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The Viscount's Counterfeit WifeMiss Talia Lawton never imagined that coming to London would involve such peril. First, she was almost run over by a speeding carriage, then, a large crate fell out of a window and narrowly missed squashing her. Last night was the worst of all. A man climbed into her bedroom window and she had to shoot him! No, he wasn’t dead... unfortunately! It might have been easier for them had he perished. Instead, he hit his head when falling and awoke today without any memory, not even his own name! What on earth was she going to do with him?
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Foster's Blunderbuss
My blunderbuss is a demmed big gun that's kept me and my Missy safe since we came to London. It might not shoot so straight but if I can see the whites of their eyes, I can't miss! And it's big enough to scare them all off. Anyway, when I'm protecting my Missy, I'm ready to shoot first and ask questions later!
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Book Details
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eBook Release Date:
Print Release Date: Print ISBN: Length: Trim Size (Print): Current Edition: |
July 18th, 2014
March 3rd, 2015 978-0993903809 510 Pages (Approx.) 6" x 9" 1st |
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Bone-chilling damp permeated his body. He hadn't given this dreadful climate a thought when he decided to come home for good.
Not too late to change his mind! Almost no one knew he was back.
Even his solicitors, he decided with a grimace. They’d been advised to have the house prepared for his return. Yet he saw no signs of that having been done. True, he’d told them not to hire any servants, so he couldn't complain that no one was in the house. But shouldn't it at least look less deserted?
To make matters worse, the blasted key didn’t fit. “They’ve changed the damned lock!” he muttered to himself.
There had to be some mistake.
He lifted the knocker, wanting to vent his ire by banging it loudly, then he dropped it. What was the point? The place was obviously deserted. He’d only succeed in rousing the neighbors. Not that many of them would be about this early in the year. The Season proper didn’t begin until next month and there were few year-rounders living in this area.
He pulled his collar higher. Thick fog almost obscured his townhouse and the quiet street looked desolate at two hours past midnight. This was not the homecoming he’d envisioned. A locked door and not a glimmer of light to welcome him home after six long years.
Better that than to be greeted by the Duke’s dreadful daughter as a wife! Which was what would have happened if he’d remained in England and let his father have his way.
Not that he regretted leaving. His years away had been fruitful in all aspects of his life and he was almost grateful to the Earl for unintentionally forcing him to go.
Now, Reed Gordon Eames, Viscount Selwich, was able to cope with adversity as well as anyone. Often, better than most. He was far from being a cosseted noble. He hadn’t, in fact, used his title since he left England and wasn’t sure he wanted to wear it again now that he was back. He liked the neutrality of no noble trappings.
Many were the nights he’d bedded down in a dried-up riverbed or on the desert floor, when finding a better place to sleep had been elusive… or unwise. But he’d not expected to meet such trials his first night back in London. He’d looked forward to the once-familiar comforts of his own home.
He peered into the drawing room window, but couldn't see anything. Annoyed, he strode back to fetch his bag.
Where was he going to sleep tonight?
His club was out. He dared not chance being seen by the wrong persons before he delivered the documents. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was lurking about, waiting to ambush him, just as he’d been doing for the past months on his circuitous journey home.
He didn't really think anyone would be lying in wait tonight. His Marylebone townhouse was a well-kept secret, with only Jace, Max, and his brothers knowing about it. Still, it paid to remain alert and watchful. He… they... were too close to accomplishing their goal now to take chances.
He’d be glad to end this mission. Right from the start he’d been gripped by the human tragedy being enacted and had been grateful to have the chance to help put an end to it. He clenched his fists. White slavery. Disgusting practice. It made his stomach turn.
When his brothers' two friends had come to Egypt and told him about their mission, he’d been so outraged that someone of his own kind would do such a thing, that he volunteered to join Jace and Max in bringing to justice the evil monster causing so much suffering. Little had he known it would take the three of them over eighteen months to complete their inquiry or that, by the end, they would add rampant, indiscriminate murder to their quarry’s list of crimes.
Reed was going to enjoy bringing Traubridge down. The vulture’s ruthless preying on weaker individuals, unable to defend themselves, revolted him.
