The Nobody: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (3 page)

“You have exactly hit it,” he said, mendaciously. “You clearly need to be taught more circumspect behavior. As you say, your aunt set me on.” The amusement crept back into his voice. “It only remains to discover—who is your aunt?”

Caitlin bit her lip with vexation. Heavens! Here she was, actually conversing with the wretch, when any lady should have screamed for assistance and brought down all of London on his head! Whatever possessed her? She was suddenly aware that his hands were still lightly gripping her arms, and was furious. Giving herself a mental shake, she pulled out of his grip and clutched the remaining shreds of her dignity around her, continuing to address him with the frostiness he deserved.

“Sir, if you feel yourself to be out of danger now, perhaps you will be good enough to let me go?”

“Not only a villain, but a coward! Mademoiselle, you mortify me.” But he glanced swiftly up and down the street, which appeared deserted except for the two of them. There were no sounds of running feet; the city was oddly still. He looked back down at Caitlin. She lifted her chin and gave him stare for stare, although she knew he could not see her expression.

“The ruse worked, at any rate. They are gone.” In the dimness she sensed, rather than saw, his frown. “Now what am I to do with you? You cannot walk about the streets of London in the middle of the night unescorted.”

“Are you about to offer me your protection?” demanded the outraged Caitlin. “I
shall
have hysterics!”

His teeth flashed white in a sudden grin. “What? And you so fearless! I’d like to see it.”

“Well, you won’t,” said Caitlin crossly. A new difficulty presented itself to her. She was very close to Half Moon Street. Unless this insufferable man chose to leave her, he would discover where she lived. She stood for a moment, irresolute, and he seemed to read her thoughts.

“What will you do, I wonder?” he asked, in a tone of great interest. “You are in a rare pickle, ma’am! If you allow me to escort you home, you shall make a present of your identity to me. That will never do. On the other hand, if you refuse my escort, honor will oblige me to follow you anyway, you know, to protect you from all the
other
scoundrels who may be prowling the London streets. The only way to prevent my assistance is to summon the Watch—in which case I will doubtless be hauled before a magistrate. Inconvenient for me, of course, but only think how embarrassing for you! You would have to give your evidence.”

This was too much. Caitlin’s annoyance immediately flamed into anger. “I shall be delighted to give my evidence! If you do not remove yourself immediately, I will scream my lungs out and you will be apprehended—probably by the same watchmen who were pursuing you a moment ago!”

“A villain, a coward, and a
felon
! Alas, you cut me to the quick!” came the outrageous reply. He was still laughing at her, the cad! “Permit me to point out to you, ma’am, that although your voice and manners both are those of a lady of quality, your presence in the street at such an hour might have deceived anyone. Now, come—may we not call a truce? You really cannot proceed alone, and my protection, however ironic it may appear to you, is better than none.”

“Thank you! But as it appears
you
are the person I most need to be protected from, I believe I can dispense with your escort.”

“Nevertheless, you shall have it,” calmly asserted the stranger. Then, as if he sensed her impotent fury, his voice softened. “May we be serious for a moment? I am deeply in your debt, ma’am—and you have, indeed, been shamefully used. As I can see no other way of making amends, pray allow me to offer you the only assistance that lies within my power.”

Caitlin glanced doubtfully up at his shadowed face, her anger fading. His words and manner still struck her, against her will, as gentlemanly. He had certainly laughed at her, and seemed to take an annoying degree of pleasure in her embarrassment, but he had taken no other advantage of her. She knew that if he had been another sort of man, her situation might have proved truly dangerous. If only it were possible to read his expression!

He seemed to feel her hesitation and stepped back from her, bowing, and offering his arm. He did this with such an air of respectful courtesy, she bit back a laugh. How ridiculous it was! She started to take his proffered arm, but hesitated again. Nothing in life had ever prepared her for such an occurrence.

“Oh, if only I knew what to do!” she exclaimed. “Really, sir, I cannot put myself under obligation to you. Intolerable! Do you not perceive the quandary I am in?”

“I do, indeed. Let us stand here and discuss it. Eventually the sun will rise, and you may continue your walk in safety.”

She choked on another laugh. “No, let us go our separate ways! That would also enable me to continue my walk in safety.”

He flung up his hand in mock salute. “Touché!”

“Please, sir, I assure you I am entirely in earnest. Let me go, and do me the courtesy of not following me.” He began to speak, but she hurried on. “You must appreciate how impossible this is! I really cannot have you escort me, or worse yet, follow me to my door.”

