Edith Layton (15 page)

“Dearie me, no,” Anthony said, looking around
with mock fear. “Last I saw of him he was tracking after your cousin, lady, to see she’s safe as houses. He knows what side his bread is buttered on.”

“As you should,” Christian said. “But if Murchison is on that trail, there may be reason.” His lips tightened. “You go back to the fair and see what’s up with them,” he told the captain. “I’ll be along presently—if they’re not already at the carriage. I’ll take you there,” he told Julianne. “If they’re waiting for us, we’ll go back to the squire’s. If they aren’t…” He took Julianne’s hand and led her up the slope again.

Only the coachman was waiting for them.

“Go in, and stay there,” Christian told Julianne, his voice suddenly clipped and cool. “No matter what. I’ll be back. Wait for me.” And then he was off, striding down the long slope to the fair.

Christian knew exactly where to go. The crowd had clustered like a legion of ants around a bread crumb. He used elbows and boot tips to make his way through, leaving exclamations and threats—which ceased the minute those who uttered them saw his expression—in his wake. He saw no sign of Sophie or Hammond, or Anthony Briggs. But there was too huge a crowd massed tightly together to make out much.

They were watching a fight. Two Gypsy women had faced off six feet apart, in a ragged circle in the center of the crowd. They were screeching at each other. Both were dark and exotic, as Gypsies were supposed to be, but also young and uncommonly pretty. Their faces were rosy with anger. One had her
blouse pulled down from one shoulder, exposing a very shapely breast that could be clearly seen by every man who pushed and shoved his way far enough up front to see. She didn’t seem to notice. The crowd did. They watched with breathless anticipation.

“So last time I’m warning you—you stay away from him, hear?” one shapely Gypsy woman screeched at the other. She pulled a long, shining knife from her skirts and brandished it. The crowd gasped and tried to draw closer.

“Aye, and who’s to make me?” the other said, with a smirking smile, as she tossed back her long shining hair from her naked creamy shoulders.

“Very neat,” a voice filled with admiration said at Christian’s ear.

“Yes,” Christian said, without turning his head. “It is a pretty sight. Firm as an apple and twice as tasty-looking. The ken they’re working is, too. Never fails. Two lovely tarts about to go at it, stripping down before they do, always enough to make the crowd forget good sense. If they ever had any. Hand on your wallet, Mr. Murchison, and hold on to your handkerchief. It’s a fancy act. By the time they’re rolling in the mud with their skirts up to their ears, their friends the dips will have their paws on your watch fob. They’ll be working the crowd until the play’s over.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Mr. Murchison said in surprise. “What do you take me for?”

“A knowing one,” Christian said. He looked at the crowd. “So where are the lovebirds, Miss Wiley and Hammond?”

“Lovebirds?” Murchison scoffed. “They’re more
at dagger’s drawn like the pretty Romanies are right now. They’re just across the way, near the stout fellow with the white whiskers. She’s behind Hammond and trying not to be. The clunch shoved her behind him so she don’t see nothing a lady shouldn’t, and she’s ready to tear his head off, wanting to get a better eyeful.”

“Ah, yes,” Christian said, when he saw Sophie and Hammond across the impromptu circle from them. He smiled as he saw Sophie trying to pull away from her protector. “Looks like she’ll do more damage to him than the Gypsies will, at that. I’m going to get them out of here. Fun’s fun, but you never know when a lay like this will turn serious. One too many a push can come to shove, then to mayhem. It’s late enough so louts in the crowd are soused, a lark like this can turn to riot.”

“You’re the knowing one,” Murchison said in admiration. “I’ll help.”

Christian was elbowing his way through the mass of people when he heard the first furious shout to come from the crowd, and not the fighting Gypsy women. By the time he managed to force his way three more paces, he saw the first punch being thrown by a red-faced drover at an equally angry farmer. Soon Christian was ducking and twisting, shoving his way toward where he’d last seen Sophie and Hammond.

As he’d feared, there were too many fairgoers who’d drunk too deeply, tempers had flared, and a melee had started.

Christian ducked a punch and had to land two others. He pulled his coat from a drunken oaf’s clutches and kicked the fellow’s leg from under him to keep him from coming on. He forged on, the screams and shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears. He pushed, and his head was smacked with something hard. He reeled back. He shook his head, touched it, and felt wetness on his fingers. He hoped it was just spittle from the drunken lout screaming in his ear, pushed him away, and fought on. There was no time to look at the damage; to halt would be to be stopped in his tracks until the riot wound down. Because that was what it had become.

