A Much Compromised Lady (23 page)

At the edge of the stables, muffled shouts
and the scuffle of boots on cobblestones checked his stride.
Muscles tensed, senses alert, he stepped into the stable yard.

Three burly grooms—nightshirts dangling over
sagging breeches—grappled with a dark-clad, struggling figure. A
third groom stood back, lantern aloft in one hand and a horseshoe
raised in the other, wavering as he waited for a chance to strike a
blow.

St. Albans glanced at them and said, his
voice loud enough to arrest the action, “You have woken my
horses.”

The struggle stopped. The groom with the
lantern spun around, his nightcap sliding over one eye. And the
dark-clad figure jerked his arms free and straightened.

“Leave him,” St. Albans commanded as the
grooms started to reach for the figure again. He stepped forward
into the pooling lantern light.

The grooms fell back and St. Albans gestured
for the lantern to be held higher. Light spilled across
Christopher’s face.

St. Albans glanced at his servants. A
swelling eye and torn nightshirt told its own story of the
conflict. At least the Gypsy had kept his knife out of the
affair.

Turning back to the Gypsy, St. Albans let his
stare slide up and down over the fellow. “I knew you would be an
inconvenience. Allow me a guess—you were seeking the use of a
horse.”

Christopher smoothed his disheveled jacket.
“Just taking the one back to London that brought me here.”

“And that would be...Cinder? Well, you
cannot. Take another. One trip such as that in a night is enough
for any mount.”

The Gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Take a horse is
it now? So you can then hang me later as a horse thief?”

With a small shake of his head, St. Albans
resigned himself to a longer conversation with this inconvenient
fellow. He glanced at the grooms, and waved their dismissal. “Thank
you, and good night. Come along, Gypsy, my staff needs their rest,
as do my horses.”

Turning away, he started back to the house,
half hoping the Gypsy would simply vanish into the night.

He did not.

They fell into step and the darkness
swallowed them. The moon had set, and the night sky glittered with
stars. Scents of new mown grass and roses drifted on the night
breeze, along with the distant bark of a dog.

St. Albans led the way into his study.
Throwing off his greatcoat, he strode to the decanter and poured
them both burgundy.

The Gypsy glanced disdainfully at the wine,
but he took the glass. “What do you want with me,
gaujo
?”

St. Albans smiled. He sat in a chair, his
booted ankles crossed. “The more relevant conversation here is what
do you hope to gain by going to London? I expect you have some
fanciful notion of forcing a confession from Lord Nevin?”

“That is my business,
gaujo
.”

“Yes, well, since your hanging for attempted
murder, house breaking, or even stealing my horses would upset your
sister, it therefore becomes my business.”

“Oh, and you are so kind that you care what
my sister feels? You are a bad liar,
gaujo
!”

St. Albans smiled. “If you insult me again by
calling me a liar, sister or no sister, I will take great delight
in throttling you. Now, sit down and listen.”

Glowering, the Gypsy stared back, defiance
bristling in his eyes and in his stubborn, stiff stance. But St.
Albans could sense the measuring going on behind that stare.
Wisely, the fellow relented and threw himself into the opposite
chair. Tension eased from St. Albans’s shoulders. Well, at least
this young idiot had some sense in that thick head of his.

Now, they would see what else he had.

“I have a bargain to offer you. You want to
see Nevin and have it out with him. I have my own reasons to wish
this question settled and put out of the way—with certain finality.
So, I’ll take you to Nevin.”

The Gypsy sipped his wine, his eyes narrowed
and hard. “And what do you get from this bargain, for to be such
each side must get something?”

“If you are able to get Nevin to cry out his
sins, you will have me as a witness, and I shall testify in any
court in the land on your behalf. I shall get you your
inheritance.”

Christopher sat straighter. “Why would you do
that?”

“Because here is the other half of this
agreement—if you have no satisfaction from Nevin, you shall
emigrate and tell your sister to get on with her own life.”

The Gypsy gave a bark of laughter, and St.
Albans glared at the fellow. “What, pray, is so amusing?”

