Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  He tried to pull his right leg away when she attempted a tactile assessment, but she could already see the fabric of his trousers tight around his calf—possibly broken. The upper portion of his left leg was tender too. Could he have two broken legs? One upper and one lower? Other than having fallen from a great height, there was only one explanation for such injuries.

  But it was an early Monday morning, not a late Saturday night when a man would have to be on his guard against a robbery. His clothing and boots marked him as a gentleman. What was he doing here this time of day? She tensed and looked about herself. Were his attackers nearby?

  Sabrina felt a sudden urge to run for her carriage and get as far from here as she could, but she couldn’t leave him. She would fetch Jack! He could take over as the rescuer and call for a doctor.

  She started to rise, but the man groaned, drawing her attention and her sympathy back to his poor battered face.

  “Sir,” she said again, leaning closer so he could see her face if he opened his eyes—at least one eye did not look too swollen.

  “Wha-what . . .”

  He must be trying to ask what happened. It was a mercy that victims of such violence often did not remember it.

  “I think you’ve been attacked. Robbed, perhaps.” She looked down the passageway to where Adam would be waiting with the carriage. So close, and yet he’d have to leave the carriage to help her if she chose to go to him for help instead of Jack. “Have you a family member I can contact on your behalf? Do you live nearby?”

  “No one,” he said, the words slow and . . . sad. “P-please.” He opened his eye, and the blue of it stood out clear and bright amid his damaged face. With his good arm, he reached toward her face. She took hold of his hand before he touched her, then pushed the hair from his forehead, catching the first glint of its actual color—golden-blond. He was a young man, not past thirty.

  What on earth is he doing here this time of day? Perhaps he had not yet returned home from an evening of entertainment that had ended badly. Oh, England, she mourned, do you not see what you are allowing to happen to your legacy?

  “There must be someone I can call on for you.”

  He shook his head and closed his eye, sending a tear to track through the drying blood on his face.

  She felt her mother’s heart rise up in her chest—all the love and protectiveness she’d have given to her own child bursting forth like it had so many times before when someone in need crossed her path.

  “No one would come,” he whispered.

  No one? Could that be true? Unfortunately, Sabrina had known enough dissolute young men of society to know that it absolutely could be true. The poor foxes who did not outrun their hounds.

  “I am Lady Sabrina,” she said, wanting to give what comfort she could and earn his trust.

  “S-Stillman,” he said. “Harold Stillman.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Handsome, blond, blue-eyed. Just as she remembered him from years ago when they’d first met. Just as she’d pictured him when she had been sitting on the opposite side of the wall during their transaction that very morning. He did not seem to have recognized her name the way she’d recognized his, but he was only semiconscious, and they had been introduced only one time six years in the past.

  She ran her eyes over his broken body again and felt a second hitch in her breath. He’d likely been attacked shortly after their meeting to still be so close to the snuff shop location. Had Malcolm followed Mr. Stillman this morning? Jack always made a trek of winding through streets; perhaps he had lost them before he had reached The Lost Tartan. How else could Malcolm have intercepted Mr. Stillman in this particular part of the city at this specific time of day? Mr. Stillman had not left his friend’s house for nearly a week for fear of this very thing happening, but she’d insisted on the in-person meeting as she did with all her clients, regardless of their concerns.

  Mr. Gordon had warned her often enough about the risk of interfering with the business of these predatory lenders. But Mr. Stillman owed so much money and had already defaulted on his loan, which had spurred Mr. Gordon to issue an even greater warning when they had first considered him.

  Sabrina had discounted his concerns because this would be her last case for the Season, and she owed Mr. Stillman a debt from all those years ago. And now Mr. Stillman had been left for dead a short distance away from their meeting place. She felt sick. Was the beating meant to be a lesson for Mr. Stillman or Lord Damion?

  Mr. Stillman was still holding her hand, clinging to her as though she were his only hope in the world. Perhaps she was, and it was fate that had brought her to this particular place amid the labyrinth of alleyways and streets of this part of the city. She was a woman who dealt heavily in numbers and equations, and the likelihood of her finding him here was very low indeed. Thank goodness she had, however. She covered their joined hands with her other black-gloved one and considered the possible options.

  Mr. Stillman did not know she was Lord Damion—nor did any of the staff at Wimbledon House since she conducted Lord Damion’s business only when she was in the city. Taking Mr. Stillman to Wimbledon would get him out of London, hide him from Malcolm, provide him with care he desperately needed, protect her investment in his ability to pay back what he owed Lord Damion, and make up for this having happened to him. The risk to herself if she helped him was minimal compared to the risk to him if she did not. Her decision was made in a fraction of a second.

  “I’ve a carriage and a driver just down the way,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “I can take you to my house and have your injuries tended to.”

  He tightened his grip on her hand as more tears leaked from his closed eyes. “Thank . . . you,” he said on a gasp.

  On impulse, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, light and sweet and, she hoped, comforting.

  She released his hand and placed it on his chest. “I need to fetch my man and my driver. They can help you to my carriage,” she said. “I’ll be only a moment.”

