“‘With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies,’” she whispered, loneliness seeping into her bones now that she did not have to laugh and smile and put on a show.
The year following Richard’s death, Nathan—Sabrina’s half brother and the Old Duke’s heir—had asked her to serve as his hostess when he was in London. The loss of her child had pulled her into blackness, but with the responsibility and connection Nathan afforded her with his invitation, Sabrina slowly found her way back to the light.
She had flourished in society again and was acknowledged as a woman of poise and quality in her own right. She would continue to play hostess until Nathan married, and likely be called upon to help now and again after that, but her position in Nathan’s life would end eventually. Perhaps sooner than she was ready—he had his eyes on a young woman who would make an excellent duchess.
As that possibility came closer, Sabrina found herself more and more at a loss as to what to do with the rest of her life. No husband. No children. And soon, no brother to need her encouragement and encourage her in return—at least not like he did now. She was thirty-two years old, and her future sometimes felt like an empty, dusty road stretching ahead of her.
Nathan’s solution, when she’d confessed her growing melancholy some weeks ago, was that she marry again. He did not understand how horrible her first marriage had been or what she would be signing over to a new husband. She wanted her friends and her causes to be enough purpose to make her life meaningful, but was it?
She closed her eyes, remembering the invitations she’d been given to conduct discreet affairs so common among young, beautiful widows such as herself. It was how many others like her—determinedly single—countered the loneliness.
The human, lonely part of her wanted such things sometimes. But the wiser, God-fearing, and stronger part knew that such an arrangement would never satisfy what she truly longed for and would eventually leave her emptier than she was now. If she believed there was a man she could trust with her body, soul, and wealth, she would consider joining her life to his, but she had never had the privilege of believing in fairy tales. Not for girls like her. Not in a world like this.
Instead, she spent the London Season flirting and dancing and laughing and attending to her duties as a hostess, then traveled for the fall and winter months—Germany, Scotland, even Southern France last year.
This year—in just seven weeks’ time, in fact—she would sail to Naples where Meg, a friend from Sabrina’s school days, now lived with her vineyard-owning husband and their three children. It would be a lovely distraction from the life Sabrina did not have in England. Traveling had been what she’d lived for these last years, yet even her upcoming voyage did not seem like enough this year, which made her feel spoiled and ungrateful.
She leaned her head against the glass of the window, relishing the coolness and hoping it would cool her thoughts. But for the grace of God she would be Molly, she reminded herself. But for the miracle of Richard’s death, she might very well be dead. Instead, she had received a second chance very few people ever had. She wanted for nothing money could buy, she was surrounded by people who genuinely cared for her, and she would sail to Naples before the leaves began to change.
Be grateful, she chided herself as she often did when life felt heavy. Live worthy of your blessings.
But, oh, how she wished the joy she felt at the end of a party or tea or ball or luncheon would follow her home and stay. How she wished that, though she was looking forward to sailing to Naples, she wasn’t already dreading that she would have to come back.
A hand touched Harry’s shoulder where he lay in the proverbial and literal gutter, and he flailed his arms to defend himself against certain attack.
Ward stumbled back and stared down at Harry with wide eyes. “Good grief, Stillman. It is only me.”
Relieved, Harry pushed himself up with his good arm and climbed to his feet. Wet had soaked through his shirt, and the right knee of his breeches was torn, blood dripping from a cut he couldn’t yet feel. He cradled his injured arm against his chest like a broken wing.
“I managed to save your jacket,” Ward said, holding out the blue coat Harry had taken off hours ago. The coat—along with two shirts—had cost Harry nearly one hundred pounds, though that bill was still outstanding with the tailor. Harry had managed to sweet-talk the tailor’s wife to make him the clothes, but when the articles had been delivered to Harry’s rooms in St. James, there had been a note from the tailor proclaiming that there would be no more orders accepted until the bill was paid in full—and that Harry was never to speak to the man’s wife again.
Harry straightened his posture in an attempt to regain his dignity even as he recognized the smell on his clothes. Alleyways in this part of London were little more than public toilets, and there had been no rain to wash the refuse away for a few days. He would have put on the jacket to cover the disgraceful state of himself except he could not afford to have the coat cleaned. He’d brought his last twenty-two pounds to the club tonight, increased it to nearly ten times its value, and then lost every penny in a matter of seconds. A drum beat in his head.
Lost it all. Lost it all. Lost it all.
“I need to beg for a chance to win it back,” he said, stepping toward the door. He had to convince the men to let him in. Maybe he could use his uncle’s name. He just needed a loan of twenty more pounds. In a couple of hours, he could be up again.
Ward grabbed Harry’s arm. “You have been banned, Stillman. Trying to enter will earn you a black eye and a fat lip.”
Harry shook out of Ward’s grasp, his body trembling from the rush of adrenaline. “But they can’t do that. They can’t take every farthing I have left and refuse me the chance to recover my losses!”
“You attacked the setter and tried to steal from the establishment. They tend to frown upon such things.”
“Steal? It is my money!” He hit his palm against his chest.
