A Dangerous Madness (17 page)

She shifted on the carriage bench. “She gave me the cut direct, so she couldn’t approach me after that. It was quite a relief.”

“But surely you don’t think us in danger from anyone at dinner tonight?” Aunt Dorothy had relaxed, sitting more fully on her side of the bench.

“I don’t know.” Wittaker looked out the window as they slowed a little. “Too many variables at play. Tonight could have been the result of malice or a true ploy to get you out of your house and vulnerable. Or something else altogether.”

The carriage picked up speed again, and Phoebe leaned toward the window to gauge how far they were from Portman Square. “We’re almost home.”

Wittaker stirred. He looked half-asleep, his legs stretched across the cab so they brushed the hem of her gown, but she somehow knew that if he wanted to, he could burst into action.

Rogers slowed again, and then pulled up in front of the short path to the door of Home House.

“Ladies, if you’ll allow me.” Wittaker opened the carriage door and jumped down, and until that moment, Phoebe didn’t realize he was going to don the cloak of drunkard again.

He pretended to lose his balance, and then pitched forward, putting out his arms to prevent him from falling through the doors from the waist up.

“If anyone was watching here and at Carlton House, don’t want them comparing notes on my amazing abilities of recovery,” he murmured to her at the sight of her face.

She gave a nod and he winked at her again, staggered back and held out his hand to Aunt Dorothy. “Madam.” He half-bowed as he spoke, and she allowed herself to be helped down.

The front door opened, and Phoebe saw Lewis was standing silhouetted against the hallway light. Aunt Dorothy walked up the path to him, and Wittaker turned back for her.

“Miss Hillier.”

She didn’t like the way he spoke her name. Slurred and with a leer to it. She knew it was all an act, but something in her recoiled at the sound.

“Hush.” He looked at her, serious and concerned, and instead of taking her hand, he reached into the coach, put his hands on her waist and lifted her down, rock-steady.

There was a flash of light from the right and then a bang, and she felt Wittaker flinch. He swore, a word she’d heard many times before on the streets of Manchester, but never from a gentleman’s lips in London.

“Go inside.” He pushed her in the direction of the front door and then ran toward where the flash had originated.

Straight for trouble yet again.

After what happened in the garden, she shouldn’t be surprised, but this time, he was injured. That flinch had not been at the sound of gun fire but the sting of a bullet.

She looked down at her hands and the one that had been on his left shoulder was bloody.

“My lady. Come in.” Lewis was halfway down the path, his face white.

Rogers jumped down from his perch, landing heavily beside her, and she saw he was holding his whip.

She grabbed it from his hand. “Lewis, it will be dangerous, so please don’t feel compelled, but if you would like to, follow me.”

She ran in the same direction at Wittaker and almost tripped over the whip. She lifted it higher, so it wasn’t trailing on the ground and swung her arm back so it was behind her.

Up ahead, Wittaker and their attacker rolled around on the ground, just below the yellow, wavering light of a street lamp. She heard a fist strike flesh and then the gunman rolled to his feet and stumbled back.

He looked set to run, but as Wittaker began to heave himself up, he fumbled in his pocket.

Phoebe’s foot kicked something hard and a pistol flew off the pavement and onto the road with a clatter.

She ignored it, keeping up her pace, with Lewis just behind her.

The man at last grabbed hold of the handle of another pistol wedged in his coat pocket and wrestled it out, pointed it in Wittaker’s direction.

She cried out. A long, loud scream of rage and frustration, fuelled by years of keeping it in. She raised the whip even higher, running faster than she had ever run before.

The gunman jerked up his head and the look on his face was one of utter astonishment.

She kept coming, and with a curse he spun on his heel and ran down an unlit side street. The darkness swallowed him up.

Phoebe slowed, chest heaving, eyes on the place where the gunman had disappeared, the whip still raised high.

Lewis ran past her, into the darkness, and the sight of him snapped her out of the strange world she had inhabited for a few moments.

She turned, and found Wittaker getting slowly to his feet, his gaze on her.

“That was…” He cleared his throat.

“Loud?” She gave a choking laugh, and lowered her arm.

“How I image Boudica looked when she faced down the Romans.” He took a step closer to her. “It was magnificent.”

She shook her head, and her gaze snapped back to the side street at the sound of footsteps. “I never realized I could be such a banshee.”

Lewis emerged into the light. “Gone,” he said.

“Thank you, Lewis.” She turned back to Wittaker. “His Grace has been shot. We need to get him into the house.”

Wittaker lifted his arm, and winced. “I don’t think it’s very serious.”

She ignored him and slipped an arm around his back.

“Lewis, I kicked one of that rogue’s guns into the street. Could you retrieve it?”

As Lewis stepped into the road, searching for it, Wittaker bent his head.

“I can support myself perfectly well.” The heat of his breath brushed her ear.

“I know. I just…” She drew a deep breath, drawing the scent of him into her lungs, and decided on the truth, for once. “I need to touch you. My brain seems to require it to prove to me that you are alive and mostly fine.” She looked away from him, to where Lewis was bending down to pick something up.

Wittaker drew her a little closer. “I’m very happy to oblige. And honored to have your regard.”

She looked up at him, startled. “Well, of course you do.”

As Lewis walked toward them, a gun dangling from his fingers, Wittaker straightened, but his hand tightened its hold on her shoulder and she thought, for the first time, he relaxed against her.

Chapter Twenty-four

M
iss Hillier’s butler was a man of many talents, James noted.

He’d gone ahead of them as Miss Hillier helped James back to the house, and by the time she’d ushered him into the library, Lewis was ready with bandages, salve and hot water.

