Prince of Swords Page 21

  Alistair leaned against the balustrade, his long, dark hair tossed back in the night wind, and smiled at her. “Enjoying yourself so far, my love?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “Where are we?” She hadn’t realized how loud her own voice could sound, or how quickly he could move. Within seconds he’d pressed her tightly against the stone wall of the house, pressing his hand over her mouth. There was laughter and something else in his eyes, and he pressed his body against hers.

  “We’re thieves, remember?” he whispered. “Housebreakers. We’re not supposed to announce our presence to the world. And we’re just outside Isolde Plumworthy’s bedroom. Fortunately the old bat sleeps like the dead, and I can hear her snoring, so I think we’re safe.” He lowered his hand from her mouth, but he made no effort to release her. His strong, lean body blocked the wind, and she told herself she welcomed it. Knowing that warmth was the least of her concerns.

  “How do you know how deeply she sleeps?” she whispered.

  His laugh was silent. “My knowledge isn’t firsthand, thank God. I prefer to bed women who aren’t old enough to be my grandmother or young enough to be my daughter. As a matter of fact, I suspect you’re just about the right age.”

  She shoved at him, which accomplished absolutely nothing. For all his lighthearted tone, he was immovable. “What do we do now?”

  “We can stand here all night, and I can see whether I can deflower you with us both on our feet. I suspect I could manage, but it wouldn’t be comfortable and we’d probably freeze. I could take you into Isolde’s house, we could filch some of her ugly jewels and divide the proceeds between us.”

  “No,” she said far too loudly, and once more his hand clapped over her mouth.

  “You’ll see me at Tyburn,” he warned her gently. And then he released her, stepping to the edge of the terrace and looking over. “If those two options don’t suit, perhaps we might just enjoy the adventure of climbing down from our lofty perch. It looks to be a challenge, but you don’t strike me as the type to shy away from a challenge.” He’d already flung one long leg over the edge of the balustrade, obviously preparing to abandon her without a second thought.

  She rushed to the edge of the terrace. They were above a garden—trees brushed against the stone walls, and there was a series of balconies that might provide a gradual descent. Might, if one were the Cat.

  “Alistair!” she gasped as he began to descend. “You can’t leave me here.”

  He paused, considering it. “I don’t know, I think it would be vastly entertaining, watching you try to talk your way out of it.”

  “You wouldn’t be there to watch. Lady Plumworthy already thinks I have something to do with the robberies. She’d probably turn me over to one of her nasty manservants.”

  “You’re right.” He threw his leg back over the side. “I suppose I’ll have to take you with me after all.”

  “You’re a pig, my lord,” she said. “You were never going to abandon me, were you?”

  “Sooner or later everyone always abandons you, Jessamine. Haven’t you discovered that dismal truth yet?”

  She stared at him as something dark and warm grew beneath the bleakness of his words, and she didn’t stop to think. To think would be a mistake, the words needed to come from her heart, not her brain.

  “I wouldn’t abandon you,” she said so softly she half hoped he wouldn’t hear her.

  But his hearing was as acute as his night vision. His head jerked around and he stared at her. “What did you say?”

  “Alistair...”

  The door to the bedroom slammed open, the glass smashing against the stone wall. Alistair was still in shadows, perched on the banister, but the light that shone forth illuminated Jessamine perfectly, standing in her black thieves’ clothes. It illuminated the cruel, thick-lipped face of Isolde Plumworthy’s sinister majordomo, dressed only in a pair of breeches, his body covered with long, red streaks that might have been scratches, might have been whip marks. And it illuminated the gun in his hand.

  His cruel, dark eyes narrowed as he surveyed Jessamine, caught like a trapped animal, and his thick lips curled in a smile. “I knew it was you,” he said. “I told Herself, but she wasn’t quite sure.”

  He hadn’t noticed Alistair lurking in the shadows. He could escape so easily. Jessamine didn’t dare give a sign, to tell him to run while he could. She simply stood there, utterly still, terrified by the gun in the man’s hand and the cruelty on his face.

