Chapter Five #2
THE SUN WAS LOW IN the sky when Tessa heard Edgar leave the house, slamming the door behind him.
Good. He wasn’t staying for dinner. He rarely did, and in any case, he was very fussy about his food and with nobody to cook or serve it, he’d probably decided to dine with friends or at whatever gambling hell he was visiting tonight.
She hoped he’d remembered to take the front door key with him, for there would be nobody to answer the door for him, and she’d be asleep if he came home in the wee small hours, as was his habit.
Feeling hungry herself, she went downstairs to the kitchen. Not much had been left behind, but there were a few eggs and half a stale loaf of bread. And a couple of meaty bones, which would make Billy happy.
She was no cook, but she’d learned young to make herself a scratch meal, and the fire in the stove was not quite out. She fed it with wood chips until it was burning merrily, then she made herself a meal of toast and scrambled eggs.
In the pantry she found a small bowl of leftover strawberry fool from the day before—her favorite—so she dug in a spoon. It tasted a bit peculiar—sharp—as if someone had mistakenly sprinkled some salt in it, so after a few mouthfuls, she set it aside.
Then she waited, until she realized she was waiting for Edgar to return, praying he wouldn’t. Waiting to hear from Lord Alverleigh saying his aunt knew an old lady who needed a companion.
She hated waiting. And she hated feeling so helpless, depending on others, relying on their actions in order for her life to. . . what? Begin? What nonsense!
A huge yawn broke her train of thought. She was tired, sleepy and her thoughts were becoming muzzy. It would be easier to work out what to do once she’d had a good night’s sleep. With another great yawn, she took herself to bed.
#
THE DOWNSTAIRS BELL jangled noisily. Marcus sat up in bed and eyed the clock on the mantel—not quite seven. Such an early caller at the front door could only be about one thing—Tessa!
He threw on a pair of breeches, grabbed a shirt and dragged it on as he hurried downstairs. There he found his butler arguing with one of Radcliffe’s men.
“I tell you,” his butler was insisting, “neither his lordship nor her ladyship accept callers at this hour. And if you’re a tradesman you ought to go around to—”
“It’s all right, Peverill,” Marcus said. “What is it, Jackson?”
“Trouble afoot, your lordship. I come straight away.”
Marcus turned to his butler. “Fetch my coat and boots—at once! And order the carriage! No time to waste!” Tucking his shirt in, he turned back to Jackson. “What happened?”
“An old gentleman arrived not fifteen minutes ago, all dressed up fancy and finicky like, as if for a special occasion, which is odd for this time of the mornin’. And then when I saw a parson getting out of a carriage—well, I knew what that meant. Trouble.”
Marcus swore. Peverill arrived with his coat and boots. Marcus grabbed them and ran out the door. He looked for his carriage.
“I got us a hackney, m’lord,” Jackson said and gestured to a shabby vehicle nearby.
“Excellent.” Marcus turned to his butler, hovering anxiously in the doorway and called, “When the carriage arrives, send it to Cressy Lane. Number . . .?”
Jackson called out the number, and they both jumped into the hackney, which sped off. Marcus pulled on his boots, shrugged into his coat and ran his fingers through his hair. He’d never gone out in such a state—he hadn’t even shaved—but there was no time to lose.
“Sims is there, your lordship,” Jackson told him. “He arrived for the changeover of the watch, so I come to tell you while he stays back and does what he can.”
Marcus gritted his teeth. The men had done well, but dammit, it wasn’t enough! What the hell was Blaxland playing at? A parson and an old man in formal dress? At this hour of the morning? It could only be one thing. A wedding.
The hackney turned into Cressy Lane. Marcus leapt out before it had stopped. He headed toward the front door, but Jackson grabbed his arm. “They won’t answer the front door. But the kitchen entrance is down there.” He pointed.
“Good man.” The two men ran down the area steps and entered the kitchen, which was deserted. Upstairs they could hear voices raised—male voices. They followed the sound to the sitting room he’d visited earlier. Luckily the door was slightly ajar. They could hear everything.
“I’m not sure,” a light, anxious-sounding voice was saying. “The lady seems to be indisposed. I cannot perform a marriage if she’s—”
“Yes, she does seem to be unwell, Blaxland,” a second voice said pettishly. The prospective groom, Marcus thought.
“She’s not damned well ill,” Edgar Blaxland snarled. “I tell you, she was nervous—all brides are, dammit—and she took a mild composer, that’s all, and it went to her head. Women are like that, weak in the head. Now get on with it, man!”
