Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I t cannot be . Jasper’s gaze was transfixed on the stormy grey eyes of a writer for The Morning Herald . But they were Maria’s eyes.
“Oh!” the genial man across from him said. “Have you met Mr. Robertson?”
“I do believe I have,” Jasper replied absently.
Without a conscious thought, he straightened, his feet carrying him toward Mr. Robertson . Panic flooded those grey eyes, and Maria stood, reaching for her—Mr. Robertson’s—hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Robertson,” Jasper said, his voice low and challenging.
Maria’s lips thinned into a grim line and her shoulders dropped as she turned to face him, sketching a bow. “Your Grace. Mr. Shoemaker.”
The woman had lowered her voice and painted the shadow of a beard upon her face, for Christ’s sake. What in the hell did she think she was doing?
His gaze travelled over her person: starched white cravat, pale-green waistcoat, and grey coat and breeches over shining Hessians. Christ, those legs . To his surprise, his cock twitched in interest and heat spread across his chest.
He cleared his abruptly dry throat. “I did not expect to see you here.”
Mr. Shoemaker chortled. “Oh, but Duncan comes in to complete his articles nearly every morning, don’t you?”
Every morning? Was this her “charity work”?
Maria gave a shaky smile, her cheeks growing increasingly pallid. “I do, indeed.”
“I knew Mr. Robertson as a child, you see,” Jasper explained to the man beside him. “I’m pleased to learn that he has found some success. How long would you say it has been since you’ve taken this position, Duncan ?”
“Fancy you knowing a duke!” Mr. Shoemaker’s eyes bulged at Maria. “I’ve known you for eight-and-a-half years, and you never said a thing!”
Eight-and-a-half years!
Eyes flickering with trepidation, she gave a rigid smile. “Our friendship was in the past. I did not think that the update on my life was prudent.” She turned her attention back to Jasper. “What do you say we go for a drink at the pub to reflect on those pleasing times we had as children, Your Grace?”
“I rather think that we ought.” He tapped the surface of her desk with his index finger. “I’ll call on you this afternoon.”
With Maria’s murmur of agreement in his ears, he returned to Mr. Shoemaker’s desk to commission his announcement. The announcement of his and Maria’s betrothal.
Sodding hell . Never would he have fathomed that Maria had taken a job. And for eight bloody years! By working under a falsified name, she put not only herself at risk, but the newspaper as well, for hiring said fictional man. What was she thinking to do such a thing? And why ? What could possibly require her to work two jobs?
His mind whirled with questions.
Duncan Robertson . Christ, but he’d read her bloody articles! She was a damned fine writer. But that wasn’t the point, blast it.
Maria works at the newspaper! The thought burst through his thoughts at regular intervals, entirely derailing his concentration as his meeting with Mr. Shoemaker progressed.
On more than one occasion, Maria’s lowered voice floated to him across the room as she conversed with others. And every time, the need to look her way clawed at him. Christ , but the beastly urge to simply sit and watch her wearing those sodding breeches had his cods in a vice. But he wouldn’t.
His thoughts were a lust-filled haze as he concluded his discussion with Mr. Shoemaker. He stood, eager to see Maria as Mr. Duncan once more. And there she was, her hat in hand as she spoke quietly with the secretary.
Damn, but those legs.
Never would he have thought that a pair of men’s breeches would arouse him so, but there was no disputing that Maria wore them exceedingly well and his body most certainly enjoyed the sight.
He wanted to bid her farewell but suspected she would not appreciate further contact at her place of employment. Instead, he strode from the building.
And into a sudden dense fog. The street was still and quiet.
A chill swept up his spine, and his body trembled with a convulsive shiver. The London particular. Damn. A cough wracked his frame, and a grimace distorted his face as he caught the acerbic scent of sulphur and soot.
Jasper withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it over his mouth and nose, attempting to keep the dense, poisonous impurities from reaching his lungs—it was known as the ‘killer fog’ for a reason.
