Edith Layton (2 page)

“Any fellow can drink too much, even experienced troopers like Eric, right, Rafe?” her brother commented, turning to one of his friends, Raphael, Lord Dalton, an ex-army man.

“Eric doesn’t have a vigilant lady to keep him in line, as I do,” his friend answered proudly.

“But you don’t understand,” Camille said impatiently. “He’d
promised
the next dance to me.”

Miles’s smile faded. He put down his cup. “Tell my lady I’ll be back soon,” he commanded her, turned on his heel, and headed for the door, Rafe following closely.

“When did he leave?” he asked Camille over his shoulder, as she trotted after him.

“Just five minutes past. It took that long to find you in this crowd.”

As the two men strode into the outer hall, Miles turned his head to find her still right behind him. “Camille,” he said, “I said, go tell Belle and the other ladies where we’ve gone.”

“Have a footman do it,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

He scowled, and Rafe frowned, but they didn’t break stride. They sent for their coats and made inquiries as they waited for them. A footman reported that a big, fair gent had just left and had been seen walking off alone toward the west. Miles called for his coach and left the house with Rafe. Camille followed, her heart pounding with nervousness.

Nothing they could have said or done would have stopped her from joining them. But they didn’t even take the time to argue. That frightened her even more.

Eric felt light-headed with relief. The shakes had stopped, the aches were gone, his head had cleared.
The long strides he was taking seemed to be leaving his sickness behind. He felt so good he didn’t want to stop and so walked right on past the line of waiting hacks and headed toward his own lodgings. They weren’t far, just straight ahead six streets and then up three more twisting ones, around a corner, and he’d be home. Since the bracing air had helped so much, he was sure more would do him further good.

But when he got home, just in case, he’d have his valet mix up some quinine in lemonade, the potion his doctor advised him to take for the fever. Then he’d have a jot of hot buttered rum. It was cold and getting colder, and he felt it in spite of his exercise.

His symptoms began to plague him again as soon as he’d gone three streets, once he left the crowded, well-lighted pavements behind.

Rome and Paris were said to be cities of churches, because there seemed to be a church every few steps. England was called a nation of merchants for equally good reason. By day London’s shops were open, and so was trade in the streets. Pavements were thronged with street criers and peddlers dealing goods from pony carts, dogcarts and pushcarts, barrows, even trays hanging from their own neck.

By night other vendors sold more intimately attached goods. Once the sun set, the same streets filled with prostitutes. It was one of the reasons decent women never walked alone by night. And also the reason why so many gentlemen did.

So a man walking alone, especially a well-dressed one, drew London’s host of whores from the shadows like pigeons to strewn seed. They came up to the big, blond man—but once they got a look at his face, most drew back. He kept his gaze forward, offering them no encouragement. Besides that, his looks made them hesitate. Because he was such a magnificent-looking fellow, they doubted he’d have to buy his night’s pleasures.

Tall, broad, and blond as the Viking invaders who had coursed over this same ground an age before, Eric Ford bore himself with the pride of the military man he’d been and the grace of the gentleman he’d been educated to be. His face had the strong features seen on ancient coins, his figure was that of a gladiator, and he had the height of a colossus. He would have appeared intimidating but for the humor and humanity that gleamed in his hazel eyes.

The next woman who approached him spoke for her sisterhood.

“’Ere, milord,” she murmured as she stepped from an alley to confront him. “I’m as cheap as I’m fun…. Aw, blimey, never mind.” She laughed when she saw his face and the thick honey-gold hair under his high beaver hat. “’Ow much do
you
charge, luv? It’s been a good evening. I might just buy myself a treat!”

“At any other time I might have spared you the expense,” he lied in his deep, even voice, “but I
have to get home straightaway tonight. But thank you.”

“And a gentleman!” she exclaimed, with a hand to her heart. “Luv, your courtesy is as good as your kiss—well, mebbe not. But I’ll take what I can get from you, sir. Godspeed to you and whatever lucky lass awaits you!”