Shaking his head, the Gypsy smiled. “You are,
gaujo
. You think too much. And you think everything—and
everyone—can be bought. You think the world is like you—cold and
calculating.” He tossed back his wine and rose. “I make no deals
with the devil,
gaujo
. Keep your bargains.”

Frowning, St. Albans rose as the Gypsy headed
for the door. “And how do you expect to get anywhere close to
Nevin? You won’t you know.”

Christopher paused, glanced back and gave a
shrug, a gesture that reminded St. Albans of the man’s sister.

“What is meant to be will be. And if it is
not meant...” He gave another shrug.

Such blind fatalism irritated St. Albans.
Blazes, but the fellow was no concern of his. He could go hang.
Only then he thought of the look tonight in his Gypsy’s dark
eyes—how much worse would it be when she heard of her brother’s
execution.

With a sigh, he set down his own glass, rose
and went to his desk. “This is useless, you know,” he said. He
pulled a sheet of vellum from the desk and flipped open the silver
ink well.

“You said that already,
gaujo
.”

St. Albans dipped a sharpened quill in the
ink and scribbled a hurried note. He would leave instructions with
the servants as well. Finished, he sanded the ink, folded the note
and looked up at his Gypsy’s brother.

“I was wrong about you, you know. You are not
only an inconvenience, you are an irritation. And my only hope is
that perhaps I may watch Nevin put a bullet in you.”

Christopher began to scowl. “Watch? You are
not going with me. You have no reason to even want to go!”

“You may attribute it to my delightful sense
of mischief. Now make yourself useful and go to the stables and ask
Morely—he’s the fellow who was looking to brain you with that
horseshoe—to have the coach ready within the hour. And you had best
do so for you have my word that that is the only way you are going
to reach London at all.”

* * *

The dreams came that night. Shifting images
that brought with them a suffocating sense of loneliness.

Fretful, Glynis turned in her sleep, but
still the images came.

From above, she watched a boy sit at the base
of a stairway, carved and dark and wide. He had a single tin
soldier, its red-painted coat chipped and his sword bent by use. He
marched the soldier up one step, and down again, humming to
himself.

A maid hurried past, her steps hushed, her
eyes downcast. Simon glanced up at her, his eyes wistful, then he
looked back down at his soldier. He was not supposed to even notice
the servants—they were beneath him, uncle had said. A footman
hurried past, taking the silver into the butler for polishing, he
knew. Sitting up, he left his solider on the step. He rose, dug his
hands into his trousers and went outside where there was no one to
play with either, leaving his soldier abandoned and alone.

With a sigh, Glynis shifted in her sleep.

The boy—older now, still thin, his gold hair
darkening—stood before a brick building, staring up at the tall
clock tower. Eton. Inside, a tremor started. Footsteps echoed on
stone, and the boy turned to watch a man cross the yard, his arm
around the shoulders of a younger copy of himself. The other boy
was saying something to the man, who bent down with a smile to
listen. Jealousy, sharp and hateful, sprang loose. But they did not
even notice, or seem to see him.

Head up, he turned and started towards the
darkened archway under the clock tower. Well, he did not care about
them, anyway. They were probably beneath him, too. They did not
matter to him, and they never would.

Sweating, twisting, Glynis struggled to wake.
But the scene shifted to one she knew, one she loved. She smiled at
the image in her dream.

Her house stood before her. A tidy garden.
White front, picket gate. Two stories with gleaming windows that
welcomed. Roses bloomed, winding over the entrance, spilling white
petals.

The boy was there as well. Now a man grown.
His green eyes glittered with cynical amusement, his smile now rode
crooked. His face had grown handsome, and his form tall. Her Simon
watched the house, his expression bored, as if this place did not
matter to him.

Go in, she urged, desperate for him to step
inside.

He turned away, his smile twisting even
more.

No, go inside!

But he was going. He would always leave. He
would always stay outside where he had learned as a boy to
live.