  He nodded. She stood, her eyes on him as she rose, then she lifted her skirts and ran for Jack.

  What are you doing, Sabrina? she asked herself as she went around one corner and then across the terrace. The hood fell back from her hair as she ran, and she did not take the time to fix it.

  I am doing the right thing.

  Aren’t I?

  Sabrina took another sip of tea and glanced at the clock behind Nathan’s head, which was currently bowed over the seating chart she had arranged for his fast-approaching dinner party. After finding Mr. Stillman in the alley yesterday morning, she’d sent a note to Nathan canceling their usual Monday breakfast by claiming she’d had to go to Rose Haven on “urgent business.” It was the sort of excuse men used all the time, but of course Nathan had interrogated her when she’d arrived today in order to determine what could possibly be more important than breakfast with her brother—well, half brother—and dear friend.

  “That was a good move to sit Sir Bryan to the left of Lady Litchfield. She won’t ignite his political fires.”

  “He’s one of only three Whigs on the guest list. I tried to space them an equal distance from one another so as avoid too much concentrated fury in any one sector.”

  “Three?” Nathan looked up, his eyebrows pulled together. “Who else other than Sir Bryan?”

  “Mr. Manning.”

  Nathan nodded with sudden recognition. He needed to improve his ability to remember names and details; Sabrina would not be his hostess forever.

  “And Lady Louise,” Sabrina continued. “Rumor has it she’s trying to find a place for her son in the party leadership as she believes he will be the one to save the party in the long term.”

  “Little Daniel?” Nathan said incredulously. “Is he even out of his Eton collars yet?”

  “He’s in his last year of university and has been recently coming to London for party events. Apparently he’s quite the political
debater at Oxford.” He was not only showing interest in political rallies, however. Little Daniel had also become an increasing presence in the gaming hells of London when he was in Town, buoyed by the same ego and wealth that had been the downfall of too many men just like him. She hoped he would not one day need Lord Damion’s help, which is why she’d placed herself next to Lady Louise on the seating chart in hopes she could drop a few subtle but well-placed bits of advice.

  No one of the ton knew of Sabrina’s secret persona, but she’d gained a reputation—especially among mothers of young people—as someone who knew about the underground workings of the youthful aristocracy. They believed she got her information from Nathan, which served her purposes. No one questioned why or how Nathan knew such things, and their own embarrassment of being connected to the darker corners of Town kept them from speculating.

  When Sabrina kindly cautioned a woman to pay greater attention to the man courting her daughter, or made a discreet comment about a woman’s son having been seen regularly in St. Giles, mothers listened. Sometimes they even came to her with questions of their own, and she used her sources to find out if their son or nephew or daughter’s beau had lifestyles that did not show in more polite company.

  “Excellent work on the party, Sabrina,” Nathan said, grinning at her after reviewing the chart one more time. They each had their mothers’ eyes—hers brown and his green—but shared their father’s full lips and wide smile, which made them look like full-blooded siblings. “You never cease to amaze me with your understanding of people, sister mine.”

  Sister, she repeated in her mind, feeling a rush of tenderness.

  When Sabrina had been brought into the Old Duke’s household after Mama’s death, she had been immediately sent to school in Brighton, then Dublin, and finally Bath. She came “home” to the Old Duke’s principal estate on school holidays but never forgot her shameful place. Most of the time, the duchess had already removed to a different estate before her arrival.

  Sabrina had never sat at the same dinner table as the duchess or ridden in the same carriage. The Old Duke had suggested Sabrina call him “Your Grace” rather than “Father,” as his legitimate sons did. Sabrina had known, even then, that she had no place for complaint. She had tried to make herself small and quiet and unnoticed. She’d missed her mother horribly.

  Nathan, however, had been thrilled to have a sister from the start and sought her out even as everyone else pretended she was invisible. Over time, he became her advocate in the household and breathed esteem back into her feelings about herself. He insisted she get a new wardrobe when he did before each term, and he introduced her as his sister despite the way it infuriated his mother and raised the eyebrows of nearly everyone else. If he received an invitation to an event while Sabrina was at the estate, he asked to bring her along. If they refused, he did not attend. “We are together in this,” he would say when Sabrina objected or tried to beg off out of embarrassment. In time, the invitations included her name, she made friends of her own, and her confidence grew.

  When Sabrina had turned nineteen, she was sponsored for a Season by the Old Duke’s cousin—Mrs. Ambrose—who had been as accepting of Sabrina as Nathan had been. A natural daughter could never be presented at court the way a legitimate daughter could, but having a powerful father and an accepting brother had attracted a few suitors who, in exchange for her dowry and family connection, could give her a legitimate place in the Polite World. Richard Carlisle had seemed to be the best choice of the men who came calling—older, wealthy, from a good family, in need of an heir, and eager to move up the social ladder. If only she had known . . .

  “Sabrina?” Nathan asked.

  She shook herself back to the present and repaired her smile. “Sorry, woolgathering.”

  Nathan eyed her suspiciously. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course.” She avoided his eye by leaning forward and plucking a macaron from the plate of identical pink confections. Father employed a French chef here at the London house. Raspberry, she concluded as the chewy confection filled her mouth with sweetness. She adored all things raspberry.