He managed a smile and strode on. He never bought street women but was experienced enough to know that rebuffing them was a delicate art. Though they had a price, they had pride too, and they could make a man’s life hell if he refused them rudely. Apart from the fact that he saw no reason to abuse women already degraded by their livelihood, now he felt his head beginning to ache again and didn’t think it could have borne the catcalls and abuse that have would followed him down the street if he’d been impolite.

Eric lengthened his stride. He was headed toward a quiet, wealthy residential area where the street women seldom tarried, because they wouldn’t find much trade there. He was relieved to find himself increasingly alone. Shaking his head “no” was beginning to make it hurt, and speaking required effort. Now he realized his old foe had only been lying low. He prayed he could make it safely home.

Only two more streets, then a turn to the right…. He was sweating but freezing cold. His shirt was damp, his face clammy. Only one and a half streets and then a turn to the right….

He almost walked straight into her. A woman had been shoved into his path. Eric stopped abruptly, nonplussed. A heavyset man in dark clothing accompanied her. Eric got a glimpse of a white, frightened face, big dark eyes…and tears? It hardly mattered. He had to go on before he fell down. He stepped aside, but now the man was in his way.

“Here’s a treat, sir,” the man said, his harsh voice so loud Eric winced. “I keeps her covered to keep the mob away. Take off your shawl now, girl,” he roared, snatching it from her head. “Look, sir, fair as the dawn, ain’t she?”

Eric frowned and tried to step around the girl, but the man shoved her at him.

“You could take her home or here, it don’t matter. She don’t come cheap, but I seen you turned down all them cheap whores, and who’s to blame you? But look at her! Fine as she can stare. And modest,” he said through gritted teeth as the woman pulled up her shawl and ducked her head. He forced her chin up. “A picture, ain’t she? And believe me, her body’s good as it gets. A regular Venus, this one is. She’s untouched too, so a gent like yourself don’t have to worry none about disease. You’d be the first, a rare treat. It’d cost, but you’d know a bargain, wouldn’t you?”

Eric drew in breath to say no, but she said it instead.

“No,” she cried. “Oh, please, no, sir. Help me!”

He could have been on his deathbed and he’d
have responded to that. “Are you here unwillingly?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Want to talk to her, do you? Fine!” the man said quickly. “Do what you want with her once you pay for her. Give us a guinea, then. For that much, she’ll talk your ear as well as your pants off.”

Eric knew he had to end this now. He had no time to argue, no time to think it through. It would be easier to throw money at the problem and let it go away. He’d pay the villain and be done with him, then let the girl go on her way. He reached for his wallet—but so did the other man, because the moment Eric had his wallet in his hand, the man grabbed it.

The woman cried out. The man cuffed her. She cringed and cried out again. Eric swung a fist, but the woman now had a death grip on his arm.

“Don’t let him take me!” she sobbed.

The man held Eric’s wallet in one hand, the woman’s hand in the other. He took a second to make up his mind, then gave up his hold on the woman, spun on his heel, and ran. Or tried to, because Eric grabbed his shoulder. The fellow ducked and twisted, but it was like trying to escape being caught in a fissure in a rock. He snarled, pulled a short club from his belt, turned, and swung it hard, connecting with Eric’s ear.

Eric heard an explosion of sound and saw the light splinter. The pain was sudden, shocking, and blinding. Stunned, he went down to one knee.
Then he bellowed and grabbed at the hand that held the club. He caught the hand hard and twisted and didn’t stop until the man screamed. He wouldn’t have stopped even then, but the fellow dropped to his knees.

The moment Eric relaxed his grip, the man bounded up. Bent double, he rushed forward and butted Eric in the forehead with his own head. The sound was sickening, the surprise and pain sent Eric sprawling. His attacker turned, grabbed the woman, and tried to drag her away with him. But she’d managed to keep hold of Eric’s arm and was hanging on for dear life.