She woke with a startled breath, her cheeks
wet and her pulse racing. Putting a hand to her face, she blinked.
She rolled over and let out a breath.

Pale dawn crept into the room, pink and soft.
She blinked again, trying to will away the feelings that still
crowded her from that dream. That horrible sense of isolation
remained, however, haunting as any ghost.

Rising, she pulled her wrinkled gown around
her—she had slept in it—and she went to the box, still on the floor
in pieces. Through the window, birdsong and a soft breeze drifted,
gentle and seeming so out of place.

It seemed almost that Christo’s climbing in
here had been more of a dream than were those images that still
clung to her.

Had that really been St. Albans’s youth that
she had dreamed? Had she been given not just dreams but visions of
what his life was? Always so lonely? A boy without parents. A lord
from birth who knew his place in this world, but a boy all the same
without anyone who would treat him as such?

She gathered the pieces of the box, the fur,
the lock of hair, the paper and the feather—the treasures from her
father. She had always thought lords and ladies must be forever
happy with their fine clothes and food and wealth.

Now she wondered what it must be to grow up a
lord, an earl from birth, with something always expected, and
always barriers raised. What would it be like to have such a high
place in this world that no one else could come near?

A soft knock on the door made her turn. She
rose and the maid came in with a tray that held rose-patterned
china. The maid settled the tray on a table, and bobbed a
curtsy.

“His lordship said you was to get this,” she
said, holding out a note.

Glynis put down the shattered box and crossed
the floor to take the note. She spread open the folded sheet.

Her throat dried as she read the slanted,
stark writing, and her fear became far more real than anything from
a dream.

Dej
had said this
gaujo
would
betray her—and he had. He had taken Christo to London. With the
blood cold in her veins, she knew that Christo intended to face the
man who had murdered their father. The man who wanted Christo
dead.

Fear paralyzed Glynis for an instant. Anger
followed, blazing hot, and she welcomed that sudden surge of heat
in her veins. She threw down the note. Of all the arrogant, stupid,
interfering, pig-headed, insufferable... idiocy! Both of them! And
they thought to keep her sitting here, doing nothing but waiting!
She stoked her fury with curses, and she clung to it to keep
herself moving, to keep the anxiety of what might happen at
bay.

Well, if St. Albans thought she would sit
here like some timid, fainting lady, he did not know her at all.
And if her brother intended to take on the risk of confronting
their uncle without her, he must be moonstruck!

Ah, but must find a way to reach London
before St. Albans could take Christo to see Lord Nevin. She would
stop this folly.

She could not find her blue gown, so she
pulled a dark green traveling dress from the wardrobe, one St.
Albans had bought for her. She dragged on stockings and boots, and
pulled her hair into a simple knot. She ran downstairs to find a
servant.

She found three in the kitchen.

A maid blinked up at Glynis from her seat at
a scared oak table, while the cook, a plump lady whose apron
proclaimed her profession, exchanged a look with the butler. Glynis
knew from their startled expressions that she should not be here,
seeking after them belowstairs. Did not St. Albans always summon
someone to come to him? She could not wait for such
formalities.

“I must have a carriage,” she said.

Rising, the butler gave her a stiff smile.
“Beg pardon, miss, but his lordship said you were to await his
return.”

“I do not care what he said. I must go to
London!”

Impassive stares met her demand, and her face
warmed. She saw at once how it would be. They did what St. Albans
ordered, and he had said she was to remain here. No one in this
house would be of any help to her.

Turning, she left them, striding for the
front door, but when she stepped outside, she hesitated.

What now? Walk the hundred miles and more to
London? That would take days. She needed someone with fast horses.
She needed someone who would aid her, but who would help a
Gypsy?

She wanted to growl out her frustration, to
steal into the stables and just take what she wanted. But she could
not be certain that she could. Ah, she needed kin beside her to do
this thing.

And then she remembered the man met in the
graveyard.

Ah, but she was mad to think of the plan now
forming in her mind—but she was more than that. She was desperate
to save her brother’s life.