Christian kicked, prodded, and, at one point, bit his way toward where he’d last seen Sophie and Hammond. She’d been wearing red, he remembered that. He saw a drover’s crimson kerchief, a clerk’s red plaid waistcoat, a brave cherry feather in a farm girl’s bonnet, the bright cardinal splash in a Gypsy’s swirling skirts…and Sophie, a few feet away, cringing behind Hammond.

Hammond stood legs apart, fists clenched, facing the crowd, making himself the best target at the fair, Christian thought with annoyance as he kept fighting his way through the crowd.

The mass of people swirled around him, changing places as though in some mad dance, but Christian focused on Hammond and moved in his direction, trying to reach him and Sophie. One of the Gypsy girls who’d started the melee was very close to them now, Christian noticed. He thrust forward, pitched toward
Hammond, and reached his side—just as onlookers saw the silver flash of a long knife plunge into Hammond’s chest.

Hammond gasped, clutched his chest, stared at it, then at Christian, and fell.

“C
lear the way!” Mr. Murchison bellowed, swinging a stick to enforce his words, as Christian lifted Hammond and carried him out of the melee.

Christian, breathing hard, laid Hammond down on the first clear grassy patch he found and straightened with difficulty. “The fellow’s solid muscle, he weighs a ton. He’s breathing, but he’s bleeding,” Christian said. “Is there a doctor around?”

“No need for a sawbones, let my woman have a look at him,” a swarthy man said as he came running up to them. “You lads,” he ordered a group of hard-faced men behind him, “what are you waiting for? Get in there and break some head if you must, but get this stopped, and now! They’ll tear my tents down, then where am I?” he asked bitterly, not expecting an answer.

“I’m Smith, I run this fair,” he told Christian, “My woman’s good as a sawbones. I’ve sent for her.” He squatted and looked at Hammond, frowning at the blood that stained the front of his shirt. “Must have
missed his heart, or he’d be dead. There’s a mercy, at least. Ah, Francine,” he said as a wild-eyed Gypsy woman came running to join him. “Have a look. The bloke’s in trouble. If he dies, we’ll be, too. Don’t matter who done for him. Everyone knows Gypsies is murderers and worse.”

The woman stared down at Hammond. She nodded, pulled a long knife from her skirt, and in one swift fluid movement, knelt. Murchison cursed and moved toward her, but Christian put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Think, man,” Christian hissed. “She doesn’t mean to harm him. Likely it’s just to get his shirt off so she can see the damage.”

The woman turned her head and looked up at him. “Want to give me a hand, sir? If one of mine helps, they’ll blame us if he snuffs it. But if a gent’s in it, we might be able to get out of this with a whole skin.”

“Then I’m the last man you want laying a hand on him,” Christian said with a sour smile. “If he dies and I’m beside him, it would be like saying you’re in league with the devil, believe me. Murchison, assist her, will you?”

“You’re letting her touch him?” Sophie shrieked, as the runner bent to help the Gypsy woman.

“Captain Briggs,” Christian ordered, staring at the man who stood behind her, “take the squire’s daughter to the carriage and stow her there. Miss Wiley,” he told Sophie, “the fellow behind you is the man your father hired to watch everything I do. He’ll see you safely to your cousin. She’s waiting in the carriage. There’s nothing you can do here now but be in the
way. I won’t let them hurt Hammond,” he added in a gentler voice. “After all, whatever you think of me, remember that if anything bad befalls him, I’m the one sure to be blamed for it.”

She stood rigid, then nodded. “I’ll stay here,” she said, lifting her head. “At least until I know how he is…please?”

“Then be still,” Christian said. “How does he?” he asked the Gypsy, who with the runner’s help had gotten Hammond’s blood-soaked waistcoat and shirt away from the wound.

“The man must have been born under Virgo, because it would be his planet that rules the day,” she muttered as she stared at the blood that sluggishly oozed from Hammond’s bared chest. “Good fortune was his, whatever you think. The thrust was deep. But it was a nice clean one, and missed his heart and lungs. He’ll ache and he’ll groan, but if the wound doesn’t go putrid, he’ll live as long as his Maker intended.”

“That’s a relief, indeed,” Christian said. “Can he be moved?”

“After I stop the bleeding and pack the wound, aye, take him away from here…please,” she added in a mocking look at Sophie, where she stood, ashen-faced.

“It’s as good as done,” Christian said. “Did you know who struck the blow?”

“I’m a Rom, but no fortune-teller, nor one of the wenches running the stripping lay,” she said contemptuously. “I told you it was the wrong day and place for it,” she told the swarthy man, then turned to her work with Hammond again. “I saw nothing until I got here,” she said as she did.

