A Lady of His Own

Penny looked at Nicholas. “That wasn’t wise.”

  “None of this was ever wise,” Nicholas returned.

  She and Charles both picked up the allusion to something beyond the immediate subject.

  “I know the caliber of this man,” Charles said. “Believe me, you don’t want to tangle with him.”

  “No, you’re quite right. I don’t.” Nicholas drew in a breath. Opening his eyes, he looked at Charles. “But I don’t know who he is, and I can’t tell you anything. I’m glad enough that you’re here—at least that means Penny’s safe. But…there’s nothing more you—or I—can do.”

  Charles’s eyes, fixed on Nicholas’s face, narrowed. “You mean,” he said, in his silkily dangerous voice, “that we’ll just have to wait for him to show his hand.”

  Nicholas inclined his head.

  She waited to see which way Charles would go, whether he would push, or…

  Eventually, he nodded. “Very well, we’ll play the next scene by your script.” He caught Nicholas’s gaze. “But I’ll find out the truth in the end.”

  For a long moment, Nicholas held his gaze, then quietly replied, “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  An uneasy truce prevailed for the rest of the day. Charles was concerned, and on more than one front. He left her with Nicholas in the drawing room and spoke with Norris. Nicholas smiled faintly when Charles returned, but said nothing.

  By early evening, the entire household was as weary and wan as she’d earlier pretended to be; by unspoken consent, they retired early.

  She and Charles found pleasure and, even more, comfort in each other’s arms. The revelation of the previous night—that moment in which it had been shatteringly obvious that what lay between them was definitely not purely physical—was still there, waiting to be acknowledged, examined, and dealt with. She couldn’t deal with it now, not with so much other tension surrounding them. Although the connection remained, a deep and very real link between them, Charles didn’t allude to it, and for that she was grateful. Sated, as much at peace as they could be, they fell asleep.

  About them, the old house settled, and slept, too.

  Penny woke, and felt the mattress shift. Instantly alert, she lifted her head and saw Charles padding around the bed. He stopped by her dressing stool, picked up his breeches, and proceeded to climb into them.

  “Where are you going?”

  He glanced at her. “I woke up, and thought I may as well check the doors and windows downstairs.”

  She listened, but could hear nothing. He wasn’t hurrying as he pulled on his boots.

  “Stay there.” He headed for the door, glanced back. “I’m going to lock the door—I won’t be long.”

  She sat up as he opened the door, started to whisper, “Be careful.”

  Crash!

  Downstairs, glass shattered, wood splintered.

  Charles swore and shot out of the door. Penny bounced from the bed, grabbed up her robe, struggling into it as she raced after him. The ruckus continued. Reaching the stairs, she saw Charles ahead of her, leaping down. She reached the landing as he gained the hall and swung around, heading for the library.

  She followed as fast as she could.

  Charles slowed as he neared the open library doors. Thuds and grunts came from within. Noiselessly, he glided into the doorway.

  Poised to react, every nerve tensed, he swiftly scanned the shadowy room. The curtains had been left open, but there was little illumination from outside; it took an instant to separate the destruction on the floor from the figures wrestling amid the wreckage most of the way down the long room.

  Then one man gained the ascendancy, reared above the other, raised his arm, and struck down. Immediately, he raised his arm again—faint light glinted along a blade.

  “Hold!” Charles shouted, muscles tensing to race in.

  The man looked up, and changed his hold on the knife.

  Penny moved behind Charles, peering past his shoulder.

  Charles swore, and flung himself back.

  The man threw the knife.

  Pushing Penny out of the double doorway, Charles flattened her against the hall wall beside the door. Her “Ooof!” coincided with the thud of the knife as it hit the paneling on the opposite side of the hall, then clattered to the tiles.

  He was back through the doorway as the tinkling died.

  The room was a mass of shadows. He searched, then saw the man frantically climbing through the long window at the end of the room. His face was black—a scarf or mask; a hat was pulled low over his forehead.

  The knife from Charles’s boot was in his hand before he’d even thought. It was a long throw; he took an instant to gauge it, then sent the knife streaking down the room.

  It thudded into the window frame where the man had been standing a bare second before, pinning his coat. Charles raced forward. He heard a curse, then material ripped and the man, already outside, was gone.

  Glass crunched beneath Charles’s boots; he called back, “There’s broken glass—be careful!” He hurdled the slumped figure and finally reached the window; wrenching aside the billowing curtains, he looked out.

  The man was briefly visible, a denser shadow pelting toward the dark mass of the shrubbery. Charles watched, itching to pursue but restrained by experience. The man would reach the shrubbery long before he could catch him; once amid the high hedges, the man could wait for him to venture in, then slip past him and return to the house to finish what he’d started.

  Swallowing an oath, Charles turned and headed back to where Penny had picked her way to the slumped form and was now crouched by its side.

  She glanced up as he neared. “Nicholas.”

  No surprise there.

  “He’s been stabbed, I think twice.”