  “You’ll be a prime bit of sport for her ladyship and me,” Hawkins continued, the gun never wavering. “It’s not like you don’t deserve what happens to you. They’ll kill you no matter what—might as well provide some pleasure to one of your many victims than give the crown the chance. Unfasten that shirt and let me see your titties.”

  Jessamine didn’t move. “I’d rather take my chances with Bow Street,” she said stiffly.

  “I don’t give a damn what you’d rather. You won’t be taking your chances with anyone. Take off your shirt or I’ll put a bullet behind your ear.”

  “But then I wouldn’t be much fun, would I?” she demanded caustically.

  “Oh, I can still manage to enjoy it once they’re already dead. I imagine her ladyship is broad-minded enough to experiment,” Hawkins said cheerfully, raising the gun.

  The next few seconds were an endless blur. Alistair launched himself across the terrace, and the explosion that followed echoed through the night air. Jessamine blinked with disbelief as Alistair wrapped his long fingers around Hawkins’s throat and calmly smashed his head against the stone. The sound was thick, wet, sickening, and when the man slumped to the terrace Jessamine had little doubt he was dead.

  And then Alistair came toward her. His face was bleak, shadowed in the darkness, and his hands had blood on them. He put them on her arms and lifted her, pushing her off the balcony so that as she fell she wondered if he was trying to kill her as well. She landed hard in a thick hedge, the branches scratching her face, ripping at her clothes, and she lay there, winded, unable to see, to think, to breathe.

  Breath came back to her in a huge aching rush. She struggled from the imprisoning shrubbery, staring up at the high terrace far overhead. Someone was screaming, a loud, angry wail, but no one leaned over the balcony to see who had escaped.

  He was lying facedown on the hard ground. No bushes had cushioned his fall, and even in the darkness she could see the black stain of blood on his beautiful face. His eyes were closed, and she rolled him over, putting her head against his chest to see whether he lived.

  His heartbeat was weak, irregular. She reached up to brush the hair out of his eyes, and saw her hands were covered in his blood. She knelt beside him in uncomprehending despair, and all she could see was the prostrate body in the card, pierced by swords, as disaster reigned all around.

  “Is he dead?”

  She never thought the voice of Nicodemus Bottom would be so welcome. She scrambled to her feet and flung her arms around the little man in incoherent joy. “We’ve got to help him, Mr. Bottom,” she said. “He needs care, he needs a doctor. I think he’s been shot, and he certainly had a bad fall....”

  “I’m not risking meself,” Nicodemus said firmly, pulling out of her embrace with a shake. “We had an arrangement, did his lordship and me. If something were to happen, I was to get the hell away from him.”

  “You can’t. I need to get him someplace safe.”

  “You’re to come with me. He made me swear I’d get you safe back to Kent. He’s not going to make it, miss, not after a fall like that one. Best cut our losses and see to ourselves.”

  “No!” She sank back down by Glenshiel’s unconscious body. “He’s not going to die. Not yet. And I’m not going to leave him. You can run if you want. Just leave me his carriage.”

  “Lord love you, miss, it ain’t his carriage,” Nicodemus said. “And the sooner I abandon it, the safer we’ll all be. I imagine the owner knows it’s missing by now, and while m
y opinion of the London police isn’t very high, a coach and four is a difficult thing to hide.”

  “Then go!” she said fiercely. “I’ll drag him to safety if I must.”

  Nicodemus stood there, clearly torn. “Clarges Street is not far from here,” he offered.

  “Why should that matter?”

  “His house is on Clarges Street. I could help get him there. But that’s it. Then I’m off. And if you have any sense at all, you’ll come back with me. We’re already late as it is. It’ll be past sunup when you get back to Kent, and you’d better have a list of excuses.”

  Her hands were gentle as they touched Alistair’s bloody face. “I don’t need any excuses,” she said quietly. “Because I’m not going back. Help me get him to safety, Nicodemus, and I promise I won’t ask anything more of you.”

  “A likely story,” the little man grumbled, leaning down and pulling at Glenshiel’s limp body. “I’ll need your help as well, miss. He’s a bigger man than he appears.”

