Chapter 3 #2
That was neither here nor there for the moment.
She still had a month of mourning to observe, then more months before she was free to bid farewell to Lord Stirling’s vast, empty household.
London, for all its fine carriages and candlelit balls, was not ready to release her from its crowded, noisome grip.
Audrey frowned slightly, shifting on the trunk’s hard edge. She was not even sure whether to be pleased or irritated by the pounding downpour outside. It was delaying Lady Astley’s arrival, which was a relief, but only a temporary one.
Her gaze fell on the ornate gilded birdcage set beside her, where little Flapper beat his good wing against the bars in agitated protest, the other carefully immobilized in a neat binding to let the bone mend. The flutter of feathers and soft, distressed chirps tugged at her heart.
She could just imagine the encounter when Lady Astley finally arrived.
“What is that in the cage, pray tell, Miss Gideon?”
“This is … my pet … starling, Flapper, your ladyship.”
Even in her private, silent rehearsal, Audrey felt the cold prickle of Lady Astley’s anticipated stare, her glacial gaze enough to turn any polite lie to ash on the tongue.
“Your … pet? Do you believe a starling is an appropriate pet for a young lady of the ton, Miss Gideon?”
Audrey had to think carefully about how she would respond to such a question.
“Lord Stirling … had a servant capture it for me as a gift, your ladyship.”
Audrey shook her head at her own reflection in the glass of the door. That was an outright lie, and certain to invite even more trouble. She could not disrespect her guardian with such a flagrant falsehood.
Perhaps she should attempt the truth?
“What is that winged creature, pray tell, Miss Gideon?”
“This is … my patient … Flapper, your ladyship.”
The noblewoman’s brows shot up in horror. “Your … patient?”
Audrey groaned, feeling her stomach twist uneasily, queasy with anticipation of the encounter. Accepting the truth would be far worse. What the deuce was she to do when the lady’s carriage actually drew up in front of the townhouse?
“Sweet heavens, this will be a disaster,” she whispered under her breath, causing the liveried servant standing nearby to cast a sidelong glance in her direction.
Flapper chirruped from the cage, his free wing fluttering like a tiny banner of sympathy.
Springing to her feet, Audrey began to pace the broad entry hall. Gilded pier glass reflected a thin, gloomy daylight seeping in through the fanlight above the door and from the narrow windows on either side with their beaded condensation.
The starched footman kept his eyes trained forward in the polite manner of the best-trained servants, making no acknowledgment of her restless movements.
Audrey had tried to be friendly with the staff in past weeks, but quickly discovered that the earl’s household was a monument to propriety.
If anything, they seemed even more committed to rigid decorum than the nobility themselves.
To them, she was merely the earl’s guest—worthy of careful, distant service, but not true companionship.
After a few minutes, the footman quietly withdrew to see to some household matter, leaving her alone with the soft smack of her slippers on the gleaming marble floor as she paced from end to end.
She had spent half the night rolling in bed, straining to devise some way—any way—to avoid this cursed stay with Lady Astley without damaging her reputation.
Tap, tap, tap.
Reaching the far end of the hall, she turned and walked back toward her trunk, skirts swishing with impatience.
Perhaps she could claim it was a gift from her papa, a reminder of their time together. Audrey winced immediately. Lie about her beloved father to appease that humorless old harpy?
She should state with confidence that the starling was her pet, and Lord Stirling had assured her it was acceptable to take the bird along.
Tap, tap, tap.
Egad, she was going to be disingenuous. If only she had been quicker of wit, she might have raised the subject with the earl the evening before. Then she could have declared something approaching the truth, rather than spinning Banbury tales in the entry hall this morning.
Flapper was her patient, and scrupulous care was necessary to ensure his delicate wing mended correctly. Otherwise, the little bird would be grounded for life. She had no choice but to stand her ground, even if it meant enduring every barbed remark Lady Astley might hurl at her.
