A Perfect Gentleman (39 page)

It had already worked for a few feet. “Do you know how handy I am with my fives? Was that part of the gossip you heard? It should have been. I have been training at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Parlor since my university days. I boxed there, too. I'd say I have the advantage in height, weight, reach, and science. Perhaps stamina, from the look of you. Are you willing to chance killing my woman, and making it to the door?”

“I am a dead man anyway.”

“Not if you let her go. I will not follow you. Word of a gentleman.” Stony would send out the militia, but he would not follow.

Thomasford licked his lips again.

Stony took another step, holding the drawstring purse by the bottom now, not the strings. “Our little heiress must have a fortune in here, the thing is so heavy. What say I toss you the reticule and you toss me the girl?”

“No!” Ellianne screamed.

Stony raised his eyebrow. “I know money means a great deal to you, my love, but surely you can spare your pocket change.”

“I lied!”

“You are not one of the wealthiest women in England? No matter. There is bound to be a tidy amount here.” He shook the purse and they all heard the jingle of coins, or something, over Ellianne's moan. “What say you, Sir John, a trade?”

“You won't follow?”

“I gave my word. On the count of three then?” Ellianne's eyes were squeezed shut, and Stony prayed she'd open them in time to move when she had to. He doubted they would have another chance. “One.” He swung the purse once more, took another step, and took a solid grip on the weight inside it. “Two.” Ellianne groaned. “Sorry, pet. You shall just have to foreclose on another mortgage. Three.”

He swung the bag with all his might at Thomasford's head.

At the same instant, Ellianne stomped her sturdy sole down on her captor's toes.

The reticule connected. The pistol in the purse exploded. Sir John's hands relaxed. Ellianne leaped sideways. Sir John fell forward, at Stony's feet.

And Stony said, “Bloody hell. That's what you lied about?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“You mean it was loaded all the time?”

“Of course. I am not fool enough to carry an unloaded pistol.”

They would discuss the depth of her foolishness later. For now Stony was staring at the smoking fabric in his hands. “You mean I shot a man with a lady's reticule?”

Ellianne brushed plaster dust off her nose. “No, I think you shot the ceiling. Sir John might not be dead, only concussed. Someone ought to look, I suppose.” She did not sound eager for the job.

“Not dead? Damnation!” Stony leaped to the chair where his own pistol rested. Keeping it aimed at the murderer's greasy head, he prodded Thomasford over with his foot. He was dead, all right, impaled on his own stiletto. There was not much blood, thank goodness, but Stony shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the still form anyway. He turned away, saying, “Good riddance.”

Then he looked at Ellianne. Tears ran down her cheeks. If ever a woman had earned a bout of crying, Ellianne had. After all his years with Gwen, he could manage tears. But then he saw her neck. Blood was running from under her chin down to the collar of her cloak. He could never manage—

“Don't you dare, Wellstone. I need you with me now. I swear, if you swoon and leave me here alone with him, I will take your gun and shoot you myself. I can say he did it before he died. I promise you I will.”

Stony swallowed, his eyes closed, and breathed deeply. “You won't be alone long. Help is coming.”

She raised his chin. “No, look at me. At my face, Stony. What do you see?”

“Red. Red hair, the color of—”

“No! Look at my eyes. Green, Stony. They are green.” She didn't want to search her exploded reticule for a handkerchief, so she pulled at his loose neckcloth until it was untied, then used it to stanch the blood she could feel already drying on her neck. She wrapped the white linen around twice, so Stony could not see the marks left by the madman's blade. “There. Now look more closely. What else do you see, Stony?”

“The bravest, most beautiful woman in the world.” Then she was in his arms, and he was stroking her back, her hair, her shoulders, everything he could touch while she wept in relief. He showed his own relief by murmuring to her, “When I think how close I came to losing you I could cry, too, sweetings. Lud, I almost did not follow you. Then I thought… Well, it does not matter what I thought. I did follow, and in time, thank heaven. We'll never know for certain what might have happened, but I would have died along with you, you know. My heart was ready to shatter in a million pieces. Maybe part of it did, for I swear it is beating triple time. Can you hear it, my sweet?” He placed her hand on his chest. “Can you feel it?”

She could feel life flowing through him, through both of them. They were safe now, and she was not going to waste another minute in roundaboutation.
She nodded and put his hand on her chest. “My heart, too. It almost stopped working when I thought you could shoot yourself with the pistol.”

“Gads, I could have shot you!”

They stood like that a minute, marveling that they had survived, together. Then Ellianne dabbed at her watery eyes with the ends of his neckcloth and looked into his sky-blue ones. “What else do you see in my eyes, Stony?”

He saw love, pure and shining, and his heart almost burst all over again with the wonder of it. He lowered his lips to hers—and tasted blood from where Sir John had cut her lip. He instantly pulled back, lest he add to her injuries. “That bastard died too easy a death.”

“I think he suffered a hard enough life, being as disturbed as he was.”

“I think you are too forgiving. When I think of what he—”

She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, don't think of that now. Later is soon enough. I know I will have nightmares without any reminders. But, Stony, why did you let him go on thinking that we were lovers? I was trying to convince him I was still a virtuous maiden.”

She was right: There would be ample time to revisit the horror. For now he could gladly exchange the mental image of Thomasford licking his lips for a fonder memory. He thought of Ellianne atop the worktable in the butler's pantry and grinned. “A maiden perhaps, but virtuous? You are every man's dream companion: suitable lady on the outside, seductress on the inside.”

She blushed, but was pleased with Stony's assessment. “But Sir John could not have known that.”

“He is—he was—a man. We live in hope of finding that perfect mate.”

Ellianne was not ready to let herself hope for more than she had. She was alive and in Stony's arms. That had to be enough for now. “But I am a virgin!”

