How To School Your Scoundrel, page 6
Because Somerton would kill him if he did.
And now? Somerton gazed at the dim-lit scene in quiet astonishment. Erasmus Norton felled like an oak by a lowly secretary.
By God, the pluck of him. The damned clean-scrubbed ferocity of him. The avenging angel, fighting the good fight.
“That I haven’t,” hissed Norton, “or I’d wipe your scrawny arse with it.”
“How fortunate for me,” said Markham. “In any case, I’m off. And I’ll be taking this”—he twirled the knife in his hand—“along with me.”
He tucked the knife inside his jacket, stepped elegantly over Norton’s prostrate body, and walked out the door.
The hearty slam of wood and brass echoed about the walls.
Somerton detached himself from the shadows and stepped along the direct line through the front room. Norton lay in the passage, his torso in the room and his legs sticking out into the hallway. Somerton stared down. “Dear me. Are you quite all right, my good fellow?”
Norton lay stiff. “Going to be sick.”
“You should have been more careful. The young ones are agile.”
“What sort of gentleman sticks another man in the marbles, I ask you? It ain’t on the level. There’s a code, sir.” He turned on his side and vomited onto the worn wooden floor.
Somerton removed a handkerchief from his pocket—plain white linen, no identifying marks—and dropped it on Norton’s chest. He lifted his chin and gazed thoughtfully at the door. “What gentleman, indeed?”
“It ain’t right.” Norton lay on his side, doubled over. “He might have ruined me forever.”
“Oh, buck up.” Somerton stepped around the body and reached for the doorknob. “You’re a hired assassin, not a curate. It’s no more than you deserve, after all.”
Before Norton could reply, he opened the door and strode down the steps, just in time to see a black shape emerge from behind an area gate at the end of the street and lunge silently upon the departing figure of Mr. Markham.
• • •
Luisa couldn’t precisely say when she detected the presence of the Earl of Somerton in the Stygian depths of the Ponsonby Place front room. No particular movement, no particular sound caught her attention. It was the sense of him, breathing quietly in the shadows. His heavy gaze observing her.
Observing her, and also guarding her. She knew, in that instant, she’d nothing to fear from the thick-armed ox holding her throat. Somerton could call him off with a flick of his fingers.
She’d had only to play her part.
As she strode down the pavement, overcoat swinging, fog stinging her face, she smiled at the recollection of her attacker’s surprise. His heavy grunt at her unexpected maneuver, his body crashing to the floor. For an instant, she’d turned the tables. She’d taken control again, she’d gained the upper hand.
The exhilaration still surged in her veins, making the smoke-scented gloom around her a bit less grim. A bit less threatening. A bit . . .
Her ears registered the sound of footfalls an instant too late.
She whirled about, arms raised. A pair of dark shoulders flashed before her, a menacing face, bared teeth, and her body flew backward to slam against the iron posts of an area fence.
Another test, she thought frantically, but the rush of panic in her veins told her this was real. No hired thug, no careful control.
Breath panted across her face, hot and foul. Something hard and cold laid itself against the tender skin of her neck.
“Empty yer pockets, lad,” growled a voice near her ear, and she realized she’d squeezed her eyes shut.
“I haven’t got any money!”
“Empty yer pockets, afore I does it for ye!”
Luisa forced her arms to move. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and drew out the empty lining. “You see? Nothing.”
It was true. She wasn’t carrying any money. It hadn’t even occurred to her. A few shillings and sixpence sat on her drawer chest, back in Chester Square, along with the Earl of Somerton’s crisp ten-pound note. But the practice of holding and spending money was still too new, too foreign to have become habit.
Stupid, of course. How had she expected to get herself home, without any coin? Every ordinary man, woman, and child knew that.
“Take off your coat!”
“I’ll do no such . . .”
A sharp pain pierced her neck.
Luisa fumbled with her buttons.
“Faster!”
