Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
T he parlor maid cleared her throat with a discreet cough. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Harriet reluctantly looked up from the piles of papers on her desk.
“This arrived for you in the afternoon post.”
Repressing an oath, she accepted the letter. Interruptions were always unwelcome when she was in the middle of sorting out a conundrum. However, a glance at the handwriting quelled her irritation. Lady Catherine never sent a missive simply to engage in idle chatter. There would be a good reason for it.
“Thank you, Mary.” She quickly cracked the wax seal and read over the page. After thinking for a moment, Harriet set it aside and rose from her chair. “Kindly ask Ellie to bring down my cloak and have the carriage summoned. I need to go out on an errand.”
Lady Catherine was writing an essay for one of the reform-minded newspapers and needed several books on political philosophy from her father’s library in order to finish it. A servant could have delivered them, but Harriet preferred that her association with Red Lion Square didn’t become common knowledge among the household staff. Her father, while an extremely tolerant parent, was a respected member of the government, and her involvement with a radical-thinking women’s group—especially one that included a notorious courtesan and members of the working class—was something she would rather he didn’t know. As for her maid and John Coachman, they were loyal friends—and enjoyed their ices at Gunter’s too much to think of grassing on her.
Hurrying to the library, Harriet quickly located the books. Ellie, with her usual efficiency, was waiting by the front door.
“Might I inquire where you are off to, Miss Farnum?” asked the butler.
“Just a few errands, Bailin,” replied Harriet breezily. “I shall be back in a trice.”
“If your father returns?—”
“My father mentioned this morning at breakfast that he is likely to be at the ministry until after midnight,” she assured him. “There is no need for Cook to prepare supper. I’ll simply have a cold collation.”
A slight frown pinched between his brows, but he merely nodded.
The carriage ride passed quickly, as her coachman avoided the main thoroughfares in favor of the more lightly-traveled side streets. Harriet had already told him she would walk to her friend’s townhouse through a series of quiet lanes just north of the square, which allowed the vehicle to wait where it was well-hidden from prying eyes.
“I shan’t be long,” she told Ellie.
“Ye sure I shouldn’t come with you?”
“As I’ve told you before, I’m less conspicuous traveling without a maid. My cloak hides my face, and though it’s a little rougher than Mayfair, it’s not a dangerous area.”
It was only a short sojourn through the deserted lanes and she cut quickly through a passageway leading out to the unpruned garden facing Lady Catherine’s residence. Her friend was delighted to receive the books and tried to press her to stay for tea and cakes. But Harriet, anxious to finish her work for Jack, demurred.
“I really must go,” she explained. “Like you, I have some important things to finish.”
“Very well,” answered Lady Catherine, though she did insist on giving her a half dozen copies of La Belle Assemble, London’s most popular fashion magazine, to peruse at home. “But I shall insist that you and Theo give a full report of your fittings at Madame Deauville’s establishment when next we meet.”
“It was... very educational,” answered Harriet. “I have no doubt that the gowns will be beautiful, but as to whether I can carry them off?—”
“Nonsense, my dear. You will do marvelously well. I am sure of it.”
Harriet wished she felt as confident, but kept any further doubts to herself. Excusing herself once again, she hurried down to the street and retraced her steps along the perimeter of the square.
The afternoon shadows had lengthened, the jagged shapes cast by the buildings making the passageway seem narrower, and a little forbidding. Jack’s recent hints of danger swirling around his mystery must have her imagination on edge. Determined to quash such silly misgivings, she entered at a brisk pace. It was, she reminded herself, only a matter of minutes before she would reach the waiting carriage.
Rounding the first of several twisting turns, Harriet was aware of an unnatural stillness. It was quiet—too quiet. In contrast, the thump of her shoes on the rough cobbles seemed to echo like cannon fire off the surrounding brick and stone.
“The devil take it, stop acting like a flighty peagoose,” she muttered, seeking to steady her jumpy nerves. “I’ve been in far worse hellholes than this in my travels.”
Thump, thump. As if to mock her efforts, the echoes grew louder.
Harriet slowed as she approached the next bend, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck now standing on end.
Suddenly an oath rang out, followed by a thrashing flurry of punches, and then a sharp grunt of pain.
Acting on pure, primal instinct, she bolted forward and skidded through the turn.
Just up ahead, a man lay slumped on the ground. One of his attackers was on his knees, trying to staunch the blood streaming from his broken nose. The other was raising his arm.
A wink of steel pierced the gloom.
“Stop, you curs!” she cried.
The footpad with the knife spat out an oath. But his momentary hesitation gave Harriet just time enough to gather her wits. Aware of the weight of the fashion publications in her reticule, she swung it overhead and let it fly.