She sensed his frown returning. “There is much in what you say. After all, you have no assurance that I am what I seem.”

She almost gasped at his unconscious arrogance. “I rather hope you are
not
what you seem!”

This seemed to finally take him down a peg, she noted with satisfaction. There was a grim pause. “I deserved that, I suppose,” he said then, wryly. “I can only beg your pardon yet again. Tell me this: you need not say in which direction, but how far do you live from here?”

“Only a step, I assure you.”

Now it was his turn to hesitate. “Well, ma’am, I can find it within me to sympathize with your point of view. On the other hand, should any further adventure befall you between here and your door, I would indeed consider myself the villain you think me for abandoning you to your fate. What is the solution to this puzzle?”

“My fate, sir, is no concern of yours.”

“Nonsense! It became my concern the instant I embroiled you in my affairs.” His grin flashed again. “And so reprehensibly, too!”

She was thankful the night hid her blush.

“Perhaps,” he continued, “I might stay here in this doorway while you walk to your house. I will engage myself to fly to your rescue if you cry out any time in the next—five minutes, shall we say? If you indeed live so near, I imagine I would hear you quite well if you were to—what was it? Ah, yes—scream your lungs out.”

Was he still laughing at her? Caitlin peered up at him suspiciously, but the darkness gave her no clue to his expression and his voice was quite bland. If it was offered to her in an unexceptionable manner, she realized she would be glad now to know protection, of a sort, was at hand. As she could think of no dignified alternative, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I will be home within five minutes—and I do think I will be within earshot the entire time.”

“Hush! No more!” he said. “Next you will be giving me your address after all.”

She could not repress a tiny gurgle of laughter. “You are absurd!” she said. “Promise me you will not remark which direction I travel.”

“You have my hand on it,” he replied warmly, and she found herself actually shaking the hand of this audacious stranger in the friendliest manner and going on her way.

Half Moon Street was indeed just round the corner, and the lamps outside No. 14 were lit. She was never so glad to see the front door of a house in her life, and fairly ran up the steps. The door opened immediately, and the butler gazed at her in ill-concealed astonishment.

“All alone, miss?”

She tried to give her voice a note of airy unconcern, and smiled carelessly at him. “As you see, Stubbs,” she replied cheerfully, pulling off her gloves. “How good of you to meet me with a candle! I wish you a very good night,” and she hastily took the candle from his outraged hand and started up the stairs.

“Good night, miss,” came the wooden reply as Stubbs, stiff with disapproval, closed the door behind her.

In the safety of her room, she suddenly realized she was shaking. What an extraordinary thing to have happened in the middle of Curzon Street! Her nerves were completely overset, and she had always thought she didn’t have a nerve in her body. Unconsciously, she scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth as if to erase the memory of those hard, insistent lips against hers. She had always supposed that if and when she experienced her first kiss, it would be under very different circumstances—very different indeed! How infamous of that vile man to steal something so precious from her! Although, she scolded herself, she had no one to blame but herself. She would not flout the conventions quite so blithely in future.

She lit her bedside candles with a hand that trembled bit, and turned to cast her gloves and reticule onto a chair. It was then she caught sight of herself in the pier glass. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright, her hair slightly disarrayed, her general appearance distraught and strange. But what caused her to gasp was the sight of the stains on her gown. Unbelieving, she walked closer to the glass and stared, picking up a fold of the diaphanous stuff and spreading it with her fingers.

Blood. It was definitely blood. Blood in streaks above her elbow where he had gripped her, blood in drips on her skirt where it had fallen, and—turning to check—blood across the back of her gown where his arms had held her.

What kind of an adventure had she just had?! The flush in her cheeks disappeared as she went white and sat rather suddenly on the bench before the mirror.

Chapter III

B
y the time the Honorable Edward Montague’s man admitted Lord Kilverton to Mr. Montague’s lodgings in Clarges Street, his lordship was beginning to feel just a trifle out of frame.

Kilverton felt no need to stand on ceremony with Ned Montague. Mr. Montague’s ancestral acres lay less than ten miles from his, and they had been friends from boyhood on. Ned’s graceful person could generally be found at this hour gladdening the heart of some fashionable hostess. However, Kilverton knew Mr. Montague had contracted a nasty head cold and trusted that tonight Ned would be spending a rare evening at home.

Sure enough, Lord Kilverton discovered Mr. Montague lounging before his fire, sneezing and yawning over a steaming bowl of punch. He was attired in a dressing gown of startling hue. Ned’s heavy eyes brightened at the unexpected sight of his friend.

