Almost a Gentleman (22 page)

Swine
? The unexpected word almost captured David's attention, its very incongruity an appeal to his human curiosity. Almost. But words are puny things in the face of incipient violence. Why not, he thought, simply stem the flow of words issuing from Stokes's mouth? He squared his shoulders, balled up a fist, and directed all his strength toward the blow he was preparing.

Do it
, the roar in his head told him.
Knock him senseless before he kills you with what he's saying
. David could almost feel the connection of fist and jaw, the sickening shatter of bone, the soft squish of what was now a human face, but which soon…

The face in front of him remained a human face. His fist hadn't made the connection. David blinked in confusion. He was trapped, suspended, his wrist caught in a large, meaty hand for a moment before Stokes roughly shoved him back into his corner of the cab. A perfect defensive move. Damn if the fellow hadn't learned a thing or two during those weekly boxing lessons.

"Sorry, guv'nor, but I don't think yer really want to do that. Too much blood been spilt tonight already."

He handed David a battered flask.

"'Ave a swallow, my lord. It ain't the quality yer used to, but…"

David obeyed. The stuff stung his mouth, burning through the haze of his fury and stilling the roar in his head. Normal sounds of civilization began to penetrate—shouts in the street, the cabbie chucking to the horses, the clatter of their hooves on the cobbles. He peered out of the window. They'd negotiated the traffic and would be in Brunswick Square in minutes.

"Thank you, Stokes."

"Thanks yerself, guv'nor, fer teachin' me 'ow to block a punch."

"Sorry for the punch, though. Or the attempt at one anyway."

"I know yer are, guv'nor. And I'm sorry I let yer down, too."

"You did your job. More than your job, really. I hadn't required you to keep watch on the house after she'd retired for the night. And she
had
… retired for the night." He grimaced. "Though she evidently wasn't ready to sleep yet."

He and Stokes passed the flask between them, taking long, meditative swallows.

"Maybe there's another explanation," Stokes said soothingly. "After all, we don't really know wot all…"

"
Do you
think there's another explanation?"

Stokes's silence was distressingly convincing.

David nodded. "I thought not."

"But what was it you were saying, Stokes, just at the moment I tried to knock you silly? Something about pigs, was it? No, no, not pigs,
swine
. Yes, I remember now, you distinctly said something about swine."

"The note, sir. Pinned to the front o' the boy's shirt. Funny item that was, all cut o' letters from the newspapers. Lot o' work to say not very much. And the words didn't make a lot o' sense neither."

"What did it say?"

"Lemme see if I can recall 'em exactly. Yeh. Peculiar imagination behind it. Poetical like. Words said, 'AND SO WILL THE MEN SHE KEEPS LIKE SWINE.' "

The note was still crumpled in her hand as Phoebe paced the room.

Quite artful really, she thought. My vicious adversary fancies himself a poet, even as he mauls my poor, innocent Billy so savagely.

The message was obviously a continuation of the one she'd received the preceding week. They were intended to be read together. AN UNNATURAL WOMAN WILL MEET AN UNNATURAL END. AND SO WILL THE MEN SHE KEEPS LIKE SWINE.

As though the hatred inspiring them couldn't be contained in one message but must spill its venom into a second.

And why should it stop with a second letter? she thought. Why shouldn't it simply go on until I'm utterly terrorized? Or, as the letter predicted, until she had met her unnatural end. But she wouldn't think of that.

She lifted her chin. She wouldn't be terrorized. Well, she wouldn't
look
terrorized anyway: she owed that much to Mr. Simms, who stood in the shadows by the doorway, radiating quiet sympathy for her. Much as she wanted to throw the vile thing into the fire, she'd be patient, logical. A piece of paper couldn't hurt her; she'd file it away with the others, as evidence for future investigation. Forcing herself to smooth it out, she folded it and tucked it into the pocket of her black dressing gown, half expecting the thing to burn through the fabric of the robe and singe her thigh through her trousers underneath. But it didn't.

See, they are only words
. Willing herself to master her panic, she took a few deep shuddering breaths and stared down at Billy.

He was too big for the settee they'd laid him on, she thought. He must be uncomfortable with his limbs all twisted like that. But perhaps Mr. Simms was right. Perhaps it was better not to carry him upstairs until they knew how badly he'd been hurt.

Where the devil was Doctor Riggs? Her lips curved in a bitter half-smile. She hadn't thought of it when she'd sent a footman to fetch him but he was probably at Lady Claringworth's reception. Odd how these things worked. Still, he'd come if summoned. In fact he'd hurry; Henry's mother's receptions were deadly dull. Riggs would be delighted: a night spent in the stifling center of Polite Society would find its perfect complement in a raffish episode at its fringe. How delightfully
recherche
for a society doctor.

