Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  He didn’t answer. Instead he turned the corner and nodded down the long, narrow street. “Whitechapel Road, straight that way.”

  “Can you tell me why we are hurrying?” Mairin asked, trying to keep her hems off the dirty footpath, and stay behind him, too. Unfortunately, her corset was tight, tonight. The evening dress had a nineteen-inch waist. She pulled her shawl about her shoulders with a firm tug. It was a warm June evening. A cloak or coat wasn’t needed. “Iefan?”

  He didn’t slow his pace. “One hundred pounds is a respectable amount of money and far too many people saw me put the notes in my jacket. McFinney didn’t like handing out that much, either, and I wouldn’t put it above him to do something about getting it back.”

  “You mean…someone will try to take the money from you?”

  “Not if we can find a cab swiftly enough,” Iefan replied. He glanced over his shoulder. The footpath was too narrow for both to walk together and Mairin was already having difficulty keeping up with him. Iefan’s gaze raked over her. “Only a little farther,” he encouraged.

  “A mile, you said.”

  “Almost a mile.”

  She wanted to accuse him of lying or gross exaggeration, for the brighter street ahead of them looked to be more than a mile away. Only Iefan didn’t lie.

  “How were you so certain Hitchens would win?” Iefan asked her. He sounded calm, and not even a little out of breath. Damn him. “You were sure enough to insist upon a ten pound bet. Either you are extraordinarily lucky, or something told you he would win. Did someone give a signal? Was the match rigged? It would explain why McFinney looked so unhappy about paying out. Everyone else would have put their money on Fallows and he was not even two to one.”

  Mairin concentrated on breathing as she tried to make sense of everything Iefan had said. Poor odds upon the most likely winner…that she could understand. Only, what did a rigged match mean? She put it together. A rigged match could only mean a fight with a certain outcome which had been pre-arranged. No one expected Hitchens to win, so perhaps someone who wanted to collect a great sum in winnings might have arranged for Fallows to drop.

  Only, Hitchens had truly beaten the champion. Mairin recalled the stream of blood which had escaped his mouth. There had been no arrangement there.

  “It wasn’t rigged,” she told Iefan breathlessly. “I watched Hitchens’ face before the match started. He wore an expression that reminded me of Ben, before he…before he settled matters with Sharla and Dane.”

  Iefan’s expression was thoughtful as he glanced back at her. “Anger…” he said.

  “Yes.” She could say no more. She had no breath for it. Later, perhaps, she would explain how Ben’s anger in those days had always seemed to simmer below the surface. If he had been inclined to vent his anger, or work it out in some way, it would not have driven him so hard.

  Only, Ben had been working his anger out—in the boxing ring. So had Hitchens. It had been the same contained, controlled fury.

  Mairin thought she had no capacity left for anything but the galloping pace Iefan set. When the three men stepped out of the narrow alley onto the road ahead of them, blocking their way forward, Mairin gave a breathy, almost soundless shriek and slithered to a stop.

  Iefan put her behind him and faced them. In the shadows, all three of the men were without features. There were few windows to give any light, and only a single lamp, far ahead. Their silhouettes showed the three were rough, heavy workers. All of them were in shirt sleeves and Mairin thought she recognized two of them from around the boxing ring.

  “There’s something you ‘ave that belongs to my gov,” the largest of the three said, as the other two edged farther apart.

  “I won the wager fairly,” Iefan said. He sounded as indifferent as he would if he was partaking of afternoon tea with society matrons.

  The menace radiating from the three big men made Mairin’s chest hurt. It was already difficult to breathe. Mairin wanted to shout at Iefan; Give them the money! If they wanted the money back badly enough to accost strangers in the street, they could have it.

  “It wasn’t a sensible wager, now, woz it?” the man growled back. “No one in their right minds would whack an ‘ole ten quid on an unknown. McFinney says it makes the winning forfeit.”

  Iefan didn’t move. He stood taller than all of them, although he was not as large around. The size difference didn’t seem to bother him any more than it had bothered Hitchens. Iefan shook his head. “No.”