“Kilverton, by all that’s wonderful! What brings you to Clarges Street in the middle of—” he broke off as he saw Kilverton sink, wincing, into a deep armchair. “Good God! What’s amiss?”

Lord Kilverton gingerly felt his shoulder and winced again. “That dressing gown, Neddie. Gave me quite a turn,” he replied. “What the devil do you mean by receiving visitors in it? Should have had Farley say you weren’t at home.”

Mr. Montague grinned and smoothed a satin sleeve. His slender frame and dark coloring would have accorded well with the brilliant purple, had he lived in a more flamboyant age. “Born too late!” he mourned. “Now, m’grandfather used to go peacocking all over the town in purple satin. Don’t you care for it? I was sure you’d be green with envy—rush out to purchase some—and between the two of us, we’d bring it back into fashion.” He looked more closely at his friend, and the laughter left his eyes. Mr. Montague reached to turn up the lamp, “You needn’t pitch any more of your gammon, Richard,” he said grimly. “You’re wounded.”

“A scratch,” corrected Kilverton. “Nothing to signify. But I should be glad of a glass of your punch.”

Mr. Montague strode to the door and unceremoniously shouted for Farley. Farley, who had been a military man, not only brought Lord Kilverton an extra punch glass, but also a bowl of water and some linen which he began efficiently tearing into strips. Lord Kilverton’s objections were overruled, his formerly elegant coat was removed, and an ugly shoulder gash laid bare. Farley bathed and dressed the wound swiftly and capably, dipped his lordship a glass of punch, bowed impassively, and left the room.

Kilverton grinned ruefully over the rim of his punch glass at his friend, who was frowning very seriously at him. “Come now, Neddie! It’s not as bad as that.”

Mr. Montague sneezed indignantly and took a revivifying sip of punch. “It’s every bit as bad as that! You really can’t come in and bleed all over my second-best armchair and then behave as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.”

Lord Kilverton meekly begged pardon.

“And don’t try to bamboozle me into thinking it was an accident! You tried that the last time and I wasn’t more than half convinced. If you ask me to believe in a second accident within a month of the first, that’s coming it a bit too strong.”

“You are very severe, Ned,” complained Lord Kilverton. “An ambush may happen to anyone.”

“Not to you! Why, you’re handier with your fives than anyone I know, you’re a dead shot, and there’s not many would care to cross swords with you. You have the reflexes of a panther. I would have thought you were the last man in London to be taken unawares.”

Lord Kilverton grimaced. “Apparently not. Thank you for your touching, if misplaced, confidence in my fighting prowess, but I was indeed taken unawares. I was set upon by a pack of footpads in Trebeck Street and rather hopelessly outnumbered.”

Mr. Montague’s mobile eyebrows shot up. He dipped himself another glass of punch, carefully fishing out a lemon slice to float on top. “Footpads?” he repeated. There was an odd gleam in his eyes, but his voice remained neutral. “Last time it was highwaymen or some such thing, was it not?”

Kilverton groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “It was indeed highwaymen, and I promise you these were not the same men, so you may stop weaving conspiracy theories! You see, I forestall you.”

Mr. Montague’s odd expression vanished and he grinned reluctantly. “Yes, but—”

“But nothing!” said Kilverton firmly. “I am greatly obliged to you for loaning me Farley to minister to my hurts, and I will be even more obliged to you if you do not spread this extremely embarrassing tale around town.”

“Mum as an oyster!” Mr. Montague assured him. “But what happened, Kilverton? You say you were outnumbered?”

“Yes, I was set upon by half a dozen burly individuals. Some with cudgels, and at least one—as you can see—with a sword stick.”

“Good God! You are fortunate to have escaped with your life!”

Lord Kilverton nodded pensively. “Yes, I rather fancy I am. I’ll admit those reflexes you so generously complimented a moment ago stood me in good stead. And I had my stick with me—although I seem to have lost it now. I was fighting with my back to a wall, Ned, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. I can tell you, there were a couple of moments when I thought . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked meditatively into the fire and sipped his punch. “But all’s well that ends well, in fact.”

Mr. Montague was much moved. “By Jove, Kilverton! What a lucky escape! How many did you have to kill?”

“None, I think, although I certainly gave as good as I got.”

“Did they take anything from you?”

“No, nothing,” A faint crease appeared in Kilverton’s brow. “Odd. They had every opportunity to rob me. I wonder why they did not?”

“Thank God they did not! How did you get away?”