“Of course you didn’t,” Christian said. “And I suppose that goes double for every man and woman in your clan? So I supposed. What did you see?” he asked the captain.

“You running to him,” Anthony said, jerking a finger at Hammond. “And then, him falling like a felled tree.”

“Wonderful,” Christian muttered. “And you, Mr. Murchison?”

“A knife struck, I saw the sun glinting on the blade before it was buried in his chest. But not who held it,” the runner said. “There was too many milling around him. I’m willing to go bail it wasn’t you, though. If only because it would have been a damned stupid thing for you to do, with everyone watching.”

“I’m touched at your faith in me,” Christian said. He took a deep breath. “All right, let’s get him stoppered and bandaged. I’ll see him home. But then I have to leave. Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not running for the antipodes again. But I’d rather not face that lot at the squire’s again just yet.”

“They can’t hold you accountable!” Anthony said with a fierce scowl.

“They can do anything they damn please,” Christian said grimly. “And they know it well. They’ve done it before.”

The sun was setting when Anthony entered the White Hart again. He looked into the taproom, saw Christian sitting by a window staring out. There were two glasses in front of him, one empty, one half-full. The captain sauntered in and took a seat at Christian’s table.

Christian turned and raised an eyebrow. “Is this wise?”

The captain shrugged. “Don’t matter now, does it? At least anyone listening to us at the fair would know, and I’ll bet my last pair of boots there was at least one someone listening aside from the squire’s daughter and the runner.”

Christian drained his glass and raised his hand for another. “The one who stabbed him, do you think?” His voice was only slightly slurred.

“What are you drinking?” Anthony asked curiously, looking at the glasses on the table.

“Started with the light blue. Now? The landlord’s best brew.”

“You jug-bitten?”

“Not enough.”

“Oh, well then, let’s see if I can catch up. They think you did it, of course.”

Christian, head down, and studying the rough tabletop, nodded.

“But Murchison don’t, and his word has weight. And though the old gentleman hates you right enough and wouldn’t trust you enough to ask you to drown his kittens, I don’t think he really believes you did, neither. Because it would have been a stupid thing to do, and, whatever he thinks of you, he knows you aren’t that.”

“And Julianne?” Christian asked slowly.

“What do you think? But still, I think it would be best if you cleared out.”

Christian’s eyes widened as his head came up. “He’s dead then? But he was doing well.”

“Hammond? No, he isn’t ready to dance, but he’s happier than he’s been in weeks. See, his almost being killed settled the squire’s daughter down. She’s cooing over him like a mother bird, and he’s loving every minute. Yes, and a pint for me, too,” he told the innkeeper, when he came to collect Christian’s empty glass.

“Someone tried to kill Hammond because I was there,” Christian said.

“Don’t give yourself airs. It would be a neat fit; but like I said, there’s too many holes in it. Hammond could have enemies, too, you know. If they think that you’re not the heir, it would be Hammond, right? Maybe someone wants to prevent that. Maybe it was just a mistake. It was a riot. Tempers flare. The wrong man’s been snuffed in a crowd many a time, you know that. Maybe you were the one they were trying for, did you think of that?”

Christian stared at him.

“Thought not. There’s so many reasons for his being skewered, we could be here all night discussing them. But as for what it means to you? It will keep you away from Hammond and the rest of them. Maybe someone wants that.”

“Won’t work,” Christian said.

Now Anthony raised a tawny eyebrow. “You run mad?”

“No. Just that it doesn’t make any difference, does it? They hated and mistrusted me before this. This only means they’ll keep at it. I just have to keep away from places where someone could be killed in my company,” he said, on a twisted smile.

Anthony sat silently while the innkeeper delivered the drinks to them. He waited until the man had gone, took a long swallow from his glass, put it down, and bent closer to Christian. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. It won’t make any difference in the inheritance. Papers are papers, and they’re all under lock and key. You’ve seen the place, they’ve seen you. You’ve even gotten a tour so you could count the silver, now no one can slip it out from under your nose. Think, man. You can
leave
now. I think you should.”

Christian shook his head. “No one is going to frighten me off. You should know that.”

“I do, well enough. If you’ve good reason, nothing would turn you aside, but I fail to see…” Anthony gave his companion a searching look. “I’ll be damned for a fool!” he suddenly exclaimed. “It’s her, the gentry mort, ain’t it?”

Christian swirled the ale in his glass and stared at it as though he could read his future in the bubbling amber liquid. “A female’s a female, pretty though she is. They’ve tempted me to many things, but never to put my head in a noose.”