The missile caught him flush on the forehead, knocking him arse over teakettle into a puddle of muck. The weapon clattered away into the shadows.
Spooked, Broken Nose scrabbled to his feet. Grabbing his dazed cohort, he pulled him to his feet and the two of them fled down one of the side alleys.
Hitching in a breath, Harriet all at once felt a little light-headed as the realization of what a mad, mad risk she had taken flooded over her. But another groan from the fallen man warned that she didn’t have time for a fit of vapors.
He was hurt—the question was, how badly?
“Sir?” Kneeling down, she tentatively touched his coat. Her fingers came away smudged with blood.
An incoherent mutter. He was trying to speak.
“Lie still,” cautioned Harriet, placing her palm on his chest. “I need to assess the damage.”
Ignoring her sensible suggestion, the man squirmed under her touch and managed to lift his head. “Damnation, Harry! If you ever do anything half so foolish again, I swear, I’ll take a birch to your backside.”
Her hands fisted in the folds of his shirt as a spasm of pain passed over Jack’s lips, pinching off further words. “We’ll argue over who is the greater fool later,” she replied calmly, although her insides were twisting into a knot of fear. “But for now, let me see how deeply that miscreant’s blade cut into you.”
“It’s naught but a scratch,” growled Jack. “I’m rather an expert when it comes to judging wounds from sharpened steel.”
She started to unbutton his shirt and was flustered to find her hands were shaking. “That’s not amusing.”
A grunt. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Stop squirming.” Slipping her fingers beneath the finespun linen, Harriet gently traced the line of his collarbone.
He went very still.
“That’s better.” His skin was warm and as she drew her touch lower, the coarse curls of hair peppering his chest tickled against her flesh. So this is what a man feels like . The sensation was infinitely intriguing. Flattening her palm to fit his shape, she drew slow, circling strokes over the solid contours of muscle.
“Lower,” Jack said through gritted teeth.
“W-What?”
“Feel a little lower. The blade nicked over a rib,” he replied. “If you’ll just take the handkerchief out of my coat pocket, fold it over the wound, and then give me a hand up, instead of fussing like a mother hen, I’ll be on my way.”
Harriet forced his shoulders down. “Don’t be a gudgeon. You’ll end up flat on your face after several steps.” Her gaze moved from his ashen cheeks to the spreading crimson stain on the snowy linen. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I need to summon a doctor.”
“ No! ” he exclaimed, the force of the protest sending another spasm twisting over his features. “No fuss. Need to keep this quiet.” He looked up at her, shadows scudding beneath the fringe of his dark lashes. “Please.”
“Very well.” She thought for a moment. “Let me staunch the bleeding. Then, if you can manage to stay upright by leaning on me, I think I can get you to my friend’s townhouse. It’s not far.”
“But—”
“The wound needs to be cleaned and bandaged, Jack.”
“I tell you, I won’t have a physician.”
“You,” muttered Harriet, “are an ass.” Huffing a sigh, she added, “I’m perfectly capable of tending to it. I’ve patched up Wills more times than I can count, not to speak of having dealt with plenty of injuries on Papa’s diplomatic missions.”
“Can’t ask you to do that,” he said haltingly.
“Of course you can.” She gazed down at his pinched face, watching pride war with practicality. “We’re friends, remember.”
“No lady ought to?—”
“Save your breath—you’re going to need it.”
His scowl slowly quirked up into a grudging smile. “Hell’s bells, I’m too weak to argue.”
“A wise decision. Here, hook your arm around my shoulder...” With a few careful shifts and tugs, Harriet managed to lever his long, lanky body up from the hard ground. He had very broad shoulders, and as their legs touched, she was intimately aware of the chiseled planes of his thighs.
“Hmmph.” Biting back a grunt, Jack swayed as he tried to shuffle his feet.
Harriet slipped a steadying hold around his waist and pretended not to notice the beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Ready?”
“Aye. Lead the way.”
She took a small step, then paused to reach down and grab up her reticule before continuing.
“By the by,” he hissed through his clenched teeth, “what the devil do you have in there?”
“Bricks,” she answered.
Jack’s laugh was hardly more than a whisper, but the warmth of his breath tickled against her cheek. Amusement seemed to ripple through his limbs, the thrum reverberating against her own body.
Every bit of her skin turned rosy with the heat of him. I’m most definitely made of flesh and blood , she thought to herself, not mud and water .
“You are impossibly incorrigible.”
“Which makes us birds of a feather,” replied Harriet.
“So it does.” After several more labored steps, he stopped to catch his breath. “How much farther do we have to fly?”
