“There’s nothing in it except my music, of value to no one but myself.” As her fingers tightened around the case, her only thought was that she would prefer to die than risk losing her symphony.
“Do you believe him, boys?” There was a chorus of no’s from the group behind him. The man shook his head ruefully. “The lads don’t seem to believe you.” He took a step forward, reaching out for the pouch.
“One more step and you’ll lose the hand!” Isobel clenched the dagger in her fist and backed up against the side of the carriage.
“Surely, whatever is in there isn’t worth your life?” the leader said and, with a lightning-quick movement, leaped forward and twisted her arm around behind her. Her numb fingers loosened around the knife and she felt him take it out of her now-shaking hand. He grinned as he took it and she found herself with the point of the dagger at her stomach. “Perhaps you’d care to rethink the matter?”
Slowly, she held out the pouch. The man took it and, not taking his eyes off her, handed it to one of his henchmen.
“He was telling the truth, George—’tis only paper!” The ruffian sounded exasperated. They had all had their hopes raised by the boy’s fierce protection of the case. He threw the pouch down in disgust. George smiled wickedly and pressed the point of the dagger into her stomach.
“What a bloody shame.” He shook his head in disappointment.
“Do you remember the time we stripped old Geoffrey Shoringham?” one of the men sniggered. The memory was amusing, for it caused general laughter among the group.
“All he had left was his peruke!” one called out.
George reached out and yanked on Isobel’s hair. “This one hasn’t—” A surprised expression came over his face as the wig came off in his hand. “What have we here?” He cocked his head at her. “Damme, ‘tis a wench, lads!”
“Someone’s coming!” The man holding the horses shouted the alarm.
Isobel struggled when George clamped a hand around her arm, and she held onto the door of the carriage as he tried to shove her inside. She cried out in terror before his hand covered her mouth. She screamed anyway when she felt a sharp pain in her arm.
III
Rupert Selwynn was headed for White’s for an evening of cards when he heard a commotion down the street. He put his head out the coach window so he could instruct the driver to go around if there was trouble. He cursed when his carefully curled hair was bombarded by several large drops of rain. Just as he was pulling his head back inside, he saw that a group of men had surrounded a carriage and seemed to be in earnest conversation with a smaller man who had his back to it. The taller man reached out and pulled on the other one’s hair. Surely, Rupert thought to himself, gentlemen might be left to settle their differences in peace. He was just on the point of telling his coachman to go another way when he heard a cry for help. To his horror, his driver suddenly shouted and whipped up the horses and they careened down the street toward the group.
“You fool!” Rupert shouted. “Stop this instant!”
The men scattered when they heard the carriage coming, and Rupert caught a glimpse of a frightened young man sitting on the street where one of the men had shoved him. From what Rupert could see, he appeared to be reaching for his hat. Rupert’s coachman jumped down and ran toward the man who was now calmly placing his hat back on his head. As soon as Rupert was sure the men were gone, he started to step down from the carriage. It was raining in torrents now and he paused with one foot on the steps so he was still protected from the rain. At that moment, his linkboy arrived, breathless from running after the carriage.
“You all right, Mr. Selwynn?” he asked, panting, barely able to hold up the torch that, in any event, had been effectively quenched by the downpour.
“Make sure they’re all gone!” Selwynn peered out into the dark and then swung his head back to the other carriage. His driver reached the man just as he was picking himself up and held out a hand to help him.
“My music!” he cried when he was on his feet. He pointed at a leather case lying where it had been thrown to the side of the road.
The coachman bent to pick it up and handed it to him.
“Oh, thank you!” he said as he hugged it to him. His hat perched on his head in a tilted, bedraggled mess.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Selwynn’s coachman.
“I think so,” he responded. “What about my driver?” The coachman shook his head.
