted glare.

  The stink of old food and damp made Tom swallow the bile that rose to his throat. His head throbbed, but he pushed those concerns aside. “Tempting, but no.” He frowned, and opened the door as shadows skimmed the glass in the door. As he’d expected, the others came in. He nodded to Val and William.

  Val glanced at the man on the floor and grinned. “What now?”

  Tom’s knowledge of the layout of these houses helped. “One man each room, starting with this floor. If they don’t answer, break it down. Let them shout, we’ll stop them.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “If they have not sublet, two on each floor and one below. Three or more in the attics. Ten minutes each floor.”

  Julius grunted, turned, and rapped on a door on the first floor. Leaving Julius and William downstairs, the others hurtled up the stairs to the first floor. They were fortunate, as someone opened the door at the front and cursed. Not their man.

  Neither was the man in the back room. This appeared to be a gentleman’s residence, but the heavy smell of coupling came from the room. Not the aroma that quickly dissipated but a full stink, as if the room were used for nothing else and nobody changed the sheets or opened the windows. The man was dressed in breeches that he’d obviously donned in a hurry. He was primped to the point of tipping over the edge into pure artistry.

  At least Everslade could simulate respectability. Tom shook his head and moved on. The man shrugged and closed the door. Everyone had to make a living, but doing it by selling one’s body, male or female, repulsed Tom. Not that he had ever admitted to that, but remaining celibate struck him as preferable to paying for the privilege.

  Upstairs the rooms would be at the bedroom level if this was a private residence. He nodded to the back room.

  Nobody answered either knock. Gently, Tom tried the door of the room at the front. It did not open, but he had the cure for that. The door showed a gap when he tried it, the lock a simple one and the door showing signs of rotting at the base.

  He took a pace back, lifted his foot, and kicked. The door burst open and bounced off the wall. Expecting the rebound, Tom caught it with his hand as he strode in, taking a quick step to one side in case the occupant had a weapon.

  The coat on the rickety chair by the tiny dressing table was one he recognized. Everslade had worn it at a ball earlier this season. That pattern of pansies was hard to forget.

  The bed was rumpled, evidently used, but empty. Nobody was home. Tom strode to the table tucked under the window and rifled through the pile of papers that lay on it.

  Downstairs a triumphant cry erupted. “We have him!”

  Darius made a shooing motion with one hand. “I’ll search this place. If there is anything to be found, I will find it.”

  Tom left the room long enough to call out, “Bring him up!”

  He had thought of taking the villain to the house of Folgate Street, but this place was secure enough. Julius came up with Everslade slung over his shoulder. After glancing around, he dumped the man in a chair that William dragged to the middle of the floor.

  Darius made himself busy up-ending every drawer, tearing the sheets off the bed, and wreaking general destruction. Julus took a position near the door, and Val stood by the window. Their prisoner might consider risking leaping out, if he could squeeze his way through the narrow casement. At the moment, he was blissfully unconscious. A reddened, swollen lump under his chin demonstrated the cause of his slumbers.

  “You did not break his jaw?” Tom moved it roughly. No, the jaw was still attached, it did not grate and more significantly, the man did not wake up screaming. “I need to know several things first.”

  Julius plucked a well-worn flintlock out of his pocket and dropped it back. “That was all I found, together with a couple of blades.”

  Darius lifted his attention from Everslade to the room. “This is a poor place.”

  “A base for his more underhand activities,” Julius said. “Everslade lives in a respectable house farther west.”

  No wonder Julius had proved a formidable opponent. His perceptiveness matched his strength. Would he prove an ally now they were in-laws? He would find out in the following years.

  Tiring of waiting, and with the sounds of Darius’s joyful destruction around them, Tom backhanded Everslade, taking care to hit the sore patch.

  He woke up on a scream. Small compensation, but not nearly enough for what he had done to Helena.

  Tom swept an exaggerated bow. “Lord Everslade, well met.”

  The man did not reply, but swallowed. Somehow, probably on the journey upstairs, he’d lost his hat and his wig.

  Tom removed his hat now, bracing himself for the inevitable shot of pain when the newly formed scab on his ear tore off. “You left your mark, but I fear your pistol is an old one, and it may not have its sights properly aligned. Either that or you are a very poor shot.”

  Tom drew his own pistol out of his pocket, one of a pair he’d ordered last year. He leveled it at Everslade and drew back the hammer, the deadly sound easily audible above the joyful racket Darius was making.