The coat was off. The man’s hands yanked at her jacket; she heard the rip of thread and lost her balance. She crashed to the pavement, hitting her head a glancing blow on one of the iron fence posts. Dimly she felt the man’s weight fall upon her, his legs straddle her, his fingers scrabbling at her clothes.
“And what has we here, ye fine cove? A gold watch!”
“It’s not . . .”
But he was already pulling at the chain. Luisa’s head swam. The man’s face blurred above her, pinched and hungry, a ghastly yellow gray in the feeble, faraway gaslight. She tried to haul herself upward, but the man’s hands pushed her back. He was fumbling roughly in her waistcoat pockets now. Oh, God! He was going to find . . .
“Blimey!” he breathed.
“Give that back!”
“You wee little liar. Going to keep this hidden away from old Ned, was ye?”
Luisa gathered her breath. “Help! Somebody help! Thie . . .”
“Quiet!”
“Thief!”
The knife pushed at her throat again. She flailed for his arm, and watched in horror as his other arm lifted, the hand drawn into a large, meaty fist, elbow poised near his ear.
She threw her body against the prison of his weight. “No!”
The fist descended.
She shut her eyes and turned her head, and for a brief flash her father’s face appeared in her head, looking at her with sad and disappointed eyes, his salty beard clipped into a sharp point at the end, as it had been when she was little.
An instant later—it seemed like a minute, the whole world seemed to have slipped into a sluggish old gear—the weight lifted away from her hips like a sack of grain.
A dog howled, a piercing and miserable howl cut short by a series of deep thuds.
Luisa opened her eyes and struggled upward.
No. Not a dog. A man, the thief, who dangled from one of the Earl of Somerton’s large hands while the other fist beat a tattoo into his jaw and ribs.
“Good God,” she whispered. Her collar was wet against the night air. She looked down and saw a neat red half circle staining the linen.
The thudding stopped. Somerton let the man drop to the pavement, as he might rid himself of a sack of ash, should an earl ever have had cause to do so himself.
A faint groan issued from the broken bundle of humanity at his feet.
Somerton straightened his cuffs. “Be grateful you’re still alive.”
“Good God,” Luisa said again. She braced herself on a fence post and hauled her aching body upward.
Somerton turned to her. “What an unfortunate misadventure. Are you still whole?”
His voice was calm, almost icy. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his expression. Couldn’t tell if he were sympathetic or angry, or some mysterious emotion private to himself. His large black outline blocked out what little light shed upon the street: a shadow upon shadows. At his feet, the thief now seemed pitifully small.
“Still whole,” she said. She put a hand to the back of her head, which was throbbing but dry of blood. A small mercy.
Somerton’s face tilted downward. “Spoils of war,” he said, and in a quick motion of his long arm, he scooped up the watch and the ring that the thief had plucked from her pockets. “By God, it looks as if you’re not his first victim tonight. A damned fine ring. The watch is inferior, however. Is it yours?”
“Yes.” She held out her hand.
“There you are. My hackney is around the corner. We shall be home in half an hour. The housekeeper will see to your injury; I daresay a mere bandage will do. It’s stopped bleeding, at any rate.” He unfastened the first two buttons of his overcoat and slipped the ring into some hidden pocket next to his body.
In the presence of his matter-of-fact words, Luisa’s heart began to slow. She placed the watch and the broken chain into her waistcoat pocket and picked up her overcoat from the damp pavement. She willed her hands to stop shaking.
Somerton waited, without moving, as she buttoned her coat and settled her round bowler hat, now somewhat battered, back on her head. As if she’d simply stumbled and fallen while walking, instead of having nearly been murdered by a London street thief. As if this were all very ordinary.
For Somerton, it probably was.
“Can you walk?” he asked at last, when she was ready. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for the thief, who still lay on the pavement, issuing groans from time to time. He didn’t even wait for her reply; as soon as the question left his lips, he turned on his heel and began walking down the street, booted heels cracking smartly against the pavement, greatcoat swirling about his legs.
