Authors: Andrea Pickens
If you wish to know the reason for the attacks on your
brother, leave at once and take a hansom cab to St. Giles
Lane.. Turn left, and walk down to the river.
I dare not say more or contact you again. Do not
delay — his fate is in your hands.
There was no signature.
Alex's face paled. She stuffed the paper into her glove and stood up, her mind racing. She beckoned to another servant serving champagne and sent him towards Mr. Simpson with instructions to inform him that she was returning home early with an indisposition and would not need a ride. Then, with a quick glance left and right, she slipped out of the main room. Her exit didn't attract the least attention and she hurried down a long corridor, past the ladies withdrawing room, to where a side staircase lead down to the main entrance of the townhouse. It was highly unlikely, she thought, that Lady Hopkinton or any of the guests would even notice she had departed early.
A cold mist rose up from the river, obscuring the sooty brick warehouses and splintered docks in swirling tendrils of fog. Sounds were muffled in the dampness — the creaking of the timbers in the ebbing tide, the lapping of the brackish water against the embankment and the pacing of booted feet on a dirt path.
"What time is it?" Standish halted by the side of a carriage, which had been temporarily stripped of all distinguishing crests. The horses snorted and whisked their tails in response to the creeping chillness in the air. He pulled the thick black scarf wound around his face even higher, so that only the eyes were visible, and peered into the unlit interior.
"Precisely five minutes later than when you last inquired," came a voice from the impenetrable darkness. "She will not be here for at least another hour. I suggest you climb inside before you exhaust yourself with such a pointless display of nerves."
Standish swore under his breath. With one last, jerky look around at the swirls of grey and the overcast sky he got in and threw himself onto the seat opposite his cousin. A spot of orange glowed for a moment, then was followed by a cloud of smoke, thicker and more choking than the air outside. Standish coughed and waved his hand several times in front of his nose to punctuate his distaste. Hammerton ignored him and continued to puff away in a nonchalant manner..
Standish began toying with the pistol in his hand. "It's one thing to deal with another man. I do not fancy the idea of having to shoot a female."
"Yes, your standards are so very high," mocked Hammerton. "Pray, don't waste such sentiments on me. I know you too well. And the plan does not involve putting a bullet into her. The weapons are merely a precaution against the unexpected. As you have noticed, I think ahead. That is why my plans succeed."
"When are you going to tell me the plan?" he demanded in a sulky voice.
The tip of the cigar came alight again as Hammerton drew in a mouthful of the pungent tobacco, then let it out in slowly, savoring the taste.
"So you still haven't figured it out?" he asked, a touch of disdain in his voice. "I would have thought the letter I showed you would have made everything exceedingly easy to comprehend."
Standish grunted something unintelligible.
Hammerton heaved a mock sigh. "Ah, well, then let me explain it clearly. As you read, the letter reveals a despondent Miss Chilton, who, having been seduced and abandoned by Lord Branford, finds she can no longer live with her shame and the disgrace she will bring to her family."
"But Branford has withdrawn from the bet," interrupted Standish. "How are you going to get her to..." He suddenly fell silent as his mind began to understand the implications of his cousin's words.
"It is finally beginning to dawn on you, is it?"
Standish muttered something through the thick material covering the front of his mouth.
"It won't be dangerous at all. In fact it should be frighteningly simple. She will approach us. I will go to meet her, a single figure bent low, beckoning her to come closer to hear the information she so desperately seeks. You will come up behind her and knock her unconscious with your cosh — what could be easier?"
"We'll put her in the carriage and drive along the river until we are close to the neighborhood where the ball took place, within easy walking distance for a young lady. Then the body goes into the water. And it's done. With no possible connection to us.
A street urchin will be dispatched with the letter to her aunt's house. And I have taken care to have the hackney driver who will be waiting to pick her up later this evening ready to step forward and swear he saw her walking towards the river, agitated and alone — he will be able to describe her exactly."
He smiled into the darkness. "Poor, dear departed Miss Chilton. Another victim of the Icy Earl. Think you that Society will have anything to do with him after that? He may even be forced to leave the country."
Standish let out a low whistle of admiration. "By God, it is brilliant."
"What did you expect, cousin?" said Hammerton in a self-satisfied tone as he tapped the ashes onto the floor. "What did you expect?"
Standish's eyes mirrored the same smug expression. Then after a moment, they narrowed in concern. "What if she doesn't come?"
Hammerton's eyes fell half-closed as he exhaled another cloud. "Oh, she will come. All we have to do is wait. Our little pigeon will fly straight to us."
Damnation, swore Branford to himself. What the devil was she up to now? He had arrived late, but just in time for his sharp eye to catch the exchange between the waiter and Alex. Surely she wasn't planning anything as buffleheaded as an elopement with that pup Duckleigh. His teeth set on edge. Of all the idiotic....