“Fought my way through their guard and ran like the devil was on my heels.”

Mr. Montague sat a little straighter in his chair. “You out-ran them?”

“Not exactly.” An odd little smile flickered across Kilverton’s face. They ran past me.”

Mr. Montague was amazed. “They ran
past
you?”

“I was in disguise,” Lord Kilverton explained.

Mr. Montague choked on his punch. When he had somewhat recovered, he gasped, “In disguise! You’re bamming me.”

“Not at all. I disguised myself as Romeo, stealing a midnight stroll with his Juliet.”

Mr. Montague set his glass carefully on the tray beside him, and looked at his friend very hard. “I hope you are about to explain to me how one disguises oneself—as Romeo or anyone else—while being hotly pursued by a gang of cutthroats.”

Lord Kilverton laughed softly. “I wonder?” he mused. “Would it betray a lady’s confidence? An interesting problem. I am rather inclined to believe that since I am unaware of the lady’s identity, I am at liberty to describe the incident. After all, I can hardly compromise her if I can’t tell you her name, can I? I can’t even tell you what she looked like.”

Lord Kilverton then described to his friend how he had literally run into a lone female in Curzon Street, grabbed her, and cold-bloodedly used her to shield himself from his attackers. Mr. Montague, scenting an intrigue, was delighted.

“Well, what a romance! You really have no clue to her identity? Come now, Kilverton—let us approach the problem scientifically. We know, for example, the neighborhood in which she resides—now think! Was she tall or short?”

Kilverton stared into the fire and thought, smiling reminiscently. “Tall. And slender.” The smile grew. “But not
too
slender. A cozy armful, in fact.” He thought again, still smiling into the fire. “Unquestionably a lady. And innocent. I’d stake my last groat she’d never been kissed before.”

Mr. Montague gave a crack of laughter. “Yes, one can usually tell! Anything else?”

“Intelligent. Well-bred. Sense of humor. Pleasant voice, rather low-pitched. Forthright. And utterly fearless.”

“Fearless?”

“Consider, Ned: she was accosted on the street by a perfect stranger under circumstances that should have been terrifying to an unescorted female. She was manhandled in a most reprehensible fashion; for all she knew, I could have been as dangerous as the fellows I was running from. To her, in fact, I was! And yet she handled the situation with perfect sangfroid; took me to task very soundly, and walked off by herself without turning a hair.”

Mr. Montague was unconvinced. “Perhaps she recognized you.”

Kilverton shook his head. “No, I am positive I have never met the lady. She mentioned she was new to London.” The smile flickered again. “And somehow I feel sure I would remember this girl if I had ever met her before.”

This was disturbing, but Mr. Montague kept his inevitable reflections to himself. He was aware that Kilverton, after searching in vain for a bride who could stir stronger emotions in him than respect and liking, had recently contracted an extremely eligible engagement. Although the ceremony was not to take place for some months yet, Richard Kilverton was as good as married. Under the circumstances, it was fortunate that he was unlikely to discover the identity of his mysterious charmer. She seemed to be firing his imagination in a rather dangerous way.

Mr. Montague decided his friend needed to take a damper. He assumed a gloomy tone, shaking his head pessimistically. “Sounds to me like some dashed governess, Kilverton. Probably forty if she’s a day, and hatchet-faced. If you saw her in the daylight, she’d more than likely be covered in spots, or bucktoothed. Mark my words; only a dragon could come through an experience like that without having the vapors.”

But Kilverton only laughed, stretching his long legs out before him. “Not bucktoothed, Neddie! Of that, at least, I am sure!”

His shoulder was beginning to pain him, and Ned looked as if he should be in bed, so his lordship soon called for a hackney to take him to his family’s residence in Mount Street. It was late; that was good. No fear of his disheveled appearance alarming anyone. His valet could discreetly dispose of the ruined coat, and no one need know of his adventure.

He caught himself staring out the windows as the jarvey drove past Curzon Street, trying to calculate the possible direction of a certain young lady’s footsteps, and frowned. What nonsense!

Lord Kilverton sank back against the squabs and ruefully pondered the fickleness of fate. However silly it undoubtedly was, and however fleeting his interest would no doubt have proved, he felt a pang at finding himself for the first time unable to follow his inclination. If he were unattached, he realized, he would have tried to solve the mystery and find that girl.

Of course, Ned was right. Once found, she would no doubt prove as insipid as every other female of his acquaintance. But at the moment, it seemed a rather cruel joke that after years of searching, he had finally located a female he felt at least a passing interest in—and it was too late.