He blinked into the obscurity, unable to even see his sodding hand in front of his face, then turned. The door had disappeared behind the fog.
He could not let Maria travel home without some sort of protection—for Lord knew blackguards took advantage of the London fog—and according to Mr. Shoemaker, she ordinarily left at about this time. He very much doubted that she would let the fog slow her, but the nauseating twist to his stomach would not abate. Most particularly knowing Francis roamed free.
With an outstretched hand, Jasper felt along the damp brick wall, until the door reappeared.
The door abruptly opened, and a soft curse found its way to his ears.
Maria .
The breath in his lungs froze when he spotted her. He wanted to call out, to alert her to his presence, but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands.
Securing the hat upon her head, she put a handkerchief to her mouth and strode down the street, disappearing into obscurity.
Instinct moved him. Swirls of fog danced around them, whirling and chaotic, and entirely disorienting. The damp seeped beneath his coat, chilling him through to the skin. It was completely at odds with the weather a mere hour prior. Such was the London particular.
Maria hid the fact that she worked for the paper. Her family, while not particularly well-to-do, ought to be able to provide for all her needs. And yet she had taken not only the position with the paper but also at Bow Street, leading him to only one logical conclusion: Maria had additional expenses of which her family was unaware.
He would have time to inquire about those later; for the moment, he simply wished to see her reach her destination safely.
They walked for a long while, Maria moving at a swift pace and Jasper following behind. He listened for her booted footfalls and watched for every grey ruffle of her coat and flash of her brown hair. She turned down side streets and up thoroughfares until Jasper was well and truly lost. He marvelled at her sense of direction.
Rounding a corner onto a narrow side street, Jasper’s senses were filled with the scent of sulphur and soot, in addition to smoke, urine, and the ungodly odour of rotted fish. Despite being unable to see his surroundings, Jasper could guess at their location by scent alone. They were just off the Strand . It was eerily silent but for the sound of their footfalls reverberating around them—no doubt alerting Maria to his presence. And?—
Hell , there was a third set of footfalls. Alarm spread through his chest to prickle in his fingertips.
Keeping his ears trained behind him, he followed Maria through the whirling fog, his pace quickening to match hers…and their pursuer’s.
In this part of town, footfalls could belong to anyone, and the magistrate had all but assured him that his cousin had fled London. But with a certainty deep in his soul, he knew who was in pursuit. Francis . Jasper could no longer waste time attempting to be stealthy. Maria must be made aware of the potential threat.
He sped his pace, but she matched him.
“ Maria ,” he hissed.
She turned down another side street, and he briefly lost her.
Moving to a jog, he rounded the corner, and lost his breath altogether.
With swift, bewildering movements, Maria gripped his shoulders and spun him, slamming his back hard against an uneven brick wall. Air rushed from his lungs before she braced her forearm against his throat and held a dagger to his cheek.
Pain radiated over his neck, and he choked, gasping for air. Fuck , but it had all happened so quickly.
“Maria,” he wheezed.
“Jasper!”
Her shocked features and the small, sharp dagger clutched in one of her gloved hands were scarcely visible through the tears that flooded his eyes.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jasper, I almost cut you! Why would you?—”
He coughed. “Run!”
* * *
Pulse thundering in her ears, Maria gripped Jasper’s hand and broke into a run. She did not need further explanation. The intense fog that blanketed London was the perfect opportunity for Francis to make his attack. It was likewise an ill environment in which to defend themselves.
Jasper’s heavy, kerchief-muffled breathing and their hard treads echoed around them, before they turned once more into a thoroughfare. They could not run indefinitely. Maria’s muscles burned and her lungs laboured—particularly with the barrier of her handkerchief—but the exhilaration of the chase kept her moving.
There . Her pulse jumped with anticipation as the fog drifted enough for her to make a swift decision, and she directed Jasper toward the alcove between two buildings. They hurried forward, and she silently urged him into the darkness to press his back against the cool, coal-darkened stone. The fog drifted closed once more, concealing their location.
