Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Should it come to that, Harry would have nothing. Well, aside from his life and five hundred pounds, which felt like a fortune right now. He would do anything he could to keep from losing the estate, however, and he was eager to get out of the city and away from the life he’d thought would make him happy but had only brought him to ruin. Once in the country, he would have time to consider his options and plan for his future.

  This concludes our business. Please review all that has passed between us on this sheet and sign to confirm that all is correct.

  Harry confirmed the terms and signed and dated the paper. The paper passed through the slot and almost immediately a different paper was passed to him and the slot closed. Obviously, this letter had been written ahead of time as it was in ink.

  Dear Mr. Stillman,

  This letter concludes our business. Mr. Gordon will send receipts as your individual debts are paid off in full. You are required to stay in London until all such transactions are concluded, after which you may commence your six-month removal to Falconridge. I hope that you recognize the opportunity this transaction has afforded you to choose a different path than the one you have chosen thus far. Like the prodigal son, you have squandered your inheritance. I am extending you the chance to learn from those mistakes rather than be defined by them. Whether or not this second chance proves to be worth my efforts will ultimately be up to you.

  I wish you the best in regard to the new future ahead of you. Do not forget, Mr. Stillman, that my faith in you is based upon my belief that you are worthy of my investment. Change your life.

  The world needs good men. I hope you will choose to become one of them.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Damion

  The Harry Stillman of even a few months ago would have scoffed at such arrogant instruction. The Harry Stillman of today read the letter twice and felt tears rise to his eyes.

  This Lord Damion, whoever he was, believed Harry capable of better things, and Harry could not remember a time when he’d wanted to rise to such an expectation. Actually, he could not remember a time when he’d wanted to rise to anything outside of wanting his father’s praise, which he’d learned to live without. One of the letters Harry needed to write as part of the terms of Lord Damion’s rescue would be to Uncle Elliott for him having paid off several debts before drawing the line. What would Harry say? There was enough pride left in him to find the prospect uncomfortable.

  Harry folded the letter carefully and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat so he could read it again. Often. The way was outlined ahead of him—he must curtail his irresponsible behaviors, learn to manage his estate, and bring the remaining portion to profitability. Lord Damion believed him capable, and Harry felt a swelling desire to prove him right. Hope was a powerful thing he hadn’t known he would recognize when he saw it again.

  Harry remained in his chair for a solid five minutes, waiting for Jack to fetch him. Nothing happened. He listened for movement on the other side of the wall but heard nothing from there either. Had Lord Damion already left?

  He knocked on the partition, but no one responded.

  Gray morning light filtered through the opaque windows, but everything was still, save for the occasional shout from the street outside or the rumble of a carriage wheel on the cobbles as the city came to life. Without his grandfather’s watch, Harry could only guess at the time, but he suspected it was nearly seven o’clock in the morning. Markets would open soon, and maids and manservants would start going about their duties. Harry needed to get back to the town house. Until the debt to Malcolm was settled, Harry was still at risk.

  He finally stood and walked toward the kitchen door he’d come through a lifetime ago. He paused, looking back at the small table beside the wall through which he and Lord Damion had corresponded. From here, the panel was invisible. How many people came to the pub and ate and laughed and drank without realizing there was a portal that led to some mysterious, hidden room?

  The kitchen was empty, the lamp that had been there earlier put out. The only light came from a greasy window set upon the back wall. Harry ducked out of the door, blinking twice to help his eyes adjust to the light, though the brightness of day was not yet upon the alleys. It was a relief to see Jack leaning against a wall several feet away, smoking a pipe. He nodded at Harry but made no move to lead Harry away the way he had led Harry in. It seemed that Jack’s services were at an end.

  Harry left in search of a main road he could use to get his bearings. He ended up on the street that ran in front of the pub where he’d sat for the meeting. “The Lost Tartan” was painted on a wooden sign hung out front; Harry had never heard of it before. The pub shared a wall with a snuff shop where heavy drapes had been pulled over the windows. That had to be where Lord Damion had been during their exchange.

