The Bad Baron's Daughter (8 page)

She woke with a start some time later, thinking she had heard a knock on the door downstairs. It had been so real, so distinct; three sharp raps. Perhaps she had dreamed it. Her eyes were wide in the darkened room as she listened. Nothing. She closed her eyes again and tried to return to sleep. Seconds, or minutes later, it came again, the triple knocking.

Katie lifted herself slowly from the chair and winced as it squeaked beneath her. The dark outline of the key Lord Linden had left her was barely visible against the purplewood veneer of the small tier table in the corner. She reached out and touched it in passing, feeling its reassuring metallic coldness; then she crept down the carpeted stairway.

The doorknob was being rattled and turned by an unseen hand.

“Katie,” came a sepulchral whisper from the other side of the two-inch oak door. It was a voice she had never heard before, a disembodied, menacing voice that drew out her name as if it would pull her soul from her body. Involuntarily, she backed from the door. “Open the door, Katie.”

She backtracked up the stairs, staring mesmerized at the twisting doorknob. Her mind raced frantically, attempting to attach a face, an identity, to that ghostly whisper. Linden had his own key. Anyone visiting Linden wouldn’t know her name. If it were Zack, wouldn’t he identify himself outright? Perhaps the voice had no face. The rattling of the doorknob ceased and Katie halted stiffly, poised in uncertainty, one hand clamped tightly on the railing. Seconds slipped into moments and breath returned to her constricted throat.

The French doors were open upstairs! A picture sparked into her mind of a now threatening breeze, gaining entrance to ruffle uninhibited through the exit to the balcony. Katie turned and ran up the stairs, intending to slam the doors. She rushed into Linden’s bedroom and faced the starlit balcony.

A black-hooded head was rising over the iron railing; the faceless personification of the disembodied voice. A blade glimmered dully in the moonlight as the figure vaulted awkwardly over the railing and advanced across the room at Katie like a black shadow. In a blind panic, she grabbed the key from the corner table and ran from the room, her pursuer’s footfall rustling heavily behind her. She skidded down the steps, and her shaking fingers refused to quiet themselves as she fumbled hysterically with the lock. Before, the door had sheltered her, but now it held her prisoner. Katie twisted her head to see her assailant bearing down on her, the blade held high. At that moment, the lock gave way and she tore outdoors, hearing the knife hissing as it searched for her. Her assailant stumbled over the threshold with an audible thud and she gained a few steps on him. Katie flew down the pavement without looking back.

Five houses down the block, a pair of grooms stood chatting next to an elegantly groomed, long-maned Arabian mare that pulled restlessly against the hitching post. The smoke from the groom’s clay pipe curled and eddied in the rectangle of light thrown out from the open door behind them. Katie snatched the reins and threw herself into the saddle of the nervously circling horse just as the owner, dressed in formal riding clothes and carrying a crop, came out to take possession of his waiting animal. Katie was thundering down the street, hair streaming, expertly guiding the horse with her knees, before the groom or the outraged owner could prevent her.

“Horse thief! Stop!” Two grooms and the injured owner chased her as she galloped in the direction she had seen Lord Linden walking. Four blocks, he had said. Her pursuers puffed after her, the horseman waving his crop wildly in the air. Katie longed desperately for protection and there was only one man she knew that could provide it. A brightly lit mansion ahead and to her left, surrounded by waiting coaches, must belong to Lady Brixton, she decided.

It had been a rather uneventful evening for the footman tending Lady Brixton’s door that night; one of your run o’ the mill stuffy high society gigs, so he was taken completely off guard by the slim nightdress-clad miss who came galloping out of the night on a fine Arabian mare. The young Godiva reined in and fairly flung herself upon him, where he sat in his porter’s chair, haughty in his white stockings and powdered wig.

“Is this Lady Brixton’s?” asked the girl frantically. “Is Lord Linden within?”

“Yes it is, gel, and yes, he is—but you can’t go in there! Hey! Come back! This is highly improper!” But she was gone, brushing past an astonished pair of new arrivals. Katie received a flashing impression of glittering ambiance; there was a sparkling crystal chandelier, bronze candle-holders, a glistening marble and gilt porcelain mantel clock, and a rich variety of sterling silver spice boxes, fruit dishes, and coconut cups. A hundred fashionably dressed guests were cut in midsentence and stared open-mouthed at Katie. Lady Brixton, at the head of the reception line, a bastion of blue-blooded, bejewelled respectability, changed the glazed condescension of her facial expression to a mask of frostily horrified astonishment.