Audrey did not doubt her ability to protect her feathered charge, but how much excruciating discourse would she have to endure before the older woman finally relented?
Tap, tap, tap.
The thing was … she did not wish it to turn into some grand debate. Flapper simply needed her fastidious treatment if he was ever to recover flight. It was that simple. But Lady Astley would not withdraw her objections. That much was certain.
Thunk.
Audrey halted in surprise, staring at the front door as the heavy wood panel shuddered on its hinges. The latch rattled with a dull clang, followed by a loud cracking sound from out in the street and a muffled exclamation that carried even through the steady roar of the rain.
Heart in her mouth, she hurried over, pressing her palm to the fogged glass and wiping it clear with her gloved hand to peer outside. Perhaps Lady Astley’s coachman—
A muted shout cut through the drumming of rain on the flagstones, and Audrey startled, blinking rapidly at the sight of two figures locked in struggle on the slick roadway.
One of them held a cane, which he brought down in a sharp arc on his opponent’s outstretched arm, leaping back to avoid the gleam of a knife blade.
He slipped in a deep puddle with a splash that must have soaked him through, landing hard on his buttocks before scrambling up again, boots sliding on the treacherous mud.
Audrey’s jaw dropped in horror. She hovered by the door, breath quickening, watching them fight in the rain as if frozen to the spot. Should she scream for the manservant to come help?
The figure with the cane swung to defend himself from another vicious lunge, and his hat flew off to reveal that unmistakable mop of wheat-colored curls, with brown back and sides.
“Lord Trafford!” Audrey gasped aloud, shock lancing through her. It was Lord Stirling’s heir fighting for his very life!
The cloaked attacker lunged forward with deadly precision, the knife’s point aimed at Trafford’s torso. Audrey bit back a scream as the young lord twisted away just in time, the blade slicing through empty air with lethal promise.
She tossed her head around frantically, searching for anything—anything—that might help him.
Her gaze fell on the wall-mounted display of antique rapiers, shining coldly even in the dim hall light.
Without another thought, she dashed across the marble floor, slippers skidding slightly as she reached up to lift one from its hooks.
Praying she would not be too late, Audrey spun on her heel, skirts flaring, and ran back to fling the front door open. The cold rain struck her full in the face like a slap, but she hardly noticed as she dashed down the steps into the street, sword clutched in both shaking hands.
She was no fencer, but it was long and seemed very sharp. She lunged forward in the simplest thrust her father had taught her years ago with a walking stick in the quiet of their country yard.
“Get back, you blackguard!” she shouted, voice cracking as she bore down on the cloaked man, who had his elbow drawn back for another deadly stab.
Both men turned, startled by her shrill command. For the briefest instant, she caught a flash of bright green and blue beneath the attacker’s overcoat—perhaps a scarf or a lining, wet and clinging in the downpour. But she discarded the detail immediately, focusing on what mattered most.
Pay attention! she scolded herself. This was no time to gape at clothing.
The unknown assailant blinked in surprise, features shadowed beneath the brim of his soaked hat, before spinning away with shocking agility to bolt into the rain.
To Audrey’s dismay, Lord Trafford immediately set off in pursuit. What the blazes was he about? The villain still had that lethal knife!
She let out a strangled, wordless plea, but to her immense relief, the cloaked figure vanished like a wraith into the pounding rain by the time Trafford reached the corner.
He stopped, scraping his drenched hair back from his forehead with an impatient sweep of his hand. For a moment, he simply stared into the rain where his attacker had fled, chest heaving, before turning back to her.
Audrey was still standing there, the sword held awkwardly at half-mast, her gown clinging wetly to her shins. She barely registered the cold seeping to her bones.
Trafford reached out, covering her trembling hands with his own, coaxing the weapon down before releasing it and offering his arm instead.
She took it without a word, grateful for the steady support as he led her back toward the yawning front door.
Her knees felt weak, untrustworthy now that the terror had passed.
Realizing belatedly that she still clutched the sword, she let it drop onto the marble tiles with a loud, echoing clatter while Julius leaned his battered cane against the wall.