Luisa’s cheeks flushed hot against the cold air. She forced her bruised limbs into a run to catch up. “If I can walk, it’s no thanks to you!”
“I beg your pardon. I believe I just saved your life, young man.”
“The least you could do, after you arranged this entire absurd drama tonight.”
He turned the corner of Ponsonby Place onto Causton Street. Ahead, a hackney sat patiently by the curb. “I apologize for the austerity of the conveyance. A crested carriage is something of an inconvenience on such errands.”
“Errands? This was an errand to you?”
“Tut-tut. All’s well that ends well.” He reached the hackney and rapped upon the side. The driver started, nearly losing his hat, and sprang open the doors. “After you,” said Somerton, with an absence of flourish.
For an instant, Luisa considered delivering a parting shot and stalking off down the street.
“For God’s sake, Markham. Don’t be such a woman.” Somerton pulled his gloves from the pocket of his overcoat—he had evidently removed them in the struggle—and tugged each one over his hands.
Luisa cast him her haughtiest glance and climbed into the hackney.
He swung in behind her at once, making the vehicle stagger under his weight. The doors clanged shut, the whip twitched briskly, the driver spoke. With a weary sigh, the horse leaned forward in his harness and started off from the curb.
“I see you’re not going to apologize,” said Luisa, after a moment’s damp silence.
“Apologize?” The earl’s voice was genuinely incredulous. “For what?”
“For nearly having me killed!”
“You were never in any danger.”
“And yet there is a great deal of blood on my collar, my head hurts like the devil, and I daresay I shall carry a multitude of bruises well into next week.”
“Trifles.” He folded his arms against his massive chest.
“I suppose they’re trifles to you. I suppose you do this sort of thing on a nightly basis, God knows why, but I refuse to submit to such barbarous treatment again.”
A pause settled into the rhythmic motion of the hackney, the close intimacy of their two bodies held together beneath the iron doors. Luisa thought of her ring, tucked inside Somerton’s waistcoat, and flexed her fingers.
How the devil was she going to get it back?
“In that case, I assure you, you will come to no further harm in my employ,” Somerton said quietly.
“How on earth can you promise that?”
“I promise it.”
She couldn’t think of a reply to that solemn low voice, that intensity of conviction. His sleeve was next to hers; his enormous leg lay against her own, like the trunk of a hundred-year oak next to a seedling. He radiated heat, almost smothered her with his energy.
Her father’s ring. The ring of state, the ring held by the Prince of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, as a symbol of his marriage to his subjects. She’d kept it close to her body, as a talisman to keep her safe. What a fool she’d been. A sheltered little fool of a princess, who never thought to consider the common dangers of a London street at night.
Luisa turned her head to watch the sooty buildings slide by, darkest Pimlico giving way to Belgravia. In another few minutes, they would be back at the Earl of Somerton’s town house, encased in safety and luxury. Another peculiarity of London, that wealth and squalor lay together as bedfellows. You were never far from one or the other.
She had to get the ring back, before Somerton examined it more carefully. Saw the Holstein crest engraved on the band, the unique arrangement of diamond, sapphire, and ruby.
She drew in a deep breath. Stay calm. Wait for opportunity. Emotion achieves nothing.
Victoria Station passed quietly by. The traffic was growing, hackneys and carriages, a single late omnibus, nearly empty. The driver turned a corner, and suddenly all was stately and grand, lit by energetic gas lamps. The world she knew, through different eyes, in a different time.
“I suppose this means you intend to keep me on?” she said.
Somerton roused himself. “Keep you on? Yes, of course.”
“But I didn’t pass your test.”
“I beg your pardon. I don’t quite understand you.”
“Your test. Your test of my abilities. The Baltic shipping list, which, as you see, I have failed to deliver.”
Somerton rapped against the roof. The trapdoor slid open. “Pull over. We’ll walk from here.”
“Very good, sir.”