Now they all heard the sounds of an approaching carriage rushing over the cobbles, hoofbeats, and loud, outraged shouts. Eric heard his own name called.

The man cursed, abruptly let go of the girl and, clutching the wallet, took off at a stumbling run into the darkness.

The coach clattered to a stop. Eric heard horses whinnying, their brasses ringing, coach doors slamming, more shouts, and many footsteps pounding toward him. Then the footsteps stopped. He heard worried voices exclaiming over him, but was still so dazed and sickened that he couldn’t gather his breath or wits enough to open his eyes, much less move.

“Damn! Is he dead?” a voice asked harshly.

He felt a cool hand on his cheek, then on his forehead.

“No,” another voice, this one soft and shaken, said. “Just…damaged, I think.”

“Here,” an impatient voice commanded. “Let me see. I have experience.” There was an exasperated sigh. “Would you please get back, Camille? Take her, Miles. A mad start for her to be here at all,” he muttered.

“Did you ever try stopping her, Rafe?” a strained voice answered. “Eric? Can you hear me?”

Eric managed to open one eye.

“Good evening, Rafe,” he said to the man kneeling beside him. He looked up and recognized the worried faces peering down. “Oh, lord. Camille!” he groaned. “In the gutter with me? What are you doing here?”

She raised her chin. “You left so suddenly, I worried. It wasn’t like you, and you didn’t look well. I told my brother when I remembered you sometimes suffered—”

“Malarial fever,” Rafe interrupted angrily. “Another attack? Of course! Look at the color of his skin, yellow as a cheap candle. And he’s shaking. Just like old times. Idiot,” he told Eric through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t you say something? But look at that egg rising on your forehead. Like you’re growing another head. Now, tell me so I know what to do first. Eric, listen,” he said as his friend’s eyes began closing again. “Tell me. What’s worse, the fever or your forehead? Or did that whore’s son hurt you some other place too?”

“It’s only both, I think,” Eric murmured. “Head
and fever. But I’ll do till I get home. Give me a hand and I’ll get up and go.”

“In my coach,” Rafe muttered. “Thank God we’d the sense to drive after you.”

Another man came trotting up, breathing hard. “He got away, milord,” he reported in disgust. “The villain slipped off into the shadows.”

“With my wallet,” Eric said sadly. “I’m sorry you didn’t nab him.”

“You live, Eric,” Rafe said. “At least we have that. And who is this you’ve got attached to your sleeve?” he asked curiously, looking at the drab, who knelt at Eric’s other side and still clung to the big man’s sleeve. “Let go, girl, if you please!”

“Yes, who is she?” Camille couldn’t help blurting as the woman shrank back.

Eric was helped to his feet. He tried to regain his balance—mind and body—as he squinted at the cringing woman they were all staring at. She’d let go of his sleeve but hadn’t moved far. She crouched at his feet and stared back at him.

“Oh,” Eric said. “Yes. That’s what started this. I’ve just bought her.”

C
amille hoped they’d think it was the cold wind making her eyes water. She was horrified to find she felt like bawling and quickly wiped away the embarrassing moisture on her cheeks, glad everyone else was too stunned to look at anyone but Eric—and the draggle-tailed slut he’d just said he’d bought. She wasn’t weeping because of that, Camille told herself. She was upset by how Eric looked compared to when she’d last seen him a scant half-hour ago. Who wouldn’t be?

Eric was wavering on his feet. A frighteningly huge lump, already turning blue, was on his forehead. Just looking at it made her stomach feel as if it was turning over, and she was not a missish girl. There was an angry welt rising along the side of his
head as well. He was drawn and sallow, obviously suffering from more than the beating he’d taken. It was a remarkable and terrible change.

