A Gentleman Undone

by Cecilia Grant

  He turned then, and his hazel eyes glowed with the anger he was working to suppress. He’d never hit her, not once. But she’d never been quite sure he wouldn’t. “I am the gentleman. You are the mistress.” A pause of two seconds, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he composed his next words. “I’ve paid all your expenses these seven months. You’ve paid none of mine. You have no more right to dictate my behavior than does a footman or a maid.”

  Curse him, he served up his hostility with a dollop of undeniable logic. And he reminded her of a concern she’d neglected to weigh, in her heedless chasing after revenge and gratification. Behind her back her fingers laced themselves tighter. “What will become of Miss Collier?” Footsteps sounded at a distance: it occurred to her she had still to face the unpleasantness of announcing she was to leave with Mr. Blackshear and his friend, rather than in the decreed cart and mail coach.

  “To whom?” His regal brow quirked and his head canted several degrees to the side.

  “My maid. Miss Collier.” Her pulse was pounding of a sudden. How could she have been so careless? Who would look after Jane, if she did not? “I should like to take her with me.” Her mind raced. She had nearly four hundred pounds. She might take a modest house, and persuade Will to go back to the hells with her. “You may keep all the jewels, and everything you ever bought for me. I only want to keep my maid.”

  Foolish, foolish, foolish of her to say so. A seasoned card player ought to know better. She’d just put a weapon in his hands and shown him where to strike.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” He sent a glance over her shoulder while speaking, and raised his voice. Someone had arrived in the room, someone he was only too pleased to have as a witness to her humbling. “She’s a pretty thing, that maid. She can divert me until I engage a new mistress.”

  He’d said it on purpose to wound her, of course; to insult her and to drive home just how little power she had with him. He might really have no such intentions.

  It didn’t matter. His words unleashed twin furies in her: rage at her failure to protect the girl, and wrath at every man who’d ever thought a woman existed only for his own diversion. Without thought she lunged forward and slapped him, hard as she could.

  His arm moved so quickly. For an instant the whole world was hot pain; only in the next instant did she grasp the cause. Her face. The back of his hand. She stumbled back and sideways into sudden, steadying, unfamiliar arms. There were sounds, and a blur of motion, and when the swimming stars receded from her vision Edward was down on the Aubusson rug.

  Mr. Blackshear, standing over him, swung about and looked past her to the person supporting her, a grim, urgent query in his eyes. He must have had the answer he sought because he swung back to the man he’d knocked down. “You may send your friends to call on Lord Cathcart when you return to London. We’ll meet at your convenience.”

  Edward nodded, rubbing his jaw. Her jaw hurt too. Her cheek still stung. He’d hit her.

  Her whole body felt like eggshells cracking. He’d hit her, and Mr. Blackshear had hit him, and now they would meet with pistols drawn. “Don’t,” she said. “I don’t want this.”

  But nobody answered her. What was done was done, and no words, no acts, no bone-deep, soul-wringing penitence from her could undo any of it now.

  WHAT NOW, Blackshear?” Lord Cathcart sprawled across the opposite seat, one arm laid along its top, swaying with the coach’s movement. For the first half hour of the journey they’d conversed on innocuous subjects, by tacit agreement keeping up the pretense that nothing extraordinary had led to this early departure from the house party. But gradually Miss Slaughter had dropped into sleep, listing and listing until her head came to rest on Will’s shoulder, and now they might speak on topics they would not broach in her hearing.

  “Target practice, I suppose.” Confound Fate and the way it toyed with him. He could have just goaded Roanoke into calling him out that first night at Beecham’s. Save them both a deal of time and all the intervening trouble.

  The viscount shook his head. “I’m in no doubt of the duel. I count that as already won.” Proper thing for a man’s second to say. “I’m asking, rather, what you intend in regard to the lady.”

  “I don’t know.” Self-reproach, his most faithful companion, lapped him in its python coils. “I wish I could do something for her, but I haven’t the means to keep a mistress. I oughtn’t to have trifled with her, knowing I could be the cause of her losing her place when I could offer no remedy.”

