by Jo Goodman
The duchess was not at all disturbed by the interruption. Quite the contrary, Evan saw. She helped steady Ria, fluffed the toddler's halo of bright hair, and spoke to her gently. Evan expected that, for it was known throughout Ambermede that the duchess had a particular fondness for children. What gave Evan pause was that the duke's actions were no less attentive. He actually picked up the child, gave her a little toss and shake which made her squeal with delight, and then permitted her to pummel him for another turn of the same. His Grace obliged without hesitation.
No one in the village had ever mentioned the Duke of Westphal giving so much as a tinker's damn for children. Evan would not have believed an account of His Grace's actions if he had not been witness to them. He hardly knew how to think about what he had seen, let alone how to feel.
It was easier to push his own uncertain responses to the back of his mind and concentrate on his wider view of the party. Tenley had been able to insist that some of the adults join his spirited game of hide-and-seek, and it wasn't long before the participants were sprinting toward the available hiding places. The woods were a natural destination, but no one chose his chestnut to hide in and no one climbed so high in any of the nearby trees. The game came to an end in less than an hour, and Tenley marshaled his troops to play tag, blindman's buff, and finally, capture the flag. They cooled themselves off by stripping down to their drawers and shifts—even the participating adults—and leaping into the lake. The splashing and dunking and laughing finally was enough to force a large family of ducks to flee the water for the relative safety of the verdant hillside.
When the energetic play wound down, there was a retreat to the blankets. Baskets were thrown open and they shared the bounty. There were platters of roast beef and lamb and chicken, great round loaves of fresh bread, and an abundance of fruit and cheese and wine. There was little movement following this repast. Someone suggested charades, but there was no enthusiasm for it. Even Tenley had stopped insisting that they do something and seemed glad to lie stretched on a quilted rug, belly-up in the sunshine. Some of the guests slept, others read, a few played quietly at cards.
As a whole, they were at peace, Evan thought. From his vantage point it was rather more boring than comforting, but he supposed this was also part and parcel of being a spy. There was bound to be boredom, and he would have to learn to manage it. To that end he mentally reviewed all the Greek gods and goddesses and their Roman counterparts, then the royal lineages of the houses of Europe since Charlemagne. When he returned to Hambrick Hall in a few days' time, he would wager South and the others that he could recite the latter in just under one minute. It was sure to impress, and possibly earn him a few farthings.
He was contemplating how he might spend his winnings when a stirring among the duchess's guests caught his attention. To be strictly accurate, it was the stirring of a single guest. Young Ria was up and moving. Evan did not know why no one else seemed to notice. It was true there were more people napping than had been some ten minutes earlier, but there were still those who were engaged in cards and quiet conversation. None of them shifted their attention to call to the girl, and Evan had to believe they had not seen her. Her mother and father—at least, Evan believed he had identified the proper pair—were lying like spoons in a drawer, dappled by the late afternoon sunshine. The mother's upper arm was set in a curve that had been shaped by her daughter's presence. It remained just so. If Ria took it into her head to return to the blanket and wriggled herself back into place she might never be missed.
Evan did not think that was going to happen. It looked to him as if Ria was chasing something—a butterfly, perhaps, or bit of duck fluff released to the air when the fowl had hastened to the hillside. Whatever it was, Evan realized the invisible currents of air were lifting it away from where the guests lolled on their blankets and gradually leading the child to the lake. It was no direct avenue she took. The path she made through the grass went to and fro, sometimes circling back for a short distance. Her progress was marked by clumsy pirouettes and several spills, but she was a game one, getting back to her feet each time, determined to capture the elusive thing that was leading her on.
Evan's eyes darted back to the guests. Ria's absence was still unremarked. No one turned to look in her direction. No one raised a hand or spoke sharply to call her back. It did not matter that the child's route to the lake was a circuitous one; it was still leading her directly to more danger than she could properly comprehend.
Evan realized he would have to make himself responsible for her safety. He was the one who saw the peril, and it was incumbent upon him to do something about it. Calling out to the others was out of the question. Precious minutes could be lost while they determined where he was and exclaimed over his hiding place. He would be thoroughly chastised if he were fortunate, boxed soundly if he were not, and it was doubtful they would hear what it was he was trying to tell them. Ria would be at the bottom of the lake by then, her tiny lungs unable to hold enough air to keep her afloat, her sputters and cries unheeded because of the uproar his presence would most certainly cause.
Evan made his descent quickly. His lithe, athletic body was honed for just this sort of challenge. His fingers and feet touched the branches only long enough to feel them under him, and then he was moving on, always downward, always accelerating, taking the last twelve feet in free fall, dropping to grasp a branch by his fingertips, then swinging to the ground. If anyone saw him now, he did not pause to acknowledge it. The force of his drop from the tree caused him to crouch for a moment. Like a runner at the start of a sprint, he pushed himself up just enough to begin his charge for the lakeside. He did not stay in the shaded wood. There was no time to dodge trees and hurdle the underbrush. He ran to the perimeter of the clearing and kept on running across the open field.
