Chapter 12 #2
Charlotte’s entire expression brightened, as though she had been waiting for such an opportunity. “Well, we could discuss what Mrs. Thompson was wearing to Lady Winter’s ball. It was rather scandalous, was it not?”
Jane listened politely as Charlotte went on and on about Mrs. Thompson’s gown, but her mind drifted back to the lighthearted banter between Alistair and her aunt.
Now, with Charlotte in full gossip, the atmosphere seemed to settle into something quieter, more proper…
and far less interesting. Jane found herself glancing at Alistair, catching the faint twitch of his lips as though he, too, might prefer the earlier absurdities.
She had to look away before he caught her watching.
Still, a smile lingered on her lips. Perhaps, if she was lucky, the ridiculousness would return before the evening was through.
Alistair remained on the front steps of his townhouse, watching as Jane and Lady Cosima’s coach rattled down the street.
He lifted his hand in a final wave until the lamps upon the rear panel blurred into darkness.
He had enjoyed himself more than he had expected and Jane’s laughter still rang in his ears.
But it was past midnight, and the weight of weariness pressed down upon him. It was time to retire.
Stepping inside, he was greeted not by silence, but by his sister. Charlotte stood in the entry hall with arms crossed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You like Jane,” she declared.
Alistair forced a smile and sought to deflect. “Of course I like her. She is my friend.”
Charlotte’s answering smirk was positively amusing. “No, you like Jane. As in, your heart beats faster when she enters a room. It is rather obvious.”
He leaned down to brush a brotherly kiss upon her cheek. “Goodnight, Charlotte.”
But she fell into step beside him as he mounted the staircase, refusing to be dismissed. “You cannot fool me, Alistair. I have not seen you smile this much in years—perhaps ever. Around Jane, it is as though you cannot contain your happiness.”
He kept his voice even. “I do enjoy her company, but that is all it is.”
“You are lying to yourself,” Charlotte countered, her tone earnest.
At the top of the stairs he halted, turning to face her with a touch of impatience. “Is there a point to this conversation?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I want you to be happy.”
“And I want the same for you.”
Charlotte stepped nearer, her eyes unflinching. “I can tell that Jane makes you happy and I truly believe you could be content with her.”
He let out a long sigh, weariness warring with the stirrings her words provoked. “Jane and I are—”
“Friends,” she finished for him, with maddening satisfaction. “But I think you feel more than friendship.”
He shook his head. “When I marry, it will be a logical decision, not one born of infatuation. I cannot afford the mistake our parents made. Their marriage began as a love match, and in the end, they despised one another. I will not repeat that folly.”
“You are not Father,” Charlotte whispered, retreating a step. “Just think on what I said.”
She brushed past him, and Alistair lingered in the corridor, her words echoing in his mind.
Blast it—she was right. His feelings for Jane ran deeper than he cared to admit.
And yet… what future could there be? She was Lady Cosima’s heiress, with half the ton clamoring for her hand.
A woman of fortune could choose among dukes, marquesses, and princes. Why would she ever look to him?
A pang tightened his chest. Was it jealousy that gnawed at him? No—he told himself firmly—it was not. He wanted Jane to be happy. That was all. And yet the thought of her eyes lighting up for another man unsettled him in a way he did not wish to name.
Shaking off the thoughts, he retreated to his chamber. Danvers was there, setting out Alistair’s nightshirt with his usual quiet efficiency.
“Good evening, my lord,” the valet greeted.
“Good evening,” he replied. “I am weary and ready to retire for the evening.”
Danvers offered a subdued smile. “Not surprising, considering the hour. Shall I fetch you a glass of brandy?”
Alistair began shrugging out of his jacket. “Yes—” He stopped, recalling Lady Cosima’s earlier remark about his overindulgence. “No. I believe warm milk will suffice tonight.”
“Very good, my lord,” the valet said before departing to do his bidding.
Tossing his coat upon the bed, Alistair moved to his looking glass, fingers working at the knot of his cravat. The familiar creak of a floorboard drew his attention, but before he could speak, a livery-clad footman slipped into the chamber.
Something was wrong.
Alistair stiffened, his instincts honed from years at war. His suspicion was confirmed when the man drew a jagged knife, the candlelight glinting upon its edge.
Without hesitation, the servant lunged.
Alistair twisted aside, the blade missing him by inches. “Who are you?” he barked.
The man sneered. “It does not matter. I am here to kill you.”
His gaze darted to the side table where his pistol lay, but the assailant blocked the path. When the knife came again, Alistair caught the man’s wrist, holding it in a battle of strength. “I am afraid you will leave disappointed,” he ground out.