Come quickly
, she silently implored him.
Yes, I'll provide the entertainment. You can dine out on this evening at Marston's for weeks. Only come quickly and take care of my poor Billy
.

One of his eyes was swollen totally shut. The flesh looked like raw meat, she thought. And his nose—the elegant Grecian nose that had given his young face such purity—looked crushed, misshapen. He breathed raggedly, through bloody split lips.

She stroked his forehead with guilty, hesitant fingers. His skin was clammy. The eyelid that wasn't swollen shut had fluttered open once or twice. Possibly he'd recognized her: his lips might have tried to shape an
M
sound.

And damn me
, she thought,
if I didn't feel a flash of fear when I thought he'd speak. Didn't want him calling me "Miss" while the footman was making afire across the room
.

The abortive
M
sound had been perfectly acceptable, though. Billy could have been attempting to say "Marston," or "Mr. Marston." But how horrid that she'd had to worry about such things when Billy was in such a state. Worse that she'd had to take the painstaking time to don her masquerade this evening, instead of flying down the stairs to see him. It was hateful to have to look out for her own petty safety, when she had endangered—perhaps caused the imminent death of—an innocent creature.

Another
innocent creature.
Stop it, Phoebe
, she cautioned herself,
don't think such thoughts
!

But she couldn't stop herself from thinking of the danger to which she'd exposed Lord Linseley and Mr. Simms. Or all of her manservants, for that matter. THE MEN SHE KEEPS LIKE SWINE. How could she vouch for anyone's safety in the face of tonight's madness?

It had been Mr. Simms who'd proposed she summon Lord Linseley. Phoebe had agreed reluctantly, her native honesty ultimately winning out over her fear of disclosing this mess to him.

For he'd hate her now. Even though—she felt sure of this—he'd continue to help her. It would be a humiliation to accept his assistance, but she'd do it gladly if it meant sparing anyone else from what had happened to Billy.

And anyway, she thought, David deserved to know that she'd kept secrets from him. She feared his arrival, but she wished for it as well. The sooner she and he had it out the better, even if it meant she'd never have him in her arms again.

Suppose it had been
him
who'd been attacked tonight? The sudden thought made her dizzy. She stopped pacing, reaching out to steady herself for a moment against a length of wainscoting.

Mr. Simms reached out to her from where he stood near the fireplace. She raised a hand to reassure him. The vertigo had passed, giving way to calm and resignation. She'd simply have to accept the mayhem she'd caused. Blaming herself again and again wouldn't help anyone. Better to concentrate on whatever good she could do.

"I'll take that brandy you offered, Simms," she called, seating herself on an ottoman at Billy's side.

Sipping her drink, she held his hand. "Live, live, Billy, you must live, dear," she whispered in a voice that held not a trace of Marston's cynicism. Mr. Simms had sent all the other servants away. Good thing. She would make the most of these minutes before the doctor came. She would find her best self—she would
be
her best self—before she had to assume her mask and become Marston once more.

Oh yes, the boy would certainly live, Dr. Riggs assured Mr. Marston. The toughs had done a nasty job on him, but he seemed to be a strong lad and he wasn't suffering any internal injury. The broken bones could be set, he'd be able to breathe normally through a permanently crooked nose, and the concussion would heal quickly.

"We've got a few hours of messy work ahead of us," the doctor said. "Not pleasant for the patient, either, but he'll bear up."

"You see, Mr. Marston," he added, "his eyes are starting to focus even now."

Billy stared obediently at Phoebe, to show her how well he could focus. She smiled down at him, but when he tried to return her smile he could only shudder with pain.

"What's causing most of his misery at this moment," the doctor continued, "is that dislocated shoulder. We'll need a strong man to hold him still while I push it back into place. Someone possessed of a bit more brawn than I expect you have, sir."

Phoebe nodded archly. "It's true, I suppose," she drawled, "that
my
sort of gentleman—the more ornamental sort, don't you know—isn't what's most desperately needed in the situation we find ourselves in. But there's someone quite splendidly brawny, as you put it, waiting in the library right now." She lingered on the word "brawny." rolling it about in her mouth and raising her eyebrows suggestively. "Simms, could you go fetch Mr. Stokes?"

Lord Linseley and Mr. Stokes had arrived soon after the doctor, and Simms had discreetly led them into the library to wait until after the examination.