Could a man change as drastically mentally from one minute to another? Camille stood staring at Eric. He had left a glittering ball so he could rush out into the dark, cold streets and buy himself the services of a whore? She shook her head. No, she wouldn’t believe he’d do that even if he’d been feeling well, even if he did say so himself.

Obviously, neither could his friends.

“How many times were you hit on the head, Eric?” Miles asked.

Eric squinted at the speaker. “Miles? You really are here too? Lord Dalton
and
Viscount Pelham? The Swansons will never forgive me. I’ve ruined their ball for certain.”

“Where else were you hit?” Miles persisted.

“Only the head, twice.” Eric said, gingerly touching his forehead. “There’s no blood or anything broken, I think. The bastard—” Eric paused, remembering his audience. “Your pardon, Camille. The villain offered me the…wench,” he said, with another sidewise glance at Camille. “I thought to pay him just to…”

He stopped talking as a long rolling shudder shook him. He wrapped his arms around his chest as though he were holding himself together. As the shivering finally subsided, he added bitterly through clenched teeth, “I paid him to be rid of him. The wench objected to the bargain. She cried
for help. How could I just walk away? But I knew I couldn’t settle it with words or fists. The damned—sorry, Cammie—deuced fever was back, and I knew I didn’t have much time. I had to get home. I should have known appeasement never works.”

He shook his head, grimacing at the pain that caused. “When he saw gold, he struck, grabbed, and ran. He tried to take her with him, but she had my arm and clung like a winkle to a rock. Now, will you help me home?”

“He’s as good as blind now,” Rafe muttered angrily. “I’ve seen him like this before. The fever’s on him. Here, lad,” he told the footman, “get on his other side. We’ll lead him to the coach and get him home. My home. You need care,” he added over Eric’s mumbled protests. “I’ve done it before. And think on, your sister would slay me if I sent you home alone. Want to face my wife’s wrath
and
your fever? I didn’t think so. Miles, there are too many to crowd into a coach with a sick man with a head injury. I’ll send another coach to take you and your sister back to the ball.”

“As if I could dance now!” Camille scoffed. “Surely there’s something I can do!”

“Yes. Stay with your brother,” Rafe said, “and when you can, tell my Brenna what’s toward.”

The two men put their arms around Eric and began to guide him to the waiting coach. Another female voice made them pause.

“You can’t leave me!” the drab cried. “I’m not what I seem, none of this is.” She stepped forward,
throwing back the shawl she’d been huddling under. “Oh, have pity! He’ll take me up again if you leave me now.”

They stopped and stared, and not just because of her words.

She was lovely, even in the inconstant moonlight, perhaps even more so in its thin, luminous glow. She was young, with a pale, white, oval face surrounded by hair so black the moonlight silvered and shimmered in its shining coils. Her tilted eyes were dark, her nose, small and shapely, and her lips, even in the bleached light, were plump, pale pink, and exquisitely shaped. Once she’d cast off her covering shawl, they could see that her slender figure was covered by a simple, modest, round-necked white gown, the kind any well-brought-up young woman might wear.

If her looks hadn’t stopped the men in their tracks, her voice would have. It was low and husky, her accents refined.

Camille blinked and stood staring, as arrested as the men were. What was such a lovely creature doing selling herself on the streets of London?

The plots of dozens of Minerva Press novels she’d read on all those long nights at home in the country sprang into Camille’s mind, a welter of evil uncles and wicked stepmothers, displaced heiresses and lost princesses. Surely this lovely young woman was some sort of heroine rescued from a dire plot.

Camille’s heart sank. The way the radiant young woman was gazing at Eric made it evident that if
she was the princess in peril, he was the rescuer-knight.

“No time to sort this out now,” Miles said, breaking the spell the young woman’s outcry had cast. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “You won’t be left alone. Rafe, Godspeed. I’ll be at your house as soon as I can.”

“Good. But I’m driving home,” Rafe said, signaling the coachman to step down from his box. “I don’t doubt you can take on villains, Miles, but with two females to protect, I’d feel better if the odds were more in your favor until reinforcements come. John Coachman may have driven a mile or two, but he’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve, right, John?”

