How to Tame Your Duke(53)

"I would rather you didn't. I have an errand to run before returning."

"I see."

"Emilie." He fixed his arms behind his back to keep himself from touching her. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes."

"If you're having second thoughts about tomorrow, I can stop everything. I'll tell Olympia . . ."

"No! No. I want this over with."

"I don't like it. You know that. There are other ways."

"It's my decision," she said.

She stood so regally, her back straight, her chin tilted. Her golden  hair was parted neatly and gleamed with submission before disappearing  into a snug chignon at the back of her neck. She reminded him of a  citadel, all smooth stone walls and high battlements. He wanted to throw  up his grappling hook and scale her, but the very thought of the act  seemed profane. As if he might scar her, might mar the perfect fortress  of her.                       
       
           



       

Where was Emily, behind Emilie's polished walls? Where was Grimsby?

"There are other ways," he said again. "I have a special license in my  pocket this instant. You are above the age of consent; we can be married  before dinner. We can go away, wherever you like."

"Nonsense. I intend to see this through. For my sisters' sake, if nothing else."

A flash of white showed between the fingers of her right hand: a balled-up handkerchief.

"Very well. Either way, I have made the necessary preparations. In the  meantime, I have something for you." He withdrew an envelope from his  jacket pocket and held it out to her.

"What is it?" She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and took the  envelope. He looked at her wrist. He wanted to strip away that sleeve,  to strip away the dress itself, to gorge himself on her nakedness. He  wanted to tumble her backward into that bed, or possibly forward, and  make love to her until she was crying with pleasure, until she was  laughing out loud, until she was herself again.

He swallowed heavily. "It arrived in the post at Eaton Square, addressed to you."

She looked at the black scrawl on the envelope and gasped.

"Do you recognize it?" he asked.

Her gaze lifted to his, eyes wide with excitement, apprehension vanished. "It's from my sister."





TWENTY-TWO




The thin light of the gas lamps shifted across Ashland's face as the  carriage rounded the corner of Cheyne Walk later that night, making his  ruined face even more terrifying than usual. His thunderous expression  didn't help. "I am a fool for letting you talk me into this."

"It's perfectly safe. You're with me, and nobody in London knows me as  Grimsby. Well, except Freddie, and he's hardly an anarchist. A  principled one, at any rate."

"This is not the time for jokes."

"Yes, it is." Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She glanced out the  window at the passing shadows of the houses, the lurid pools of gaslight  on the pavement. "I'm going to see my sister. My sister, Ashland! You  don't know what this means to me." She reached out and wrapped her hand  around his enormous knee.

"You're certain it was her handwriting? There could be no mistake?" He ignored her hand.

"As certain as I am of my own."

"This chap she's bringing. Is she a decent judge of character? You've no idea who he might be?"

"He must be the man my uncle placed her with, and you know Olympia's judgment is impeccable."

A grunting noise rumbled from his chest. He folded his arms. "I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it. Only try to be happy for me, will you?"

The carriage lurched over a rut, dislodging Emilie's hand and flinging  her off balance. Like a snake, Ashland's arm flashed out to steady her.  His grip encompassed her entire shoulder.

"A quarter of an hour," he said. "No more."

The carriage slowed. Albert Bridge loomed ahead, the approach shrouded with trees.

Ashland reached inside his overcoat, drew out a pistol, laid it in his lap. "You have your stiletto?"

"Put that away. Yes, I do." She craned her head against the window,  trying to make out the shapes outside in the thickening river fog. The  carriage jolted to a stop, and she reached for the handle just as  Ashland's hand closed over hers.

"I go first," he said. He gripped the pistol with his left hand and  cocked it with a nimble motion of his stump. His chin jerked, motioning  her to open the carriage door for him.

The dank Thames air rushed across Emilie's cheeks. Ashland swung to the  ground in a lithe and silent movement, like the enormous African cat she  had imagined him, back in the library at Ashland Abbey. He tossed a  single soft word back to the driver.

"Wait," he said to Emilie. "Stay back in the carriage until I've called you."

Emilie's hand fisted around the edge of the door. Ashland took a step  forward, and another. "Holstein," he called out, in a low and carrying  voice.

"Huhnhof," came the faint reply.

Ashland made a quick motion with his right arm. Emilie slithered down  the carriage step and came up behind him, in the shelter of his broad  back, looking around his shoulder to the charcoal smudges of the  Embankment.

A shape emerged. "Ashland, by God."

"Hatherfield?" Ashland lowered his pistol.

"She's right in the bushes behind . . ." the man's voice began, but the  rest was lost in a rush of footsteps, a flying missile of wool and damp  skin that flung itself past Ashland and swept up Emilie in a  bone-crushing embrace.                       
       
           



       

"Stefanie!" Emilie gasped out, hugging her back, crying, shaking. She  pushed the coat-clad shoulders away and grasped her sister by the  cheeks. "It's you!"

* * *

The Marquess of Hatherfield coughed discreetly. "Does have a rather . . . a rather odd appearance, don't it?"

Ashland glanced at the two figures embracing on the bench ten yards  away, on whose four trousered legs only the faintest trace of gaslight  gleamed. Emilie had taken off her bowler hat, and Stefanie was touching  her hair, exclaiming at its shortness.

He kicked his toe at the gravel. "Is she really a ginger?"

"Beyond a doubt," Hatherfield said blandly.

A squeal of delight issued from the bench, followed by an answering squeal of equal pitch.

"What the devil are they talking about?" Ashland said.

"Us, old man. Us."

"How do you know that?"

"Four sisters. And a stepmother."

A hansom cab trotted by in a wet rattle of hooves and wheels. Ashland  watched it travel along the Embankment and up Cheyne Walk. The fog was  already growing denser, cold and greasy against his skin. "Five  minutes," he called out gently.

The two figures on the bench paid no attention. They were holding hands  now, chattering like birds. Their words mingled and overlapped, an  astonishing tangle of verbiage. How the devil did they make each other  out?

"Women," said Hatherfield. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

"Have you had any trouble?" Ashland asked.

Hatherfield sighed a weary sigh. "Nothing but trouble, old man. You?"

"I mean this sort of trouble." Ashland nodded to the thick and expectant  shadows around them. "Threats, attacks. Has anyone found you out?"

"No, no. Lying low."

"Stay low, Hatherfield. Stay low. You've heard about the ball tomorrow?"

"Invitation arrived a week ago."

"Don't go. Don't let her go. Do you understand me?"

Stefanie's giggle rang in the air. At least Ashland assumed it was  Stefanie. He'd certainly never heard Emilie make such a sound.

"I see," said Hatherfield.

"Yes."

Another hansom rattled by, followed by a carriage. A drunken voice rolled faintly from the boats moored nearby in the river.

Ashland called out, "Two minutes."

On the last syllable, a sense of movement caught his attention: a noise,  or perhaps intuition, because the movement came on his blind right  side.

He turned. A dull gleam flashed from the fog-shrouded shadow of a clump of trees.

"Secure the women," he said to Hatherfield, and he launched himself toward the trees.

A loud crack split the air. Cries erupted from the bench behind him.

Another stride, and he was flying into the shadows, colliding with a solid wool-padded figure.

"Oof," it said.

The gun flew to the pavement. Ashland kicked it away with his boot and  shot his left fist into the man's jaw. His head snapped backward; he  toppled to the ground like a felled tree.

Ashland leaned down and gathered the man's collar in his fist. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

The man's hand moved; a flash of metal caught the gaslight. With a  single motion, Ashland released the collar and thrust his right elbow  downward into the man's wrist. A faint crunch, and the knife dropped to  the stones with a clank. The man howled with pain.