  Together they managed to half carry, half drag him to the waiting carriage. Jessamine welcomed each groan as a sign that as long as he still hurt, he still lived. She was beyond conscious thought now, all she could do was pray, a jumbled, mumbled litany that made no sense.

  She held him in her lap, pressing his head against her breasts as Nicodemus pulled the stolen carriage into the empty streets of London. He felt cold to the touch, and his breathing was shallow, rapid.

  “Don’t you dare die on me, Alistair,” she hissed at him. “I know it was my fault, and I’m not going to have your death on my conscience. Why in God’s name did you have to be noble all of a sudden? Don’t die on me, dammit.”

  She looked down, and in the darkness of the carriage she could see that his eyes were open, unfocused, staring, and for a moment she thought he was dead. And then a mere shadow of a smile twisted his pale mouth.

  “Not yet, at any rate,” he said. And he closed his eyes once more.

  Nineteen

  The house on Clarges Street was dark, cold, and empty. Beyond that, Jessamine didn’t pay much attention as she struggled with Nicodemus to get Alistair’s unconscious, bleeding body up the stairs. Three wretched, hateful flights, narrow ones, with Alistair ominously silent between them as they wrestled him upward, banging him against the steps.

  The bedroom was icy cold, the bed stripped of linen. Together they dragged him forward, tipping him onto the bed, where he lay on his back in the darkness, so utterly still that Jessamine had to lean closer to ensure he was still breathing.

  “I’m off, then,” Nicodemus announced, making no move to leave them.

  “Where are the servants?”

  “They come in daily, except for Malkin, and he’s still guarding the door down in Kent. Come back with me, miss. He’s made it this far, he’ll be all right until Malkin comes back to look after him.”

  “Alone in this cold house with a bullet in him?” she said, not bothering to glance at him. “He’ll die.”

  “Lord, miss, he’ll die anyway. No need to bring you down with him.”

  “Light the candles, Mr. Bottom, before you leave us?” she requested in her calmest voice. “I need to see how badly he’s been wounded.”

  His flesh was cold as she pulled the sodden shirt from him.

  She knew what the dampness was—blood, soaking through the black silk. She was so intent on her patient that she only gradually noticed that the room grew lighter, concentrated only on how deathly pale Alistair’s face was beneath the smear of blood.

  He looked far too young to be so wicked, she thought. Far too young to die. She turned, to find Nicodemus standing beside her, a stack of linens in his arms. “You’ll be needing bandages,” he said in a sour voice. “You get him cleaned up while I build a fire, and then I’m leaving, whether you come with me or not.”

  She gave him a beatific smile. “Bless you, Nicodemus,” she murmured. “We’re going to save him.”

  “Don’t count on me for nothing,” Nicodemus protested. “I’m here to look after my own hide.”

  “Yes, Nicodemus,” she said, planting a kiss on his swarthy cheek before she turned back to her patient.

  In the end she lost track of time. She was a skilled healer—Marilla had taught her what she knew of the healing arts, and she’d been an apt pupil. Some of what she had learned bordered on medical heresy—wounds, and the hands that treat them, should be clean, for one thing. It wasn’t until she managed to wash the blood from Alistair’s strong, wounded body that she discovered things weren’t as bad as she had feared. The bullet had passed through his upper arm, tearing a hole through his flesh, but there was no bullet to dig out and remove. Despite his fall, no bones seemed to be broken, and once she bandaged the wound, he seemed to rest a little easier.

  “Let’s get some linen on this bed,” Nicodemus growled in her ear, and she jumped, startled, realizing for the first time that the room was warm from the fire he’d built, and that the sun had risen.

  “Shouldn’t you have left by now?” she asked, running a weary hand through her disordered hair.

  “We both should have,” he responded crankily as he spread a fresh sheet out. “You shouldn’t have insisted on staying, and you certainly shouldn’t be here now. I can only hope he’ll die of his wounds. Otherwise he’s going to kill me when he finds out I didn’t take you back home.”

  “Nicodemus...”

  “Now, you go along with you, miss. Go downstairs and get yourself a cup of tea, if this house possesses any such thing, while I put some decent clothes on his lordship. It ain’t proper, a decent young lady like yourself spending time with a naked man!” he announced, his proprieties outraged.

