Her throat constricted. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t.
But who? Whom did they wish dead?
The maroon-coated footman had reached the French doors when the taller man’s words halted him. “Wait.” He fumbled with something. A flash of gold streaked across the black night before the footman’s hand snatched it from the air. “Once pawned, that should cover the fee.”
The footman examined the item, flicking something open and closed.
A snuffbox? Watch? Card case? Alex squinted into the darkness, struggling to identify the object before the man’s jacket pocket swallowed it.
“Good ’nough.”
“What about the job?”
The footman gave a curt nod. “Kendall be taken—”
“Christ, keep your mouth shut!” the gentleman swore, his head pivoting, scanning the area.
A short, guttural laugh escaped his adversary. “Right touchy, guv’nor.”
“Do we have a deal?” he hissed.
“We do.”
There was a grunt of acceptance from the taller man. “Good. Now, get the hell out of here before you’re spotted. We should both leave. Better if I had never come,” he muttered the last.
“Good ’nough.” The French doors opened and closed, and the short man disappeared, leaving his companion alone with his thoughts—and Alex.
Kendall.
She closed her eyes. It had to be him. Again. But of course. Fate had delivered him like a plague to ruin her night, and the night was far from over.
Alex’s eyes flew open and her head jerked around at a movement from the patio. She leaned against the tree as if seeking to merge into it. Sweat pooled between her shoulder blades, dotted her forehead. A branch snapped in the distance, and she bit her lip to swallow back her scream.
The man whipped around.
Alex froze, holding her sharp intake of breath. Stark white shards of fear pierced her.
“Christ, bloody cat!” her adversary spat.
Cleo! Olivia’s wretched black cat. Alex sagged against the tree, weak-kneed.
The man withdrew his handkerchief and flicked it at the cat. Cleo lifted her paw to bat at it, hissing her feline disdain before she scampered away.
Alex eyed the cat’s escape with jealousy. Time moved at a tortoise-crawl until the man emitted a vicious curse and stormed inside.
She waited a beat before she followed. She needed to see him. To identify this man who wanted Kendall dead.
She eased open the doors in time to glimpse him striding down the corridor. She lengthened her steps, hurrying to pursue her prey. When he turned right, candlelight from a corner wall sconce lit his greased dark hair.
She followed him to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. Should he descend the grand staircase, he would be swallowed up in the sea of black evening jackets crowding the floor.
Heart thundering, she rushed to the railing. She could not catch up with him, but when he fled down the stairs, she might see his profile. She held her breath.
His strides were quick and purposeful.
She gripped the railing, her eyes locked on the man’s black evening jacket and she willed him to look up.
As if hearing her plea, the man turned. His eyes swept the upper balcony, briefly lighting on Alex before sliding past. Whirling around, he hastened down the last steps. In minutes, his head and shoulders were engulfed in the waves of guests blocking the edge of the dance floor. He was gone.
Alex expelled her breath. She did not recognize him.
His long, lean features were hawkish with an aquiline nose and thin, bloodless lips. His brows were thick and arched. He was but another mirror image of all the other distinguished gentlemen who composed the ton. She would have had to have gotten closer to get a better look at him; she doubted she could identify him again.
She sagged against the railing. What had she expected? A brand to enable her to recognize him again? A jagged scar lining his cheek? She snorted. Her Langdon luck had run dry, and she had best remember it.
Straightening, she pondered what to do next. Murder conspiracies were out of her realm. Poverty, hunger, and near ruin, well, she had some experience with those. This was different. Lives were in jeopardy, or rather, the life of one man. One despicable man.
Kendall.
She fisted her hands. She couldn’t sit by and let the man be murdered. Pity there. He was a war hero. Who would have thought? She recalled his lean body and now realized his determined strides resembled a military gait. And his whipcord-thin frame. The man had been wounded and might still be regaining his strength. For what? To have it snuffed out by the hand of that treacherous little man? She shuddered.
