Anita Mills (3 page)

“You will walk out the front door, my lord, and turn directly left. We are awaited just beyond the corner.” Warily, she watched him pass her. “If any asks—”

“If any asks, I shall merely say I am going walking with one of the housemaids,” he decided. “Though ’twill cause comment, I am sure.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward despite his attempt not to smile. “Usually, I suspect that sort of thing is done indoors, you know.”

She had the grace to flush. “And I suspect you know a great deal more on that head than I, sir,” she responded tartly. “In fact, I am sure of it.”

“Am I to collect you do not mean to compromise me?” he asked wickedly.

“Not in the least. But we waste time, sir. I shall be but a few paces behind you.”

“Ah—you favor the Indian style, I see.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It does not signify.” He opened the door and noted a trifle regretfully that there was no one in the hall. And again, he considered swinging around in an attempt to disarm her. But there was still the chance that the pistol would discharge accidentally. He picked up his beaver hat from the table just inside the door. “To the left, you say?”

“Yes.”

Any other time, he was sure he could have depended on his late cousin’s staff to be everywhere, but not this night. He walked across the deserted foyer and let himself outside. The chill, damp air hit him, clearing the wine from his mind. For a moment, he stood there, seeing the row of gas lights glowing like yellow dots in the fog.

“Go on.”

He shrugged, then hunched his shoulders against the cold and walked down the steps. A carriage rolled past in the street, its wheels spraying the gutters before it disappeared somewhere into the swirling mists. As usual, he reflected wryly, it had been raining. His abominable luck.

He walked with a limp, favoring his right leg. Behind him, she kept her eyes trained on his back, ever wary lest he bolt and run for help. But he did not. The thought crossed her mind as she followed him that he was very tall—and certainly more than able to overpower her—especially once they were inside the cramped confines of the carriage. She would have to exercise great vigilance if she were to get him all the way home.

“I don’t suppose you mean to tell me where we are going?” he wondered aloud, as though he could hear her thoughts.

“No.”

“’Tis a blind adventure, is it?”

“Yes.”

A coachman stepped out of the fog and led the way to a decidedly old-fashioned carriage. “Gor—is that ‘im, miss?” he asked, looking up at Red Jack.

“Get in,” she ordered. And as Jack complied, she nodded to the fellow. “ ’Twas an easy task, Jem—the baron was in his cups.”

Taking great care to keep the pistol on her prisoner, she climbed into the coach and took the seat opposite him. He sat, his head leaned back, his face in deep shadows, his hands crossed over his waistcoat, and his legs stretched out to take up much of the space between them. She pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders, then settled against the cracked leather squabs. Jem closed the door behind her and swung up into the box.

“I hope,” Red Jack drawled lazily as the coach lurched forward, “you do not mean to doze, Miss Smith. I should not advise it.”

“No.”

The carriage picked up speed, rolling through the wet streets. Jack sat there in the darkness watching her, ever alert for some sign that she meant to relax her vigilance. Finally, he exhaled deeply and rubbed his aching leg.

“Where are you taking me? Surely there can be no harm in telling me now?”

“Home.”

“I cannot say as I recognize the accent,” he murmured, “so perhaps you would enlighten me as to where you are from?”

“America. Charleston, to be precise.”

To his credit, he did not even blink. “’Tis a trifle far,” he commented mildly.

“’Tis not to that home I mean to take you, my lord,” she explained coldly. “We are going to see Jessica Merriman.”

That piqued his interest. “Ah, yes—Jessica Merriman. I own I had wondered about her.”

The bland way he said it infuriated her. “You fiend,” she muttered under her breath. “You bloody fiend.”

“Acquit me,” he retorted. “I cannot say I know the woman.”

“Of course you do not! Why would you? It has been six years, after all! What sort of man are you, anyway, that you can just go away and forget what you did?” she demanded angrily.

“I don’t think I did anything. In fact—”

“Oh, I know she told me you were three sheets into the wind, but ’tis not sufficient excuse, my lord! How is it that men can debauch, then plead innocence by reason of drink?”

“I assure you that I can remember every female I have debauched, Miss Smith, and I do not recall—”

“You think that money buys everything, do you not? Well, it cannot! There are feelings to be considered, sir!”