His companion didn’t speak, only stared hard, his brilliant blue eyes looking deep. “So your mind’s set?”

“It is.”

“Then there’s no sense my wasting my breath,” Anthony said, and began to stand up.

“Yes, she’s lovely,” Christian said, low. “And gentle and kind. Smart, too. I wouldn’t pass an extra hour with her if she wasn’t.”

Anthony eased down in his seat again.

“I’m not getting anything on the side,” Christian said seriously, so seriously his companion realized again how much he must have had to drink. “She’s proper as a parson—well, not quite. She’s too honest for that. But she’s no merry leg, you know. You shouldn’t even think of her in those terms,” he added censoriously.

“Sorry,” Anthony said. “Although, if you remember, I never said such.”

Christian seemed lost in a reverie. His eyes were bright but unfocused, the only other sign of his intoxication the increasingly careful way he chose his words. “She’s pretty, and clever, and she has the most amazingly beautiful…But I’m too much of a gentleman to mention them, you know. The thing is, she’s also kind,” he said with wonder. “I haven’t known much of that…God! I am jug-bitten,” he said with loathing, looking down at his glass as though it were a serpent. “My fault. I tried to get drunker than a sow. There was nothing I could do but wait and see what happened to Hammond. But I wanted to leave, but only for a little while. The thing is…” He struggled for words, his cool expression gone. He looked younger, and in pain. He ran a hand over his hair, and frowned, trying to find the right words.

“We saw the Gypsies today,” he finally said. “That was what reminded me. The thing is, Amya…” Christian stopped and looked at his companion owlishly. “I mean,
Anthony
, I’m so very tired of being treated as though I were a Gypsy rover myself. No matter what I say or how I act or dress, everyone’s ready to run me off. They watch my every move,
waiting for me to pocket the silver, or steal their babies, or God knows what else. She isn’t like that. Or rather, when she does distrust me, she tells me so. And then, when I explain, I think she believes me. The thing is that I no longer know if that’s good or bad. Can you believe it?
Me?
Now there’s something to worry about. But don’t worry. I know what I know, and who I am. Blast, I’m not making sense.”

“Too much sense,” Anthony said softly.

“Don’t worry,” Christian said again. “I know what I must do, and I’ll never forget or spill it.” He closed his eyes, and took a breath. His face cleared of expression. “But oh, aye,” he murmured softly, “she tempts me sore. Still, the thing is that no man runs me off—not anymore. I’ve rhymed that,” he said in wonder, opening his eyes. “So it must be true. Isn’t that what the Romany say? Gads, I wish Daffyd was here!”

“It’s what a man with a bellyful of booze says. You need sleep, and I don’t feel like hitting you on the head so you can get it. You’ve a damned hard head. And a punishing left. So let’s have another round, and then I’ll see you to bed if I have to carry you up the stair,” Anthony said, drained his glass, and signaled the landlord again.

“All right. But don’t let me dream,” Christian said earnestly.

“Oh, lad,” his companion said.

Hammond was propped up in bed on his pillows, Sophie at his side, anxiously watching his every exhalation. His face was ashen, his arm was in a sling,
his chest was wrapped round with thick bandaging, and he was beaming with happiness.

“I’m fine,” he said again. “I wasn’t happy when the doctor bled me, and I’m weak as a kitten now. But I’ve got my kitten back,” he added, giving Sophie a look of pure adoration, “and that’s all that matters.”

“I should say not,” Sir Maurice said impatiently. “I’m glad you and your lady have reconciled, but what matters is who struck you. Again, was it that fellow who claims to be Christian Sauvage?”

“And again, I can’t say. I didn’t see,” Hammond said with a trace of impatience himself.

He seemed to have lost a lot of blood but recovered his spirit, Julianne thought. She stood beside the bed, along with the squire, his wife, the Bow Street runner, and the doctor. The past hours had been terrifying. Julianne had been caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions from the moment Christian had appeared at the carriage with the blood-drenched, stricken Hammond. She’d worried and wondered all the way on the mad ride back to the squire’s house, while Hammond lay across the seat, his head in Sophie’s lap. Then she’d fretted for hours more, after Christian had left, worrying about why he’d gone, wondering if she was keeping a deathwatch, waiting for the doctor to come out of the sickroom to say how Hammond was. Only Sophie had been allowed in his bedchamber during those desperate hours, and only because she’d carried on like a banshee, refusing to stay out until finally they’d said she might come in.

Now came the glad news. Hammond would live; he’d escaped death by inches but would recover by
leaps and bounds. Now he could meet with the others so they could continue the inquiry, trying to discover who had actually struck him.