Harriet readjusted her hold around his waist, feeling the knotted tension in his back muscles. He was hurting, though she knew he would rather swallow a bayonet than admit it.
“We’re almost there, thank God,” she answered. “You are heavier than a sack of stones. Have you been eating more of your cousin’s chocolate confections than you admit to?”
“Are you saying I am getting fat ?”
“There does seem to be a bulge here...” She poked at the hard, flat planes of his belly. “And here.”
“Minx.” But as she had hoped, the barb piqued his pride just enough to spur a last spurt of strength. His stride turned steadier, and she was able to navigate the last turn and bring him around to the side gate of Lady Catherine’s rear garden.
“Rafe may wax poetic on the medicinal powers of chocolate, but at the moment I would welcome a bottle of brandy,” muttered Jack. “I don’t suppose your friend will have any spirits stronger than ladylike sherry.” He made a face. “Are you sure she won’t fall into a swoon on finding a bloodied stranger at her door?”
“Quite sure. Lady Catherine is an Original. She’s not easily shocked.” Harriet had to struggle a bit to get him up the steps to the scullery door without a mishap. His speech was beginning to slur and she doubted he could remain upright for much longer.
Nor could she. Her jesting aside, Jack was a very big man, and all that whipcord muscle and sinew weighed far more than feathers.
“Indeed, she’s likely to have a bottle of Scottish malt as well as one of brandy in her cupboard.” When he didn’t answer, she ventured a quick look at his face. His eyes were closed, the thick fringe of lashes black as India ink against the pale-as-a-ghost pallor of his skin.
Propping him up against one of the stone columns framing the doorway, she gave a hurried rap against the dark oak.
To her relief, Lady Catherine appeared right behind the footman who opened the door. “I’m so sorry, but there has been an accident, and I need your help?—”
Her friend was already moving to grasp Jack’s arm. “Let us get the gentleman inside.”
Brought back from a hazy half-consciousness by the sharp pain in his side, Jack slowly opened his eyes. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” said Harriet. She rinsed the red-tinged sponge in a basin of hot water and began applying an herb-scented ointment to his ribs. “I’m almost done.”
“Ye God, Harry.” He stared in embarrassment at the puckered red saber scar that cut down his breastbone. “You shouldn’t be exposed to this ugliness.”
“I’ve seen a man’s bare chest before,” she replied as she pressed a padding of cotton wool to the knife wound. “Yours is nicer than most.”
“It’s a hideous disfigurement.”
“It’s a badge of honor,” she said softly. “Now shift a bit, so I can secure the bandage.”
That Harriet, who never shied away from speaking her mind, did not seem disgusted by the unsightly flaw made him feel a little less self-conscious. She was one of the very few people whose opinions he truly valued, no matter how forceful or irritating they might be. That was, he realized, because he trusted her honesty, her integrity.
“A little sticking plaster should do,” said Jack gruffly. “You’re a dab hand at patching up a fellow. I hardly feel a twinge.”
“I think that has more to do with Lady Catherine’s brandy rather than my handiwork,” said Harriet dryly. “I’m happy to see it’s brought a bit of color back to your face. For a few moments back there on the street, you were looking pale as a ghost.”
“Having survived a saber slash, I’ve no intention of letting a mere knife prick cause me to stick my spoon in the wall.”
“Perhaps you ought to have another swallow.” She refilled the glass and held it to his lips. “This may hurt a trifle. I need to wrap the linen rather tightly to make sure the bleeding doesn’t start again.”
Closing his eyes, Jack relaxed against the pillows, letting the mellow warmth spread through his limbs. “No need to fuss so,” he murmured, though in truth, her touch was pleasantly soothing as she went about the task.
A tug tightened the bandage around his ribs. “Right-o. I should have left you lying half dead in the alleyway.”
He gave a half smile. “The devil seems half inclined to keep tossing me back to the land of the living.”
“Don’t keep tempting him,” she scolded.
Jack repressed a yawn. He had every intention of rising and returning home, so that he could begin puzzling out how things had taken such a dangerous turn. But at present, he was feeling strangely loath to move a muscle.
Harriet finished tying the bandage and snipped off the ends. “Speaking of playing with fire, it would seem your investigation is stirring some sparks. Red Lion Square is a rougher area than Mayfair, but I’ve yet to hear of footpads trying to murder a gentleman, not even under the midnight shroud of darkness.”
“A chance accident. They were after my purse, and I must have made them panic by fighting back so hard.”
She made a rude sound. “Don’t try to gammon me with such nonsense. Those men were after your life, not your money. I saw the man’s face when he raised his knife.”