It came home to him then that her grudge was against his late cousin, and for a moment he considered telling her just that. But she intrigued him. Jessica Merriman would surely apprise her of her mistake soon enough, and when she did, he was going to enjoy seeing Miss Smith, whoever she really was, squirm.

He leaned his head back and tilted his hat over his brow at a decidedly rakish angle. “I shall most certainly look forward to renewing the acquaintance. If she is truly persuasive, mayhap she can keep you out of Newgate, my dear.”

D
ESPITE THE TOSSING
of the less-than-well-sprung carriage, and despite the pain in his leg, but perhaps because of the wine he’d drunk, the new Baron Haverhill managed to doze. Kitty Gordon watched him with an increasing sense of ill-usage, for she herself did not dare fall asleep. Instead, she sat still, her body at attention, her mind as alert as she could keep it, while her hand stayed on the pistol in her lap.

As a sort of mental exercise, she repeated her earlier inventory of Lord Haverhill, noting again his almost reckless good looks. It was most unfair, she decided, for how was an innocent like Jess supposed to be proof to one who looked like that? Indeed, but had she herself not known what he was, she’d have been inclined to like him also.

And it was certainly not a matter of his address, she had to own truthfully, for he seemed sadly lacking in that department. His manners, what she had seen of them, were less than polished, after all. Why he’d spoken openly of debauching females even, as though ‘twas naught to him. No, if anything, his free manners had mocked her, and rather than being frightened by his predicament, he seemed inclined to be amused.

Even now, she was not entirely certain that he slept, that ’twas not a ruse on his part to lull her. Very quietly, she leaned across the seat to peer into his face, ready on the instant to snap back if he should move. He did not.

Jess had called him old, and no doubt he was, for debauchery sometimes set well on the worst of men. Still, it made her wonder just what Jess thought old to be. Baron Haverhill, Kitty judged, was possibly thirty-five to thirty-eight, or so it seemed when he was awake. Asleep, he looked at least ten years younger.

In the dimness of the carriage, the darkness lightened but slightly by the slice of moon that appeared from time to time between the clouds, his red hair seemed black, and his strong, well-defined features were muted by deep shadows. And his even breathing was oddly soft, nothing at all like the snoring of either her father or her late Uncle Edwin. It was, she realized suddenly, the closest she’d ever been to any man who was not a relation. And that alone, excepting the circumstances even, gave an exhilarating sense of danger.

It was as though he felt her scrutiny, for one eye opened, followed by the other, and he sat up. “I trust,” he drawled softly, “that you have uncocked your weapon. Otherwise, you are in danger of shooting yourself in the leg.”

She jumped, caught in the act of studying him. “I know how to use it, sir,” she retorted stiffly.

“If you do, you must surely be the first of your sex to admit it. Ladies usually do not own up to anything beyond a talent for watercolors and often indifferent singing voices,” he chided. “Ah, but then I forgot—you are American. No doubt a proclivity for pistols is more useful against the Indians.”

“Are you never civil, sir?” she demanded acidly.

He favored her with a wry, twisted smile. “Am I supposed to be? You perhaps expected a more urbane debaucher of females? Alas, but I am seldom at my best when faced with a gun of any kind—and certainly not when ’tis held by a female of dubious nerve.” He shifted his weight, easing his stiff leg.

She raised the pistol menacingly. “Do not move, my lord—every time I think of Jess, the temptation to make her a widow is great.”

For a moment, he was not sure he’d heard her aright. “A widow? My dear Miss Smith—”

His words were cut short by a warning shot fired outside.
The carriage braked so suddenly that she was thrown across the seat, but she managed to right herself and keep the gun in her hand. “Whatever—?”

“’Twould seem we are about to be robbed,” he observed dryly.

“Robbed?” She peered out the window at the two shadowy figures on horseback. As she watched curiously, one dismounted and approached the carriage, calling out, “Your money or your lives!”

And before Jack could stop her, Kitty Gordon pushed open the hinged pane, leveled the barrel of her gun, and cocked it. “Stay where you are!” she shouted back. “Otherwise, I shall fire!”

“Don’t be a fool—there are two of them,” Jack warned her, reaching for her arm.

“The swells is armin’ the females!” Laughing derisively, the highwayman swaggered toward her. “Lookit, Billy—”

She jerked free of Jack and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked, followed by a deafening report. The recoil sent her back against the seat, and a thick, black billow of smoke blew back into the coach.