Over the months of their investigation, the trio had conducted numerous covert recoveries of ill-fated young British women, who had been terrified at the horrific prospect of being auctioned off and never seen or heard from again. Knowing many had already vanished into purdah and witnessing the innocent victims of senseless murders perpetrated by that fiend, had carved a sharp edge into his artist’s soul. It would be good to live free of that and of the need for secrecy and courting danger at every corner.
Looking around at the quiet London street, he heaved a sigh of relief. It might be cold and dank, but he was home. Their work was almost over. He felt lighter already!
By now, Jace and Max would have received word that he was safely home in his townhouse. He hadn’t wanted to send news sooner of his delayed arrival, for fear of it being intercepted by someone working for the wrong side.
But it was too soon to allow his vigilance to slacken. Not only his life was on the line here. One wrong move and the man their morbid sense of humor had them dubbing “The Vanisher”, would make sure Reed and anyone connected to him were the next ones to vanish. That was why he hadn’t wanted any servants hired. No innocent people would be put in danger on his account.
Enough! The first item to resolve was where he was going to sleep tonight. he began moving back to the front entrance where he'd left his bag. The safest choice would be to find a small, anonymous inn outside of Town.
Setting off again was the last thing he felt like doing but what choice did he have?
Wait! The broken latch! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He shook his head. Maybe because he was older and wiser now!
Still… it had been an exceedingly long day and it would solve the matter of where he slept tonight quite tidily and more to his satisfaction.
Bounce back in his step, Reed rounded the corner and headed for the rear of the house. He’d stash his bag under the thick shrubs next to the dustbin, where he trusted it would remain until morning. Weary as he was, once he reached his bedroom, he was not coming back down to fetch it tonight!
Ah, there was refuse in the dustbin. So someone had been here cleaning the place up! Good! If he was lucky, his solicitors might have gotten someone to stock the larder too, so there would be something to eat. He wouldn’t have time to buy his breakfast in the morning before delivering the documents to the Chief.
That had to be his first order of the day tomorrow. He was already much later arriving from Egypt than expected. Eluding his foes had cost him valuable time. Meeting with Jace, Max and the Chief came at the top of the list. He’d have plenty of time afterwards to rest up and feast on his favorite English dishes.
Soon, he stood below his bedroom window at the back of the house. He wagered they hadn’t had the faulty latch repaired. He was counting on it.
He shook the trellis, testing its strength.
Seemed sturdy enough.
Grabbing the vine with one hand, he tugged. Would it hold his weight?
A bitterly cold blast of wind decided him against removing his great coat.
Ah hell, he was so tired he’d almost forgotten the vellum documents sewn into its lining. They were too important to take chances. No one seemed to be dogging his footsteps tonight, but one could never be certain. He gave a careless shrug. The coat would protect him against the worst of the branches, and if it was ruined, he could well afford a new one.
Reaching up, he grasped a wide stalk with both hands and pulled himself upward to find a foothold on a thick intersection between branches. Once started, he grabbed vine after vine, making his way steadily up the wall.
Not bad. Not all of his youth had deserted him, though the depravity he’d witnessed during their investigation made him feel ancient.
Damn! The trellis ended! Now he’d have to rely solely on the ivy.
It had been many years since he’d last resorted to this hazardous method of entering his house. Too many years, he decided, as he felt the sleeve of his coat rip under the arm. Yet, he was almost enjoying the challenge.
If it weren’t so late, if he hadn’t just spent almost twelve continuous hours in the saddle, and if not for the weight of his coat dragging on him, he’d have found this exhilarating.
He shouldn’t have changed into his own clothes at Kit’s place once he’d arrived in London. The cleric’s disguise he’d worn to ride to London would have been lighter and he wouldn’t have minded ruining it, with its uncomfortable collar and tight jacket. He hoped never to have to wear it again.
Lord, the teasing he’d be subjected to, if any of the Spares learned of this latest escapade. He’d never hear the end of it!
He tested the vine above him. Safe enough. He hoped! He climbed higher, the leaves rustling and shredding as he scrabbled his way through the small forest of snarled stalks.
Reed chuckled under his breath as he imagined the gardener’s puzzled yet irate reaction to such ill treatment of the vines.
Suddenly, one of the vines loosened. Christ! Not now!
He stilled for seconds to let the vine settle. But when it began to give way completely, he grabbed for its neighbor. He had to hang on! He was almost there.