“Damnation, you should never have?—”
“We are talking about you at the moment, not me ,” interrupted Harriet.
“No, we are not,” growled Jack. “For I have nothing more to say on the matter.”
Metal clinked against metal as she tidied up the basin and tray of implements. “That is perhaps the most patronizing statement you’ve ever made to me.” Equal measures of anger and hurt seemed to pool in her eyes. “I think I’ve earned better than that.”
The warmth of the brandy turned to a guilty burn. “I suppose I should have known you are too sharp to be put off with platitudes about chance and fate,” he conceded. “But the truth...” Jack shook his head. “I don’t yet know what that is. So far, it’s naught but a hellishly complicated puzzle.”
“Perhaps if you trusted me with all the pieces, I could help you put it together. You seem to be... fumbling in the dark,” said Harriet softly. “And that’s dangerous.”
Trust. Like the truth, it could be a two-edged sword. But if ever there was a person he trusted, it was Harriet.
“I admit that I haven’t told you everything.” Jack found the glass on the table and took another swallow. “Yes, my friend is missing, but the only reason I know of it is because his wife has secretly come here to England to find out why he seems to have disappeared.” More brandy, which helped to loosen his tongue. “Camille fears that the Royalists may be involved.”
“Why?” demanded Harriet.
“Apparently, Pierre is an aristocrat by birth and they feel he has betrayed his heritage.”
“But why risk undertaking such a petty, personal act of revenge when they are involved in important negotiations with our government to win a greater voice in what happens to France when Napoleon is ousted?” she responded with her usual sharp logic. “It makes no sense. If any scandal or dissent within the émigré community were to be made public, it would ruin all their hopes. Surely their leaders are smart enough to recognize that.”
It was an astute observation—Jack had been thinking much the same thing. “I know, I know,” he replied softly. “Her tale does have some questionable assumptions. But she’s upset and frightened, so I must make allowances for that.”
Harriet’s brows angled to a skeptical title.
“I know what you are going to say,” he hurried on. “But you don’t understand. Camille drew me out of the darkest pit of despair after I thought Rafe had been killed. I’d given up on life, and she somehow managed to rekindle a spark. I owe her...” His grip tightened around the brandy glass. “I owe her the same sort of stalwart friendship, now that she’s in trouble.”
Harriet’s only response was to start rewinding the extra length of bandage into a neat ball.
Jack shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware that her opinion meant more to him that he cared to admit. “Well?” he finally murmured. “It’s unlike you to remain silent.”
“I can, on occasion, exercise tact and restraint.”
He gave a wry grimace. “I’d rather you be your usual outspoken self.”
“You wish to know what I really think?” she asked, not looking up from the linen.
“Your words may cut deeper than the cursed knife prick, but yes, regardless of their edge, I would like to hear them.”
Harriet took her time in setting the fabric aside. “I fear you’ve gotten yourself into a dangerous coil. And you’re thinking not with your head, but with another less rational part of your anatomy.”
Jack wanted to retort, but no clever quip came to mind.
“It’s clear as crystal—you love this Camille,” she went on slowly.
Do I? The fact that he hesitated in answering confused him. Love should be a passionate feeling, not an intellectual conundrum.
“I thought perhaps I did,” mumbled Jack. “But now...” He narrowed his eyes, watching the candlelight flicker and dance over her upswept hair. How was it that he had so rarely noticed that the simple shade of chestnut brown was in fact made up of an infinite range of nuanced highlights, ranging from bronze-dark gold to flame-tinged red.
“But now,” he repeated, “my head is all a jumble.”
“Understandable so,” said Harriet. “Let us hope that a good night’s rest will put it all to rights.” Her tone, however, betrayed her skepticism.
Pressing his fingertips to his temples, Jack tried to order his thoughts. “You don’t understand. Camille is sweetness and light, and all that is good. If you met her, you would see that.”
“Perhaps. But as you know, I tend to think the worst of people. That way I am rarely disappointed.”
“You would like her,” insisted Jack.
“Let me ask you something,” said Harriet, abruptly sidestepping the challenge. “Was it Camille that you met with this evening?”
“Yes,” he answered tightly. “But if you are implying...” For some reason, the pounding inside his head was growing more fierce. “Damnation Harry, there are a great many possible explanations for why I was attacked. Camille could have been followed... or Amirault may have his own nefarious reasons for not wanting me looking too closely at Royalist activities... or?—”
“Or Camille may have lured you to a rendezvous,” said Harriet softly.
“That’s absurd!” He tried to sound outraged but couldn’t muster any force behind his words. “We met by chance, and at first she tried very hard to keep me from becoming involved.”
“Did she?”