“Owwwwwww! Th’ bloody witch ’as ’it me, Bill!”

Choking, with tears in her eyes from the acrid black powder smoke, Kitty felt rather than saw Haverhill wrest the gun from her hand. “I hope you have powder and balls at hand, Miss Smith,” he told her grimly. “Otherwise, we are in the basket.”

“No-yes—”

She bent over to retrieve her reticule from the floor. As she fumbled for the ammunition, the fallen man’s companion rode up to the carriage and shot inside. Fire belched from the barrel, sending a new cloud of thick smoke into the passenger compartment. She groped for the pull handle on the door.

“Damn it, stay down!” Jack shouted above her, pushing her.

She hit the floor and lay there coughing, aware only that his body covered hers. The two men outside yelled at each other, then there was the sound of horses beating a hasty retreat. It was several seconds before she could breathe.

Jem wrenched open the door as she attempted to disentangle her legs from Haverhill’s. “Gor! Miss Kitty, ye got one of th’ bloody bastards!” Lifting the lantern from the top of the coach higher, he peered inside. “Lud!” he exclaimed in shock. “What’s ter do now?”

Kitty pulled herself into her seat shakily and looked down. The baron still sat on the floor, his back against the rise of the seat, his hand holding his left shoulder. For a moment, she thought he was but winded, but then she saw the blood that seeped between his fingers. His vest, where his coat fell away, was already wet as the stain spread. She stared in dawning horror.

“Oh—my. Are—are you all right, my lord?” she asked foolishly.

The question brought a decided lift to one of his brows. “Aside from the fact that I am bleeding like a stuck pig, Miss Smith, what do you think?”

“Oh, dear.” She forced herself to lean closer, despite the sudden knot that formed in the pit of her stomach. “We’ll have to get to a doctor,” she decided. Then, daring to meet his eyes again, she asked anxiously, “Is it serious, do you think?”

With an effort, he coughed, then winced from the pain. “If there is blood in my mouth, ’tis serious,” he murmured. “If not, I shall probably survive.” He swallowed, then shook his head. “The ball missed my lung at least.”

“If you will agree to a divorce, I’ll take you back,” she offered.

“No.” Pushing himself up with an elbow against the seat, he managed to heave his tall frame onto the leather-covered bench. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I hold you accountable for this, you know.”

“I didn’t shoot you,” she protested. “ ’Twas the one called Billy. And we must get you back to London, I think.”

“No. I’ve no wish to look the laughingstock. No—you have piqued my interest in Jessica Merriman, Miss Smith.”

“But I cannot take you with a ball—that is, dash it, sir, but you are wounded!”

“Deuced perceptive of you.” He forced a smile despite the burning in his shoulder. “I’m afraid I am in your hands, aren’t I?” This time, his hazel eyes betrayed his pain. “Got to stop the blood.”

“Oh—yes, of course. Jem—”

“I ain’t no hand, Miss Kitty—I—” The coachman held the lantern closer and shuddered. “Bleedin’ bad, ain’t he? Best thinkin’ I ought to go for help, miss. Bad business if he was t’die, don’t ye know?”

“He will not die,” she promised grimly.

“Jes th’ same—”

She cast about wildly for the means to stop his bleeding, then reached beneath her cloak. Bending low, she caught the hem of her petticoat. “Papa always said to tie up anything that bled,” she muttered. “Do you have a knife at least?”

“No.”

“Jem?”

“Allus carries one, miss.” To demonstrate, he drew out a small blade. “Ain’t much fer looks, but ’tis a good sticker.” He handed it over, then threw back. “Still think as I oughter get help fer ye.”

Unable to work within the close confines, Kitty stepped down from the carriage and disappeared behind it. There, under cover of darkness, she lifted her gown to untie her petticoat, letting the undergarment fall to her ankles. Stepping out of it, she picked it up and returned to the lantern light, where she tried to cut it. Pulling mightily, she managed to tear several strips of the fine lawn.

“Can you get out of your coat, do you think?” she asked Jack as she climbed up again.

“With aid. But I’d not advise it. I’d roll that and put it beneath the vest,” he suggested. “And then I’d button it as tight as I could,”

“Yes, of course.” She rolled two strips together, making a pad of sorts, and then loosened his vest and his shirt. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. Resolutely, she thrust the pad against the wet flesh. “Is this where you would have it?”