It was not an atmosphere that nurtured melodrama, and Katie, standing panicked and wild-eyed before a vast seat of London’s most exalted citizens, suddenly felt that it might have been better to have taken her chances with her attacker’s glinting knife. Words froze in her throat and she clasped her hands together fearfully.

Standing beside Lady Brixton was a short, rather plain girl in elegant mourning black, whose face also registered a planet-struck expression. There was a third person in the reception line; he was very young and very handsome with peach-blond hair and a friendly pair of pale brown eyes, which had widened with incredulous delight as Katie,
en deshabille
, came spilling into his grandmother’s parlor. I’d like to have you for dinner, you luscious creature, he thought, and strolled forward to say quite kindly, “May I help you with something, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, please,” whispered Katie apprehensively. “May I talk to Lord Linden?”

Linden, thought the young man. It would be. He turned to see Lord Linden striding through the crowd toward them and watched with frankly envious appreciation as Katie flung herself at Linden and clutched desperately at his tailored lapels.

“Lord Linden,” gasped Katie, “a man came into your bedroom. He had a knife! Really! And that man thinks I stole his horse, but I didn’t. And I think that I’ve lost the key to your house because I don’t have it in my hand anymore. Is that your grandmother? I think she is very, very angry with me and I don’t want to be here at all. I’m so unhappy. Please, please help me.”

The tale of how Lord Linden’s latest
chère amie
had gate-crashed one of Her Grace Lady Brixton, the Duchess of Hounslow’s most select
soirees
was to spread like freed fire through the all-male echelon of London’s finest clubs the next morning. And the story lost nothing in the telling, for those gentlemen fortunate enough to have been present at Lady Brixton’s could not decide to whom they should award top honors; the dazzling titian-haired nymph who had so enlivened Lady Brixton’s otherwise dull party, or Lord Linden, for what General Clappington had admiringly described as “the boy’s deuced cool head under fire.” Lord Linden had calmly disentangled Katie’s fingers from his chocolate brown evening coat, grabbed the lacy tablecloth from a nearby supper table and, to the disgust of the other gentlemen present, wrapped it around Katie’s too ravishing figure. Then, with charming aplomb, he had made a graceful bow to his hostess, thanked her for a most pleasant evening, assured her that he was her most obedient servant and made his exit, shoving Katie in front of him with a little more force than might have been strictly necessary.

Lord Linden, attempting to remove Katie from his grandmother’s austere residence, found himself having to run a gauntlet of indignant persons, from the disapproving doorman to the wrathful owner of the Arabian mare, all of whom seemed to feel that Katie should be conveyed, without delay, to the nearest jail and there incarcerated until such time as hell grew icecaps. Katie made a valiant, though muddled attempt to defend herself to these critics, which was cut short by Lord Linden, who told her tersely to shut her mouth if she knew what was good for her and bundled her urgently into the nearest hackney, warning her to wait for him there. It was some minutes later that Linden climbed in the hack, slammed the door behind him and lowered himself to the seat opposite Katie. The carriage shuddered and pulled forward.

“Talk,” said Lord Linden, “and it had better be good.”

Katie cleared her throat, convinced more than ever that she should have taken her chances with The Knife. “Lord Linden,” she began, “I am so…”

“Katie. My dear child,” said Lord Linden, slowly.

“Do
not
tell me you’re sorry or I will shake you until your teeth rattle.”

Katie plucked at the tablecloth tucked about her knee. “Did that man believe that I wasn’t trying to steal his horse, only borrow it?”

“The gentleman didn’t appear to appreciate the distinction. However, he’s agreed not to press charges. Now, tell me about the man who came into my bedroom with a knife.”

Katie described everything; the persistent knock, the masked figure on the balcony and the hoarse whisper behind the door.

Lord Linden frowned. “Are you sure it was ‘Katie’ you heard? It couldn’t have been anything else?”

“I’m sure. Do you think I should have stayed? I’m afraid that the hooded man may have robbed your apartments.”