  “Don’t take all the blame upon yourself. She’s no green girl. She knew what were the stakes and she chose to play.”

  This was true, of course. True, and no consolation whatsoever. Not when every rose-petal-infused breath tugged his attention back to the slumbering presence at his side. “She was foxed, you know.” He dropped his voice lower. “When I got to the room last night she was half the way through a bottle of claret. I ought to have slept on the floor.”

  “Did she reproach you this morning? Was her manner cold?” Cathcart angled his head quizzically and drummed his fingers on the leather squabs.

  Vivid memories of this morning flooded in. Would you like to watch me touch them? I’ve wanted to see you naked since the first time we spoke in the dark. “No.” He shifted in his seat, gently, to keep from disturbing her. “She was neither reproachful nor cold.”

  “Then trust her to look out for her own interest. A woman doesn’t last long in her trade without that ability.”

  No doubt this was true as well. Yet how was she to manage? Banished from her house. No family with whom to take refuge. Cut off from all the security she’d known.

  She sighed, audibly, and sank farther into him, the sweet solidity of her body accompanied by a staggering weight. Trust. Trust it was that let her drop into sleep beside him, here as well as in bed.

  He ought never to have asked for her trust. How could he have been so presumptuous, when all he could offer was the demolition of her carefully pieced-together existence? How could he have been so foolish, knowing what he knew of this burden and how ill he bore it?

  He closed his eyes. Let Cathcart think he’d gone to sleep. With any luck, he would. Then he could have a few minutes’ respite, at least, from the prospect of the duel, the apprehensions for Miss Slaughter’s welfare, and the incessant hammering of regret for all he’d done wrong.

  HAD THINGS just gone smoothly at the posting inns, they would have reached London well before dusk. A carriage with three passengers, and the trailing equipage that bore the viscount’s valet and baggage, oughtn’t to have taxed the resources of any competent establishment. But here they met with a shortage of horses, there with three postilions taken ill, and the result was they were still on the road, the second carriage a full change of horses behind, when the shadows descended and their luck took one more turn for the worse.

  The hoofbeats came all at once, out of nowhere. Christ. Highwaymen. Will was on his feet, lunging for the pistol box strapped back of Cathcart’s seat, even before the footman’s shout of alarm sounded, or the gunshots from their pursuers.

  Two pistols, both loaded—he’d assured himself of that on the drive out to Essex. Two footmen riding up top, each with a blunderbuss, and two hired postilions to whom he would never have committed any share of their safety but that the sun had been sinking, and he simply couldn’t wait for better horsemen to come along. He wouldn’t rely on them, either to outrun the brigands—four sets of hoofbeats, did he count? Five?—or to risk themselves in a firefight.

  The carriage swayed hard; he dug his feet into the floor, clamped the box against his body, and flung out his free arm to stop Miss Slaughter from pitching out of her seat. Her eyes, wide with terror, met his, and for an instant his stomach felt like the hull of a boat scraping bottom.

  He’d promised to get her home. She’d trusted his word.

  The discharge of a weapon directly overhead yanked him back into action. No time for self-indulgent d
espair. He was the only one here with a soldier’s training, and two civilians were depending on him to keep his head in the midst of chaos.

  He steadied Miss Slaughter, put the box on his knees, pulled out one ivory-handled pistol. Grip first he held it out to the viscount. “Tuck this in the back of your breeches, where it won’t be seen straightaway.”

  “The footmen …” Cathcart said even as he closed his hand around the gun.

  Will shook his head. “One’s fired his shot already. I expect the other will be disarmed. The postilions as well. Numbers are against us.” We shouldn’t have let the second carriage fall behind. Futile regret, not worth voicing. They’d chosen to chase the daylight, and nothing could be done about that choice now.

  The viscount busied himself with the pistol, his tight-pressed mouth outlined in white. Frightened, as any reasonable man would be, but ready to do what was asked of him.

  “Lydia.” He swung about to face her. An officer learned ways of dealing with a terror-stricken man. He might manage a terror-stricken woman by the same methods. “Do you know how to fire a pistol?” He sent up a silent, fervent prayer.