There were cries now, all of them at his back. There were people yelling at him to stop, to explain himself. Someone hollered, "Thief!" Evan did not know what had prompted this last, but he ignored every call for his return and set his course for the bright dervish that was about to spin over the bank and into the water.
He launched himself at the child, his lean body stretched taut, no part of it touching the ground for a moment in perfect defiance of gravity. The full-out effort was not enough. His fingertips brushed the child's calico hem but could not grasp it, and the spinning, laughing top that young Ria had become hurtled itself into the drink.
Evan's breath exploded from his lungs as he hit the ground hard. Someone screamed, but he did not mistake that the concern was for him. He turned his head in time to see Ria disappear under the water. Her hair was not so bright as it had been moments earlier and he understood she was going down for the second time. The ground vibrated beneath his cheek as the guests thundered en masse toward him. Before he could think better of it, he followed Ria's example and rolled down the bank into the lake. The water was deeper than he had expected. He had hoped the ground slope would continue at the same angle underwater. It didn't. The earth dropped away in short order and he found himself blindly thrashing about in search of daffodil-yellow calico.
It helped, he decided much later, that she was thrashing about as well. Even though she was no match for his length and breadth, Ria's movements were every bit as energetic and urgent as his own. His arms collided with her short ones, and his fingers locked around her wrists. The water bubbled with their expiring breaths, and Evan's feet churned up silt. He pushed off the bottom and surfaced with Ria clinging to his neck. He blinked hugely, though perhaps a fraction less wide than she did, and tossed his head back to clear the curtain of hair from his eyes.
The men were all gathered at the edge of the water now, precariously balanced on this steepest part of the slope. The women, including the duchess, were standing on the more gentle rise, many of them with their arms outstretched as if they could draw Ria to them by sheer force of their collective will. Evan took them all in in a single glance and wished that he might hand the child off
and disappear under the water himself.
It was not easy to do so because Ria's fingers were now tangled in his wet hair. When he tried to put her from him, she held on with those stubby tentacles until he thought she would take his scalp. He could hear the crowd shouting at him but could make out no single order or accusation above Ria's pitiful wailing.
Evan tread water using only his legs, keeping both of his arms securely around the child's shuddering frame, and moved closer to the edge where someone might be able to grasp her. He did not expect to be helped out himself, so it was something of a shock when Ria was finally separated from him and he was hauled from the lake. The manner of his rescue was none too gentle. While a squalling, squealing Ria was passed by a succession of cradling arms to her mother, Evan was pulled up abruptly by the scruff of his neck and shaken hard.
It happened too fast for him to comprehend what they were about. A dull roar thrummed through his head as the first pair of hands that seized him held him still while a second pair delivered a thundering box to his ears. He might have cried out, he thought, but he could not be sure. He hoped he hadn't. It was too lowering.
He was spun around and pushed forward to face the duke, stumbling when he was released and almost falling to his knees. He managed to steady himself just in time to take the first blow. Westphal's walking stick whistled through the air before it came down on Evan's shoulder. Evan dropped like a stone and rolled to one side. The second strike caught him squarely on the back, raising an immediate welt beneath his wet linen. He made himself a hedgehog, rolling into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest to protect his face from the blows. His back and buttocks were exposed, and the blows rained down upon him.
They were still shouting at him, but he could not hear what they were saying. Did they think he had pushed the little girl into the water? Didn't they know he had saved her?
As humiliating as it was, Evan opened his mouth to explain. No one really heard him, of course. He wasn't certain his voice had risen above a whisper, and he was still curled like a hedgehog with his mouth very close to his knees. Pride warred with pain, and pain won. He rose on all fours and tried to crawl off, his only thought now to escape the blows and find some sanctuary where he could lick his wounds.
He collapsed as the stick caught him between the shoulder blades. He could not draw his knees forward this time but lay sprawled on the bank, his face turned to one side, his eyes closed. A long breath left his body. Pain no longer stung him. It swelled like a wave across his skin, and then it was gone in a rush of heat. He imagined he felt small, stubby fingers tangling in his hair and an oddly familiar weight clinging to him. A cry shrill enough to penetrate the roar in his ears was the last thing he heard. There was no time to wonder if it was his own. He shuddered once and was still.
Evan was alone when he woke. He had not expected it to be otherwise. There was no reason for any of them to linger over him, especially not Their Graces. It would be their desire to put this unfortunate encounter from their memory. Evan doubted anyone would ever speak of it, most particularly the adults, who would not want to be made disagreeable to the duke or his duchess. Tenley might say something.
He was impulsive enough to do so, though he might think twice about risking his father's disapproval. The young heir did not need to worry that he would have to bear the brunt of Westphal's punishing walking stick, however.
The duke saved that sort of retribution for his bastard child.
* * *
Evan was carefully stripping off his shirt when the door to his room opened. It had been four days since he'd returned to Hambrick Hall for the start of the next term and a full week since he'd received the caning. He had not been able to hide his injuries from his mother, but until this moment he had been successful in hiding them from the Compass Club.