Linden reached over to tweak one of her tumbled curls. “No, child, you did right, though God knows social ruin stares me in the face. On the other hand, the sight of you in that disreputable nightdress gave Andrew’s hot young blood a chance to simmer.”

Katie groaned and dropped her face into her hands. Then she peeked up through her fingers. “Who is Andrew?”

“The ditchwater blond adolescent in the reception line who was drooling at you. He’s my little brother. Eighteen. He’s been enlivening
Grandmere’s
household with his presence for the season. And itching to give a green gown to some lusty wench. I can see you’re getting ready to ask me what a green gown is. Figure it out yourself.”

“I—I could tell which lady was your grandmother. She looked exactly like a duchess—at least, she looks exactly what I’ve always thought a duchess would look like.”

“A living cliche,” murmured Linden wickedly.

“I thought so,” said Katie seriously. “There was a young lady with her, wearing black. Is she in mourning?”

“Technically yes, emotionally no. She’s my second cousin Suzanne. Her parents married her off at nineteen to some rustic Irish peer who was fool enough to get himself killed riding to hounds before they were married the half year. Suzanne’s mourning period is almost up, and
Grandmère
has taken her in hand to ensure that any possible second marriage is not the disaster her first one was.”

“But surely your grandmother couldn’t blame Suzanne for her husband’s hunting accident,” said Katie.

“You underestimate my grandmother,” he said wryly. “She blames whomever she can get her hands on.”

That recalled to Katie’s mind her own indiscretion. “She’ll blame you for my ruining her party tonight, won’t she? You should be very angry with me, you didn’t want to have trouble with your grandmother, and she looked madder than a caged cat.”

“Yes, she did, didn’t she?” said Linden with a reminiscent grin. “The old hatchet. I imagine there’ll be some fireworks, but it’s a matter of perception as to whether you spoiled the party. The argument could be offered that you made it a success.”

“Everyone will talk,” said Katie, mortified.

“What do we care?” he said, with the nonchalance of someone used to being the center of gossip. “We won’t hear ‘em. Besides, it was all in a good cause, little Kate, so smile at me. Lovely. Now listen. After tonight, it’s obvious that you aren’t safe alone and I can’t stay with you. No, don’t argue with me, Katie. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, but three times is a pattern. You’re too damned accident prone to be real, so I’m afraid that somehow you’ve made an enemy. Do you have any idea who… ? No, I can see that you don’t. This attack tonight wasn’t quite in Nasty Ned’s style, was it? Still, I think I should pay him a visit tomorrow before we can securely eliminate that possibility. In the meantime, though…”

“Do you think I should go back to stay with Zack?” asked Katie, tucking her heavy auburn curls behind her ears.

“Absolutely,” said Linden witheringly. “Then we could lay bets on which you’d lose first, your life or your maidenhead.”

“Well, I don’t see that I have much choice,” retorted Katie, stung.

“No, you don’t. So you’ll have to do what I tell you if you want to save that lovely neck of yours. I’m going to take you to stay with Laurel Steele. Yes, the woman who was at my house when you arrived yesterday. God knows she’s a self-indulgent immoral hellcat, but then, so am I, so you’re just changing frying pans. And you’ll be safe from your friend with the hood.”

“No!” cried Kate, appalled. “Why, she hated me on sight. She said I was bizarre! She’ll never have me, my lord.”

“Yes, she will. She’ll do what I tell her. She may not like it, but she’ll do it.”

“I won’t go,” said Katie determinedly. “I’d move in with Nasty Ned and lose my maidenhead fifty times first.”

“Foolish chit,” said Linden, unimpressed. “Losing your maidenhead fifty times is an anatomical impossibility. I don’t think the house of one of the most notorious courtesans in London is the best place for you either, Katie, but frankly, I don’t know any respectable ladies who would take you in, especially on my introduction. Staying with Laurel could hardly be worse than working at
The Merry Maidenhead
. Console yourself with the thought that your reputation can’t get any worse than it is already.”

“It may surprise you to know,” said Katie crossly, “that I don’t find that thought consoling in the least!”

Linden shrugged and reached for a straggling hemp cord near the hack’s window. “All right, blue eyes, if that’s what you want…”

“Wh—what are you going to do?” asked Katie nervously.