  “Would your distraction have anything to do with your missing yesterday’s breakfast?”

  She laughed to cover her annoyance at his return to the topic and picked up another macaron. “I miss one breakfast, and you’re practically apoplectic. I have told you I had to reschedule our breakfast due to matters I needed to attend to in Wimbledon. I am—as I’ve said three times now—very sorry.”

  There had been only one thing to attend to in Wimbledon, however: Harry Stillman.

  Therese, as Sabrina’s housekeeper, had determined she could manage Mr. Stillman’s injuries without calling for a physician—she was all but one herself—and settled him in one of the east bedrooms. He’d been bathed and splinted and forced to drink broth every few hours before being dosed with laudanum to help him sleep. His shoulder was back in socket thanks to Joshua—the lone footman at Wimbledon House and Therese’s son. Mr. Stillman’s lower right leg was, in fact, broken, but the bone had been easily set—thank goodness—and he had cracked ribs on one side. The other injuries amounted to cuts and bruises that needed only cleaning and bandaging.

  Sabrina had looked in on him before taking the carriage into Town. He’d been sleeping, his hair tousled and his face bruised but his color improved.

  “Well, see, that’s just it,” Nathan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at her. “In all the years I’ve known you, you have never—not once—forgotten anything.” He had not been in London much during her marriage to Richard or he would have had to withstand numerous notes of regrets and rescheduling when she was forced to stay home to hide the evidence of how her marriage had been failing.

  “Then one would think I’ve earned the right to change my plans this one time. Goodness, you act as though I’ve turned my allegiance to France.”

  Nathan kept his posture of interrogation, but Sabrina remained unruffled. His expression was serious, however, and that made it difficult for her to stay still in her seat. She did not want him to worry about her or wonder too much about the parts of her life he was not privy to. He was a soft, safe place she did not want to compromise.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem anxious.”

  “I’m just tired,” Sabrina said, though she was touched by his concern. She took another sip of her tea, long cold. “I’ll be relieved when Parliament ends. It’s been a very busy Season. Enjoyable, of course, I have had a wonderful time, but the blush does fade from the rose over time.”

  “Are you truly going to be in Naples all the way past Christmas?”

  Sabrina felt a flush creep up her neck at the reminder of the trip she’d thought nothing about since discovering Mr. Stillman in the alley. He would need different accommodations before she left in five weeks. Could he find such a place? Would he be healed enough to travel?

  Nathan furrowed his eyebrows as he continued to stare her down.

  Sabrina recovered herself by putting on a bright smile and leaning toward him. “I am so very excited about this trip,” she said as though admitting a secret, exaggerating her feelings in hopes of hiding the other thoughts filling the spaces of her mind. “Months amid vineyards and new society and my dear Meg—I wish I were leaving tomorrow.”

  Nathan relaxed some, leading her to believe she’d convinced him. “Except that if you were leaving tomorrow you would miss my dinner party, and I would be gaping at everyone like a fool for not knowing how to manage it.”

  Sabrina laughed, loving that, despite the pomp that accompanied his position, he was still humble enough to be insecure sometimes. “Well, yes, for that reason alone I must bide my time. Will you return to Hilltop when the Season ends?” Hilltop Manor was the sprawling mansion of the Old Duke’s principal estate. Sabrina had never felt at home there.

  Nathan leaned back. “I might go on to Peterborough. Lady Carolyn will be summering in
Elton with an aunt there, not far from Crawford.”

  Sabrina’s smile widened as her eyebrows came up. Crawford was little more than a cottage set on land where their father liked to hunt now and again. For Nathan to stay there indefinitely said volumes about his interest in Lady Carolyn. “Oh really,” she said sweetly. “Have you made a decision, then?”

  He feigned a casual position, crossing his ankles and leaning to the side. “I invited her for a stroll through the park after you did not show up for yesterday’s breakfast, and she did not balk at an early appointment. The city is still too populated for me to be able to go out like that at usual hours. Her parasol did not match her dress, and when my hat was blown off, she ran after it with me.” He smiled at the memory. Nathan took comfort in things being less than perfect; he said it made him feel more comfortable in his surroundings. Perhaps that explained his devotion to Sabrina all these years. He continued. “I like her more and more each time I have the pleasure of her company. And Father approves.”

  “So my cancellation turned out to be a boon for you,” Sabrina said with a touch of authority, keeping her distrust of their father’s judgment to herself.

  Nathan did not know the particulars of the falling out between Sabrina and the Old Duke, and for her part, he never would. When forced to be in the Old Duke’s company, which happened a few times each Season, Sabrina treated their father with polite respect, but that was all. That the Old Duke did not seem to notice the change in her response to him was another testament that she had never been all that important.

  “Perhaps you will be more tolerant of happy accidents that take place in your favor from now on,” she said.

  They made plans for Sabrina to attend an informal dinner on Sunday night to do a final review of the dinner plans slated for the following Friday—the night Parliament was expected to close—then they said their goodbyes.