“I’ve informed your aunt you are well, and will be up to see her shortly.” Lewis arranged his medical supplies on a low table by the fire, and James noticed he was careful to keep his eyes from where Miss Hillier stood, with her arm still around him.

He felt the loss of her warmth as mention of her aunt made her pull abruptly away. No doubt exactly the effect Lewis had been going for.

“Aunt Dorothy.” Miss Hillier looked upward at the ceiling, as if her aunt might be right above her, watching. “I completely forgot…”

“If you would leave us for a few minutes, my lady, perhaps go and reassure your aunt, I will make sure the wound is dressed.” Lewis couldn’t quite keep the satisfaction from his voice.

She frowned at the butler, as if she heard it, too, and stepped close to James again. Instead of putting her arm around him, though, she peered at his blood-stained sleeve. “I think we need a doctor.”

Lewis set the cloth he was holding down. “I promise you I can do it just as well.”

They both looked at James for a decision.

He found he very much did not want a doctor. Not only would it stir up even more trouble for Miss Hillier, but a doctor could be followed home and coerced or bribed. He didn’t want anyone knowing how slight his injury was.

Better they think him badly hurt and less of a threat.

“You know what you’re doing?” he asked Lewis. There was something competent about Miss Hillier’s man that James trusted.

“I was a stretcher bearer in the American Revolutionary War, Your Grace. I’ve treated many shot wounds in my time.”

“All right, then.”

Miss Hillier looked hard at Lewis. “You’ll let me know if it’s worse than you think?”

Lewis nodded, and she gave James a last, worried look before she walked from the room, closing the door softly behind her to give them privacy.

Lewis pulled out a footstool for James to sit on, and helped him out of his coat and jacket. They both looked at his left sleeve. It was dark with blood, already hardened almost to black, and the shirt was stuck fast to his skin.

Lewis took a sponge and dribbled warm water over the wound, loosening the fabric until he could lift it from his arm without it pulling.

He eased the ruined shirt over James’s shoulders, and James saw the bullet had only grazed him, a shallow groove that ran across his upper arm. It would be painful and annoying, but if treated correctly, it wouldn’t slow him down.

“This is the second disturbing incident involving strange attackers at Home House in two days, Your Grace.” Lewis kept his gaze on his work as he sponged the blood away. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it?”

The question was respectfully asked, but James knew Lewis was tense, waiting for some set-down for his impertinence.

“I know a fair bit, actually.” He watched Lewis take some salve off the table and stiffened at the sting as he applied it to the open wound.

It would be useful to have an ally here, someone who obviously knew how to handle himself and who would keep a watchful eye.

Not that he planned to leave Miss Hillier to her own devices after tonight’s débâcle.

“Lord Sheldrake was involved in something illegal.”

Lewis nearly dropped the roll of bandages he was holding. “I knew this would somehow come back to that blackguard.”

James leaned back and lifted his arm as Lewis began to bandage him. “You didn’t trust him?”

“Looked the place over like a pawnshop owner.” Lewis shut his mouth with a click, as if he realized he was walking a dangerous line, talking disrespectfully about a marquess to a duke.

“I can imagine.” James kept his tone dry. “I can’t tell you what the scheme he was involved in was, but I think some of his associates believe he sent something important to Miss Hillier for safe keeping, or at the least, mentioned some of his illegal plans to her.”

“That letter from Sheldrake…on Tuesday. The morning you first came calling.” Lewis paused, almost done with the bandaging. “Miss Hillier was attacked that very evening.”

“Quite.” James waited for him to tie the bandage firmly in place and looked down at the neat job. “Thank you, Lewis.” He eyed his ruined shirt and decided not to put it on. “Might I ask you to send a footman to my house to fetch me a change of clothes?”

Lewis frowned. “You want to stay here?”

James rose, every muscle aching from his roll on the hard cobbles, and stood beside the fire in just his trousers and boots. “I find I can’t leave Miss Hillier alone after what happened this evening. That bullet was aimed at her. If I hadn’t swung her down with both hands, if I had helped her out in the usual way…” He clenched a hand on the mantlepiece and forced himself back under control. “I could sleep in here. These French doors are the obvious choice if they want to break in.”

Lewis gathered up the things he’d brought in on a tray, his posture stiff.

“You don’t approve? I won’t go anywhere near Miss Hillier’s bedroom.” James wanted to be annoyed at the man, but found it surprisingly hard.

“It’s not for me to say, Your Grace.” Lewis’s voice was over-polite.

James waited until Lewis was looking at him. “You have a very definite opinion about it. One I respect you enough to hear. Let’s have it.”

Lewis hesitated, then blew out a breath. “The look of it, Your Grace. Because of the betrothal being broken, there is already so much trouble for her.” He set the tray back on the table. “I’ll sleep in here. And I’ll have one of the footmen sleep on the landing. She’ll be protected.”

James hesitated. The need to protect Miss Hillier was a compulsion he found difficult to shake. The silence stretched out as Lewis waited for him to answer.

The fire crackled and the scent of apple wood teased his nose. Lewis shifted and the highly polished leather shoes on his feet creaked.

James sighed. “Very well.”

Lewis gave a satisfied nod as he walked toward the door, tray in hand. “I’ll find a shirt for you to wear home, Your Grace.”

James was left in silence, and lulled by the warm glow of the fire he leant against the wall with his good shoulder, suddenly drained.

A noise at the door forced him to look up, and Miss Hillier stood just inside the room. She seemed strangely fixed in place.

James looked down and realized he was still in nothing but his trousers and boots.

“I’m…” She cleared her throat. “I should have knocked. My apologies.” She spun, hand reaching for the handle.

“Wait.”

She stopped. Turned slowly back, her gaze fixed carefully on his boots.