Ward rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. You started with, what, twenty pounds tonight, yet you believe that entire pot was your due?”
“I earned it!”
“You gambled for it. Winnings are not wages!”
Ward turned and began walking out of the alley. Harry followed because he did not know what else to do. He shivered for the first time, his physical senses returning. The irony of holding a coat he could not wear against the chill held no humor. What time was it? He looked up into the night sky, but he could barely see the stars for the soot in this part of the city.
“Ward,” Harry said after a few steps, reality weighing down his feet.
Ward kept walking toward the street.
“Ward,” Harry said more loudly, coming to a stop before they emerged from the passageway. Brick walls rose up a few dozen feet on either side, offering a semblance of privacy. Glass crunched beneath his shoes. A woman’s laughter floated down from one of the levels above him. Laughter was as foreign as sobriety these days. He flexed the hand of his injured arm, turning it this way and that. Nothing was broken, though it ached like the devil.
Ward, his closest friend—perhaps the only friend he had left—stopped and turned to face him. There were fleshy bags under his eyes, and he needed a shave. Harry surely looked just as poorly but smelled worse.
“I am ruined,” Harry said softly. “I’ve nothing left and no income for at least another month. It would not be near enough even if I were to receive it tomorrow.”
Ward looked irritated rather than sympathetic. Someone shouted from a street over, reminding Harry that they were not in a genteel part of the city. But he had nothing for thieves to steal, and he looked and smelled like an urchin, save for his coat, which he held over his injured arm and away from his soiled clothes.
“I told you to leave,” Ward said tightly as he pointed toward the door of the gaming hell behind them. “I did everything I could to get you away from the tables in time.”
Harry raked his hand through h
is hair, belatedly remembering the filth on his fingers. Would his landlord allow him a bath even though he was behind on his rent?
“I am ruined, Ward,” Harry said again. Did his friend understand what that meant? Did he know how low Harry truly was? “I’ve nothing to sustain me until the parcel is sold, which could take weeks.”
Suddenly Ward was striding toward him, anger adding power to each step. Harry shrank back as though Ward were going to strike him.
“What do you want me to say, Stillman?” Ward snapped, leaning toward him. “Do you want me to pat you on the head and tell you all will be well? Shall I convince you that one more night will change your circumstances?” He shook his head and pulled himself up to his full height, a few inches taller than Harry. “I am near my limit with this . . . dissipation. There is no fun in it anymore, and each night is a bigger disaster than the night before.”
“What can I do?” Harry pleaded. “I’ve no money to pay my expenses, and I can’t get credit with even a blacksmith anymore. I do not have the ten percent necessary to keep Malcolm at bay for another week.” He swallowed against the dryness in this throat. He had mere hours to come up with two hundred and seventy pounds. “Help me, Ward. I cannot think straight enough to come up with a solution. Malcolm knows where I lodge. He’ll come for me, and I have nothing to offer him.” He’d once been so good at clever answers to the scrapes he found himself in. Now it was just that beating drum.
Lost it all. Lost it all. Lost it all.
Ward took a breath, forcing calm as though he were the parent and Harry the disobedient child. “My parents have returned to Sussex, leaving the London house empty. We could stay there for a time. I don’t know where you’ll get funds, though.”
“Can I . . . Can I borrow enough from you to hold off Malcolm for one more week?”
Ward’s eyebrows came together, and his jaw clenched.
“You shall be the first person I pay back when I sell the parcel,” Harry said desperately. “And if I could borrow an extra fifty, I could triple it by the end of next week.”
Ward’s face went dark, and he turned to leave again.
“Ward, hear me out,” Harry said, hurrying to catch up.
It was the only solution, and Harry could make good on the loan. Not at this club, of course, but there were others he had not been barred from where he could win back all that he owed and more. Tonight was the perfect example of how lucky Harry could be. If he’d just left when he was ahead, or if Ward had not interrupted his luck routines, then things would have turned out very differently.
I need to get out of London, he told himself, a whiff of his former decision passing through his thoughts. But he couldn’t. Not now. Only in London could he win enough money to pay off his debts.
Ward turned to Harry, his nostrils flared, but then his eyes focused on something past Harry’s shoulder, and his expression went slack.
Harry belatedly heard footsteps on the cobbles and turned to see three men coming toward them from the shadowy end of the alley. His first thought was that they were the protectors from the club, but as they drew closer, he realized the man in the middle was familiar. Harry noted the scar that ran from beneath the man’s left eye to his jawline. Pocked skin and eyes as black as night confirmed the man’s identity.
“M-Malcolm,” Harry said under his breath, every part of his body going cold. The moneylender did not make it a habit to come after his debtors himself, and the fact that he was here now triggered Harry’s stuttering, left over from his childhood when fear and anxiety had made his tongue thick in his mouth.
“A little bird told me you didn’t come out ahead tonight,” Malcolm said with a tone of superiority. “I thought I better see to you before you thought about skipping out on your debt.”