He looked up at the window he was aiming for and noticed it was slightly ajar. Excellent! They must be airing out his room. At least he wouldn’t have to struggle to push the window in while hanging so precariously.
The closer he came to his goal, the thinner the branches became. Alarmingly so. He felt another one pull away from the wall and he halted abruptly. He swayed there for a moment or two, sending a heartfelt, if rusty, prayer flying upwards.
He was determined to sleep in his own bed tonight! He willed the damned vine to hold until he reached the window. He only needed a few more inches… His hand reached for the next branch only to find himself swinging, unmoored, haplessly in the air. The vine had pulled completely away from the wall!
* * * * * *
Talia Mazzarini Lawton awoke in an instant!
What had roused her so thoroughly from sleep?
There, the sound came again — a burst of surprised laughter, quickly stifled. She’d swear it was right outside her window! The thrashing and rustling of leaves that followed turned her blood cold.
Oh my god! Someone was climbing the wall outside her window! He wasn’t even trying to hide it. What manner of maniac was this?
Choking out a horrified gasp, she leapt from her bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Undiluted fear tore through her and she wanted to run screaming from the room. She forced in a few deep breaths striving for some of her usual calm. Then she remembered her pistols.
Thank you, Foster, for insisting on cleaning and priming my guns! She silently voiced her gratitude to her long-time champion. She picked them up carefully from the bedside table and sat in the armchair facing the window. It was fortunate that, from this angle, the glow of the banked fireplace provided enough light to give her a decent shot. Sitting there, in tense silence, she set one gun on the small candle table beside her and kept the other in her right hand, ready to fire.
Moments later she heard fumbling sounds, a muffled shout followed by a series of pungent curses.
The vine had given way! She almost stood to go help... then angry at her folly, she sank back down on the chair. Fool! She should be relieved... elated! If he fell, that would solve her problem and she wouldn’t have to shoot him.
Or maybe she should slam the window on his fingers! That’s what she should have done in the first place — shut the window and lock it! Again, she half rose to act on that inspiration then realized it was too late.
Frozen with fear, she watched a gloved hand grope about, trying to catch hold of the inside of the window ledge. In horrified fascination, she sat back down and stared as large hands grappled for and caught hold of the casement. The window opened wider, one foot came through and stretched to settle on the floor. Expelling a breathy laugh of victory, the man turned to edge in backwards through the window, casually, as if he were coming through the front door.
Her heart thundered. Her hand trembled so badly she had to steady it on the arm of the chair. She waited until both his feet were on the floor, then — though almost paralyzed with fear — she commanded, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
He jerked around abruptly and, instinctively, she pulled the trigger. He must have heard the sound of the pistol being cocked, because the intruder dived for the floor. There was a dull thud and then, silence.
Tally jumped to her feet. She grabbed the second pistol, aimed it in his direction, and held her breath, waiting for him to stand up. Shivers of fear and an odd excitement quaked through her.
Why was he so still? She hadn’t done more than graze him. Her shot couldn’t have been that far off the mark. She was a good shot. Foster had seen to that. There was no way her bullet hit anything vital!
Was there?
She’d been careful to aim for his arm. But he’d moved, so her shot might not have hit its intended target. Cold chills rippled down her spine. Needing better light to see him, she picked up the oil lamp from the candle table and hurried to the hearth to stir the embers to light it. She kept looking over her shoulder in case he rose to attack her from behind. Taking the taper she’d used earlier, she lit it from the glowing cinders and transferred the fire to the wick on the lamp. Her hands shook so badly, it took several tries. She cast another furtive look back. She hadn’t been smart. She should have gone to fetch Foster before taking the time to light the room.
The flame caught. She turned and raised the lamp. The intruder was not a short man, nor a slight one. She stepped gingerly toward the inert form.
Was he feigning death?
Quaking, Tally inched closer, holding the lamp lower to see more clearly.
Gracious, this was no ordinary burglar. No common thief wore such a fine woolen great coat, nor such exceptionally crafted leather boots. His head was turned away, so she saw only his black locks, overlong but well cut.
Were there gentlemen thieves in London? She’d never heard of them, but then she knew very little of what normally occurred in London.
Gingerly using the toes of her right foot, she tried to turn the man over onto his back. He was no lightweight that was for sure. She put the lamp down on the dresser to use both her hands to roll him over.