Not for long, if Stony's grin had anything to say about it. “Thomasford would never have believed we were not lovers, not when I came after you with a weapon in my hand, so I saw no reason to waste the effort of arguing with him. Besides, I liked the sound of it. Lovers.”

“Lovers.” Ellianne sighed, repeating the word. Making love and being in love were two separate activities, though. Not always, and not in fairy tales, but not the same. “Does that mean…?”

She was not destined to hear Stony's definition, for shouts and running footsteps could be heard on the steps.

“Later, my sweet. Later.” He brushed off her bonnet and placed it on her head. There was no reason for anyone else to see Miss Kane's hair coming undone. Lud, it was enough to make lunatics of them all. Even now, amid the mayhem and misery, he wanted to take down those last pins, unplait the last braids, and spread it out, a living fire to warm the chill in his blood from this place of death. He could not, not now.

“In here,” he called. “We are in here.”

*

Stony's explanation, demonstration, supplication of “lovers” had to wait much longer than he wished.

Bow Street arrived in force, led by Mr. Lattimer, who was full of regrets. Of course he was. He hadn't listened to Wellstone's suspicions, hadn't been the one to rescue Miss Kane. Not only was he not going to collect any part of the huge reward, but he might be collecting his last paycheck, to judge from his superior's scowl.

The magistrate came, and the coroner's inquest panel, mortified that one of their own was suspected of such heinous acts. They looked at Stony as if he were the murderer, trying to foist his dastardly deeds onto the most respected member of their fraternity. Even Lattimer had to protest that.

Official recorders for the courts came to hear Ellianne repeat her story yet again. Reporters from the newspapers came, too, and artists who bribed the guards outside for a glimpse of the beauty, the Barber, and his bête noire. Napoleon's defeat would have been a bigger story, but not tonight.

Stony tried to shield Ellianne as much as possible, insisting they go elsewhere to give their depositions, calling for pots of hot tea, and brandy to add to it. He made them send a messenger to Sloane Street so no one would worry, another to Gwen canceling their dinner, and one to a groom to stable his poor horse. He demanded Lattimer send for a physician to look at Miss Kane's neck and the prostrate maid, while Runners went to Sir John's rooms in search of the evidence Ellianne told them would be there.

They found the hair, all neatly collected in hatboxes, one atop the other. They found knives and razors and shaving soap, and the deed to a yacht in the harbor. They found diaries in Sir John's handwriting, and clothing that could only belong to ladies of the night. Even his mother, if the fiend was indeed spawned by a creature of this world, would have to believe in Thomasford's guilt.

They were free to go.

By the time Stony walked Ellianne to her door, she was staggering on her feet. He saw her into her aunt's care, but kissed her forehead before he left and promised, “Tomorrow.”

*

Tomorrow was impossible. Miss Kane was a heroine. So many flowers were delivered that her house looked like a country garden, with narrow pathways between banks of bouquets. No one could have walked the aisles anyway, they were so filled with callers eager to congratulate her on surviving, commiserate with her at the ordeal, and capture a bit of her glory for themselves. They were friends of the amazing Miss Kane, guests told themselves, although they had never shared two words before. The ladies delightedly clutched their vinaigrettes at sight of the sticking plaster her high collar could not conceal, and the gentlemen clutched her hand. Everyone wanted to speak with her, touch her, have her at their affairs, like a prized trophy.

Timms had to find a replacement for the overflowing silver salver that held calling cards and invitations. He chose a much larger basket. The dog had slept in it only once, far preferring Lady Augusta's bed.

So many invitations arrived, Ellianne could not think of leaving London, not when one of them came from the prince regent himself. Refusal would have been near to treason, Gwen insisted. Prinny wanted to throw a fete at Carlton House in her honor. After all, London was safe for all women now, because of her.

She was brave. She was a celebrity. She was overwhelmed.

And Stony was…rich.

Ellianne wanted no part of the bountiful reward money. After all, she was paying a big portion of it. Besides, she had not suspected Sir John, had not overpowered him, or rendered him helpless. In fact, she insisted, without Viscount Wellstone she would have died at the murderer's hand instead of being any kind of heroic Amazon warrior. His lordship deserved every pound of the generous bounty, and more.

He got more, a lot more. The coroner added to the already huge reward, in hope of deflecting criticism of his office, and the home secretary added a heavy purse from a grateful government. A newspaper offered a handsome sum, just for an interview, and a broadside printer paid for a portrait. Relieved women sent him coins, sometimes anonymously, sometimes with a perfumed note. Those last he returned, but the rest he kept and counted and put to good use.

His bills would all be paid as soon as his solicitors could tally them. Repairs to Wellstone Park would be under way, new farming equipment ordered, laborers hired. Gwen's annuity would be restored so that if, by the grace of God, she chose to rewed, she had something to bring to her new husband. Careful investments could be made so some of the money would earn him more. His home for girls would get a new roof.

He was not wealthy, not by Ellianne's standards, but he was well-off. He was instantly retired, never again to escort a female for money, unless he was taking a mare to sell at Tattersall's. He could have his fields and his sheep and his stud farm. The shipbuilding enterprise could come later, if he wished. If not, he could still live nicely at Wellstone Park, and keep the London town house open for Gwen. Or he could stay in the city, if that was what his wife wanted. He shut the accounts books and put on his hat and gloves.

He could afford a wife. He could not afford to miss another chance at having the right wife.

He needed Ellianne, and not just because he could make neither heads nor tails out of the ledgers and wanted her advice on the investments. He knew that without her he was poorer than any beggar in the street, no matter what he had in the bank. He just had to convince her that she was the prize, not her fortune. He took the top ledger with him, to prove he was a man of means. He meant to succeed this time.