But then it struck him that her face had gone white and the look on it as she had slipped from the room was not one of girlish enrapture but rather of grave concern. He let out an exasperated sigh and left the room as well.
She was not difficult to follow. Though she had thrown the hood of her cape up to shield her face, she looked back nary once as she hurried through the clusters of waiting carriages. Branford watched as she signaled to a hansom cab loitering on the street corner ahead, then turned and quickly made his way to where his own coach was drawn to a halt near the end of the line.
"That hackney just pulling away from up there," he said in a low voice to his coachman, so that no inquisitive ears could overhear. "Follow it. Discreetly, but on no account are you to lose it."
The man nodded alertly, his mouth set in a hard line that indicated he understood his master's tone. As soon as Branford had climbed in, he maneuvered the horses around the crush of other vehicles and set them off at a smart pace. It proved no problem to quickly fall in behind the lumbering vehicle.
Branford grew crosser and crosser as the hackney passed through the elegant streets of Mayfair into the darkness of less fashionable neighborhoods. A swirling fog crept over the grimy buildings and a dampness in the air told him they were coming closer to the river. On more than one occasion, his man was forced to slow to a walk to avoid coming too close to the other carriage.
An oath escaped his lips. What could the headstrong girl be up to in this neighborhood, at this hour....
His carriage lurched to a sudden halt.
"My lord," hissed his driver.
Branford opened the trap with the tip of his cane.
"The hackney has stopped ahead, sir, and the... person appears to be getting out."
Branford moved quickly to open the door, pausing a moment to take the pistol hanging inside and place it in his greatcoat pocket. His boots hit the cobblestones with surprising lightness.
"Wait around the corner," he ordered, then disappeared with a cat-like stealth into the swirling mist.
Her figure ghosted in and out of the shadows, forcing him to draw nearer than he would have liked in order not to lose her down some narrow alley. But she headed not into the warren of passageways among the dilapidated warehouses but straight towards the embankment.
A breeze from off the water blew away the fog. Branford pressed up close against a grimy brick wall to avoid being seen. Ahead of Alex, a figure was revealed near the steps leading down to the river. Then his trained eye caught the slight movement of another person, a short distance from the first, trying to remain hidden in the shadows. As the second one turned towards the sound of the approaching footsteps, a glint of steel flashed in the pale moonlight.
"Alex! Get down!" Branford sprang from the wall, racing towards her with long, loping strides as he tore the pistol from his coat.
Alex froze in confusion.
A shot rang out and she crumpled to the ground.
Branford reached her only seconds later. Another bullet whistled past his ear as he crouched over to shield her body with his own. The fog closed in once again, causing him to curse in frustration as he pointed his own weapon towards the impenetrable mist. The instincts of a soldier took over. They knew where he was — he must change that.
He bent lower, gently turning her over to face him. Alex's eyes fluttered open, still a bit dazed.
"Where are you hurt?" he demanded.
"My shoulder. Feels like a bee sting..."
His fingers probed at the torn fabric.
"Ouch!"
He grunted something unintelligible, then grasped her around the waist and half dragged her to the shelter of the buildings.
"Can you manage to walk?" he asked, his eyes sweeping the darkness for any sign of movement.
"Of course I can," she answered indignantly. "I'm not..."
"Then do so. Quickly!"
He set her out in front of him and hurried her out of the maze of alleys to where his carriage was waiting. None too gently, he thrust her inside. Then with a last, grim look around he climbed in after her and rapped a signal to his coachman. The horses set off at a gallop.
Alex drew in several deep breaths and closed her eyes. Her mind was reeling with questions, but suddenly she felt very tired and her shoulder began to ache abominably. Unconsciously, she slumped sideways until she came in contact with something very solid and reassuringly warm. A slight shiver ran through her as she lay her head on Branford's shoulder. He shifted slightly and shrugged out of his greatcoat, then she felt the heavy wool enveloping her as he tucked it around her and pulled her close. With a small sigh, she relaxed against him, vaguely aware of an arm circling her waist. Then everything became very hazy.
The next thing Alex was aware of, Branford was drawing his coat tighter around her and guiding her down from the carriage and through a side door.
"Where are... "
He cut off her question by dropping the coat to the floor and sweeping her up into his arms. As he strode down the hallway they met his butler, who held a candle aloft in order to investigate the noise.
"Hot water and bandages in my chamber. Immediately!" shouted Branford as he went up the massive carved stairs two at a time.
Flinging open a heavy oaken door, he crossed the thick carpet, put her down on an immense four poster bed and turned to light a branch of candles.
"My lord, you have brought me to..."
"To my townhouse, Miss Chilton. I can hardly deposit you on your aunt's doorstep until I have ascertained the extent of your injury."
Alex sat up rather abruptly. "I assure you sir, it is nothing more than a scratch. You needn't..."