The linkboy came back to report that the gentleman’s driver was dead, and he was about to go investigate the gentleman himself when Selwynn shouted at him, “Come back here!” He trotted back obediently. “Tell the gentleman he is welcome to any help he may need.” The fact that the young man’s carriage was a fine one was not lost on Selwynn. The boy nodded and picked his way back through the puddles forming on the road. A few minutes later, the young man sat down with a squish of his overcoat on one of Selwynn’s fine leather seats. “Mr. Rupert Selwynn, at your service,” he said.
“Mr. Ian Boxham,” Isobel responded after a momentary silence. “Thank you, Mr. Selwynn. You have my most sincere gratitude.” She brushed away the water dripping down her cheeks. “I do think they meant to do me harm!”
“What can I do to help you, Mr. Boxham? I’m afraid your driver has suffered the worst.” He was about to add he would lend his postilion as a driver, but he was interrupted.
“I’ve got to get home! Can you take me to Albemarle Street?”
“Albemarle Street?” Rupert was suitably impressed.
“Yes, number ten Albemarle Street.”
“I’d be delighted to take you there.”
“Oh! But what about my coach?”
“I’ll have my postilion drive it back.” Before Boxham could object, Selwynn leaned out the window and gave the instructions. “Well, Mr. Boxham,” he said after he had pulled up the window, “very few men can call number ten Albemarle home.”
“I’m staying there only for a few days.”
IV
The butler pulled open the door of Hartforde House and Mr. Selwynn smoothly filled in the silence that elapsed when the boy said nothing. “Tell my Lord Hartforde that his guest, Mr. Boxham, has been robbed, but he is quite safe now.”
The butler looked nonplussed and was about to answer when a voice behind him saved him the trouble.
“Mr. Boxham?”
Selwynn was sure he saw the young man wince at the sound of Lord Hartforde’s voice.
“And Mr. Rupert Selwynn.” Lord Hartforde stepped into the entranceway.
“My lord.” He bowed. “I happened to be on the scene just as Mr. Boxham was being robbed. He gave me to understand he is your guest, and as his driver was killed and his linkboy fled, I offered to see him home in my carriage. I’ve had my postilion drive the carriage back.” He pulled out his watch and looked surprised at the lateness of the hour. “’Pon my word! ’Tis past eleven! If you will excuse me, my lord, I have an urgent appointment. Good evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Selwynn!” Mr. Boxham said fervently as Rupert turned to go. “You saved my life. I shall not forget it.”
“Mr. Boxham, would you be so kind as to come with me?” Alexander’s face was tense and his green eyes were dark with an emotion Isobel was convinced meant no good for her. “Smatherson, please take Mr. Boxham’s coat and send a bottle of brandy to my rooms.”
“Yes, milord.” His expression was blank while he helped Isobel struggle out of her sopping-wet coat.
Alexander got a firm grip on her arm.
“Let go of me!” she snapped, vainly trying to pull away from him.
He held her firmly by the arm and propelled her forward. “You’re coming with me, you little witch!” he hissed.
“You are quite mistaken, my lord, I am not going anywhere with you!” She planted her feet resolutely but found herself being pushed along anyway. He kept a tight grip on her shoulder as he guided her up the stairs to his rooms. “I don’t think you’re
being quite the gracious host to force me into your rooms,” she said snidely when he had closed the door behind them.
“You may go, Peters. I won’t be needing you anymore tonight.” When the valet was gone, Alexander turned to Isobel. “It isn’t as though you haven’t been in here before,” he remarked. He saw her flush at his words and an amused smile came to his lips.
A servant arrived with a bottle of brandy and two glasses soon after them. He took the tray and set it down on a table, then locked the door when the footman was gone. He filled the two glasses and handed one to Isobel, waiting until she had sipped from the glass before saying anything. “Miss St. James, would you be so gracious as to tell me what were you doing out so late?” He seated himself in the only comfortable chair in the anteroom. His mouth was set in an angry line as he gave her a cold stare.