  “Is he naked? I was so busy worrying about his wounds that I hadn’t realized,” Jessamine said, leaning past Nicodemus to get a better look.

  Nicodemus pushed her away unceremoniously. “For shame, miss!”

  She managed a weary grin as she backed away. “You’re putting a damper on my education.”

  “One you need, miss!”

  “If there’s tea in the house, I’ll find it,” she said, starting out into the hallway. “And I’ll make you a cup as well, Nicodemus.”

  “Lord love you, miss, I’d rather find his lordship’s brandy. I think it would do the three of us the most good.”

  “Tea, Nicodemus,” she said firmly. “It’s too early in the day for spirits.”

  It was a small house, tidy enough except for the drops of blood marking their passage from the back stairs up to the bedroom. The basement kitchen was dark and cold, and finding tapers and lighting the fire took a maddening amount of time. There was tea all right, but not much else, and Jessamine realized she was ravenously hungry.

  She was on her second cup when Nicodemus made his appearance. “He’s resting comfortably enough,” he grumbled, pouring himself a cup. “If he hadn’t fallen, I doubt he would have even lost consciousness. The arm’s not that bad, though he lost a powerful lot of blood. As soon as he wakes up, our worries will be over.”

  “I didn’t know you were worried,” she said.

  “I’m still here, ain’t I?” he demanded in a self-righteous tone. “Though if I don’t do something about that bloody carriage, we’re all in the soup. Speaking of which, is there any food in this place?”

  “Not much.”

  “Then again, you probably can’t cook,” Nicodemus said with a sniff.

  “I’m not the frail aristocrat you seem to think,” she replied calmly.

  “True enough, miss. You wouldn’t have been able to follow the Cat if you were. Are you ready to come back with me? If we hurry, we might make it out of the city without anyone noticing the carriage. You can say you went for a walk last night, lost your way, and only just found the path back to the house.”

  “And you think they’ll believe it? Especially when Glenshiel doesn’t return?”

  “Who cares what they believe? They can’t prove it.”

  “I’m no
t leaving, Nicodemus,” she said. “It’s too late to worry about my reputation, and I think I’ve known that for quite some time. What I didn’t realize is that I’d destroy my family as well.” She leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes wearily. “I don’t suppose I could ask you to bring my sister back to London? I’m afraid she’s in for a rough patch out there in Kent, at Ermintrude’s mercy.”

  The room was silent for a moment, and then Nicodemus spoke, a rough kindness in his voice. “I’ll see her safe, miss. You’ll look after his lordship, then? He’s a very bad man, he is, but he don’t deserve to die.”

  “I’ll keep him alive if it kills me,” Jessamine said with a faint smile. She opened her eyes to see Nicodemus standing by the door, looking at her with an odd expression on his face.

  “I’ll take your sister back to Spitalfields so your mum can look after her,” he said. “I’m older than you, miss, and I’ve seen a lot more. Don’t expect disaster until it falls in your lap. We might be able to get out this mess right and tight.”

  “I hope so,” Jessamine said faintly. “I dearly hope so.”

  “Your sister, Miss Maitland, is a whore!”

  Fleur let the embroidery drop into her lap. All morning she’d been awaiting such a denunciation, though perhaps not quite so baldly. She’d spent the day in her room, and up until that point no one had even bothered to inquire after her. No servant had come to make up the fire or bring her early morning chocolate. No one inquired after her welfare.

  But now Sally Blaine stood in the doorway, Ermintrude smiling smugly beside her, and the accusing finger she pointed was trembling with rage. Behind the two sisters Fleur could see an entire crowd of interested bystanders, and it took all her self-possession to simply pick up her embroidery once more.

  “What are you talking about, Sally?” she managed to say with deceptive calm.

  “It’s Mrs. Blaine to you,” Sally snapped back, her artful coiffure quivering with indignation. “Your sister has taken off with the Earl of Glenshiel, and you may be sure an elopement was never a possibility. She has betrayed my hospitality and my honor, and I expect you’re no better than she is. I want you to leave here. Immediately!”