Audrey drew in sharp, shaking breaths, trying to calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was panting, heart still racing from the shocking violence.
But even in her breathless state, one truth rang in her ears with cold certainty. She had been in time. She had seen the gleaming knife poised for Lord Trafford’s abdomen.
He could have been killed.
Lord Julius Trafford, the heir to the Earl of Stirling and honorary Viscount of Trafford, encountered few calls to truly apply himself. A lamentable character flaw, one he now regretted keenly as he assessed the mess he found himself in.
Miss Gideon stood shivering in the grand entry, her gray mourning gown sopping wet, leaving dark puddles on the marble.
Averting his gaze from the clinging fabric, his eyes landed on the battered trunk in the middle of the hall, water dripping from it to pool on the floor.
Atop it rested a birdcage. Inside, a tiny starling with a neatly bandaged wing cocked its head, blinking bright eyes at him, chirruping as it fluttered the free wing.
Was he dreaming? The bloodthirsty attack outside already felt absurd. The incongruity of that birdcage suggested this was but a nightmare.
Julius tugged off his soaked gloves with deliberate care and shoved them into his coat pocket. Then, with stubborn theatricality, he pinched his forearm hard. It hurt as it ought to.
So he was awake. His heart still thundered in his chest as proof.
By Jingo, he had not even had breakfast yet!
“That dirty-dish tried to kill me,” he declared in dismay, voice cracking slightly at the memory.
“Was he trying to rob you?” Miss Gideon asked, still panting from her exertions and, most likely, the shock of it. Her pale hair clung to her cheeks, water dripping onto the floor with steady, embarrassing rhythm.
She just saved my life.
Julius frowned, pressing his lips together as he tried to think. He scrubbed a hand across his damp forehead. He shook his head slowly, reluctantly.
“No, his intent was to kill me.”
“Kill you?” Miss Gideon’s silver eyes were enormous with shock and fear. “Why would he do that?”
Julius twisted his lips, heat rising to his ears as embarrassment set in now that he was no longer actively dodging a blade. His plan had been far more foolish than he had admitted to himself.
“I … may have done something stupid.”
Miss Gideon nodded, though her expression was bemused, as if she had not truly heard him. “Will he try again?”
That was a sobering thought.
One of the suspects on his list must have ordered him followed. It had been pitch-dark, thick clouds smothering the morning light, the attacker’s hat pulled low to obscure his features. But Julius was certain the man had been the wrong build to be any of the gentlemen he had been investigating.
No, he was a retainer. Or worse, a hired thug.
He had to presume the scoundrel had followed him home to confirm Julius’s identity. Once they knew who he was, the next command would have been clear.
“They know where I live. It is only a matter of time before they ascertain who I am, and then … yes, they shall try to kill me again.”
Miss Gideon raised her hands to rub her bared upper arms, teeth chattering violently as she responded. “They?”
“I am afraid I have involved you in a murder plot, Miss Gideon. We ought … I need to …” Julius clenched his cold, wet hands at his sides while he tried to think what to do about the young woman.
Was she in danger now that she had interceded?
From the perspective of his attacker, Miss Gideon might now seem an accomplice in the attempted blackmail.
He unbuttoned his heavy, damp overcoat, looking around vaguely for a place to toss it. Water dripped steadily to the marble at his feet.
Across from him, Miss Gideon’s gaze dropped. Her brow furrowed gently, and she bit her plump lower lip in obvious worry, scattering his already ragged thoughts into complete carnal disarray.
“I should … take care of that.”
She pointed a trembling finger toward his jacquard waistcoat.
Julius followed her gaze. The rich fabric had been neatly slashed through. Blood was welling, seeping dark into the brocade in slow, ugly blooms. His nostrils filled with the coppery stench.
Before another thought could form, the room tilted violently.
He dropped to the cold marble floor with a painful thud as the bright vestibule spun and faded to black.