“I fail to see how it’s any of your affair, Lord Hartforde,” she retorted, pulling off her hat and throwing it onto one of the chairs, where it landed with a slap. She was tired and wet and getting colder by the minute. He had to know she was longing to sit down, not to mention that she needed some dry clothes. She remained standing because it would suit her just fine if she fainted dead away from his shocking treatment. She pictured his lordship bending over her prostrate body after she had finally fainted, her sopping-wet clothes staining the expensive rug beneath their feet, his face ashen with distress as he clasped her limp body to his breast.
“It is my affair,” he said, “when you are visiting my house and you endanger your life in such a reckless fashion. I have a duty to your father to see you are safe here, however unwelcome a guest you might be.” He sipped from his glass.
“I am not your guest, Lord Hartforde, I am here at your sister’s invitation.” She took a deep swallow of the brandy and barely managed to suppress a cough as the liquor burned down her throat.
“Whether you are here at the invitation of my sister, or anyone else, does not make the slightest difference. Must I remind you I can forbid your presence here? This is my house and it is on my sufferance alone that you are permitted to carry on this ridiculous game of yours.” His eyes swept disdainfully over her.
She didn’t respond to his spiteful words; instead, she drained her glass and held it out to him. He refilled it without getting up from his comfortable seat. “Sir, I apologize for endangering your reputation as a gracious host.” She took another gulp of the brandy before continuing. “You force me to admit the truth. I asked those ruffians to stop me and, yes, I planned for my driver to die in my defense so I might be robbed and killed myself. Why, as soon as I saw them, I told them they ought to rob me. I was a fool to think you wouldn’t find me out. But, I promise your lordship, the next time I am set upon by thieves, I shall endeavor to do so as far away from you as possible. And should things go well, I won’t be so unlucky as to be rescued.” She swallowed half the contents of the glass and blinked as she suddenly began to feel the effect of the brandy. She gulped most of the rest of the glass.
“Don’t compound your errors by becoming drunk,” he said dourly.
“I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours.” Really, she thought, he had no right to talk to her as though she were some sort of errant child!
“It is if I have to carry you to your bed. You are trouble enough sober.”
Isobel took a step past him, heading for the bottle, only to have him stop her by grasping her forearm. “My lord, I have had about as much of your shocking rudeness as I can take,” she said as primly as she could. “I am cold, I am tired, and in case you haven’t noticed, I am dripping water all over your lovely carpet. If you won’t allow me to change into some dry clothes, I shall catch my death, and rest assured, I shall see to it the full blame for my demise is placed on you. Now, are you going to let me alone, or not?”
“My dear Miss St. James”—he did not let go of her arm—“I am not stopping you from changing out of your clothes. Be my guest! There is a dressing gown over there.” He pointed with his free hand. “But, I do insist that you not drink anymore. You have had quite enough.”
“Then may I suggest you let go of me, my lord? Where may I change?” she asked after he complied.
“Here is perfectly all right with me,” he said.
“You may go to the devil, sir!” She drained her glass and held it out until he took it. If his lordship wanted her to undress in front of him, then he might just as well have his wish. And if he so much as laid a hand on her she would bring the house down with her screams. She strode over to where a dressing gown was draped over a chair and began working at the buttons of her frock coat. She let it fall to the floor and in another moment had shrugged out of her waistcoat. At the last minute, she found that, in spite of her intention to humiliate him, she could not undress in front of him, so she took the dressing gown and walked past him into his bedchamber.
“Blast it, woman!” He jumped up from his chair and in two strides was at her side.
“I thought you said I might get out of my clothes,” she said, taking a step backward when he reached her.
“You should have told me you were hurt.”
“What?” She followed his glance to her arm and was surprised to see that blood stained the sleeve. “Oh,” she said softly. “What are you doing?”
He grabbed her arm and when she looked up at him she felt her head swimming. Whether it was from the sight of blood on her shirt or from his being so close to her, she did not know.