Marcus edged the door open, and saw Tessa standing between her brother and the elderly gentleman, though standing was hardly the right word. She was sagging, swaying slightly, supported between them. Apart from the parson and the groom, there were two other men—Sims and a stranger.
Marcus burst into the room. “A mild composer?” For a moment, everyone froze. Tessa turned her head and mumbled something that might have been his name. Her eyes were slightly unfocused; the pupils shrunk to the size of a pin prick.
“You’ve drugged her, you swine,” Marcus snarled.
The old gentleman gasped and released her arm. Tessa sagged against her brother.
Marcus took her arm, shoved Edgar away—hard—and passed the reeling Tessa to Jackson, saying, “Look after her.”
“How dare you interfere with my business, you bast—” Edgar began. Marcus felled him with a furious punch. Edgar fell sprawling to the floor.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the parson began.
“Get out of here, vicar,” Marcus snapped, “or you’ll be charged with conducting a forced marriage.”
“A forced marriage? You can’t possibly think—oh good gracious me—I had no idea, I assure you. The lady’s brother assured me—”
But Marcus had no time for him. Blaxland had scrambled to his feet and was trying to drag his sister away from Jackson. Marcus grabbed him by the collar, whirled him around and slammed another series of hard punches into him. Blaxland sagged, his eyes turning up, and collapsed in a heap.
Marcus turned to see who he needed to vanquish next. His blood was up and he was ready for anything. But the vicar, still bleating that he’d known nothing about any forced marriage, that he thought the girl had taken drink, that was all, was being hurried from the room by Sims.
The elderly gentleman, who was staring in dismay at the crumpled heap that was his erstwhile brother-in-law-to-be, saw Marcus prowling toward him and with a squeak of alarm ran out the door, calling “Petty, Petty!” which turned out to be not a commentary on the situation, but the name of the second stranger, who seemed to be in his employ.
In a few short minutes the room was empty, apart from Marcus, Blaxland, Radcliffe’s two men and Tessa, sagging limply against Jackson, her eyes closed.
What the hell had the bastard given her?
Blaxland was breathing, but still unconscious, blood bubbling slowly from his nose, which was broken, Marcus hoped.
He wanted to beat him to a pulp. He itched to give him a good kicking, but he’d been raised a gentleman, and kicking a man when he was well and truly down—well, there were times when a decent upbringing was a blasted nuisance.
In any case Tessa needed his attention.
The sound of wheels rattling on the cobbles outside drew his attention. “Your carriage is here, m’lord,” Sims said, peering out the window.
“Good. You stay here with that swine.” He jerked his chin at the inanimate heap that was Tessa’s villainous brother. “Don’t let him leave. Lock him in, if you must, but don’t lose him. I haven’t finished with Edgar Blaxland. But first I must tend to the lady.”
Marcus lifted Tessa into his arms. As he did there was a flurry of barking, and something happening in the vicinity of his boots. “What the—” He looked down, with some difficulty as her skirts were in the way, and saw a small, scrawny mongrel attacking his boots. One of his boots, to be precise.
“Get off me, you.” He tried to shake the creature off. Without success. Growling and snarling, the little dog continued to worry at Marcus’s boot.
“Somebody get this blasted dog off me. Get rid of it.”
Both Sims and Jackson tried to grab the little creature, but it wove and dodged and avoided them with ease. And returned to attacking Marcus’s boot.
“Want me to shoot it, milord?” Jackson produced a small deadly-looking pistol from a pocket.
“No, just—” Marcus began.
“You can’t shoot ‘im! ‘E belongs to the lady!” A small ragged boy appeared as if from nowhere, shouting at Marcus and dragging at Jackson’s pistol arm.
Marcus hitched Tessa’s insensible body higher against his chest and looked down at the child. It was the urchin who’d brought him the note from Tessa. What the devil was the child doing here inside her house—and in these circumstances?
“Her dog? Are you sure? It looks like a street dog.”
“‘Course I’m sure,” the boy retorted. “I seen her walkin’ him. An’ look at that collar—does that look like a street dog’s?”
Marcus had no idea what street dogs were wearing this season, but he didn’t care about the dog.
He had to get Tessa home and to immediate medical attention.
The dog was back, dancing around him, barking and darting in to worry at his boots, which were undoubtedly ruined by now.
“If you can catch the dog,” he told the boy.
“Bring it to my house. There’s a tanner in it for you. ”
“Cost yer a bob,” the child instantly responded.
Despite his worry for Tessa, Marcus couldn’t help but be amused. “Very well, a shilling, now out of my way.”