Pale Moon Rider (28 page)

“Mad’moiselle—” Finn hastened to rid himself of the decanter just as Tyrone’s legs started to buckle beneath him. “I do believe he’s about to—”

He caught the highwayman high under the arms as Tyrone pitched forward. A groan that sounded as if it came from the bottom of Hart’s belly lasted until the wiry valet managed to ease his bulk to a less painful landing on the floor. The guns clattered to either side and the pale eyes rolled back until only the whites were showing.

“Finn?” Renée rushed forward. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Oh dear gracious me.”

The valet moved to one side as Renée knelt beside him. He pulled open the upper lapel of the greatcoat, showing her the huge red stain that had soaked most of the lower half of the silver waistcoat.

“I fear he has been shot, mad’moiselle.”

“Shot!”

“Indeed.” He leaned over the unmoving body and thrust a gnarled finger through a hole in the front of the waistcoat. He ran his hand around behind the bloodied silk, removing it a moment later, his fingers smeared red. “I can feel a second hole, suggesting the bullet has passed cleanly through.”

“What should we do?”

“Do?” Finn stared at his hand, then at the highwayman again. “Well, I suppose we should attempt to staunch the flow of blood first. He seems to be leaking rather a great deal.”

Renée ran into the dressing room and gathered up all the towels and linens she could find. Finn placed a thick wadding over the front of the oozing wound, but when he sought to do the same to the back, the bulk of the greatcoat hindered him.

“We shall have to get him undressed—remove the coat, anyway.”

While he worked to free Tyrone’s arms from the heavy woolen garment, Renée stripped the counterpane and blankets on her bed and tossed most of the pillows aside.

“I would hasten to offer a word of caution, mad’moiselle,” Finn advised, not even looking up. “While I realize the servants are by no means the epitome of efficiency, it would not do for one of them to accidentally stumble upon an injured man in your bed. Indeed, it would not do to find him anywhere in the house at all.”

“You are not suggesting we turn him out the window!”

“I doubt he would survive the fall,” Finn remarked dryly. “At the same time, we cannot leave him here. If we knew how the blazes he got past the
guards! Have you any scissors?
He was jostled quite enough in removing the outer garment; I shall have to cut away the rest to save him giving up another pint of blood.”

To judge by the quantity soaking his clothes and beginning to seep onto the floor, it did not look to Renée as if he had another pint to spare. She fetched the scissors and watched anxiously as Finn sliced through the elegant silk waistcoat and fine linen shirt beneath. A bright bubble of fresh blood welled up in the candlelight and in an attempt to keep her stomach from rebelling against the sight of the blackened, ravaged flesh, she focused her attention elsewhere—on his face as it happened. Where his hair had fallen away from his brow she could see a fine rim of white following his hairline, chalking the dark roots in places where the hairs extended too far down onto his forehead. He must have left the party shortly after she did and raced like the wind to make the rendezvous on time.

Remembering something else, she reached awkwardly under the hem of her gown and removed the velvet-wrapped bundle from where she had tucked it into the top of her stocking. She unwrapped the brooch and cradled it in the palm of her hand, her gaze blurring as she realized he had taken this terrible risk just to give her her freedom.

“Dear foolish m’sieur Hart,” she whispered.

“Luckily, no. The shot missed the heart, mad’moiselle, though I warrant not by much.”

She blinked and looked up.
“Non.
Hart is his name. M’sieur Tyrone Hart.”

Finn’s eyes widened out of their creases. “Surely not the same Mr. Tyrone Hart who was here today with the colonel and Mr. Vincent? I only had a brief glimpse, but nonetheless—”

“Regardez.
Imagine a powdered wig and white face paint. Put lace at his throat and a foolish pout on his lips and …
voilà!
He plays the perfect fool to make fools of them all! And look what he has given me tonight!” She held out her hand and uncurled her fingers, letting the soft luste
r
of the pearl shine in the firelight. “He gave it to me so we could sell it and have enough money to sail away to
America
.”