  A curse slipped out. “The idiot!” Scuffing away the broken glass from around Penny, Charles hunkered down. “Light the lamp on the desk.”

  Penny rose and went to do as he’d asked. Nicholas was unconscious; grasping his shoulders, Charles rolled him fully onto his back. As the wick flared, then steadied, he saw two wounds, one in each shoulder.

  The pattern spoke volumes. The next strike would have gone just above the heart, fully incapacitating, potentially fatal. The last strike would have been a quick jab between the ribs, directly into the heart. Always fatal.

  If they’d been a few seconds slower, Nicholas would have died.

  Both shoulder wounds were bleeding, but not as much as the next wound would have. Loosening, then dragging free Nicholas’s cravat, Charles ripped the muslin in two, folded each piece, and firmly pressed one to each wound.

  He looked up at Penny. She was as white as a sheet, but a long way from fainting. “He’s not going to die.” Her gaze lifted from Nicholas’s deathly pale face to his. He nodded to the bellpull. “Wake the household. We’ll need help with him, and we need to set a guard.”

  The next hour went in organized chaos. Already on edge, every member of the staff turned out in response to the jangling bell. Explanations had to be given; reassurances made. Maids had to be calmed, then some were sent to boil water while Figgs ordered the younger ones back to bed.

  Figgs herself took charge of Nicholas. Working with Charles, she packed the wounds, then organized two footmen to carry Nicholas upstairs, back to his bed.

  “Not even slept in!” Bustling ahead of the laboring footmen, Figgs hurried to turn down the covers. “Lay him there, gently now.”

  Charles sank into the armchair by the bed. Penny sat on its arm and leaned against his shoulder. Together, they watched as Figgs sent maids for water, clean linen for bandages, and ointment from the stillroom. While they scurried to obey, with brisk efficiency Figgs stripped Nicholas’s ruined coat and shirt away. Once they’d delivered all she’d requested, Figgs shooed the maids off to bed; carrying the bowl to the bedside, she carefully lifted their improvised bandages and washed away the blood.

  Patting the wounds dry, Figgs glanced at Charles. “Can’t say I’ve much
experience of stab wounds, but these don’t look all that bad.”

  “They’re not.” Charles leaned forward and looked more closely. “At least they’re clean—one benefit of being attacked by a professional.” The last comment was uttered sotto voce, for Penny’s ears alone as he sat back again.

  She leaned more firmly against his shoulder. “Has he lost a lot of blood?”

  “Not that much—his faint is most likely due to shock.”

  “Aye.” Figgs looked decidedly grim.

  “My lord?”

  Charles looked up to see Norris in the doorway. He was carrying a lit candelabra; he glanced at the figure on the bed, then looked at Charles. “A guard, do you think, my lord?”

  “Indeed.” Charles rose, lightly squeezed Penny’s shoulder. “Wait here—I’ll be back. I need to speak to him when he comes around.”

  Penny nodded. She’d belted her robe tightly about her and was glad of its warmth, especially now Charles had moved away. She’d stopped by her room and put on her slippers, but even warm toes didn’t alleviate her chill.

  When Figgs started to smear on the ointment and lay gauze over the raw wounds, she shook herself, rose, and went to help. Working together, they secured bandages around Nicholas. Figgs had used warm water to wash away the blood, but Nicholas’s skin felt icy.

  Figgs noticed her concern. “It’s the shock, like Lord Charles said. There.” Pulling up the covers, she patted them down around Nicholas. “He’s as comfortable as can be.”

  Piling her cloths in the basin, she hefted it. She glanced again at Nicholas. “I’ll send up a footman with some hot bricks. That’ll warm up the bed and bring him to himself.”

  “Thank you, Figgs.” Penny sank into the armchair, her gaze fixed on Nicholas’s effigy-like face.

  Figgs humphed. “Em brews a tisane as calms the nerves something wonderful. I’ll have some sent up for you all. After all this fuss, you’ll be needing it, no doubt.”

  Penny smiled. “Thank you.”

  Figgs bobbed and left.

  Charles walked back in as Figgs neared the door. He held it, then closed it behind her and crossed the room to Penny.

  She raised her brows at him.

  “Shutting the door after the horse has bolted, but…” With a light shrug, he sat on the arm of the chair. “If it was me, I’d come straight back in. Better safe than sorry.”

  “What have you organized?”

  He told her of the orders he’d given, two men in each patrol, with two patrols circling the corridors, passing in sequence from one wing to the next. “One man alone, this villain will kill him, but he won’t use a pistol—too much noise—and unless he’s a wizard, he won’t try to take on two men at once.”

  Penny nodded. Everything seemed so unreal. This was her home, yet patrols of footmen were now required to keep a murderous intruder at bay.

  “I’d send you to bed, only I’d rather you remained in the same room as me.”

  She blinked, looked up at Charles. “I’ve no intention of returning to my bed. I want to be here when Nicholas awakes—I want to hear what he says.”

  He smiled, wry, resigned, and said no more.

