Danger Wears White (14 page)

She frowned. “We?”

“In some circles we’re known as the Emperors of London. Our parents decided to whimsically name us after emperors and empresses of the past. My father and his five sisters. You may have noticed my real name?”

She recalled the slight jolt when he’d introduced himself. “Julius Caesar?” Despite the weariness taking over now the crisis was past, the notion gave her a smile.

“Indeed.” He nodded. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement. “You should prepare for travelling to London.”

Politely he waited for her to rise and then ushered her to the door. He told her one more time not to worry.

How could she not?

* * * *

Tony was getting damned sick of people kicking him.

The jailer sitting opposite him in the coach stirred. A thread of drool spilled from one corner of his mouth. This was probably Tony’s best chance, if he could overcome the bastard without jolting the vehicle taking him in chains to London.

But when he moved, testing the chains for weight and balance, the man opened one rheumy eye. “Git back, you.” He aimed a vicious kick that could have broken a bone if it had landed before Tony moved aside. He yelped in pain anyway, and that seemed to satisfy his torturer. He had a light sleeper on his hands. Damned inconvenient, that.

Night had fallen an hour ago, the sun setting in glowing beauty in a rosy sky, which meant clear skies, which meant a chill in the air. March meant the end of winter frost, though chill winds and rain could make it feel as cold as if the hedges were still touched with hoar.

They pulled into the busy yard of a coaching inn, the carriage taking the corner with barely a check in its pace. Ostlers raced forward to attend to the horses while his guards climbed down, grumbling. The one inside with him scowled and told him to stay where he was.

Tony reconnoitered. They wouldn’t leave him alone in a room, so he’d have to overpower whoever slept with him. Unless they put him in a small room. He snorted. They smelled as bad as he did, so nobody would complain about sharing. But that could work to his advantage, especially if they armed his guard.

The inn was bustling. No chance a man in irons would pass unnoticed. These places were busy almost around the clock, but if he didn’t get away soon it would be too late.

His jailers dragged him out when the yard had settled down a little, and into the inn. Straight past the tap room, where the smells of beer and stew made Tony’s mouth water, to a little windowless room by the kitchen.

The man who’d driven the bone-shaking carriage settled down with him. They brought food, and thank the Lord, Tony’s was just about edible, but when he saw the pieces of grit in the bread, he broke most of it up, sprinkling the crumbs for the ever-present rats. He didn’t want to lose a tooth on a piece of grit.

Once he got home, he’d order a huge two-course, twelve-remove dinner and eat every crumb.

He didn’t relax his attention for a second, waiting for that moment when the man watching him would drop his guard. At the moment, he’d be keen, but the food might make him sleepy. A tankard of beer rested at the man’s side—not small beer, as his was, but full-bodied local brew.

They wouldn’t reach London for another four or five days, but he didn’t want to wait that long. He’d be half-dead if he suffered many more kicks and blows, and he hadn’t cleaned his wound for some time or even had the dressing changed. He felt feverish again, though that was probably due to the poor diet and the mistreatment.

Tony waited, ignored the usual taunts, and settled down in a corner of the little room to sleep, setting himself to wake in three hours. Midnight.

When he opened his eyes again, the man opposite was snoring. He gathered his strength and decided on his plan of action. He was chained wrists and ankles, the ankles heavy bands that weighed him down. This man did not have the keys.

The man nodded, his head slowly descending as he slid into deep sleep. Outside, apart from the shifting of horses in the nearby stable, he detected nothing.

He couldn’t put this off any longer.

In one lethal move he lunged across the space between them, thankful they’d omitted to chain him to the wall. As he leaped, he lifted his arms and looped the chain, linking his wrists behind the man’s neck. As his jailer woke, Tony smashed his head down, smacking the man between the eyes. The man groaned, but before he could call out, Tony had his fingers on his captor’s throat, blocking his breathing.

The man slumped heavily and Tony leaned him gently back against the wall behind him. At least he had the key to the door. Swiftly, he skimmed the man’s pockets and found what he needed, slipping the penknife into his pocket.