  The man clicked his tongue. “Pity you said that, mate. Now we ‘ave to take it from you.”

  “You can certainly try,” Iefan said. He sounded amused, which was even more terrifying. Just as she had experienced after the match, Mairin was feeling out of her depth once more. Only, not understanding what was happening now was dangerous.

  The man who had been edging to Iefan’s left suddenly lunged past him, his hands out. In the dark he loomed up like a black beast. He was reaching for Mairin.

  She didn’t scream. She had no breath for it. Instead, her alarm escaped her in the same breathless, bodiless shriek as before and she scurried backward, moving out of his reach.

  Iefan spun on his feet and hammered his fists against the man’s back. The black shadowed staggered, then sprawled across the cobbles. His breath whooshed out of him with a sickly bellows sound.

  Iefan turned back again and threw up his arm. The leader’s wrist smacked into Iefan’s hand. He had been bringing his arm down in a blow.

  Iefan gripped the wrist. Above it, something glinted in the dim light.

  “Now that is hardly fair,” Iefan said with a chiding tone. He yanked on the arm, turning again and bringing the leader staggering around in a great circle. Mairin saw where he would spin and moved swiftly out of the way.

  The leader cannoned into the third man. He had been sneaking toward Mairin and she had not noticed. Iefan had, though, even while fending off a knife.

  There was a grunt and the two sprawled on the pavement. Iefan seemed to bounce something off his wrist and Mairin saw the same glitter as before. The knife smacked into his waiting hand and he gripped it and surged forward, toward the first man, who was getting to his feet once more.

  The light was too low for Mairin to see details. She moved until her back pressed up against the building, watching the two shadows grapple in the darker night. For a fight, it was strangely silent. Only heavy breathing sounded and groans from the two sorting themselves out on the cobbles, clutching their heads and bellies.

  The knife clattered on stone. The big man Iefan had been fighting turned and ran down the street, his shoes slapping the cobbles with ghostly patters. He was holding his stomach and bent at the middle as if he was in great pain.

  Iefan bent over the other two and gripped the leader’s face in one hand, his long fingers covering the man’s face except for the eyes. “Do not follow us,” he growled. “Or you will force me to be angry. It would not go well for you. Do you hear me?”

  The man breathed heavily, air whistling through his nose.

  “Do you hear me?” Iefan said, shaking his face.

  “Yeth,” the man said thickly.

  Iefan let him go and rose to his feet. He came over to Mairin. “Don’t speak my name,” he murmured. “Can you walk?”

  “I think I could run all the way there,” Mairin admitted, her voice trembling.

  “Walking will do.” He lifted his voice. “These fine gentlemen will not be bothering us anymore tonight.”

  He took her hand and led her around the groaning men, then farther along the street. They walked down the middle of the street regardless of traffic, for there was none. The main thoroughfare ahead looked to be miles and miles away.

  “You could have j-just given them the money,” she said, not caring that her voice was shaking even more violently than a moment ago.

  “It was your money,” Iefan said, her gaze on the road ahead, too. He winced and pressed his free hand to his side.


  He halted and pulled aside his jacket and lifted the bottom edge of his waistcoat.

  The large bloodstain looked black in the dark night yet the coppery, hot aroma told her it was what she feared it to be. “Dear sweet lord,” she breathed. “You’re hurt!”

  Iefan nodded. “He used my grip on the knife to take a swipe at me. I thought he’d missed.” He sounded only mildly interested.

  Mairin lifted her hand toward the wound, then let it fall. She had no idea what to do. Only, she had no more capacity for fright. She was beyond such melodrama now. A cold calm washed over her. “Can you walk?”

  Iefan lifted his chin and studied her. “I can.”

  “Good. I don’t want to have to leave you here while I look for a cab. So…the main street, then I will take you to my house. Travers has some practice with wounds.” She pushed on Iefan’s arm, turning him and encouraging him to walk once more.

  “My house,” Iefan said. “My mother is in town for a political rally.”

  “Even better,” Mairin said. “Your mother has stitched more wounds than Travers.”