North, South, and East skidded to a halt just inside the room. Evan might have laughed at their abrupt, comic stop if he had not been so keen to draw his shirt on again. He was grateful when they shut the door quickly.
To their credit, none of them spoke of what they had seen. Evan was grateful for that. He finished tucking the shirt into his trousers. Ignoring the weeping wounds that had made the shirt sticky in the first place, he picked up his jacket. Brendan Hampton, the one they called North, stepped forward and took the jacket. Making himself useful as Evan's valet, he held it out so that shrugging into it would not be as painful a process for his friend.
"Thank you," Evan said, not quite meeting North's eyes.
Gabriel Whitney, East to the others, offered one of the iced cakes he was carrying. "Cakes always help," he said. "These arrived in today's post. Came straightaway to share them. Can't eat them all myself, now, can I?"
Evan was polite enough not to disagree. East's rounded figure was evidence to the contrary. He took a cake and sat down gingerly on the edge of his bed, inviting the others to join him.
Matthew Forrester, the young viscount Southerton, folded his legs under him and dropped to the floor tailor-fashion.
He accepted one of East's iced cakes and bit into it with considerable relish. He spoke around a mouthful of food. "You'll tell us when you're of a mind to, I suppose. And if you're never of a mind to, it doesn't matter. We're still your chums, West."
Evan nodded once. It was quite possibly all that would ever be said on the matter. He didn't doubt they had a very good idea who had raised the welts on his back and backside. It didn't make it less humiliating to him. He still wanted to plant someone a facer.
As if reading his mind, North rubbed the bump on his own nose. "Would you like to take a poke at me again? You look as if you want to take a poke at someone."
East's rounded jaw came up and he pointed to his first and second chin. "You might want to take a crack at one or both of these."
South indicated his left cheek where he had pouched most of his iced cake. It was swollen like a chipmunk's. "Go on. Take a swing. A little punch to help you wash down your cake."
Evan rolled his eyes at South's wordplay. It saved him from having to make another reply. His throat was uncomfortably tight, and speaking would have been a severe trial. Their willingness to accept an injury in order for him to shake off so much ill feeling was a reminder of how they'd become friends in the first place.
They never seemed to mind that he was a bastard half as much as he did.
He spoke finally, swallowing hard, hoping it would seem that the cake was the cause of his difficulty. "I should rather like to flatten one of the bishops."
"Brilliant," South said, wishing he'd thought of it himself.
"Excellent," East offered, brushing crumbs off his chest.
"Top drawer," North said approvingly. "Really, top drawer."
They all rose to their feet and made for the door. Even though the purpose of their club called for them to be "sworn enemies of the Society of Bishops," they had never set out to provoke a fight before. They arrived in the cobbled courtyard of Hambrick Hall wondering how they might begin the thing when one of the bishops whispered, "Bastard." It was surprisingly easy after that.
Chapter 1
November 1818
She thought she might have heard their laughter. She had been told that if they were together, she could depend upon hearing it, no matter the circumstances that drew them together. But surely not, she thought, not this evening. Not when the circumstance was death.
"You'll have to move along, miss."
She pretended she hadn't heard. She'd been successful at ignoring the instruction earlier. Perhaps he would conclude she was deaf or daft and make allowances. It was not as if she was making a nuisance of herself to anyone but him. Indeed, there was no one on the sidewalk at this late hour to be the least bothered by her presence.
She supposed he was puffed up by his own importance. He was splendidly turned out in gold-braided livery that must rival even that worn by the king's servants. He stood as a sentinel at the top of the stairs, zealously guarding the entrance to th
e gentleman's club as if his life depended upon it. Mayhap it did, she considered. If she were to manage somehow to breach his defenses and enter this exclusively male sanctuary of port, cigar smoke, and leather armchairs, he might well be dismissed, turned out without a character, and left to fend for himself and his family by taking up a career as a cutpurse.
It would be her fault if he was forced to crime. She almost found the resources to smile at this odd flight her thoughts had taken. The explanation for the bent of her mind could be found in her deeply weary bones. Her teeth were near to chattering with the damp and cold of the evening. Hugging herself beneath her woolen cloak was no longer effective in warding off the chill, nor was tugging on the hood to keep the runnels of water from spilling into her hair.
Moving along was probably just what she needed to do. As though it were at her own inclination, rather than as a result of his instruction, she began walking slowly. She did not remove her eyes from the windows of the club as she did so, but they were set too high above the sidewalk for her to have a clear view of the interior. Earlier she had watched the club from a vantage point across the street. From that distance she could see something of the warmly lighted rooms that faced the front, but nothing so clearly that she might identify any of the members.
"You should step a bit more lively, miss."
Some gremlin of perversity made her stop in her tracks. She did not pretend she hadn't heard his suggestion this time. Her position squarely at the bottom of the steps did not give her the high ground, yet her rigid stance yielded nothing. She stood there a long minute. It was too dark to gauge the frustration on his features. She hoped he was weighing the consequences of leaving his post either to forcibly remove her himself or get assistance to do the same. Either way he would have to abandon the door. It was then that she might have an opportunity to slip past him.