Now for the tricky part. With every step he clanked and clinked. Stealthily he crept to the door, making as little noise as he could manage. Once he’d unlocked the door, he listened, waiting for a full five minutes, as long as he dared, before he opened it and let in what light there was. A thin beam of lamplight shone from a room in the main building, on the ground floor. A kitchen or small parlor, but although other smaller lights flickered here and there, nobody stirred on this side of the inn. Any minute a late-night carouser could come stumbling out to relieve himself in the yard, or a late traveler could arrive, seeking shelter. The sooner he got out of this place, the easier he’d breathe.

Gripping his wrist chains firmly, he took a step. The chains clanked. He held his breath.

Nobody came.

Another step, and then another, the chains dragging against the uneven cobbles of the yard. Using the coach as cover, he moved forward as smoothly as possible. The sound of quiet breathing startled him, but the ostler lying on his bed of straw, covered by a blanket, didn’t stir.

There was straw around this side of the yard, so Tony hugged the wall, using the straw to muffle his steps. He took his time, knowing that it wasn’t taking as long as his tense mind imagined.

A door. A small door in the side wall, and thank the Lord it was open. It creaked a little when he eased it open, but he didn’t have to pull it all the way. He slid through and tugged it closed, careful to hold the latch clear so it wouldn’t rattle.

Damn, that was more nerve-wracking than mining enemy lines. He stopped, waiting until his heartbeat got back to normal, listening and getting his breath back.

After five minutes, he willed himself to move. The jailor he’d stifled could wake up at any moment and sound the alarm. Normally a prisoner escaping wouldn’t have a hope in hell, but Tony had two things in his favor. His soldiering skills and even more importantly, a purse full of gold.

Only a few houses lay between him and open country at the back of the inn. He hobbled past them and found another useful tool fastening a gate together—a length of stout wire. With these, he reached a nearby copse and took a few moments to get rid of his shackles.

The locks were simple, easily picked. Prisoners retained their chains not because of the difficulty of the locks but because they were simply replaced. It wasn’t worth the effort.

Once he’d rid himself of them, Tony found a loose piece of earth and used a stick to dig a hole just deep enough to conceal them. If they set dogs after him, they’d find the chains, but he’d left nothing behind for them to scent. If they caught him, they might kill him. He needed to act quickly.

First, the clothes. If not for the clanking of the chains he’d have stripped his jailor and taken his coat, because his own was filthy and reeked of prison and days of constant wear. He needed decent clothes, but in order to get them, he needed decent clothes. A paradox that made him smile grimly.

No help for it. He’d have to put some distance between the inn and himself before light dawned.

He didn’t know this part of the country, so he had little choice but to take to the road.

Loping back to the highway, he continued in the direction the coach was taking. He kept to the other side of the hedge, so the going wasn’t as easy, but he couldn’t risk any late traveler finding him. So far he’d done nothing wrong, but he was perilously close to breaking the law, stealing clothes or a horse, and horse-stealing was punishable by death. He had no weapon but a piece of wire and a penknife, no food, no water.

What could be easier?

“I can’t walk in this.” Imogen immediately disproved her point by stamping to the elaborate sofa in Julius’s drawing room.

Julius exchanged a laughing glance with his sister Helena. “You can. And most gracefully, too. Now sit.”

She turned around, preparing her skirts. “I feel upholstered.” Heavily embroidered brocade in shell pink draped her form, but not in a way she liked. The style was old-fashioned, and she resented the waste of beautiful fabric.

“You look lovely. You’ll make everyone at court fall in love with you.”

Imogen had made her debut at court the week before, and much to her surprise and shock, nobody had turned their back on her. However, on her backward walk to the door she’d stumbled, and sniggers had rippled through the crowd. She wasn’t the only debutante to trip that day, because walking backward in a skirt with a train, even a pinned-up train, wasn’t an easy skill to acquire. However Julius had determined that she wouldn’t do it again, and he’d made her don the hated mantua every day and practice until she had it right. “Nobody will love me. They’ll all laugh.”

“They haven’t so far.”