“Sweet heavens!” He was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Although his beard was well past shaving time, lending him a dark and dangerous air with that strong jaw and bronzed skin…. He looked like a beautiful, but fallen angel.
A large, dark stain dampened his chest. Blood! Dio mio!
As ever, when frightened, her mother tongue came flying to the fore. She fell to her knees beside the body. Her ball must have hit him in the chest! Was he was going to die here on the bedroom floor? Panic, sheer and uncontrolled, rushed through her. She hadn’t meant to kill him! She pushed his unbuttoned coat and jacket aside and, yanking his shirt from his pants, she pushed it up to his neck, frantic to find the wound and stanch the blood.
For a breath-stealing instant, the sight of that wide expanse shocked her. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest up this close. Never imagined… well, had imagined… but it had never looked like this!
Blood streaked his left side, yet Tally was momentarily transfixed by his perfectly sculpted muscles. She hesitated. It would be wonderful to paint such a chest. Her hands reached to touch…
Don’t be a fool! She pulled them back and fisted her hands. How could she be so shallow? To think of painting him at a time like this!
But... where was the wound? Where was the blood coming from? She pulled his shirt away from his skin then, slid her hand up his arm, under his shirt. Just above his elbow, she was unable to move any higher without shifting his body onto the side. He was heavy so she just barely managed to lean him sideways enough to push her hand up under his clothes at the back, to feel where the ball had entered. It had hit him in the shoulder, but she wasn’t able to find the entry point.
Relief weakened her knees to know the blood was seeping from his shoulder not his chest, though she was appalled at how much blood there was.
It was the first time she’d shot anyone and her nerves were fluttering madly about like a trapped bird’s wings. She put her hand to his heart. The powerful beat had her snatching it back as if scalded. He certainly was not dead or dying. Even so, she needed to get help for him.
She pulled his coat closed to cover him before she raced from the room and flew down the stairs. It was lucky she was used to moving about in the dark because, apart from the faint glow of moonlight filtering in through the fanlight above the door in the hallway, it was total darkness.
At the bottom, she was on her way toward the back of the house, when a loud snore, coming from the front hallway, stopped her. Startled, she peeked around the corner.
Even in her distress, she had to smile. Foster, the old dear, was guarding the door. Sitting soldier-straight in a high-backed chair, he was bundled up with woolen hat and scarf against the night chill, his ancient blunderbuss across his lap. He was sound asleep. Not even the deafening gunshot that was still ringing in her ears had disturbed his deep slumber. In truth, his hearing was really very poor now, but still....
She hated to wake him, but who else could help her? They were just the two of them in the house. They’d hired only Joseph, a small boy of uncertain age, though definitely no more than nine, to help Foster with the chores and do the running. But he went home at the end of the afternoon to his mother and younger brothers and sisters.
She tiptoed nearer, carefully, fearful of waking him abruptly with that dangerous-looking contraption in his arms.
“Foster,” she whispered loudly.
No reaction.
“Foster!” She raised her voice even louder. She patted his arm lightly.
Still nothing.
Grasping his shoulder, she shook him vigorously. This time, she shouted his name.
“Heh? What?” He straightened and, before she knew it, had his weapon aimed at her. For an elderly man, he was quick to react!
“It’s Tally!” She pushed the tip of the gun away. “I need your help.” She saw his rheumy eyes clearing as he wakened. “Quickly! I shot a burglar.”
“What?” That jolted him awake. He looked around. “Where?”
“In my room.” Tally headed for the stairs.
“Eh? How did he get up there?” Foster hobbled stiffly along beside her and they started up the steps. “Ain’t nobody come by me.”
“He climbed in the window.” Noticing him wince, she slowed down. Her heart ached to see how frail he looked. A puff of wind could knock him over! And how much help would he be, if the intruder upstairs recovered enough to stand and fight?
“He’s no burglar!” He wheezed and stopped to catch his breath. “I told ye. Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Not that again!” She brushed the idea away with a wave of her hand. “Why would anyone want to harm me? Who, in London, even knows I exist?”
“I don’t know why, Miss Tally, but they’re after you, that’s for demmed sure.”
Was he right? It had been easier to scoff at his notion that she was a target of foul play, before that man had crawled through her bedroom window.