She would go to the authorities. Let the magistrate deal with the sordid matter. There was no time to waste, for she did not know how long she had, or rather how long Kendall had. The murderous trap could be set for him this very night. The way her evening was going, that would be the case.
Intent on her plan, she started forward only to stop short. She could not speak to a magistrate. He would never listen to her because she was nobody. Lady Alexandra Langdon had never attended the Duke of Hammond’s ball, Alex Daniels had. She cringed at the thought of donning her disguise in the light of day before the authorities of the law, no less. No, absolutely not. She drew the line at how far she was willing to go. Deceiving the ton to relieve them of surplus funds was one matter; lying to an official of the law another matter altogether. One was a case of survival, the other suicidal.
Blast it. She should just let Kendall be killed.
She spun and paced the long corridor. No, she couldn’t. She owed him. Now she could repay him. Her debt would be wiped clean. Her life in exchange for his seemed a fair exchange. She would warn Kendall about this murderous plot, but she could give him no more, unable to accurately identify either man if ever located. A warning was all she had to offer.
She started forward but again paused. Like the magistrate, Kendall would never listen to her. He hadn’t earlier when she offered to repay her debt.
He wanted nothing from her.
Typical arrogant male. She pursed her lips and reconsidered the matter. Well then, she wouldn’t tell him to his face. She would write him a note, sign it anonymously, and have a butler deliver it to him in the card room. She ventured forward once more. It was a plan…of sorts. The best she could muster under the circumstances.
The man had survived the Charge of the Light Brigade. He had ridden through the valley of death, the mouth of hell, cannons storming him with shot and shell. He must have a talent for facing life-threatening situations and surviving against all odds.
Chapter Three
GARRETT Sinclair, the Earl of Kendall, scowled at the man sitting opposite him. What was his name? Viscount Currans? His cologne seeped across the card table. The fop must have bathed in the scent. And what in God’s name was he wearing? Since when had peacock-colored cravats come into style? Though, it looked better than Morley’s dazzling green jacket. Its glare blinded a man.
Garrett stiffened in his seat, appalled at his thoughts.
Bloody hell. He didn’t give a good Goddamn what the dandies wore. His only concern lay in what lined the fops’ pockets or, rather, filled their trust funds. And he was fast losing interest in that.
He never should have come. He’d known it the minute he had arrived and the Duke of Hammond’s butler announced his name in that portentous, booming baritone. The shock of it had plunged like a boulder into still waters, creating a ripple effect that spread across the room. Silence had been followed with the slow rising crescendo of murmurs. He had forgotten how fast and furious tongues wagged at the slightest whiff of news.
And sadly, he was news.
Ever since he’d stepped out into society, he’d had the unfortunate penchant for greasing the gossip mill. Years later, he still paid the price for his younger days of carousing stupidity. One would think his two-year absence would have eradicated people’s memor
ies or supplant them with some other fool’s exploits. Currans, for example. The ass bragged about the actress he had brazenly escorted to Lady Monroe’s garden party. Shouldn’t that trump his rumored duel with Samson?
Garrett couldn’t even remember who the hell their duel was touted to have been about. Samson’s wife or his mistress? He did recall that neither woman was worth it. Thankfully, Samson had agreed, and they had both gotten amicably drunk toasting their mutual opinion. Even if he lived down the story, there were others to top it and that explained why he had purchased his commission. Joining the lancers had also had the added benefit of thwarting his imperious, pompous ass of a stepfather.
But once again, Garrett had been the only one to pay the price for his stupidity. And he was still paying it. He would pay it until he was dead and buried with the hundreds of others who’d been lost on that blood-soaked battlefield.
Christ, the loss. The senseless slaughter. One drop of their blood was more valuable than the combined lot of that which flowed through the men at his table. Their gravest decision in life appeared to be which color cravat to wear and even in this they blundered. It was little wonder they wagered their fortunes on the turn of a card. All too often, these were stakes they couldn’t afford to lose.
Stormy blue eyes interrupted his thoughts, and Garrett clenched his jaw.