  Iefan’s pace was not nearly as quick as it had been before the ruffians had stepped out into the middle of the road. Even though the cold calm was allowing her to think, Mairin was still afraid the men would follow them. She glanced back over her shoulder. She could see the two figures. They were sitting up, now.

  “As long as they think I am unwounded, they will not follow us,” Iefan said. His tone was as icy as the calm gripping her.

  “Then you must stay on your feet,” Mairin told him. The calm shifted, as the fear tried to break through. “Do you know these roads at all? Is there another shortcut like the one they used? A way that will get us to the high street faster?”

  “No.” His breath whistled in and out. “This is the most direct route.”

  Mairin chewed at her lip as they moved forward at a pace that felt dangerously slow. The high street did not seem to draw any closer.

  Iefan staggered. He brought his hand to his side and recovered his balance.

  Mairin sucked in a shaking breath and moved to help him.

  “No! Don’t help. They’ll see it,” he breathed. “They will watch us all the way to the street, waiting to see if they can still get the money back.”

  “Let me give it to them!” she pleaded. “It will allow me to help you!”

  “No.” He shook his head again. His gaze was on the cobbles ahead of him. His brows pulled together in concentration. “Once they have the money, they will want to make sure we cannot complain about it to the wrong people.”

  Murder. Mairin’s fear burst through the artificial calm. She drew in a shuddering breath that sounded like a whimper and covered her mouth at the pathetic sound.

  Iefan glanced at her, before returning his gaze to the cobbles. “Go ahead,” he told her. “Find a cab. I’ll catch up.”

  “No! Iefan, no! I will not abandon you! How can you even consider me capable of that? They will see me leave and they will know you are injured.”

  “There’s a small chance they will not. Every yard we cover makes it less likely they will pursue us.”

  “I don’t care! I am not running away like a…like a cowardly woman!”

  Iefan made a sound she thought might have been laughter if he had been healthy, only it emerged as a gusty bellow.

  The high street was drawing closer. Mairin could see greater light ahead, and heard the rattle of wheels and the clop of hooves. As she peered, she saw a coach cross the mouth of the road they were on. Another passed—it was the distinctive shape and size of a Hansom cab.

  Relief touched her.

  Iefan staggered again. This time, he bent, his arm thrust forward to catch himself.

  Mairin slipped under the out-thrust arm and pushed against him, keeping him on his feet. “Lean on me,” she told him.

  “No, we’re nearly there—”

  She called up one of Iefan’s own pithy responses. “Shut up and do what I say.”

  He sucked in a breath of surprise. Then he gave another of the breathy chuckles. “Yes, my lady.”

  At first she could tell he was not leaning on her at all. As the street drew closer and she heard people walking along the pavements and the hiss of the wheels and the call of the drivers, Iefan’s weight on her shoulders increased, until she was undeniably helping him along. Her neck ached and her shoulders burned. She ground her teeth together and pushed on.

  When they stepped out onto Whitechapel Road, she looked around for an empty cab. One rattled down the road, heading for them.

  “Over to the building, there,” she told Iefan breathlessly.

  He nodded and swung about to head in that direction. She could see by the brighter gas lamps here that his face was shiny with sweat. He kept his hand against his side, the jacket over the wound.

  He almost fell against the wall. “Go,” he said heavily.

  She nodded, picked up her skirt and almost ran over to the street. She waved her arms. “Here! Cabbie! Here!”

  The man pulled on the reins and the horses clattered toward her. Mairin waited until the cab stopped beside her and looked up at the cabbie. “Can you take us to Grosvenor Square?

  The man pulled down one side of his raised collar. “This area, miss, I’ll have to ask for payment in advance.”

  “Or course.” She pulled her purse from her pocket.

  “Two shillings, luv.”

  “Two…!” She shook her head. “That is outrageous.” She took out the two silver coins and reached up on her tiptoes to hand them to the driver. Then she opened the cab door and turned back to help Iefan into it.

  He had pushed himself off the wall and was limping across the footpath.