“Did ye kill him?” He took another step, a gleam of gleeful expectation in his sharp, aging eyes.
“I hope not!” She ignored his snort of disapproval. “I hit him in the back of the shoulder, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”
They reached the top of the stairs and were almost at the door to her room. Foster put his gun to his shoulder and, nudging her aside, shuffled ahead to enter first, determined to protect her.
“Serve him right.” Foster muttered fiercely, stomping into the room. His head swiveled left and right. “Where is he?”
“What do you mean?” Tally rushed forward. “He can’t have gone!” She peeked around Foster’s shoulder and gasped. The man was no longer there!
Not too late to change his mind! Almost no one knew he was back.
Even his solicitors, he decided with a grimace. They’d been advised to have the house prepared for his return. Yet he saw no signs of that having been done. True, he’d told them not to hire any servants, so he couldn't complain that no one was in the house. But shouldn't it at least look less deserted?
To make matters worse, the blasted key didn’t fit. “They’ve changed the damned lock!” he muttered to himself.
There had to be some mistake.
He lifted the knocker, wanting to vent his ire by banging it loudly, then he dropped it. What was the point? The place was obviously deserted. He’d only succeed in rousing the neighbors. Not that many of them would be about this early in the year. The Season proper didn’t begin until next month and there were few year-rounders living in this area.
He pulled his collar higher. Thick fog almost obscured his townhouse and the quiet street looked desolate at two hours past midnight. This was not the homecoming he’d envisioned. A locked door and not a glimmer of light to welcome him home after six long years.
Better that than to be greeted by the Duke’s dreadful daughter as a wife! Which was what would have happened if he’d remained in England and let his father have his way.
Not that he regretted leaving. His years away had been fruitful in all aspects of his life and he was almost grateful to the Earl for unintentionally forcing him to go.
Now, Reed Gordon Eames, Viscount Selwich, was able to cope with adversity as well as anyone. Often, better than most. He was far from being a cosseted noble. He hadn’t, in fact, used his title since he left England and wasn’t sure he wanted to wear it again now that he was back. He liked the neutrality of no noble trappings.
Many were the nights he’d bedded down in a dried-up riverbed or on the desert floor, when finding a better place to sleep had been elusive… or unwise. But he’d not expected to meet such trials his first night back in London. He’d looked forward to the once-familiar comforts of his own home.
He peered into the drawing room window, but couldn't see anything. Annoyed, he strode back to fetch his bag.
Where was he going to sleep tonight?
His club was out. He dared not chance being seen by the wrong persons before he delivered the documents. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was lurking about, waiting to ambush him, just as he’d been doing for the past months on his circuitous journey home.
He didn't really think anyone would be lying in wait tonight. His Marylebone townhouse was a well-kept secret, with only Jace, Max, and his brothers knowing about it. Still, it paid to remain alert and watchful. He… they... were too close to accomplishing their goal now to take chances.
He’d be glad to end this mission. Right from the start he’d been gripped by the human tragedy being enacted and had been grateful to have the chance to help put an end to it. He clenched his fists. White slavery. Disgusting practice. It made his stomach turn.
When his brothers' two friends had come to Egypt and told him about their mission, he’d been so outraged that someone of his own kind would do such a thing, that he volunteered to join Jace and Max in bringing to justice the evil monster causing so much suffering. Little had he known it would take the three of them over eighteen months to complete their inquiry or that, by the end, they would add rampant, indiscriminate murder to their quarry’s list of crimes.
Reed was going to enjoy bringing Traubridge down. The vulture’s ruthless preying on weaker individuals, unable to defend themselves, revolted him.
Over the months of their investigation, the trio had conducted numerous covert recoveries of ill-fated young British women, who had been terrified at the horrific prospect of being auctioned off and never seen or heard from again. Knowing many had already vanished into purdah and witnessing the innocent victims of senseless murders perpetrated by that fiend, had carved a sharp edge into his artist’s soul. It would be good to live free of that and of the need for secrecy and courting danger at every corner.
Looking around at the quiet London street, he heaved a sigh of relief. It might be cold and dank, but he was home. Their work was almost over. He felt lighter already!
By now, Jace and Max would have received word that he was safely home in his townhouse. He hadn’t wanted to send news sooner of his delayed arrival, for fear of it being intercepted by someone working for the wrong side.