What was his name? Alex Denny? Dannel? What haunted Garrett about the man?
Damned if he didn’t evoke memories of the lost boys in his command. The false bravado. The youth and incredible innocence. The flash of undisguised panic before pride stamped it down.
Why the hell had he followed him from the table?
Because having seen countless death stares riddling the corpse-strewn battlefield, he had recognized the despair in Denny’s eyes and he had refused to be responsible for another man’s demise. Not over money he didn’t want or need.
He didn’t appreciate Denny affecting him like that, nor would he forget or forgive the man for it. Life hardened those strong enough to survive it. Similar to battle, the soft got trampled, literally mowed down by the wave of men behind them. He smelled something soft about Denny and he didn’t like it.
Thankfully, the man wasn’t his concern, nor his responsibility. But Christ, the bloke was young. Garrett had never been that young. At age six, he had been ancient.
He tossed down his cards and collected his winnings. Ignoring the complaints of his companions, he made his excuses and fled. He’d had enough.
He had returned to town to regain the rhythm of his life, but it wasn’t here. Damned if he knew where it was, but the room and company stifled him, catering to too many fops like Currans or fools like Denny. He didn’t belong there. Not anymore.
GARRETT STEPPED OUT of the front doors of Hammond’s estate and savored the cool, evening breeze. His shoulders loosened, his body eased, and he breathed deeply. He eyed the line of coaches cluttering the drive, squinting into the blanket of fog that fell like a smoke-colored curtain over the city. Music drifted to him. The notes mixed with the night’s murmurs, the occasional whinny of a horse, and the clatter of traffic rumbling through the streets.
Garrett directed one of Hammond’s footmen to call for his carriage. While he waited, he noticed another footman conversing with a gentleman.
Something familiar about the man’s slim build and royal blue jacket tugged at Garrett. Hammond’s man nodded in his direction. The gentleman stiffened in reaction to the servant’s response. Slowly, almost haltingly, the man turned to face Garrett and he straightened. Bloody hell.
It was him. Denny.
Hadn’t the fool had enough? Garrett noticed the man clutched a folded sheaf of paper. A promissory note? He cursed under his breath. Damned if he’d take it.
Denny faced the servant and leaned forward, thrusting the paper at the man and speaking in low tones.
A clatter of hooves slapping the pavement drew Garrett’s attention as his coach rolled into sight. Both his coachman, Ned, and his man, Havers, sat on the box. The glow from the torchlight illuminated the Kendall coat of arms, the two crossed swords in the shield on the side of the gleaming burgundy carriage.
Garrett walked over to the vehicle. As he passed Denny, he didn’t break stride. “I told you, I don’t want your money.” He waved Ned back into his seat, forgoing the assistance to make a faster exit. When he reached his coach, he turned back to rake his eyes over the young man. “Take my advice and go home. Then stay there until you are grown.” He reached for the carriage door and tossed his parting words over his shoulder. “It might save you some money.”
He heard the footsteps closing the distance between them. He had to give the man points for perseverance. Persistent as the vultures circling the dead and wounded.
“If you value your arrogant life, I suggest you read this. However, the choice is yours.”
Garrett turned at the challenge, studying Denny’s flushed features. Spots of pink dotted the man’s smooth cheeks. Hell, had he even shaved yet? He studied Denny’s slim build and short stature, his head barely meeting Garrett’s shoulders. Christ, he doubted the boy had reached manhood yet. He nodded toward the note. “A few more shillings can’t save me, but if you insist.”
He cocked a brow when he accepted the folded sheet and Denny’s gloved hand briefly tightened before he relinquished his grip. Garrett meant to shove the paper into his jacket pocket and be done with the matter, but seeing Denny edge away from him, his expression guarded, Garrett changed his mind. He flipped open the note and scanned the contents. Christ Almighty.
What game was this?
Burning rage filled him. His body vibrated from its heat, and he raised his eyes to blast Denny with it. The man staggered back and pivoted to flee, but not soon enough. War trained, Garrett had often had only seconds to react in battle.