  Did Lord Damion own both businesses? How did he orchestrate meetings like this without anyone discovering his true identity? And yet Harry was beginning to understand the loyalty that protected him. It seemed wrong to want to know more about Lord Damion than Lord Damion wanted Harry to know. How many men had Lord Damion helped the way he was helping Harry now? Harry felt no temptation to wait around the snuff shop to see who Lord Damion really was.

  Red gloves, fine penmanship, and loyal partners in Jack and Mr. Gordon was enough for Harry to know about his mysterious benefactor.

  Harry turned and walked down the street feeling lighter than he had in weeks and capable of thinking beyond what tomorrow may bring. He tried to remember his favorite parts of growing up at Falconridge—miles of country to ride through in the early morning mist, fresh milk each morning, and that wide banister perfect for sliding down on the seat of his pants. A moment before he would hit the knob at the bottom of the staircase, Harry would push himself off and land perfectly on the bottom step, feet flat, knees bent, weight in his heels. He was likely too big to do it now, but he’d give it a try just in case. He could find happiness in being a country gentleman, surely.

  He could find happiness.

  That alone was incredible.

  He did not hear the footsteps until they were upon him. The club hit him in the middle of his belly and bent him forward at the same moment his knees were kicked out from behind him, pitching him headfirst into the cobblestones. Air burst from his lungs, and as soon as he rolled to his back, a man stuffed a thick rag into his mouth.

  His kicking did nothing to slow the men as they each hitched an arm under one of his and dragged him through a narrow alley between two buildings, around one corner and then another. They threw him to the ground beside a pile of broken barrels, and Harry only managed to get halfway to his feet before his arms were grabbed again and twisted behind him so quickly that Harry’s right shoulder popped.

  He screamed against the rag as searing pain shot through his arm and back. Rather than ease up, the man pulled harder. The world swam in front of Harry’s eyes until he managed to focus on the black club in the hand of the large man standing in front of him; the same man he’d seen a week ago standing beside Malcolm in an alley much like this one. The man who had chased him through a maze of winding streets before Harry had managed to lose him.

  The large man lifted the club over his bulky shoulder, and Harry shook his head, his pleas muffled by the rag. He needed to explain that he’d just arranged to have the debt paid—Malcolm would get a letter of settlement that very afternoon. The club stayed lifted, and the man from behind spoke into Harry’s ear, the words hissing through his teeth. “This can go easy or this can go hard.”

  By all the gods, he would go easy! Harry nodded fast enough that the world began to swim again.

  The large man lowered the club to his side and pulled the rag from Harry’s mouth. Harry coughed against the dryness left behind.

  “Malcolm has some questions for you, Mr. Stillman,” said the man holding his arms, his breath hot in Harry’s ear. “Where was Lord Damion’s meeting place?”

  “I-I don’t . . . Lord Damion?
”

  The man with the club moved faster than Harry would have guessed possible, cracking the weight against Harry’s ribs on the right side. Pain exploded through his body, but the other man covered Harry’s mouth to muffle the resulting scream.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we, Mr. Stillman?” the man from behind asked. He moved his hand from Harry’s mouth, and Harry gasped, saliva dripping from his bottom lip.

  The man with the club leaned close. “We know you was meeting with Lord Damion, don’t do no good to lie to us about that, and we know the meeting spot must be nearby. Where did you meet him?”

  “Hoof and Groom,” Harry lied without hesitation, referencing a pub located near Covent Garden but reasonably close, he thought. There was an entrance through the kitchen of that club to a members-only gaming hell that Harry had once frequented. He wasn’t going to betray Lord Damion, the man who’d saved him. Except Lord Damion hadn’t saved him from this, had he? How did these men know that the meeting place was close by?

  “M-Mal-colm w-will be p-paid,” Harry gasped. “T-today.”