The thick man to Malcolm’s right withdrew a short black club from beneath his coat, swinging it casually enough to emphasize that the movement was not casual at all. Harry remembered the man sent to the floor of the gaming hell with a single hit from a similar weapon.
The man on Malcolm’s left made no expression at all.
“W-what are you doing here?” Harry said, keeping his focus on Malcolm.
“Shoring up my bet. Desperate men sometimes attempt desperate measures, Mr. Stillman, and you strike me as the type to run out on me if you could. You owe me a great deal of money. Have you my payment?”
“I w-w-will have it by n-noon.”
Malcolm gave a punchy laugh. “How?”
“M-my friend is going to give m-me a loan.” Harry gestured to Ward but kept his eyes on Malcolm. The taps of the bully stick made clear Malcolm’s purpose in coming tonight. A man who could not walk could not run away from his debt. Harry had heard of it happening to others, but never imagined he would be fool enough to land himself in such a situation.
Malcolm turned to Ward, who stood frozen a few feet behind Harry, reminding him that Ward could very well pay for Harry’s sins even though it was Harry who had chosen this path over and over again, even when the pleasure was gone. Even when he’d burned through his estate’s profits and started to sell off his land in pieces.
“You have this money on your person, friend?” Malcolm asked Ward, lifting his eyebrows.
Ward blinked, then licked his lips. “No, sir.”
“But you are going to loan two hundred and seventy pounds to this waste of human flesh?” He waved toward Harry, who was trying to draw a full breath.
Harry stared at the club swinging from the bigger man’s hand. Uncle Elliott’s words from more than a year ago echoed in Harry’s mind: “I am attempting to save you from yourself before it is too late.”
Was this what “too late” looked like? Felt like? Had Harry reached the bottom of the barrel that had once seemed to have no end?
“I have until noon,” Harry said again. “And I’ll have p-payment by then, I p-promise.”
Malcolm looked at him again. “And what is your promise to me?”
The big man tapped the club against his thigh, the sound matching the new drumbeat in Harry’s throbbing head.
Get away. Get away. Get away.
Harry thought of the open end of the alley behind him. He might not be able to get the money in time, but he could save Ward and buy himself a few hours to at least attempt a solution.
Years ago, Harry and Ward had designated the Cumberland Gate of Hyde Park as a rendezvous spot should they be separated amid what used to be nothing but pranks in Town. Harry cleared his throat and coughed twice, hoping Ward would recognize the signal Harry had ignored when Ward had used it earlier.
What he would not give to go back and relive the last few hours of his life. Last few years, maybe. He heard Ward’s sharp intake of breath as the larger man stepped forward.
Harry threw his coat at the men to buy a few seconds and yelled, “Run!”
Sabrina startled from sleep and lifted her head from the window pane. The moon was still bright in the sky. There had been too many late nights these last weeks. She stood to stretch her arms over her head when movement drew her eye to the street below. She lowered her arms and leaned forward as a man, dressed in a dirty shirt—she did not think he even wore a cravat—ran hard down the center of George Street.
The height and thickness of her windows blocked the sound of his boots on the cobbles or what she assumed would be his ragged breath torn from his heaving lungs. His quick pace and heightened color in his cheeks showed his fear, however, which made Sabrina wish she could help him.
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning—far past the time a woman could act on her compassionate feelings for a golden-haired stranger.
As quickly as he’d entered one side of the frame of her window, he was gone through the other side.
Sabrina knelt on the window seat and leaned forward to see if she could catch an additional glimpse, but the other houses on the street blocked her view.
Another man, this one dressed ominously in black, entered the frame on the same
course. Clearly the man in the dirty shirt had not been running to anything, but rather from this man.
The large man slowed near the center of her window view, then stopped. He bent forward, hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. After several seconds, he shook his head and stood up again, though not fully. He kept his hand pressed to his side for another minute as he walked in slow circles, looking in the direction the other man had gone. Finally, he turned back the way he had come and walked out of view.
“And the fox outfoxes the hounding hounds,” Sabrina said quietly. Men like that would not give up, however. The fox for this hunt looked very much like the kind of man she attempted to save when she could: young, gentle born, with enemies he could not outrun forever.
Would that she could save this one.
The night returned to motionless dark. Sabrina raised her eyes to the moon again, grateful for this fox having reminded her of her purpose and her determination to use her position for something of good.
“But for grace,” she said, turning to her bed.
Another night.
Toward another day.
May God bless the poor foxes.
Harry peered cautiously through the curtain of the window in the parlor of Ward’s parents’ house in London. The street was clear, as it had been for the two days he’d been in hiding. No men in black coats looking out of place in Belgrave Square. No Ward either, however, and Harry felt near to bursting with anxiety over how long he’d been gone. Hours, now.
They’d gotten away from Malcolm on Saturday night by running different directions at Chapel Street and meeting up at the Cumberland Gate. Waiting for Ward to join him had been the longest hour of Harry’s life. It had been almost dawn when they had pounded on the servants’ entrance to wake the staff. A bellyful of rum had softened Harry’s nerves enough to allow him sleep.
Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency) Page 3