  She nodded. “My brother taught me to shoot.”

  Thank God, and thank Henry Slaughter, might he rest in peace. “I need you to be as heartless as you’ve ever been, Lydia.” The carriage was slowing. They didn’t have much time. “I’m going to ask you to shoot a man. Can you do that?”

  And bless her cold soul, that was the way to blot out the terror. Every angle in her face hardened and she held out her hand for the gun.

  Already he was sliding to the floor as he released the pistol into her grasp. “You shall counterfeit to faint. Hide the pistol in your skirts.” Still speaking, he held the gun box out to Cathcart, who took it and put it back in place. “The viscount and I will contrive to be taken from the carriage, and to get the men facing away. You must shoot one in the back.”

  She nodded again, her eyes like shadowed ice as she laid herself down and hid her gun. If she had any qualms over shooting a man in the back, she did not show it.

  “Presumably there will be a moment of confusion, and then you, Cathcart, must bring out your pistol and shoot another.” From outside came the thump of boots hitting the ground, dropping from horse height. “We’ll do what we can with what numbers remain.” One last look to the viscount, one last look to Lydia. His heart beat hard but steady. Strong. “Don’t shrink from killing. We can’t afford that. I’m counting on you both.” He just had time to take hold of her wrists, to feel her runaway pulse, before the carriage door was wrenched open.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DON’T SHOOT.” Will half-turned, one hand chafing Lydia’s wrists, the other raised in a show of surrender. “We haven’t any weapons. We’ll give you no trouble. We only want to go on our way.” His fingers itched madly for the grip of a gun, and every sinew in his body protested this decision to play the lame deer before a pack of wolves. But he would do whatever he must to draw all attention away from his armed companions.

  “Set your money and your jewels down here by the door. No quick movements, now.” The voice bit through the twilight dim like the jaws of a man-trap. A pistol barrel poked in through the open door. Enough daylight remained to show a second man just back of the one speaking, and one more at a distance, keeping hold of the horses. Five, at least. The three in sight had left their faces uncovered, which did not bode well.

  Beneath his thumb Lydia’s pulse beat a scattershot rhythm. The sensation was horribly familiar. Never mind. At this moment, his old private anguish was the least important thing in the world.

  “My wife’s jewels are all in her trunk.” He locked his gaze on a spot in midair where it would meet with none of the men’s. “Money as well.” Thank goodness his trunk and Lydia’s had gone on this carriage instead of the other; they might make a useful distraction now. He cleared his throat. “What money we have is in the trunks. Will you take them, please, and let us go on our way? You see my wife’s fainted from the fright.”

  “From disgust at her cringing dog of a husband, more like.” This came from one of the other men, and inspired a spurt of laughter from the one with the horses. Good. Further distraction. The more they occupied themselves in bullying, the less watchful they’d be for any threat.

  “Take down the trunks,” the first man snapped in the footmen’s direction. He leaned in through the doorway and used the pistol to lift Will’s chin until their eyes met. “Now, my fair fellow, I’ll give you one last chance.” He was an ugly sod, with two visible rotten teeth and the breath to match. “Hand out your purse, and the other gentleman’s purse too. If we must search your pockets and find you’ve been lying, it won’t go well for you or your fainted wife.”

  A hot tide of rage swept through all his poised muscles; he shaped it into the more manageable form of grim intent. They would not touch her. If he had to take fire from every pistol these blackguards had among them, if he had to stagger after them and flatten them one by one as his own life gushed out—But he wouldn’t have to. He was luring them into a neater trap.

  That’s right, whoreson. Take us out of the carriage to search us. I expect you’ll be the one at whom she points her pistol, now. He blinked and fidgeted as though his underclothes were all made of scratchy wool. “We haven’t any—that is—” A quick glance at Cathcart who was watching, ready, in perfect dependence on the efficacy of his plan. More trust, devil take it. And what could he do—what could he, or any man on this earth, ever do when trust came, but strive to be worthy? “I don’t think … I’m almost certain all we have is in the trunks.” He said this last in a thin watery voice, eyes now averted to the floorboards. The pistol under his jaw was an irritant, merely. A man serious about shooting him would have done it by now.