  “Hey, is that blood?” the driver demanded, as Mairin swung herself under his arm and lifted him upright so he could tackle the steps.

  Mairin met the driver’s gaze. “We will spill none of it upon your seat,” she said coldly.

  The driver looked startled, then embarrassed. He pushed his coat collar up and leaned down to swing the door shut as Mairin climbed into the cab after Iefan.

  As the cab jolted into motion, she pulled her shawl from her shoulders and wadded it. “Lift your jacket out of the way.”

  Iefan eased the sodden evening jacket away from his side. The blood had soaked into that side of his waistcoat, turning the blue brocade a dark, rusty brown.

  Mairin swallowed back the flood of saliva in her mouth and pressed the shawl against his side.

  “Thank you,” Iefan breathed, his voice weak.

  “Heaven forbid we drop any blood on the man’s precious conveyance,” she said crisply.

  Iefan didn’t laugh this time. He leaned back against the seat with a soft exhalation more alarming than the blood.

  Chapter Seven

  Their arrival at the big cream stone house on Grosvenor Square caused a small flurry in the quiet area. Mairin stirred the butler, Stamp, into motion. Aunt Annalies and Stamp, plus two footmen, helped carry Iefan into the house, while Iefan protested he was capable of walking by himself.

  While Mairin hovered in the front hall, Aunt Annalies pushed her spectacles into place and delicately lifted the shawl and inspected the wound, while a footman held a lamp close.

  “A knife wound, Iefan?” Annalies said, sounding vexed. “I thought you were a better fighter than that.”

  “There were three of them,” Iefan murmured. “Will you let me down? I’m not dying.”

  His mother pressed the shawl back against his side and took off her spectacles. “Take him into the kitchen and put him on the table there. The cook will shriek about the mess so you must explain to her, Stamp, that blood is more easily scrubbed from a table top than removed from velvet upholstery.”

  “Yes, your Highness,” Stamp said. He motioned to the footmen, who carried Iefan toward the back of the house.

  Annalies turned to Mairin. “I apologize for not greeting you properly, my dear. You were there wh
en this happened?”

  Mairin squeezed her hands together. “It is my fault it happened at all. Can you help him, Aunt Anna?”

  “A needle and a length of boiled thread will get him back on his feet.” Annalies’ smile was strained. “It has before.”

  Mairin caught her breath.

  Annalies reached down to pick up the front of her dress, then glanced at her hands. There was blood on the tips of her fingers. Carefully, she picked up the skirt with her left hand. “Come along. You can hold the bottle.”

  Mairin wasn’t sure what bottle Annalies referred to, although she couldn’t bear to wait out here in the drawing room for news. She followed Annalies through the service door into the back rooms, then into the big kitchen itself. It was cool in the kitchen and quiet, for the staff had retired for the night.

  A footman in shirtsleeves, for he had been off duty, had pulled down the lamp over the table and was lighting the last of the burners. He pushed the lamp up a little higher, so it cast a bright circle of light on the table.

  Iefan laid on the big work table, propped upon one elbow. He had a bottle of brandy in one hand from which he drank in big, gulping swallows. He looked up as Annalies and Mairin climbed down the stone steps into the kitchen proper.

  The butler hurried into the kitchen from one of the back rooms, carrying a heavy box which carpenters typically used to carry their tools. He dumped it on the table by Iefan’s feet with a heavy exhalation. “We’ll need boiled water, Samuel,” he told the footman. “Can you manage the stove, or do we need to wake Mrs. Mulgrew?”

  “I can do that,” Mairin said, lifting her hand. In this better light, she saw blood on her own fingers.

  “You’ve worked a stove before, Mairin?” Annalies asked, as she sorted through the carpenter’s box and removed a large pair of scissors.

  “I know how it is done,” Mairin said. She stripped her soiled gloves from her hands and looked around for a place to put them.

  “On the floor beneath the table will do,” Annalies said, as she sliced into Iefan’s waistcoat with the scissors. “We will burn it all, afterwards.” She dropped a hank of bloody brocade onto the floor, too.