  Everslade tipped back his head and regarded Tom steadily.

  “Who are you in truth?” Tom asked.

  “I’ve been Lord Everslade long enough to be known by that title.” Eyeing Tom doubtfully, he sighed. “I used to be Ian McKinley, a loyal servant of the true King. As you should be.”

  “As I am,” Tom said. He tilted his head to one side, so the light from the window fell on his wound. “Who told you I was not?”

  McKinley—how good to have another name for him—curled his lip. “The highest authority. The man you betrayed.”

  “What did you do with Everslade? The real Lord Everslade, that is.”

  “A lucky accident.” McKinley lifted his hand and cradled his jaw. “It hurts to talk.”

  “Good. Then keep your answers brief.” Flicking up the skirts of his coat, Tom half sat on the edge of the table, swinging his leg. “So it was me you were aiming for?”

  McKinley’s eyes widened. He shot a glance at Julius, standing with his arms folded and a gun hanging negligently from one hand. “For a loyalist, you keep very poor company.”

  “He’s my brother-in-law. Why did you try to abduct Lady Helena?”

  McKinley shrugged, and dared to smile. “She was not unappreciative of my attention. She’s wealthy and a known traitor, so why should I not? I would have taken care of her. Married her.”

  “Under a name that is not your own?”

  “By the time we reached Scotland, she’d have been ruined. She’d have married anyone.” He smirked.

  Tom refrained from knocking the smile off his face. “You really don’t know my wife, do you?”

  “Or my sister,” Julius murmured.

  “With her a widow, I might have taken another shot at her,” McKinley said.

  Tom exchanged a glance with Julius, marveling at the man’s foolishness. Except for one thing. Either the Old Pretender or his son had labeled him a traitor. Why? Because he’d married Helena? No, because McKinley had courted Helena before anyone knew they were married or that he was even interested with her. His public demeanor toward her at the time would have told most people precisely the opposite, in fact. “Tell me exactly why your masters considered me a traitor.”

  “Your behavior in recent years has given his highness pause to concern himself with your loyalty.”

  “Ah, so it was Charles rather than James who set you to kill me.” Together with Tom’s undoubted personal dislike of the man. His mind went back to the last time he’d seen the prince in person. They had not liked each other, and Tom had clearly seen the seeds of what the man had since become. A sulking, broken drunk, to be precise. “Why would he do that?”

  Julius closed his eyes. “I think I know why.”


  McKinley shrugged. “Let him tell you then.”

  Tom’s mind was working now. This man was sent to kill him by the Young Pretender. He decided to abduct Helena. Was it coincidence that he chose the very woman bound to Tom for life? Tom did not believe in coincidences. “Why Helena?”

  “She’s beautiful and wealthy. And taking her would strike a blow to our enemies.”

  “I see.”

  “No you don’t.” Darius had been sifting through the papers he’d collected from their hiding places. “This was on the underside of the chair. I’m bracing myself to go under the bed, but I’m terrified of what I’ll find there. Whoever cleans this place is not worth the money she’s paid.” He handed Tom a piece of paper.

  Tom took a moment to absorb the information. “This is a copy of my marriage certificate. So you knew she was married when you courted her?”

  Darius’s chin jerked up sharply.

  Julius shook his head slightly. “Later.”

  Val made a sound at the back of his throat, and tension filled the air. William stepped forward, the floor beneath him creaking ominously.

  Tom shrugged as if the information meant nothing. “You knew that and what we were doing about it.” He looked at nobody but McKinley, whose triumphant air revealed he’d gained a point.

  Tom stilled. “How did you find out?” He got to his feet and turned around, his features working. “We were married by a man named Clegg. We had a Fleet marriage.”

  “I followed the trail. Actually I followed Lady Helena when she went to the Fleet and purchased a copy of her licence. I bought one, too.” All amusement faded from McKinley’s voice, and only venom remained. “With the knowledge the prince had vouchsafed to me, I knew I had my revenge in my hands. Besides, I had a score to settle with you.”

  Tom spun back, his face carefully composed. A cracked and tarnished mirror opposite told him he was not as successful as he’d wanted. “Why would you want revenge on me?”

  “Why do you think?” He curled his lip. “You did not even notice me that night, did you?”

  Tom shook his head. All he remembered was bliss. He hadn’t looked at anyone except Helena.