“Yes.” His hand came up to press the cloth, holding it. “See if you can get anything buttoned over it.”

“Doesn’t the ball have to come out?” she asked, kneeling on the seat beside him to do as he directed.

“Yes, but if you think I mean to let you probe with a dirty knife, Miss Smith, you are very wide of the mark.” He winced as she pulled his vest tightly over the wadded cloth. “I’d as soon do it myself.”

“As if you could.” She finished with his buttons and settled back on her haunches to survey her handiwork. “Do you think ’twill stop bleeding?”

“I certainly have hopes of it.” He closed his eyes again, but kept his hand tight against his shoulder. “If not, you will have a devil of a time explaining this to the constable, I should think.” Sucking in his breath, then letting it out slowly, he spoke again. “Do you think your coachman has any rum?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Aye, miss.” Jem shifted nervously under the sharp look she gave him. “Keep it fer the cold,” he explained defensively. “Get him some,” he mumbled, drawing away. When he came back, he held out a nearly full flask.

Kitty took it and attempted to pour a little into the cap, but the baron shook his head. “Just give it to me,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“But—”

“Miss Smith, I intend to drink all of it.”

“You’ll be disguised!”

“How very perceptive of you again.” Releasing his shoulder momentarily, he took a big swig of the liquor and swallowed. “I hope we are near to where we are going.”

“’Tis not above another fifty miles, but—”

“I think ’twill take more than you and er—Jem, is it?—to get me out by then.” He drank deeply again. “I trust there are servants?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The carriage swung into motion again, and it was then that the enormity of what she’d done came home to her. She’d merely meant to make Baron Haverhill face Jess, to see what he’d done to her. And she’d hoped to persuade him that Jess’s affection for Sturbridge was genuine, thinking that surely he would set her free. It was not as though he himself had wanted her, after all. But she’d bungled the matter badly, and now she would have to explain not only how he came to be there, but also how he came to be wounded. Her eyes rested on the sticky red stain that spread across his chest. She devoutly hoped he survived.

He replaced the lid and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Setting the flask between his legs, he again reached to hold his throbbing shoulder. Across from him, the girl was watching him with enormous blue eyes set in a very pale face.

“Buck up—it takes more than this to plant R—to put me in the ground,” he amended.

“You act as though you are used to taking balls,” she observed in a low voice.

“One is never used to it, Miss Smith—though I admit to having acquired my share.” When she did not respond to that, he cocked his head for a better look at her. “Before we get wherever ’tis we are going, don’t you think you owe me your name? Miss Smith sounds a trifle unlikely, you know.”

She sighed and nodded. “I am Catherine Gordon, my lord—Kitty to my family.”

“A relation to Byron’s? I always thought he was a havey-cavey fellow myself.”

“No.”

They fell silent for a while, each lost in thought, and when she looked across at him again, she thought he slept. The flask was still between his legs, but his face was turned into the corner of his seat. She sat there, her hands twisting the thin fabric of her skirt, trying not to dwell on what her aunt would say.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” Startled by his voice, she sat up. “I don’t—”

“You do not look above eighteen.”

“Well, I am four and twenty, my lord, but—”

“Good,” he murmured obscurely.

For a moment, she wondered if she’d imagined he spoke, for he still appeared to be asleep. Then she noted the tightness around his mouth, and she realized he was conserving his strength. It was obvious that the shoulder pained him.

She reached out to touch his arm gingerly. “My lord—perhaps ’twould be best if I took you back. I—I can quite see now that ’twas a foolish venture on my part, and perhaps ’twould be better if Rollo spoke with you on Jess’s behalf.”

“No.”

“But you cannot wish—that is, I did not expect—”

His eyes opened again. “Miss Gordon, I have finished every adventure I have ever begun, and I should expect to finish this one,” he told her patiently. “I look forward to seeing Miss Merriman, I assure you. It
ought
to be an enlightening experience for the both of us.”

“But—but on reflection, my lord, I cannot think she will wish to see you!” she blurted out. “And I cannot think Aunt Bella will be pleased under the circumstances, either,” she added candidly.

“Then let us hope you are as resourceful as you are impetuous, Miss Gordon. I own I am fascinated by the thought of what you mean to tell them.”

Her chin came up, and her blue eyes met his soberly. “I shall tell the truth, of course.”