The old fellow grinned down at them. “Aye, milord, a few tricks and a stout cudgel as well!”

“Right,” Rafe said. “Now, come, let’s get him in the coach.”

They guided Eric up the steps and into the carriage. Rafe climbed up to the driver’s seat and took the reins so the coachman could clamber down.

Eric’s face appeared at the window. “Take care of her, Miles,” he said, as the coach started to pull away from the curb.

Miles nodded. The young woman stepped closer to him. Camille stood watching the carriage leave, too distressed to speak. She was worrying about Eric and about what he’d just said: wondering bleakly which of them was the
her
he meant.

After the coach rattled off down the street, Camille
finally turned to her brother. But Miles had literally turned his back on her. The coachman, hands fisted, stood opposite him, the two men facing out with the women between them. Camille started to speak, then held her tongue. Miles’s expression was grim; he was watching the street intently. She realized he did so for good reason. It was late and the streets were empty. They were in a good district, which meant it was a quiet one where the residents went to bed early. If there was a watchman nearby, he hadn’t appeared, and lately there’d been violence done. The quietness increased their danger, as did the absence of passersby and their party’s seeming vulnerability, because it consisted of two young females, an old man, and a tulip of the
ton
who looked as much prey as protector.

Her brother Miles was a slender man of average height, exquisitely dressed tonight as befitted a gentleman of means and leisure. There was no way a casual observer could know that he’d served as an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy or that his lean body was well muscled and agile. Camille knew he could hold his own in a fight; the problem was that villains might not. She prepared herself. She wasn’t so used to being a lady that she wouldn’t fight to her last breath, if she had to.

“Thank you, sir,” the unknown young woman whispered to Miles. “I was so afraid. You won’t leave me here, will you?”

“No,” he said, never taking his eyes off the shadows. “But don’t speak now. We’ll discuss it all later.”

Camille hadn’t realized how shallowly she’d been breathing until after what seemed like hours but must have only been minutes later, she saw her brother’s carriage come down the street.

They boarded in silence.

Camille got in first. The young woman came next and immediately huddled by the window beside her. Miles took the seat opposite. He held up a hand.

“No need for explanations yet,” he told the young woman, though she hadn’t offered any. “You’ll only have to repeat them all later. But your name, if you please.”

“Nell,” she answered. “Nell Baynes, sir. From Kent.”

“I’m Pelham. This is my sister, Camille. Now, sit back, we’ll be home soon.”

“Your home?” the girl asked quickly.

“Yes. But no need to worry. I’m married, and happily, to the most beautiful woman in London. After I know how my friend is doing, be sure I’ll want to speak with you. I’m going straight to Rafe’s, Camille. You needn’t get out of the carriage. After I get out, I’ll send you back to the ball. You were looking forward to it, no sense in disappointing all your beaux.”

“Just you try, Miles!” Camille said, sitting up straight. “I want to know how Eric does too. I’ll go with you to Rafe’s house now, thank you very much. You’ll need someone to stay with Miss Baynes anyway. We can send word to Belle from there. I just
hope she doesn’t feel she has to leave on my account. She was so looking forward to this ball.”

“Only for your sake,” Miles commented. “She felt bilious all day but wouldn’t stay home and let you go it all alone.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Camille exclaimed angrily. “I told her not to set foot out the door if she didn’t feel perfectly right. She said she did! I asked if she was casting up her accounts because she was anticipating and told her not to worry because, if she was, she’d stop once the baby was set in nice and tight, and she nearly bit my head off. She said it was just something she ate. She didn’t tell me she was still feeling green by the time we left tonight.”