“How extraordinary,” Finn murmured.

“That is why we cannot let Roth’s men find him. We cannot. We must hide him and keep him safe until he is well enough to look out for himself.”

“Hide him, mad’moiselle?” Finn was shocked. “Keep him safe until he is well? Do you have any idea what that would entail? The man needs a doctor. Even if we stop the flow of blood, the wound requires stitching and dressing. And then there is the small matter of your own safety, and Antoine’s.”

“I have thought of little else these past few weeks,” she said softly. “But I cannot run away now and leave him here to die.”

“Are you forgetting your uncle is due to arrive shortly? He will be bringing guests and more servants.”

She dismissed it with a small shake. “They will all be kept too busy in the family wing to trouble themselves over us. There are four perfectly good rooms at the end of our hall that no one would think to use—”

“You cannot rely on that, child.”

Renée sat back on her heels. “Then he will stay here and I will lock the door and claim I have caught the plague.”

Finn sighed wearily but knew there was no point in arguing. He cast a sullen eye around the bedroom, thought of his own, thought of the small storage closet at the end of the corridor, but dismissed them all as not being completely safe from unwanted intrusions. He looked down at the highwayman again and suspected his concerns were quite possibly premature. The rogue would likely be dead by morning anyway and the dilemma they would be facing then would be how best to dispose of the body.

A sudden, startling crack of thunder had both Finn and Renée jumping and staring at the window. Fat, glistening drops of rain began to splatter against the glass but they barely had time to recover their wits from the one shock when a second, equally ominous pounding began to rattle the bedroom door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

R
obert Dudley did not start to worry until the chimes on the library clock tolled five times. He had dozed off in front of the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, and wakened with a start, dropping the glass and its remaining contents on the hearth. With a muttered curse, he noticed the time. Then, with a hasty glance at the empty desk behind him, realized he was alone.

Tyrone’s town house was an unremarkable three-storey building located at the outermost end of the socially acceptable district of Coventry. The decor and furnishings on the first two levels were suited to a bachelor who preferred to take his entertainment away from home. The library was cluttered with books and maps and drawing boards; an adjoining parlor was slightly more presentable, but lacking any personal tastes or touches. Visitors to
#33 Priory Lane
saw nothing to suggest Tyrone Hart was anything but a bored public servant who worked at overseeing the maintenance and repair of local transportation routes.

The upper level was rarely, if ever, violated by guests. Here were located the private quarters—a massive, darkly furnished bedroom, dressing room, and study. An expensive and exquisitely cut crystal decanter held the finest French cognac north of the Channel, which he could sip while playing the piano in his study, or while lounging in the full-length, waist-high copper and enamel bathtub he’d had imported from the Far East. The bed was a large four-posted tester hung with heavy velvet draperies; the carpets underfoot were plush and thick, covering all but a few strips of the polished oak flooring.

Robert Dudley’s quarters, though somewhat less spacious, were no less comfortable despite being located below the main level. He had a large, private bedroom and sitting room situated conveniently close to the kitchens, pantry, and wine cellar. A cook and maid came in every day but the only other servant living in residence was Maggie Smallwood, a petite, dark-haired Irish lass who had arrived at their back door one evening with a note from Jeffrey Bartholomew—a man who’d had his own reasons for wanting to start over in an new, anonymous life—asking if she might be taken on as a housekeeper. The local scrivener had vouched for her character and added further that she was fleeing from a brutish husband who beat her senseless for his amusement, and that any help they might provide would be regarded as a personal favor. As good as his word, Bartholomew had become a profitable source of information for Captain Starlight, while Maggie, after only a month in residence, had won herself a permanent place in
Dudley
’s heart and bed.

He heard her telltale soft footfall behind him now as he was struggling to get down on his good knee to pick up the pieces of broken glass.

