“He took me to the Pantheon Bazaar yesterday,” she said. “He wanted to buy me a lovely ribbon to thread through my hair-he thinks my hair is lovely, by the way, all sorts of interesting autumn shades all mixed together-but I’m a proper girl, and thus I didn’t let him do it. It seemed rather intimate, particularly since he wanted to do the threading. Do you know he got so close with that ribbon that I could feel his breath on my nose?” She gave a delicious little shudder that nearly had him ready to kill.
He saw the glint in her eye, and got control. “Your aunt should never have allowed you to go off with him. I will have to speak to her about that. He isn’t good husband material, Corrie.”
“Husband material? Do you want to know the truth, James? I’ve been thinking about it, and I truly cannot imagine attaching myself to a man and changing my name. Goodness, I would be Corrie Tybourne-Barrett Monroe. As for a husband, he would order me about and expect me to do whatever he wants whenever he wants it.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “On the other hand, I must be honest about this. I have passed Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon’s bedchamber before, and do you know what?”
James was certain that his eyes were going to roll back in his head. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to go to China before he heard this. He said, “What?”
She leaned close. “I heard them laughing. Yes, laughing, and then Uncle Simon said, quite clearly, ‘I shall nibble on your lovely self for a while now, Bella.’ What do you think of that, James?”
Well, he had asked. He wondered if Aunt Maybella wore a blue nightgown. No, he had to turn his mind away from that. He said, “Stay away from Devlin Monroe.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” She gave him a sunny smile, then looked like she’d burst into tears. “Oh drat, the waltz is ending. It was too short. Someone stopped it before its time. I’ll bet that Juliette Lorimer bribed them to stop. I think someone should go speak to them. Perhaps-” She gave him a hopeful look, but he shook his head.
“No, I have to leave now, Corrie. I like your hair nice and simple, all braided on the top. You wouldn’t look good with an army of ringlets marching over your head. Or any ribbons. Forget ribbons, particularly those bought for you by a man.”
Corrie supposed it was a compliment. She wanted another waltz and so she said, “I believe Devlin is beyond that very fat lady, speaking to another young man who looks remarkably wicked himself. Hmmm. Let me see if I can get his attention.” She went up on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, “I think I shall tell him my name is the Ice Princess. I wonder what he will have to say about that?”
But her performance was wasted because James wasn’t listening. He’d turned at the tug at his sleeve. It was one of the waiters hired for this evening, and he pressed a note into James’s hand. “A gentleman said you was to have this, sir. Right away, he said.”
His heart began to drum, deep and sharp. He left her without a word, and looked neither right nor left at the young ladies who were staring after him. He walked through the long row of French doors that gave onto the Lanscombe balcony.
He stepped out, saw a couple embracing at the far end, and wanted to tell that old roué Basil Harms that he wasn’t far enough in the shadows. He wondered what man’s wife he was seducing.
He walked quietly down the steps on the far end of the balcony and strode into the Lanscombe garden toward the back gate. He didn’t have a gun, curse it, and perhaps this wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, but on the other hand, there was a chance this was news about the man who wanted to kill his father. There was no choice really. Besides, who would want to hurt him? No, it was his father they were after. The lights from the ballroom dimmed until he was in blackness and saw only the outline of the narrow gate some fifteen feet in front of him. He wasn’t stupid. He looked all around him for possible danger, listened, but it was quiet. The man he was supposed to meet was waiting for him by the back gate.
What sort of information did the man have? James hoped he had enough money on him to meet his price.
He heard the rustling of leaves just off to his right. He whirled around but saw nothing, no movement, no light, nothing at all. Surely there would be no lovers this far away from the mansion. He waited, listening. Nothing. He was alert; he was ready.
It was at least ten feet to that narrow gate with ivy climbing up it, cascading wildly over the top, rather like that silver cascade over Titan. The eight-foot-high stone walls of the Lanscombe garden were also covered with ivy, miles of the stuff, thick, impenetrable. His steps slowed. He scented danger; he actually smelled it.
Suddenly a man came out of the shadows to stand at the end of the path, right in front of the gate. In a deep rolling voice, the man said, “Lord Hammersmith?”
“Aye, I’m Hammersmith.”
“I have information to sell ye, me lord, all about yer pa.”
“What do you have?”
The man pulled a sheaf of papers from his old black jacket. “I want five pounds fer the lot of it.”
He had five pounds, thank God.
“Before I give you anything, tell me what you have.”
“It’s names, me lord, names and places the gentleman what gave me the papers said yer pa would want to see. Some letters too.”
Five pounds. Even if it was worthless, it was worth the five pounds, to be sure.
James was reaching into his pocket for money when the man dropped the papers, jerked up a gun, and said, “Ye don’t move now, me fine lord. Ye just stand there nice and straight and don’t ye even wink an eyelash.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Life is simply one damned thing after another.
ASCRIBED TO ELBERT HUBBARD
JAMES WAS ALREADY in motion. His leg shot out, clipped the gun, and sent it flying into the ivy against the garden wall. The man yelped, grabbed his hand. James was nearly on him when a thick blanket came flying down over his head and he heard the voices of two men, one of them whispering, “No, don’t yell, ye fool. We’ll jest bundle him all up like this so’s he can’t kick out and break our necks.”
“I want to kick ’is balls off, Augie, kickin’ Billy like that, nearly broke ’is wrist the bastid did.”
James was jerking at the blanket, trying to find a corner, when a gun barrel nicked him on the shoulder, then another one hit him hard on the head. He was cursing loud enough to bring the watch when the pain bowed him to his knees. Another blow on the head. He fell, swaddled in the thick wool, and knew no more.
Corrie’s scream never came out of her throat. There was nothing she could do except yell and jump on them and likely get herself banged on the head with a gun, and what good would that do James? She looked on, horrified and enraged, and stuffed her fist in her mouth.
She watched them gather him up, then one of the men, much larger than the others, heaved James, still wrapped in the blanket, over his shoulder.
“Not a feather, this one. Let’s git our braw lad out o’ this place, quick.”
Her heart was pounding loud enough for the Lord to hear, but she followed, her slippers light on the cobblestones as she ran toward the back garden gate. She watched them push the gate open, saw a carriage in the alley, two bays harnessed to it, standing quietly, heads down, at rest. One of the men climbed onto the bench and picked up the reins. It was Billy. He leaned back. “Git moving, Ben, ye want to tie our gent up good. He’s a strong ’un, kicked me wrist so sharp it sent pins through me fingers. I ain’t niver seen a man move like that. We’ll keep an eye on ’im.”
She watched them toss James onto the carriage floor, then jump up after him.
A man leaned out the window, hissed, “Go, Billy, scrabble ’em, now! We’ve gots a ways to go.”