  “Very well. Crawl on out and we’ll see, won’t we?” The pistol receded and a ripple of anticipatory mirth went through the brigands—here were the other two, now, hands full of what had been the footmen’s and drivers’ weapons—as they all shuffled back to make room. Clearly they thought great sport was in store.

  To let go of Lydia’s hand then felt, for an interminable second, like stepping off a cliff. But he did it. With one slight press for courage, to remind her he’d put his faith in her, he released his grip and scuttled, ungraceful and unthreatening as he could make himself, through the carriage door and to the ground below. The viscount jumped down after, and Will managed to collide with him, to pivot, to stumble several steps before regaining his footing, hands atop his head, at some little distance from the carriage.

  The highwaymen hooted, making plain their contempt for such a shabby specimen of masculinity. But they had to turn their backs to the carriage to face him now.

  Cathcart slipped silently to his side, hands likewise held overhead. This near, Will could sense his coiled-spring tension. He’d been a crack shot in university days—please God he’d kept that up as well as he’d kept up his billiards.

  A quick, habitual inventory: on the ground, four robbers of varying size; the coach beyond, footmen weaponless but still possibly of use; postilions dismounted; a woman with a pistol somewhere within. Off to the right, the outlaws’ five horses with one mounted man holding on to all the bridles. He, too, had fixed his attention on the two prisoners, though half a turn would give him a view into the carriage.

  Nothing to be gained by imagining that. Will clenched his teeth. The purse in his breast pocket felt like a great hot coal, heavy, smoldering, and surely glowing right through the wool of his coat as the burliest of the villains stepped forward, ham hands rising to make a search. Now, Lydia. Now. “Ought I—ought I to hold my hands up, like so, or out to the side?” He must divert them as thoroughly as he could, lest they think of swiveling about and catch a glimpse of—There. Movement in the carriage doorway; fabric, a face, an arm—his heart whirlpooled round his ribcage and bloodlust woke in his bones.

  “For the love of God, will you shut your mewling mouth and—�
� The air split with a crack and Will seized the man before he had time to turn; seized him by the ears and slammed his face down against one upraised knee. His knee would hurt like the devil, later. No time to feel it now.

  A second shot rang out beside him and an answering shot came from ahead. His heart clambered halfway up his throat. If she’d been hit—but there was no time for ifs. He shoved aside the dead weight of the man who’d meant to search him, and launched himself in the direction from which the last shot had come.

  How many of them were still standing? Had Lydia and Cathcart both hit their marks? He’d sort it out later. Just now the brigand before him was pulling another pistol from his belt—confound these bastards to Hell; how many did they carry?—and Will swung his arm in a hard arc to send the weapon flying. Dimly he was aware of hoofbeats and commotion somewhere on the right; then the disarmed man kicked out and connected with his kneecap and Christ, it did hurt now. Stupid swiving shin-kicking son of a goat; after all the trouble he’d been at to take away the advantage of pistols and the advantage of numbers—he shifted the weight to his good leg and threw a fist at the blackguard’s face, dead center.

  The man went staggering backward, arms windmilling for balance, blood already running from his nose. He’d nearly regained his footing when one more shot sounded, and he jerked, and crumpled like a scarecrow cut down.

  For a disorienting instant it was like being back in the little room upstairs at Beecham’s, struggling to bend his brain to some principle of odds that made no intuitive sense. Two ivory-handled pistols; two shots. Then how to account for the third?

  He swung his gaze leftward and saw her, kneeling by the body of a fallen bandit, the man’s own smoking pistol clutched in both her hands. Her wide eyes met his with no recognition whatsoever. She let the gun fall, and twisted to look at the lifeless form beside her. Her shoulders rose with a mighty inhalation, and her fists rose too, and of a sudden she was flailing at the man as though he stood between her and her next breath.