The would-be assassin yanked free and slashed once more. Alistair staggered back, knocking over his writing desk in the hope that the crash might summon aid. Hatred blazed in the man’s eyes as he advanced, forcing Alistair against the wall.
The knife rose—deadly, certain.
Alistair drove his fist into the man’s stomach, sending him doubling over. Seizing the chance, he darted for the side table, fingers closing around the pistol.
But before he could cock it, the man rushed him again. Fear jolted through Alistair’s veins.
A gunshot split the chamber.
The intruder stopped short, his eyes wide. Blood spread across his jacket. The knife clattered to the floor as he collapsed to his knees.
Alistair turned to the doorway. Danvers stood there, pistol still smoking in his hand, his expression grim.
Alistair strode forward, crouching beside the dying man. “Who sent you?” he demanded.
The footman choked on blood. “I don’t know… a note… slipped under my door…” His voice broke, and with a final gasp, he fell still.
Searching the body with grim efficiency, Alistair found two slips of paper. One bore his own address, instructions for his murder. The other—
His blood ran cold.
No. It could not be.
“Good gads, no,” he whispered, staring at the second note. “This one bears Lady Jane’s address.”
Danvers inhaled sharply. “How could he even know of her?”
“I do not know,” Alistair said, his voice taut with urgency. “But I cannot allow her to come to harm. You must find Warwicke at once. Tell him I was attacked and that I must speak with him directly.”
“At this hour?”
“He will listen to you,” Alistair asserted. “He trusts you from the war. I must remain here for the constable.”
At that moment, Malone burst in, his eyes widening at the scene. “My lord, are you hurt?”
Alistair shook his head. “I am unscathed. Send for the constable immediately.”
Danvers prodded the dead man with his boot and muttered, “We may wish to interview the servants a touch more carefully.”
Despite the grimness of the hour, Alistair almost laughed at his valet’s dry humor. “Indeed.”
“First question might be: do you intend to kill the master of the house?” Danvers quipped.
Alistair allowed himself a brief huff of amusement, though his mind was already fixed elsewhere—on Jane, and the danger that hovered far too close.
Danvers tucked the pistol into his waistband. “I will return as swiftly as possible.”
Alistair gave a terse nod. “See that you do.”
Left alone, Alistair sank down onto the edge of his bed, his back pressing against the carved post. The footman’s lifeless body sprawled on the carpet before him, the acrid smell of discharged powder still hanging in the chamber.
His heart was still thudding with the echo of the fight, though outwardly he forced himself into stillness.
Jane.
The thought of her name alone twisted his insides. If one assassin had carried her address, who was to say there weren’t others? How was he to keep her safe? He had fought battles, commanded men, stared down French cannon fire—but this? Protecting Jane felt far more daunting.
A gasp cut through his thoughts. He did not need to look up to know who it was.
Charlotte.
She advanced into the chamber, her silk slippers whispering against the floorboards. “What happened here?”
Alistair gestured towards the corpse, his tone dry. “Isn’t it obvious? He brought me the wrong drink.”
Charlotte stopped short, her lips pressing into a line. “Is this truly the time for humor?”
He exhaled, weary. “Not really.”
Her skirts rustled as she crouched beside the body, her brow furrowing. “Is he dead?”
“He is.”
“Did you shoot him?” she asked, her gaze flicking from the body back to him.
“No. Danvers did.”
A faint smile touched her lips despite the tension in the room. “Then Danvers deserves an increase in his wages.” She straightened, eyes sharpening. “Why was this man trying to kill you?”
Alistair’s jaw tightened. “It is… complicated.”
“Complicated?” Charlotte folded her arms, her chin lifting in that familiar stubborn tilt. “I am no longer a child. Do not treat me like one. Tell me the truth.”
He met her eyes. “All you need to know is that someone wants me dead. But I will not let that happen.”
Her composure faltered. She stepped closer, her tone breaking with emotion. “You had better not. You are the only family I have left, Alistair. I cannot lose you, too.”
His chest tightened at her words. Rising, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “You won’t lose me. I promise you that. I will take care of myself, and I will see to it that additional guards are stationed around the townhouse to protect you as well.”
Charlotte glanced once more at the body, then arched a brow. “Well, when you hire the replacements, perhaps you ought to ask them a very important question.”
“And what question is that?”
“Whether they prefer to stab their master before or after supper,” she quipped.
A reluctant huff of laughter escaped him despite the grim night. “I shall keep that in mind.”
As his sister stood beside him, her trust in his word clear in her eyes, Alistair knew the truth: he was not nearly as confident as he sounded. The danger was too close, too deliberate. And Jane—Jane was in the very center of it.