The Countess' Lucky Charm (30 page)

But other than the shadows darting along the perimeter, they found naught, saw naught.

“The rats are following us,” Simone quavered, pointing to the moving shadows.

“Pay them no mind, they’re curious animals. They want nothing from us.”

At the far wall, they stopped and stared at each other.

“He’s not here,” she said, sick with disappointment.

“Don’t fret, there’s another door.” He pointed to their left. Sure enough, behind the crates, Simone could see a narrow door.

“It has a padlock. There must be something of value behind it,” Ted surmised, “or it wouldn’t be locked.”

“We don’t have the key, how can we get in?” Frustration coloured Simone’s words. It had been one obstacle after another, each wasting precious time.

“Before we worry about that, why don’t we take a peek and see what we can see. There’s an opening near the roof. I’ll give ye a bit of a boost. ”

 
“Very well,” she agreed, glad to be off the floor and away from the rodents scurrying past with disconcerting frequency.

“Ye ready?”

At her nod, he linked his fingers together, holding them low enough for her to step into. With a grunt, he lifted her up.

She reached up for the sill with taut, hooked fingers, trying to find enough purchase to pull herself up. It was no use.

“I can’t see anything, I’m not high enough.” Sobs formed in her chest and pressed against her throat. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“How do ye know if ye can’t see? Step on my shoulders and try again.”

His voice, calm and matter of fact, had the desired effect. After a few calming breaths, she did as he suggested.

Teetering, she clung to the sill with every ounce of strength she possessed. Resolutely ignoring the fact the floor was farther below than it had any right to be, she looked through into the next room.

It was darker than the rest of the warehouse. She strained her eyes, trying to see what lay in the gloom beneath her.

Nothing.

She scanned the floor. Still nothing, save for an indeterminate shadow against the wall.

No, not a shadow. A body!

The body of a man.

Temple
.

Horror struck, she gazed at his inert form lying in a pool of blood.

And at the blade protruding from his back.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A sob rose in her throat. They were too late.

Her head swam, the room spun around her. The unthinkable had happened. Peter Mortimer-Rae had killed his quarry. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the sill.

“What do ye see?” Ted pinched her ankle. “
Ye’ve
not said a word.”

“He’s dead.” She heard the words as if they came from a far-off place rather than from her own throat. “Temple’s dead.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. There’s—there’s blood.”

“Blood.” Ted clicked his tongue. “Blood always looks worse than it really is.”

“And a knife,” she whispered.

“I’m bringing ye down.” Ted’s sharp, authoritarian voice crashed through the haze in her mind. “When
yer
ready, let go and I’ll catch ye.”

She loosened her grip and slid down.

“Now,” he said when she was safely on the ground, “Give me a hairpin.”

“What?” The question made no sense to her befuddled mind. Surely Ted was not about to pin his hair?

“A hairpin,” he said impatiently. “I
ain’t
never seen a padlock that can’t be picked.”

She fumbled in her hair for a pin and handed it to him. A lock of hair fell across her cheek and she tucked it behind her ear.

“While I’m doing this,” he suggested, “why don’t ye pinch a few rags from the ragman. If there’s blood, we’ll need ‘
em
to sop it up. Besides, it’ll just make me nervous if
yer
watching over my shoulder.” He gave her a little push. “Go. Get a bit of air, Mona, I don’t want ye collapsing and leaving me with two bodies on my hands.”

“Rags? You want me to get rags?” She resisted the urge to break out into hysterical laughter.

“Yes. Go.” He pushed her again.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not leaving. I won’t watch you, just get on with it.” Turning away, she drew a shuddering breath. “Do as I say, get on with it.”

Ted grunted, already fiddling with the lock. The minutes ticked by in silence save for the scrape and scratch of the pin against iron.

Clasping her elbows, she girded herself for the ordeal of facing Temple’s body. Don’t cry, she ordered herself. He wouldn’t want you to cry. She stared into darkening space. Dark as death.

 
“Aha, I got it.”

She turned back to see a triumphant Ted hold the padlock aloft. Without waiting, she flung herself past him, wrenching open the door and darting to the comatose body curled face down on the floor. She knelt and cradled Temple’s head. Desperate, she leaned down to hold her ear close to his mouth.

Did a breath disturb an errant curl?

“Temple? Temple? Can you hear me?”

She lowered her ear again. Yes, a breath! Faint but a breath nonetheless.

“He’s breathing,” she shouted over her shoulder, elated. “Ted, he’s breathing!” She rained kisses on Temple’s head, careful not to jostle him.

“Splendid,” Ted patted her shoulder. “What did I tell ye? Don’t judge by the blood.”

“We must get him out of here.”

“Aye, we’ll do that. Seeing as how ye wouldn’t get the rags, I’ll do one better and fetch the whole cart.” He winked at her.

“He’s alive,” she repeated, tears streaming down her face to drip onto Temple’s head. “Hurry, before anyone comes back.”

Ted gave her a big smile. With a tip of his hat he hurried off with clattering footsteps that disappeared abruptly once he reached outside.

In the quiet, she sat and held Temple’s head, placing a cool hand on his fevered forehead. She forced herself to look at the knife handle jutting from one shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. It looked as if most of the blood had actually seeped from a wicked gash on the back of his head.

“Breathe,” she ordered. “You’re not going to die now, Temple. You must live. You must keep breathing.”

She could barely see him in the dimness. Did she imagine it or did one side of his mouth twist into a smile? Nay, he must be dreaming.