But it was too soon to allow his vigilance to slacken. Not only his life was on the line here. One wrong move and the man their morbid sense of humor had them dubbing “The Vanisher”, would make sure Reed and anyone connected to him were the next ones to vanish. That was why he hadn’t wanted any servants hired. No innocent people would be put in danger on his account.
Enough! The first item to resolve was where he was going to sleep tonight. he began moving back to the front entrance where he'd left his bag. The safest choice would be to find a small, anonymous inn outside of Town.
Setting off again was the last thing he felt like doing but what choice did he have?
Wait! The broken latch! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He shook his head. Maybe because he was older and wiser now!
Still… it had been an exceedingly long day and it would solve the matter of where he slept tonight quite tidily and more to his satisfaction.
Bounce back in his step, Reed rounded the corner and headed for the rear of the house. He’d stash his bag under the thick shrubs next to the dustbin, where he trusted it would remain until morning. Weary as he was, once he reached his bedroom, he was not coming back down to fetch it tonight!
Ah, there was refuse in the dustbin. So someone had been here cleaning the place up! Good! If he was lucky, his solicitors might have gotten someone to stock the larder too, so there would be something to eat. He wouldn’t have time to buy his breakfast in the morning before delivering the documents to the Chief.
That had to be his first order of the day tomorrow. He was already much later arriving from Egypt than expected. Eluding his foes had cost him valuable time. Meeting with Jace, Max and the Chief came at the top of the list. He’d have plenty of time afterwards to rest up and feast on his favorite English dishes.
Soon, he stood below his bedroom window at the back of the house. He wagered they hadn’t had the faulty latch repaired. He was counting on it.
He shook the trellis, testing its strength.
Seemed sturdy enough.
Grabbing the vine with one hand, he tugged. Would it hold his weight?
A bitterly cold blast of wind decided him against removing his great coat.
Ah hell, he was so tired he’d almost forgotten the vellum documents sewn into its lining. They were too important to take chances. No one seemed to be dogging his footsteps tonight, but one could never be certain. He gave a careless shrug. The coat would protect him against the worst of the branches, and if it was ruined, he could well afford a new one.
Reaching up, he grasped a wide stalk with both hands and pulled himself upward to find a foothold on a thick intersection between branches. Once started, he grabbed vine after vine, making his way steadily up the wall.
Not bad. Not all of his youth had deserted him, though the depravity he’d witnessed during their investigation made him feel ancient.
Damn! The trellis ended! Now he’d have to rely solely on the ivy.
It had been many years since he’d last resorted to this hazardous method of entering his house. Too many years, he decided, as he felt the sleeve of his coat rip under the arm. Yet, he was almost enjoying the challenge.
If it weren’t so late, if he hadn’t just spent almost twelve continuous hours in the saddle, and if not for the weight of his coat dragging on him, he’d have found this exhilarating.
He shouldn’t have changed into his own clothes at Kit’s place once he’d arrived in London. The cleric’s disguise he’d worn to ride to London would have been lighter and he wouldn’t have minded ruining it, with its uncomfortable collar and tight jacket. He hoped never to have to wear it again.
Lord, the teasing he’d be subjected to, if any of the Spares learned of this latest escapade. He’d never hear the end of it!
He tested the vine above him. Safe enough. He hoped! He climbed higher, the leaves rustling and shredding as he scrabbled his way through the small forest of snarled stalks.
Reed chuckled under his breath as he imagined the gardener’s puzzled yet irate reaction to such ill treatment of the vines.
Suddenly, one of the vines loosened. Christ! Not now!
He stilled for seconds to let the vine settle. But when it began to give way completely, he grabbed for its neighbor. He had to hang on! He was almost there.
He looked up at the window he was aiming for and noticed it was slightly ajar. Excellent! They must be airing out his room. At least he wouldn’t have to struggle to push the window in while hanging so precariously.
The closer he came to his goal, the thinner the branches became. Alarmingly so. He felt another one pull away from the wall and he halted abruptly. He swayed there for a moment or two, sending a heartfelt, if rusty, prayer flying upwards.
He was determined to sleep in his own bed tonight! He willed the damned vine to hold until he reached the window. He only needed a few more inches… His hand reached for the next branch only to find himself swinging, unmoored, haplessly in the air. The vine had pulled completely away from the wall!