“Your arm needs to be looked at. I can call a physic, if you insist, but I rather expect you would prefer the staff should not find out about this.” He raised his eyebrows at her and then continued, not having expected an answer. “Now, just be quiet for once, would you?” He shrugged off his own coat and threw it on a chair. Guiltily, she noticed he was dressed to go out; he had obviously taken a great deal of care with his appearance. She felt a sub of jealousy as she thought he had probably been on his way to see Angelica Vincent. She knew she was staring at him, but she couldn’t seem to look away. “Sit down,” he ordered.
“Where?” She didn’t like the way he addressed her as though she were a servant, and, really, couldn’t he be even the least bit sympathetic? After all, she was wounded! She looked at her arm and suddenly felt the throbbing all the more acutely.
“Anywhere!” He pushed her down on the bed and scowled at the look of resentment on her face. From the sideboard, he retrieved a bowl of water, and on his way back to her, he picked up a chair. He pulled her upright from her supine contemplation of the folds in the canopy. Lines of worry creased his forehead, and she sucked in her breath as he gathered up the material to tear the shoulder. “Hold still!”
“It hurts,” she moaned. And really, now that she could see the blood, it did hurt, like the very dickens.
“Would you rather I take it off?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes!”
Sighing, he went into the other room, then came back with one of the glasses and the bottle of brandy. He splashed some into the glass, drank it himself, then refilled it and handed it to her. He began undoing her cravat as she drank, and when their hands briefly tangled he gave the sigh of one whose patience was being sorely tried. He waited for her to empty the glass before finishing the job and pulling open the neck of her shirt. The wound was impossible to get at without pulling the shirt off at least one side of her. Isobel sat with her eyes closed, while he tried to pull the other half of the shirt down over her exposed torso.
“It would appear, milord, that modesty cannot be effected without risking my strangulation,” she intoned while opening one eye to see if he had appreciated her wit. He had not.
“Sit here.” He stood up to change places with her, turning her sideways on the chair as he began to dab at her arm with the cloth he had dampened in the bowl of water. She winced in pain. “You look ridiculous with that thing strapped to your belly!” he snapped, jerking his head toward the pillow tied around her stomach.
“All right
, then.” She struggled to get the rest of the shirt off, while keeping her other arm still. Using her good arm, she managed to undo the fastenings that held the pillow to her. “I hope I don’t offend you now, Lord Hartforde.” She threw the pillow away. To her amazement, she discovered she was having trouble sitting up straight and she wondered if, just perhaps, the brandy might have gone to her head. She watched him bending over her arm, fascinated first by the shape of his jaw, then by the pulse beating in his neck. She wanted to trace the firm lines of his face and she flushed when their eyes met briefly. With sudden clarity she remembered the way his lips had once taken hers.
“Be still, damn you!” He dabbed some more at the wound, softening his touch when she gasped in pain.
“It’s rather close in here, don’t you think?” she asked as he wiped away the remaining blood. He did not bother to respond. “How odd. It barely hurts now.” She looked down at her arm, puzzled that it should be so, since not five minutes ago it had hurt like die devil.
“It’s all the brandy, love,” he said gently. “I don’t think it’s very deep, just a scratch.” He folded her cravat into a strip and wrapped it around her arm.
She looked down at the neat bow he tied. “Will I live, then?” She looked at him and thought he was more beautiful than the drawing of Michelangelo’s David she had once seen. She blushed at the direction her thoughts were taking. Really, it was far too hard to concentrate!
“Yes, I think so,” he said, making no attempt to lift his gaze.
“What a disappointment it must be to you.” She flushed anew as she realized where his gaze was fixed and how very little of her shirt was covering her body. Mortified, she pulled at the material and crossed her arms over herself, not taking her eyes off the floor until he stood up to fetch his dressing gown.
“Here, cover yourself if you feel that modesty is suddenly necessary.” The expression on his face was an odd one, though she could tell it was not anger. She grabbed at the dressing gown he tossed at her. It slid off her lap onto the floor.
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