  “Who is Lord Damion?”

  “I d-don’t know.” It was a relief not to have to lie about that.

  Then his mouth was covered again, and the club whistled through the air, ending with a crack against Harry’s left thigh that buckled Harry’s legs. The man holding his arms kept Harry from falling, but the pressure on his popped shoulder split the pain into equally excruciating parts. Harry could no longer focus his eyes, and his stomach rolled with nausea.

  “Don’t lie to us,” the man behind him said. “Who is Lord Damion?”

  He moved his hand, and Harry gasped, unable to draw a full breath as vomit rose in his throat.

  “Y-you have to . . . b-believe me. He was on the other side of a w-wall, and I never . . . s-saw him. No, don’t!” The club cracked against his right shin. Harry twisted hard to get away, sending him and the man holding him into the pile of crates. His head hit against something harder than the club, and his eyes rolled back as everything went dark.

  Lady Sabrina flipped open the silver pocket watch—a man’s version rather than a woman’s because the larger face was easier to read. It was 8:06, and Mr. Stillman had been gone for an hour, which meant it was safe for her to leave the snuff shop that shared the wall with The Lost Tartan.

  She owned both businesses, or, rather, Lord Damion did, and Jack worked as the manager. Jack also kept her up-to-date on information about the goings-on in Town that she didn’t hear about in drawing rooms. As expected, Mr. Stillman had tried to get her attention when he realized he’d been left alone in the pub, but he hadn’t tried for long before finding his way back to the alley. Jack had knocked three times on the door to the snuff shop some five minutes ago to assure her that all was clear.

  Sabrina slipped the watch back into the sash of her charcoal-colored dress and stood, taking a few seconds to stretch her back, which was tight from four hours of sitting in an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. She always arrived an hour early for her appointments with the foxes, and she always stayed an hour longer to make sure she did not accidentally cross paths with the client coming to or from their appointment.

  An afternoon nap would certainly be in order before the Kirkhams’ ball tonight where she would dance most of the sets. Despite her advanced age of thirty-two, men of the ton enjoyed taking the floor with a woman rather than a girl of the Season more often than she would have guessed when she had been one of the young ones.

  Sabrina closed the leather-bound notebook in front of her. She had used her hour waiting for Mr. Stillman to leave to finish organizing the seating chart for Nathan’s dinner party next week. At their weekly Monday breakfast this morning, she would show her brother the arrangement, guide him toward an excellent menu, and, upon approval of those plans, set about the hundred and five additional tasks she would need to delegate to his staff or complete herself before the event. Invitations would need to be delivered by Thursday, so penning them would be a good task to fill the hours between dinner and bedtime. And after tonight’s ball she had no more evening engagements until Friday.

  The Season was winding down, and she was ready for a slower pace, even though it intensified the loneliness that had begun to plague her. Soon enough, however, she would set sail for Naples. And she had Mr. Stillman’s case to occupy her thoughts in the meantime. He was the fifth and last case this Season. In Mr. Gordon’s opinion, she should not have taken him on at all, but she’d recognized his name as the man who had helped her all those years ago in the Gilmores’ garden. When Mr. Stillman had explained having run from Malcolm’s men to Hyde Park on the evening of the twenty-eighth, she’d realized the impossible truth that he had been the golden-haired fox in a dirty shirt she’d seen from her window. Between the debt she owed him from years ago and the sympathy she’d felt for him more recently, she felt driven to accept him.

  Sabrina slid the notebook next to Mr. Stillman’s folio in her satchel—also a man’s version, which was roomy enough to hold ledgers and papers—then changed out of her red gloves. If anyone managed to catch a glimpse of “Lord Damion” during these meetings, they would only remember the gloves. She pulled on black leather ones that matched her black coat and dress befitting a widow in mourning, put the red gloves into her satchel and fastened the straps. The letter she’d written to Mr. Gordon with an account of the meeting was in the pocket of her dress and gave the official go-ahead to begin settling Mr. Stillman’s accounts. By the end of the week, the threat Mr. Stillman was living under would be lifted, and his way would be cleared.