* * * * * *
Talia Mazzarini Lawton awoke in an instant!
What had roused her so thoroughly from sleep?
There, the sound came again — a burst of surprised laughter, quickly stifled. She’d swear it was right outside her window! The thrashing and rustling of leaves that followed turned her blood cold.
Oh my god! Someone was climbing the wall outside her window! He wasn’t even trying to hide it. What manner of maniac was this?
Choking out a horrified gasp, she leapt from her bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Undiluted fear tore through her and she wanted to run screaming from the room. She forced in a few deep breaths striving for some of her usual calm. Then she remembered her pistols.
Thank you, Foster, for insisting on cleaning and priming my guns! She silently voiced her gratitude to her long-time champion. She picked them up carefully from the bedside table and sat in the armchair facing the window. It was fortunate that, from this angle, the glow of the banked fireplace provided enough light to give her a decent shot. Sitting there, in tense silence, she set one gun on the small candle table beside her and kept the other in her right hand, ready to fire.
Moments later she heard fumbling sounds, a muffled shout followed by a series of pungent curses.
The vine had given way! She almost stood to go help... then angry at her folly, she sank back down on the chair. Fool! She should be relieved... elated! If he fell, that would solve her problem and she wouldn’t have to shoot him.
Or maybe she should slam the window on his fingers! That’s what she should have done in the first place — shut the window and lock it! Again, she half rose to act on that inspiration then realized it was too late.
Frozen with fear, she watched a gloved hand grope about, trying to catch hold of the inside of the window ledge. In horrified fascination, she sat back down and stared as large hands grappled for and caught hold of the casement. The window opened wider, one foot came through and stretched to settle on the floor. Expelling a breathy laugh of victory, the man turned to edge in backwards through the window, casually, as if he were coming through the front door.
Her heart thundered. Her hand trembled so badly she had to steady it on the arm of the chair. She waited until both his feet were on the floor, then — though almost paralyzed with fear — she commanded, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
He jerked around abruptly and, instinctively, she pulled the trigger. He must have heard the sound of the pistol being cocked, because the intruder dived for the floor. There was a dull thud and then, silence.
Tally jumped to her feet. She grabbed the second pistol, aimed it in his direction, and held her breath, waiting for him to stand up. Shivers of fear and an odd excitement quaked through her.
Why was he so still? She hadn’t done more than graze him. Her shot couldn’t have been that far off the mark. She was a good shot. Foster had seen to that. There was no way her bullet hit anything vital!
Was there?
She’d been careful to aim for his arm. But he’d moved, so her shot might not have hit its intended target. Cold chills rippled down her spine. Needing better light to see him, she picked up the oil lamp from the candle table and hurried to the hearth to stir the embers to light it. She kept looking over her shoulder in case he rose to attack her from behind. Taking the taper she’d used earlier, she lit it from the glowing cinders and transferred the fire to the wick on the lamp. Her hands shook so badly, it took several tries. She cast another furtive look back. She hadn’t been smart. She should have gone to fetch Foster before taking the time to light the room.
The flame caught. She turned and raised the lamp. The intruder was not a short man, nor a slight one. She stepped gingerly toward the inert form.
Was he feigning death?
Quaking, Tally inched closer, holding the lamp lower to see more clearly.
Gracious, this was no ordinary burglar. No common thief wore such a fine woolen great coat, nor such exceptionally crafted leather boots. His head was turned away, so she saw only his black locks, overlong but well cut.
Were there gentlemen thieves in London? She’d never heard of them, but then she knew very little of what normally occurred in London.
Gingerly using the toes of her right foot, she tried to turn the man over onto his back. He was no lightweight that was for sure. She put the lamp down on the dresser to use both her hands to roll him over.
“Sweet heavens!” He was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Although his beard was well past shaving time, lending him a dark and dangerous air with that strong jaw and bronzed skin…. He looked like a beautiful, but fallen angel.
A large, dark stain dampened his chest. Blood! Dio mio!
As ever, when frightened, her mother tongue came flying to the fore. She fell to her knees beside the body. Her ball must have hit him in the chest! Was he was going to die here on the bedroom floor? Panic, sheer and uncontrolled, rushed through her. She hadn’t meant to kill him! She pushed his unbuttoned coat and jacket aside and, yanking his shirt from his pants, she pushed it up to his neck, frantic to find the wound and stanch the blood.