“Two socially suicidal mistakes in two sentences,” Miles said on a groan. “Or maybe three. I don’t know how you do it. A lady doesn’t use slang, and she pretends she doesn’t know a thing about gestation, and she doesn’t discuss digestion. If Belle heard you talking like a stable boy again, she’d have your head. I think that’s why she went tonight despite how she felt—to keep you in line.”

“I told her she didn’t need to,” Camille said hotly. “I had my dance card filled the second I got there.”

“Oh, we know you have dozens of admirers,” he said. “It’s not your getting proposals we worried about.”

Since they were sitting side by side in a small
space, Camille couldn’t miss feeling the unknown woman’s start of surprise when Miles mentioned her popularity.

“It’s the sort of proposals you’ll get,” he went on. He saw Camille’s expression in the coach lamp’s light and flung up one hand. “Peace!” he laughed. “We know no one would be fool enough to offer you a slip on the shoulder. If I didn’t kill him for it, Eric, Rafe, or any of your other self-appointed warriors would—if only to keep you from doing it yourself.” He stopped chuckling and added, “But seriously, we wanted to make sure you didn’t say something that would bar you from Almack’s and such finicking places this Season. Once you’re married, it won’t matter, but it does now.”

Camille lifted her chin. “I may be country bred, but I’m not ignorant as a milch cow, Miles. I don’t discuss either pregnancy or digestion in public, and I’m only doing it now because it’s just us. And Miss Baynes here,” she added belatedly, realizing she hadn’t cared what the girl thought of her. “I can behave well in Town, you know.”

She refused to acknowledge his laughing apology and sat in offended silence as the coach rolled on. Her silence wouldn’t last, and they both knew it. Brothers forgot their sisters had feelings as easily as sisters forgot they had to mind their manners around their brothers, and they both forgot to be angry with each other as quickly as their tempers had flared.

More troublesome were her thoughts about Eric. Although she knew it didn’t matter, she was unhappy because of how the wench next to her had stiffened in surprise when she heard that Camille had many suitors. She wasn’t insulted so much as hurt. It wasn’t impossible that she was so popular—though she granted it must seem improbable.

After all, Camille knew too well that she wasn’t lovely. Not like Mama, who’d been a famous beauty and never let anyone forget it. Nothing like her sister-in-law Belle, who was most amazingly beautiful, nor like any of the women Miles’s friends had married. Not like any beauty, actually, Camille thought glumly. Because she simply wasn’t beautiful or lovely or even handsome, and that was that.

Not that she was a medusa, she thought defensively. She wasn’t shrunken or bony, fat or misshapen. She was of average height, and though her shape was sturdy, she had a waist and good breasts—at least, the famous modiste who had designed her London wardrobe had complimented her on them. Camille had thought her head would catch fire from her flaming cheeks, but the improper compliment had been nice to hear. True, she also had hips, which fashionable ladies did not, but hers weren’t that wide, at least, she didn’t have to turn sideways to get through a doorway. And it was a great pity that a woman’s legs were never seen. Because hers were long and as shapely as any gentleman’s who was proud of his, as so many men were.

Her brown hair curled, her nose didn’t look like a carrot or a mushroom, her mouth was as well shaped as either of her brothers’, and they were good-looking fellows. She had good teeth too. Although she regretted her eyes were merely brown, they were said to be her finest feature. But she was not beautiful.

Worse, she wasn’t very feminine, at least, not the way admired women in Society were. While she could appreciate fashionable gowns, she only wore them sometimes, because most of the things she enjoyed doing required old clothes. After all, she couldn’t go to the stables or a trout stream or romp with her dogs in a fine gown.

The truth was, Camille admitted, she was more at home on a horse than in a parlor. She could dance the night away without treading on any toes, but conversation was another matter, because she was too candid and forthright, and it was the devil of a thing to try to hold her tongue. Worse, she had a hard time listening starry-eyed to nonsense, no matter how handsome the fellow spouting it was. And if politics were being discussed, she had to put her oar in, even though she knew a woman was just supposed to agree with whatever a male was saying.