“Mr. Tyrone did not come home yet?” she asked.

“Apparently not, though I suppose he could have come in while I was asleep and gone straight up the stairs.”

She looked as dubious as he sounded and touched him gently on the shoulder, ordering him aside as she knelt and gathered up the scattered bits of glass.
Dudley
’s eyes softened, as they often did these days when they settled on the growing swell of her belly. There was not much to see through the shapelessness of her nightdress and robe, but he smiled anyway and his hand strayed over to stroke the surprisingly hard bulge.

“You should be in bed.”

“So should you,” she said. “He’s not a lad who needs a candle kept alight in the window anymore.”

“He doesn’t like to think so, but I still have my doubts.” He glanced toward the window, his frown returning when he saw the dull gray light beginning to define shapes and colors outside. “He should have been back long before now.”

“Perhaps he got … distracted. Perhaps one thing led to another and”—she stopped and leaned into the pressure of his hand—“and well you know how that can happen,” she added softly.

He let his fingers drift up until they were caressing the distinct thrust of her nipple. When she had first come to
Priory Lane
, she had been thin and gaunt, hardly beautiful in any sense of the way with stringy, filthy hair and a bruised look in her eyes. She had kept to herself, working quietly and diligently, and
Dudley
had pretty much avoided her as well, embarrassed by his limp, self-conscious of the ugly, lava-like scars that ran from his thigh to his ankle. A few mornings of seeing him fight the pain of a leg that had stiffened overnight brought her into his room one night with a salve she had made from herbs and camphor and in spite of his protests, she had insisted on him letting her massage it into the knee. While his recovery was not miraculous, there was a marked improvement in mobility and pain-free mornings. And each night thereafter, as he watched her work her fingers through the corded, mangled muscles, he began to notice how her hair glowed a soft chestnut in the firelight, how her cheeks had filled out and dimpled around each smile, how her eyes sparkled like polished emeralds.

“Yes,” he murmured, bending forward to kiss her. “I do know how that can happen—”

A sharp and intrusive rapping on the front door caught them both by surprise. Maggie dropped the shards of glass and
Dudley
spun around, nearly losing what little balance he had.

“Who do you suppose it could be?”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger over her lips and after a moment, struggled awkwardly to his feet. His knee protested the sudden urgency as he limped over to the desk and opened a bottom drawer, withdrawing a long-nosed pistol and checking it quickly to insure it was primed and loaded.

“Get back down the stairs,” he ordered qu
ietly, “and stay out of sight.”

“But Robbie—”

“Do it, love. Now. I doubt if Roth or any of his lobsterbacks would show the courtesy of knocking, but all the same, it’s a hell of a time for honest folk to come calling. Down you go now. Bolt the door behind you and find Bess.”

Maggie nodded, her eyes wide but showing only trust, not fear.

Dudley
waited until he heard the rasp of the bolt being drawn across the door before he carried a light out to the foyer. Whoever it was knocked again as if to confirm to a half-asleep servant that he had not been hearing things.

Dudley
set the lamp on a side table and tucked the gun into his belt at the small of his back. He ruffled his hair and loosened the front of his shirt, and when he opened the heavy oak door, he was stifling a yawn.

“ ’Oo the bluddy ’ell—?”

“Are you Mr. Dudley?”

It was raining hard and Robbie had to squint to see beneath the drooping brim of a wide felt hat. “If I yam?”

“If you are,” Finn dragged the waterlogged hat off his head, “Mr. Hart is in dire need of your assistance.”

Dudley
came instantly alert. Finn’s hair hung like gray icicles to his collar and beneath his coat, he wore what looked like a nightshirt hastily tucked into the top of his breeches. Behind him, early morning pedestrians, servants and clerks, mingled with farmers hauling goods to the market. None of them passed so much as a glance at the house as they hurried through the heavy downpour, but
Dudley
pulled Finn hastily inside and closed the door behind him.