Removing the kerchief from her face, she pressed her lips to Jasper’s ear and breathed, “Take long, slow breaths. Try not to be overheard.”
A shiver wracked his frame, but he nodded his understanding.
She aligned herself beside him, pressing back into the dark alcove and against the hard stone, and steadied her own breathing.
Staring into the obscurity, Maria trained her ears on their surroundings. Silence greeted her, and somehow that was worse than hearing their pursuer’s footsteps. The anticipation, the not knowing where he was or what weaponry he might carry on his person…
The sudden shuffle of a boot caught her ear, and she turned in question to Jasper. He gave a swift shake of his head, and she knew. That sound had been Francis.
A chill prickled down her spine as they stood in wait.
“I know you’re here, cousin.” The voice floated through the fog toward them. “Your bergamot scent gives you away.” He laughed, the sound low and menacing, and Maria’s pulse sped in response.
Pressing her lips against Jasper’s ear once more, she breathed, “We must attempt to seize him. I will approach from the left.”
Another shiver shook his frame, but he nodded.
Then, Jasper was gone, entirely obscured by a swirl of fog as he crept to the right on silent feet. Her heart in her throat, Maria moved to her left.
“Come, now, Duke ,” Francis spat. “My siblings will not have perished for nothing.”
Maria recalled that Francis and Miles’ sister, Jean Sinclair, had perished fifteen years prior, but she did not know the nature of it.
The man continued to shout. “Come out and face— oof! ”
Someone grunted, and the sound of boots scraping along cobblestone came from ahead of her. Maria gripped her dagger in one hand, and darted toward the sound of the scuffle. Breathing fast, she attempted to join the fray.
Out of the murk, she spotted the two men grappling for control of a pistol clutched tightly in Francis’ hand, before the fog concealed them once more.
Maria’s stomach sank, and she could feel the blood draining from her face. But she swiftly pushed through her fear and dashed toward the men, her dagger at the ready.
“I have you now!” Francis crowed in triumph, waving his pistol in the air as he disentangled himself from a slowly retreating Jasper.
Maria shifted her grip on the dagger and lunged, lifting her arm high. Francis’ gaze darted to her, his eyes widening as he swung his weapon toward her. All at once, they collided. Her dagger-wielding arm was knocked off course by the blow, and it sliced into his upper arm.
Francis roared and reflexively pulled the trigger.
Crack!
Maria’s ears rang, rendering them momentarily useless. Francis screamed something in her face, spun, and ran away into the fog, clutching his arm with one hand. But Maria could think only of Jasper.
She turned, her nose filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and her ears ringing, and scanned the haze. Returning her dagger to the sheath hidden in her boot, she took a hesitant step.
“Jasper?” she said, a hint of panic in her trembling voice.
The high-pitched ringing was her only response.
Where had the ball gone? Had Jasper been hit? Where was he?
She rushed forward until she reached a wall. Her pulse sped faster.
“Jasper? Where are you?”
Dragging her fingertips along the stone surface, she walked on, scanning the fog and the ground for any sign of him.
“I can’t hear you, Jasper,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
A scream was wrenched from her lungs as a dark form reached for her. She put out a hand, bracing for attack—and lamenting the fact that she already sheathed her dagger. But then she saw his face.
“ Jasper ,” she breathed.
He pulled her into an embrace, and she went willingly. His body was large, broad, warm, and wonderfully alive.
“You weren’t harmed, were you?” She pulled back and traced her hands over his chest, arms, and shoulders.
“No.” The word was only barely audible over the noise in her ears, but she felt the rumble against her palms, and the immediate relief that swept through her made her knees weak.
The danger has passed . The fearful tension that she’d held in her shoulders gave way, and she released a weary sigh. Francis would unquestionably make another attempt on their lives, but for the moment, they were safe.
“When I…” Jasper started, and then swallowed, his gaze pained. “When I saw you nearing Francis, I feared…” He grimaced in pain and slid his hands around her waist. “ Christ , Maria.”
His lips crashed down upon hers.