“That’s because of your patronage.” Imogen’s awe of the magnificent Lord Winterton had lasted less than a week, mainly because he had determined that it would last no longer. While she stayed at their house, she’d seen him romp with his daughter, laugh with his friends, and he’d given her accounts of all the great and good they’d met in the salons of London that she’d been hard put to it not to burst into laughter at the most inappropriate moments.

His sister Helena and his cousin Poppea, or Poppy, had treated her with gentle good humor and stayed with her through the torture of fitting and pinning. What this panoply was costing her, she dreaded to think, but she had enough, she discovered, especially when Madame kindly gave her a discount for buying all her gowns there. Still, the shocking price of lace stunned her into a brief silence. But she’d need the finery for court. She was to be maid of honor to Princess Amelia, whom she’d met, briefly.

Imogen’s mama was in alt, so much that Imogen found it hard to remain in her company. Her mother was present now, seated in one of the large blue-upholstered salon chairs, looking as if she’d spent all her life in the drawing rooms of London. “You will be a sensation,” she assured her daughter now. “We will never have to return to that house again.”

Imogen wanted to. Badly. She felt so out of place here, and she doubted she’d ever become accustomed to it. Missing her home, missing Tony, she wanted nothing so much as a quiet afternoon to regain her equilibrium, but she had none. Ensconced in a bedroom worthy of a princess, with a new superior maid just for her, she didn’t know what to do with her time. She would wake and think of the lambing, which must be in full flow now. Her farm manager would handle it, but dammit, she wanted to be there. Home. “What happened to the Prince over the water? Where is your loyalty?” she demanded viciously.

Her mother the Jacobite was thrilled that her daughter had secured a place at court. “You will find a good match at court. We’ll see.”

“I can hardly breathe in these stays,” she muttered.

Abruptly, Julius got to his feet. “I need to speak to Imogen, if you don’t mind. Imogen, would you object to a quiet word in private?”

Her mother glared at him, but then her gaze softened. It was far too easy to discern what she was thinking.

Imogen went hot, and then cold, chills chasing each other up her spine. Surely not. She’d come to think of Julius as her friend. Surely he knew she couldn’t—he’d caught her, he’d known what she’d done. Did he mean to propose?

Numbly, she watched her mother and Helena leave the room. Forgetting the width of her skirts, she spun around and had to catch the hoops before they tangled her in a twist.

Laughing, Julius held his hands up in surrender. She couldn’t imagine him getting in a muddle like this. She had learned early that Julius had the gift of always appearing perfect, even when playing with his daughter. Now, in his full-skirted bronze coat and cream waistcoat he appeared almost otherworldly. “Don’t concern yourself. I wasn’t intending to do anything precipitate. I merely wanted to give you some news.”

No longer interested in disentangling herself, Imogen plopped down in the nearest chair. “Tony?”

Smiling broadly, Julius found himself a seat opposite her. “Tony,” he agreed. “He’s well. Now.”

She’d nearly gone insane when she discovered he’d reached London and they hadn’t told her. They’d kept her away. To make it worse, Julius had said he was ill.

Julius went on. “It wasn’t jail fever. He’d walked too long in the rain and contracted a fever.”

“He could have died!” She’d known men shiver themselves to death, their bodies racked with fever so high they melted away. “I should have gone to him.”

“He said no,” Julius said. “We couldn’t take the risk that you would contract his illness. But he was exhausted, and the fever took him when he was weak. He walked for ten miles before he found somewhere that would take him in.”

“Oh God!”

Julius smiled ruefully. “My dear, he’s known much worse. But if we’d let you see him, he’d have killed himself with fury. It was for the good of you both. But I admit, mostly for you.”

Grabbing handfuls of her skirt, she wrung it hard, uncaring of the costly fabric. “Where is he? May I see him?”

“Soon. He’s recovering, and what he needs now is rest. Do you want to undo all the good he did?”

She shook her head. She’d written to him, and Julius had assured her Tony had received her letter, but they hadn’t let him reply.

Julius nodded. “He found a place in a stagecoach and got as far as the house of my cousin in Buckinghamshire. They took him in and cared for him. Tony will be in town soon, I swear it. But I want him to rest for a few days more before he travels. I will let you know when he arrives.”