She dropped a multitude of kisses on the top of his head. “Don’t die on me, do you hear me? I should like to waltz again. ” She lifted her head. The moon had risen—a harvest moon burning its way through the sooty skies and sending slivers of light into the warehouse.

His face was clearer now in the moonlight and her eyes roved over it greedily, devouring every detail, every hair, every pore.

“I love you, Lord Temple Wellington, Earl of Leavenby.” She was unafraid to say the words, cocooned in the dark as she was, secure too that he could not hear her. “I love you.” She leaned down to whisper in his ear.

In the shadowed corner, a rustle.

The rats had followed her.
Oy
, now she had to keep the rats at bay. A wounded man was fair game for the disgusting creatures.

“I shall keep them away from you,” she promised, stroking his stubbled check. “But only if you don’t die.”

Time dragged on.

Her skirts grew wet with blood where she sat. Temple’s blood, from the still seeping gash on his head. He needed a doctor’s attention. Where was Ted? Surely he should be back by now?

She strained her ears but could not hear the cart’s creak. Had something happened to him?

She slapped her hands on the floor to scare away a rat that had come too close.

The rats grew bolder, darting over Temple’s legs and stopping just out of arm’s reach to leer at her. Her hands grew sore from slapping at them. Desperate, she looked around for a weapon of any kind to scare the creatures away but could find nothing. She pulled away from Temple and flailed at the rats with her feet.

Still Ted did not come.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Temple
drifted in and out of consciousness.

Demons peopled his dreams, demons that bound him and beat him. Demons prodding and pinching and howling for revenge, demons laughing maniacally.

Then an angel appeared. An angel who smoothed a cool hand over his brow. An angel who professed to love him. An angel who wanted to waltz with him. What utter nonsense, what angel would ever love him?

And the dark. Where was he, that it was always dark? Was it actually dark or was it his mind that was dark?

His treacherous mind teased him with thoughts of sunshine and smiles and lemon verbena yet when he opened his eyes, all he saw was blackness. Sinister, murky shadows. Dark, swirling mists.

He couldn’t pull himself free from the black that consumed him, sucked him down, pulled at his legs and wouldn’t let him reach the light.

He gave up and let it take him.

* * *

Voices? Simone cocked her head. Did she hear voices on the evening breeze? Had help finally arrived?

“Maybe Ted has come back,” she whispered to a comatose Temple. “Forgive me for leaving you but I must see who it is.”

She pulled out the orange Gentry Ted had given her in the Royal Swan and rolled it away. It wasn’t much for rat bait but it would have to do. Then she drew off her shawl and laid it over Temple’s face as best she could, anything to deter the rats if only for a few moments.

Fumbling with the linen sack, she managed to extract the package to place it on the floor beside him. A weak offering and perhaps too late, but would Mortimer-Rae not be pleased at its return? And if leaving the package meant the end of her dream of an ale house, so be it—saving Temple was the only thing that mattered right now.

Simone got to her feet and lurched through the door, taking a single step before stopping. Her heart thumped so, she was certain it would leap from her throat.

A lantern shone through the door at the far end, outlining two figures. Could one of them be Ted? Had he found someone to help them? Nay, the one was too tall and the other too portly to be Ted.

It wasn’t Ted. But who? Terror stabbed her. It had to be Mortimer-Rae or his henchmen.

She ducked behind the crates and crouched, holding her breath. Blood pounded in her ears and she swallowed hard in a vain attempt to still the hammering. Willing herself not to faint, she placed her palms against the crate in front of her, concentrating on the slivered wood pricking her hands.

The two men ambled into the deserted warehouse, lantern swinging crazily, throwing distorted shadows against the walls and ceiling.

“We killed Wellington, what should we do with him?”

“I say leave him, who’s going to find him here?”

“I say throw him in the river,” argued the first. “The Thames has a way of disposing of unwanted garbage.”

A shout from outside interrupted them.

“What the…!” The two chimed in unison before sprinting for the door. The lantern light blinked off and then came the echo of pounding hooves.

Simone didn’t hesitate. She got to her feet and tore the length of the warehouse.

At the entrance, she stopped to listen.

Silence. She poked her head out. A lantern lay tipped on the ground, glass smashed and oil puddled. The lane was empty—whoever had left, had left in a hurry.

She sidled out and throwing caution aside sprinted down the lane toward the river to find Ted. Shadows chased her, clutched at her. Cobblestones caught her toes and she fell once, hard on her hands and knees, so hard her breath jarred in her lungs. She ignored the pain, stumbling to her feet to continue her frantic flight. Panic stricken, she turned the final corner and fled toward the shimmer of moonlight on black water.

Chest heaving, she pulled up at the river quay. There, under the shadow of the bridge, stood the ragman’s cart. With cocked ears, she edged closer, searching the gloom until her eyes ached.

Neither Ted nor the ragman were there. Only the ragman’s bony nag stood, forlornly picking at a few stalks of hay.

She couldn’t risk shouting, couldn’t risk spending more time on what appeared to be a fruitless search. Ted had disappeared. The onus was on her—she must get help for Temple. She must go to his townhouse and enlist the aid of Joanna.

She spun on her heel and pelted back the way she came, stopping only long enough to retrieve her cloak before making her way westward toward Mayfair. Grateful for its warmth against the chill of her sweat-stained blouse and the thickening evening air, she hurried as best she could down Cheapside Street.