The hackney swerved to the curb and came to a stop. Perhaps she could fall against him when she climbed out, and pluck the ring from his pocket in the resulting confusion.
But his overcoat remained buttoned, and the jacket beneath that. Besides, she was no trained pickpocket.
Somerton reached inside his coat for the fare. In a moment, they would be back on the pavement, back in the house. She might not see him again until the morning.
The cabbie took the fare. The doors fell open.
Luisa braced her hand on the side of the hackney. “Well, your lordship? Don’t say you’re willing to overlook my failure.”
“My dear fellow. The Baltic shipping list is neither here nor there.” He sprang to the pavement and turned to face her.
She rose to her feet and stumbled deliberately out of the cab, sticking one hand toward the parting of his coat as if to brace herself, but Somerton’s long arms snatched and steadied her before her feet touched the ground. She looked up at his face, inches away. The lurid glare of the cab’s single lamp made him look like an apparition.
“You have gained my trust, Mr. Markham,” he said in a low voice, almost a snarl. “See that you don’t squander it.”
FIVE
Inside the Earl of Somerton’s town house, the lights had all been turned down, though it was only half past nine o’clock. A blank-faced footman answered the door, dressed in an elegant gray livery; the butler appeared an instant later.
“Is her ladyship at home?” asked Somerton, perfectly neutral.
“She is upstairs in the nursery at present, sir. May I take your coat and hat?”
“No. Order the carriage at once. I am going out.” Somerton made a gesture in Luisa’s direction. “Have Mrs. Plum see to that scratch on Mr. Markham’s neck directly.”
The butler’s gaze turned to Luisa for the first time and flicked downward to her collar. His eyes made the faintest movement, as if to widen. “Of course, sir.”
Luisa squared her jaw. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Johnson. I am quite capable of attending myself. Has the garden door been bolted yet?”
“No, Mr. Markham.”
“I shall need to see to Quincy’s convenience at once. Please ensure that nobody bolts the door until we return.”
Somerton turned to her. “Quincy? Who the devil is Quincy?”
“My dog, sir.”
“Your what?”
“My dog. A corgi, well trained. We are inseparable.” She looked back at him with her haughtiest gaze.
He looked as if a hurricane might break out at any instant around his head, from the sheer force of atmospheric energy being generated within. “I do not recall giving permission for a dog to be installed in this house, Mr. Markham.”
“I find, your lordship, one achieves more by asking for forgiveness, rather than permission.”
The butler made a faint choking sound. The rest of the house remained as silent as a tomb. Not even the clock perched atop the hallway fireplace dared to tick.
Bit by bit, the earl’s narrowed black eyes returned to their usual state. His shoulders relaxed a telling quarter inch. “I see, Mr. Markham, you’re going to cause me a great deal of trouble in the course of your employ. Let us both hope you prove yourself worth the disruption.”
“Of that, I have no doubt, sir.” She bowed her head.
Somerton adjusted his gloves. The dimness of the hallway gave his cheekbones additional heft, made his keen eyes especially black. “I don’t want to see this dog of yours, Mr. Markham. I don’t want to smell him. I most particularly don’t want to hear him. Is that understood?”
“Quite, sir.”
“That will be all, Markham.”
The dismissal in his voice was irrevocable. Luisa turned and marched to the soaring marble stairs without another word. Behind her, the door crashed shut, and Somerton disappeared back into the night.
With the state ring of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof still tucked securely in his waistcoat pocket.
• • •
A dark-haired woman stood on the landing when Luisa reached the top of the stairs. One hand gripped the railing, and the other was hidden in the folds of her dressing gown.
Luisa stopped and bowed. “Lady Somerton, I presume.”
The woman stepped into the light from the single sconce burning in the hallway. Luisa had to bite back a gasp; her beauty was so striking, so immaculate, she seemed to belong to another world. The air around her smelled of roses. “Good evening. You are his lordship’s new secretary, I believe?”