  Em’s tisane arrived, and they each drank a cup; a pot under a knitted warmer sat waiting for Nicholas. Footmen came with the bricks wrapped in felt; Charles oversaw their disposition. Another footman stoked the fire into a roaring blaze. Penny thanked him and dismissed him. Then she and Charles settled to wait.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on.

  Another hour passed before Nicholas stirred.

  “You’re in your own bed,” Charles said. “He’s gone.”

  Nicholas frowned. It took effort to open his eyes; he blinked at them, went to move, and winced. His eyes widened. “He stabbed me.”

  “Twice.” Charles’s tone was caustic. “What possessed you to tackle him alone?”

  Nicholas grimaced. “I didn’t think it through—there wasn’t time.”

  Charles sighed. “What happened?”

  “I was sitting in a chair in the hall, waiting—”

  “Why there?” Charles asked, perplexed.

  “Because I reasoned he’d go to the library, and I could see the library door from there. I didn’t think he’d come through the window. The first I knew of him was a great crash—he’d smashed one of the display cases.”

  “Hmm.” Charles’s eyes narrowed. “What happened next? How much do you recall?”

  “I rushed in—he saw me and swore, but I was on him in a flash. We tussled, fell.” Nicholas’s gaze grew distant. “It was so dark. It was more guesswork than science, grappling, rolling—then he flung me back, and stabbed me.” He paused, then continued, “Then he stabbed me again. It felt so cold…” After a moment, Nicholas looked at Charles. “I heard a shout, but it seemed to come from a long way away.”

  “That was me—I was in the doorway.”

  “I must have fainted. What happened next?”

  “He threw the knife at me”—Charles glanced severely at Penny—“at us, instead of plunging it into your heart. Then he fled.”

  “He got away?”

  “The shrubbery is too damned close to the house—it’s the perfect escape route.” Charles studied Nicholas’s face. “I need you to tell me all you can remember about your attacker.”

  Nicholas nodded; gingerly, he eased up in the bed.

  Charles rose and went to help him, stacking the pillows behind his back. “You’ve lost a fair amount of blood—you’ll be weak for a day or so, and those wounds will pull like the devil as they heal, but you were lucky—he didn’t have time to be as professionally vicious as he’d have liked.”

  Penny rose and poured the tisane; when Nicholas was settled again, she handed him the cup. “It’s Em’s special recipe. It’ll help.”

  Nicholas accepted the cup, sipped gratefully. Slipped back into his thoughts.

  “So?” Charles prompted, returning to sit on the arm of Penny’s chair.

  Nicholas grimaced. “I couldn’t see anything of his face—he had a scarf tied over his nose and mouth. In the dark, I couldn’t get any idea of his eyes, and he wore a hat jammed low—it didn’t come off.”

  “Don’t think of features—you wrestled with him. How did he feel to you—old, young, supple, strong?”

  Nicholas blinked; his expression grew distant. “Youngish, but not that much younger than I. Quite strong—leanish.”

  “How tall?”

  Nicholas looked at Charles. “Not as tall as you. More my height, maybe an inch or so taller.” He paused, then asked, “Did you see anything—anything to identify him?”

  “Not specifically, but I believe we can cross Yarrow and Swaley off our lists. From what we both observed, Swaley’s too short, and there’s no way a man of Yarrow’s weight could have moved as your attacker did. I agree with your youngish—younger than you or me—and leanish, too, although on that I’m less clear.” Charles leveled his gaze on Nicholas’s face. “Now think back—you said he swore when you entered the library. What did he sound like?”

  “He was swearing even before he saw me—he seemed enraged about the pillboxes.”

  “Well, then?”

  Nicholas’s grimace was self-deprecatory. “It was all in French—fluent, and…well, if you work with people who speak multiple languages, you realize they sound different in one tongue versus another.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how he would sound in English.”

  Charles humphed, but nodded. “Carmichael, Fothergill, or Gerond, then.”

  “But from what you said before, Fothergill and Carmichael are unlikely.” Nicholas handed his empty cup back to Penny. “And it was very fluent French.”

  Charles shook his head. “Don’t build too much on that. I swear in very fluent French, too. As for the rest, ‘unlikely’ isn’t definite. Those three are all still suspects.”

  Nicholas fell silent.

  Penny studied him, then looked at Charl
es. He was thinking, furiously, not about what they’d learned, but about how to learn more. He was weighing his options; she knew the look.

  After a long moment, he refocused on Nicholas, who met his gaze.

  “When are you going to tell me—us—what’s going on?”

  When Nicholas’s lips merely tightened, Charles went on, “If I hadn’t decided to come down and check the doors and windows, I would never have been in time to stop his next blow, one that would very likely have ended your life. And no, I’m not telling you that so you’ll feel grateful. I want you to understand how serious this is. This man has killed, not once but twice that we know of, and he will kill again. He has no compunction whatever. Who knows who it might be next time? Figgs, perhaps—she tended your wounds. Or Em, who made the tisane. Or Norris. Or Penny.”