His hand shot out and curled around the younger man’s arm in an imprisoning grip. The same jolt bolted through him as it did when he accosted him earlier in the card room, and he instinctively loosened his hold. The man was reed thin, Garrett’s hand almost able to encircle the width of his arm. With a twist of his grip, he could easily break bone. Damn, if he wasn’t tempted to do so.
The conniving, murdering, bloody bastard.
“Why don’t we step into my carriage where we can discuss this matter more privately?”
Fear flashed in Denny’s eyes. “That’s all I know. I don’t know anything more.” Denny tugged at his arm, struggling to free himself.
Garrett leaned down, watching Denny’s eyes widen as he towered over him. “If you refuse to talk to me, you can explain this note to the magistrate. The choice is yours.” He tossed Denny’s words back at him. “Get in the carriage.”
Denny stiffened, panic draining his face to sheet white. “With you?” He swallowed and moistened his lips. “Alone?” The word croaked out in horror.
Patience snapping, Garrett growled, “Move. Now.”
He prodded Denny forward. When he made no attempt to climb the steps, Garrett gripped his jacket and practically swung him off his feet. He gave his rear end a shove as he flung him inside, ignoring the man’s shriek of rage. Shriek? The boy definitely hadn’t reached manhood yet. He squawked like a woman. It confirmed his earlier opinion. The man was soft.
Before he climbed in behind the boy, he called to Havers, who leaned over the box to peer down. The sight of his familiar craggy features, shock of dark hair, and steadfast brown eyes calmed Garrett. “Drive around. Don’t head home immediately.” He moved to enter the carriage but turned back again. “And Havers, keep a sharp look out. There might be trouble. Be ready for it.”
Havers didn’t blink, nor did his expression alter as he nodded. “Right, sir.”
Loyal, obedient, and unquestioning. They didn’t come better than Havers.
Garrett vaulted into the carriage as Denny’s fear turned to anger.
“How dare you put your hands on me!” Denny cried, lunging for the door. “I won’t go
anywhere with you. You’re mad.”
Talked like a woman, too. Garrett grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket, yanked him back, and thrust him onto the cushioned seat across from him. He decided against retrieving the revolver out of the compartment under his cushion. He carried a good four stone over his adversary, so had little need for the extra threat.
“I’m mad? You’re the one setting yourself up to swing by the neck outside Newgate.” He watched in satisfaction as Denny’s anger drained in the dim carriage light, and he retreated into the corner of the compartment as if seeking refuge there. “Who the hell do you work for?”
“What?” Denny breathed, his whole body going still, blue eyes wide.
“You heard me. I want names. And I want them now.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know anything more than what I wrote. I overheard two men talking. I barely saw their faces and they neglected to give their names. Good Lord, they were discussing fees for a murder! Your murder! They weren’t exactly exchanging calling cards.” Denny’s words finished in a choked cry, and his head turned to the window as he furiously blinked watery eyes.
Disgust filled Garrett over the man’s pathetic reaction. “Listen carefully, Denny. You’re not going anywhere until I get names.” He reined in his own anger, but his words were implacable.
Denny whirled back to him, a spark of his earlier defiance lighting his eyes. “It’s Daniels, not Denny. You might start with getting my name right.”
“Why bother? After the magistrate finishes with you, your name’s irrelevant. There’s no need to address the dead.”
Daniels gasped and made another lunge for the door.
Garrett’s hand shot out again. Cupping his forehead, he shoved him back. “Stop that. You’re not going anywhere. We can sit here all night—or until you remember what you’ve forgotten.”
Daniels edged back on the seat, his eyes shifting over the carriage before turning a mutinous expression on Garrett, his gloved hands fisting. “You can’t extract information from me that I don’t have. If I was involved in this plot against you, why would I be here now? Jeopardizing my own life? Why in heaven’s name would I warn you of something that implicates me? Do you take me for that big of a fool?”
For the Love of a Soldier Page 3