For a breath-stealing instant, the sight of that wide expanse shocked her. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest up this close. Never imagined… well, had imagined… but it had never looked like this!
Blood streaked his left side, yet Tally was momentarily transfixed by his perfectly sculpted muscles. She hesitated. It would be wonderful to paint such a chest. Her hands reached to touch…
Don’t be a fool! She pulled them back and fisted her hands. How could she be so shallow? To think of painting him at a time like this!
But... where was the wound? Where was the blood coming from? She pulled his shirt away from his skin then, slid her hand up his arm, under his shirt. Just above his elbow, she was unable to move any higher without shifting his body onto the side. He was heavy so she just barely managed to lean him sideways enough to push her hand up under his clothes at the back, to feel where the ball had entered. It had hit him in the shoulder, but she wasn’t able to find the entry point.
Relief weakened her knees to know the blood was seeping from his shoulder not his chest, though she was appalled at how much blood there was.
It was the first time she’d shot anyone and her nerves were fluttering madly about like a trapped bird’s wings. She put her hand to his heart. The powerful beat had her snatching it back as if scalded. He certainly was not dead or dying. Even so, she needed to get help for him.
She pulled his coat closed to cover him before she raced from the room and flew down the stairs. It was lucky she was used to moving about in the dark because, apart from the faint glow of moonlight filtering in through the fanlight above the door in the hallway, it was total darkness.
At the bottom, she was on her way toward the back of the house, when a loud snore, coming from the front hallway, stopped her. Startled, she peeked around the corner.
Even in her distress, she had to smile. Foster, the old dear, was guarding the door. Sitting soldier-straight in a high-backed chair, he was bundled up with woolen hat and scarf against the night chill, his ancient blunderbuss across his lap. He was sound asleep. Not even the deafening gunshot that was still ringing in her ears had disturbed his deep slumber. In truth, his hearing was really very poor now, but still....
She hated to wake him, but who else could help her? They were just the two of them in the house. They’d hired only Joseph, a small boy of uncertain age, though definitely no more than nine, to help Foster with the chores and do the running. But he went home at the end of the afternoon to his mother and younger brothers and sisters.
She tiptoed nearer, carefully, fearful of waking him abruptly with that dangerous-looking contraption in his arms.
“Foster,” she whispered loudly.
No reaction.
“Foster!” She raised her voice even louder. She patted his arm lightly.
Still nothing.
Grasping his shoulder, she shook him vigorously. This time, she shouted his name.
“Heh? What?” He straightened and, before she knew it, had his weapon aimed at her. For an elderly man, he was quick to react!
“It’s Tally!” She pushed the tip of the gun away. “I need your help.” She saw his rheumy eyes clearing as he wakened. “Quickly! I shot a burglar.”
“What?” That jolted him awake. He looked around. “Where?”
“In my room.” Tally headed for the stairs.
“Eh? How did he get up there?” Foster hobbled stiffly along beside her and they started up the steps. “Ain’t nobody come by me.”
“He climbed in the window.” Noticing him wince, she slowed down. Her heart ached to see how frail he looked. A puff of wind could knock him over! And how much help would he be, if the intruder upstairs recovered enough to stand and fight?
“He’s no burglar!” He wheezed and stopped to catch his breath. “I told ye. Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Not that again!” She brushed the idea away with a wave of her hand. “Why would anyone want to harm me? Who, in London, even knows I exist?”
“I don’t know why, Miss Tally, but they’re after you, that’s for demmed sure.”
Was he right? It had been easier to scoff at his notion that she was a target of foul play, before that man had crawled through her bedroom window.
“Did ye kill him?” He took another step, a gleam of gleeful expectation in his sharp, aging eyes.
“I hope not!” She ignored his snort of disapproval. “I hit him in the back of the shoulder, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”
They reached the top of the stairs and were almost at the door to her room. Foster put his gun to his shoulder and, nudging her aside, shuffled ahead to enter first, determined to protect her.
“Serve him right.” Foster muttered fiercely, stomping into the room. His head swiveled left and right. “Where is he?”
“What do you mean?” Tally rushed forward. “He can’t have gone!” She peeked around Foster’s shoulder and gasped. The man was no longer there!