He sucked in a sharp breath, sending a stab of pain through his wound. “But why?” he demanded, as much of himself as of Harriet. “Why would she wish to harm me?”
“I haven’t a clue,” responded Harriet. “That is what we must discover.”
Jack meant to protest, but the brandy seemed to have risen in a vaporous swirl to befog his brain. How else to explain why the idea of having Harriet’s help suddenly eased the ache in his chest?
He eased himself up against the pillows, shielded his eyes against the flickering candlelight and searched through the swaying shadows. “My coat—need my coat,” he muttered. “Must be getting home. Much to do.”
“There is,” agreed Harriet as she steadied his shoulder and refastened the top two buttons of his shirt. “But I’d rather not have to scrape you up off the street for a second time tonight, so instead of trying to limp across London on your own, come with me. I’ve sent word for my maid and John Coachman to bring the carriage around to the alleyway skirting the back of Lady Catherine’s townhouse. We should be able to take our leave without attracting undo notice.”
“Let us hope no one recognized you earlier,” he began.
“They didn’t,” she replied quickly, gathering up her pelisse and reticule. “However, if we don’t hurry now, Bailin will ring a peal over my head and demand answers that I’d rather not give him.”
“Just say I delayed you with some of my usual devil-may-care mischief,” said Jack. He stood up gingerly, grateful to find his legs were only a trifle wobbly. “He’ll have no trouble believing it.”
“That solves the immediate problem. As for the bigger quandary...” Harriet looped a supporting arm around his waist and guided him toward the door. “I’ve not quite finished with your documents, but I hope to have the final pieces of the puzzle put together by tomorrow.”
“Are you attending Lady Marquand’s ball?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “But?—”
“Excellent. I shall meet you there to go over your findings. I have a feeling that Pierre’s whereabouts are the key to unlocking this conundrum.”
“You ought not to overexert yourself by coming to a ball,” she advised as they shuffled down a corridor leading to the rear entrance of the townhouse.
“I don’t intend to dance,” he replied. “For that matter, nor do you. So we shall have ample opportunity to find a quiet alcove and go over your notes.”
“I am not sure that is wise.”
“Reading,” he pointed out, “doesn’t qualify as a strenuous activity.”
Her eyes remained locked straight ahead. Instead of answering, she merely said, “This way.” The passageway narrowed and led into a small scullery. “Thank goodness Lady Catherine is very experienced in arranging discreet comings and goings from her residence. The footpath to the alleyway is shaded from curious eyes by a high yew hedge. If we hurry, we should make it to the carriage unobserved.”
The oblique reminder that tittle-tattle could ruin a lady’s reputation caused his steps to falter.
“Ye Gods, Harry,” It suddenly struck him how egregiously self-absorbed he had been. With all the unsettling questions concerning the attack and Camille spinning around inside his head, he hadn’t given a proper thought to the risks Harriet had taken for him.
Pivoting in a half-turn, he blocked the way between the two large copper wash cauldrons. “You put yourself in mortal peril tonight because of me.”
It was too dark to see her face, but he felt her muscles tense. “It was not my liver that miscreant was trying to carve out.”
“Aye, it was mine.” Jack shifted again, bringing their bodies closer. “But thanks to your bravery and your bag of bricks—or whatever weighty objects were inside it—I survived.”
“Numbskull though you may be at times, Kyra and Rafael seem awfully fond of you.” She backed up a step, only to find the high-sided cauldron cutting off her retreat. “They would have been upset had I allowed you to be turned into foie gras. ”
He mimicked her move, slightly amused by her skittishness. “I’m grateful that you have such deadly aim.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice,” responded Harriet. “How many apples have I hurled at your head over the years?”
“Too many to count.” Jack set his palms on her shoulders and leaned in closer. The gloom seemed to accentuate the subtle fragrance of her perfume. It was sweetly alluring—a unique blend of sun-kissed verbena shaded with the tang of woodland herbs.
“T-then let us not bother trying.” Her whisper sounded oddly shrill. “We really must be going.”
“In a moment.” He stood still, simply savoring her scent and the thud of her heartbeat against his chest. Her body seemed to fit perfectly against his.
“J-Jack...” The thump-thump seemed to quicken to an erratic gallop.
She was nervous, and rightly so. There was still the danger of being spotted, and yet he was strangely loath to let her go. “We’ll be off in a trice. But first...” He pressed his lips lightly to her brow. “I just want to say a proper thank you.”
A tiny tremor shuddered through her. “What, and ruin your devil-may-care reputation?” Wriggling sideways, she slipped free of his hold and grabbed his sleeve. “Fine, fine—I shall consider myself thanked. Now come along.”