  Sabrina felt sure that Mr. Stillman, once he was out of debt, away from London, and off the tables, would begin to want those things that were natural desires for a young man in the prime of his life—respect, family, success. Contrasting his new life with the old one would show him more fully the error of his ways and hopefully motivate him toward responsible citizenship in a country where he’d been given every opportunity to thrive. Whatever bit of good a person exercised in the world was a step toward making it a better place for everyone. Helping Mr. Stillman was one more way in which Sabrina was fulfilling that measure for herself while helping him to do the same. The brief encounter with him all those years ago proved that he was capable of better things than what he had chosen of late.

  Sabrina arranged her bag so the satchel lay against her hip, then retrieved her cloak—also a man’s—from the hook near the door and threw it over her shoulders. She tied the strings at the neck and then pulled the hood over her ebony hair so her face would stay in shadow.

  Lady Sabrina always wore rose-colored stain on her lips—just enough that it could be her natural color. As a widow, she could get away with eccentricities, but not too many if she also hoped to maintain her reputation as a woman of character. When working as Lord Damion, she disposed of the trademark color so as not to draw any unnecessary attention.

  She opened the door a few inches, smelled Jack’s pipe smoke in the air, which verified the way was clear, and let herself into the alley.

  Jack would have been coming and going as he ran his morning errands this last hour, keeping an eye on the shops while also preparing for the day. His knock always came when he was ready to take a smoking break, and it had been a long and busy morning for him already.

  She crossed to him and handed him the letter for Mr. Gordon regarding Mr. Stillman’s accounts.

  “I’ll see it’s delivered right quick, ma’am,” Jack said with a nod as he tucked it inside his coat. He turned east, toward the wider street where the messenger boys would already be hanging about.

  There had been a few instances where one of her new foxes had waited out of sight, hoping to discover Lord Damion. Jack usually found them before any risk was posed to herself, but once she had come face-to-face with the new fox. He’d been looking for a nobleman, not a widow in mourning trying to get a start on the day’s errands, so he’d muttered a good morning while straining to see
around her for the true object of his curiosity.

  Mr. Stillman struck her as more grateful than curious, and she sensed he was eager to return to the safety of the hole where he had been hiding for over a week now. Malcolm’s men were likely seeking him, and she did not think he would take chances.

  Sabrina kept her head down as she followed her feet out the south end of the alley, across the terrace and through another narrow walkway that would lead to the location where her unmarked carriage had been waiting for quarter of an hour. She was halfway down the corridor when she heard a scraping across the cobbles, like a dragging shoe.

  She froze and then looked over both shoulders in turn. The walls of the buildings created an echo chamber that made it impossible to determine what direction the sound had come from. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward to hide her face, took a step, paused to listen again, and then took another. There was no good time of day for a woman to be alone in London, but outside of business hours was the most unsafe. She gripped the strap of the satchel concealed by her coat. She must not lose the satchel.

  The unmistakable sound of a groan turned her around, and she scanned the barrels and crates stacked on one side of the alley.

  The moan sounded again.

  With another glance to make sure no one was watching her, she moved toward the barrels, then gasped when she saw a foot, or, rather, a boot, sticking out. As she moved around the pile of crates, she inhaled sharply when a man’s body came into view. His face was a patchwork of bruises and blood that made his hair look as black as hers in the shadows of the alley. Hurrying forward, she dropped to her knees beside him.

  “Sir,” she said in a soft voice, leaning close to him. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He groaned again. His shoulder was set at an awkward angle, and she cringed; a dislocated shoulder was relatively simple to fix, though the very devil for pain. The wound on his forehead was no longer actively bleeding, so Sabrina ran her hands up and down the man’s arms first—no breaks—then his legs to check for additional injuries.