Lyn Stone Page 2

  Only after she crossed the Thames from Southwark, and knew she had escaped her immediate nightmare, did she pause to think about where she was going next. Her knowledge of London was rudimentary at best.

  Did she dare turn to Duquesne? Did she have a choice?

  Would he or anyone else help her if Clive had already put it about that she was insane? She had made a scene at the Danson’s soiree, there was no escaping that.

  Was that one of the incidents of hysteria he would use to convince people? To tell the truth, she had not felt at all herself that evening and could scarcely remember much of what she had said and done. How long had he been planning to spirit her away and lock her up? Had he even drugged her that night to make her seem mad?

  She leaned against the solid brick wall of a deserted haberdasher’s shop and shuddered like a leaf in a fierce wind. Tears covered her face and filled her throat and chest. Her breath came in gasps, her head ached to perdition and her knees felt weak as water.

  No matter how hard she tried, Lily could not decide what she should do next. What a sheltered existence she had led before her marriage and even after Jonathan had died. No one would protect her now that she needed it. Her father, gone. Her husband, gone. Her son, too young. Her brother-in-law, dangerous. Suddenly furious that no one had given her any preparation in fending for herself, Lily cursed. Right out loud.

  All she had wanted thus far was to live a quiet life in the country and to raise her beloved son to shoulder his responsibilities and be a kind and loving man like his father. Since she was twelve or so, her own father had drummed into her that’s what she should aspire to. A lot of good that had done.

  Anger was a stranger to her, this horrid, all-consuming rage she felt now. And yet she was thankful for it. At least her fury had lent her the impetus to act and kept her from being paralyzed by her fear. She would not give in to the fear now that she had come this far.

  Dare she trust Duquesne not to send her directly back to Clive once she related what had happened? Or should she follow through with the outrageous idea prompted by the letters she had found in Brinks’s pocket?

  That she would even consider seeking out such a dangerous man brought an even more troubling question to mind. Was it possible Clive was justified? Could she truly be insane?

  Guy watched his ancient butler, Bodkins, shuffle just inside the doorway. The poor old bloke should be in bed, but he’d be up and around even after Guy retired for the night. How Bodkins managed at his age was indeed a mystery.

  It was nigh on nine o’clock. One more entry to make in the accounts and he would have them up to date. A first. He picked a bit of lint off the point of his pen and frowned at the stain on his thumbnail. “Yes, what is it, Boddy?”

  “A young gent’s arrived, milord. A Mr. Pinks.”

  “Brinks?” That appointment was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Unless Boddy had forgotten to mention it had been changed. The old fellow’s hearing had all but deserted him and his memory was not what it should be.

  Ah, well, Brinks was here, might as well have done with it. He would either do for the position or he wouldn’t. Shouldn’t take long to discover which. “Very well. Send him in.” When Bodkins remained where he was, Guy repeated, louder this time.

  Bodkins made a slow turn and retraced his steps. Guy shook his head sadly, wondering how much longer he could afford to allow the old dear to keep working. Putting him out to pasture would surely kill him, but if he stayed on here…

  “Lord Duquesne,” Bodkins announced, his ancient voice cracking. He cleared his throat noisily. “Mr. Pinks to see you.”

  Guy looked up and smiled. Charm never hurt and often helped where employees were concerned. “Mr. Brinks. Good of you to come.”

  He reached over to adjust the flame in the lamp. The lighting was insufficient even then. The dark walls of the house seemed to drink up light like thirsty sponges.

  Guy regarded his visitor, trying not to do so through narrowed eyes. Damn, he’d be needing spectacles one of these days if he didn’t spring for more lamps.

  Economizing had become too ingrained a habit when it had been necessary. Even though he wished to keep up the appearance of penury, he might have to adjust spending for a few of his private needs.

  He studied Brinks. The bloke was too slightly built for the employment Guy had in mind. And too young, obviously. But perhaps he might work as an assistant to Mimms, someone to fetch and carry things. Taking care of the earl was a time-consuming and physically demanding task, and the valet was aging. Guy had decided that two attendants would be better than one. He almost winced at the thought of the added expense. Habits died hard.

  He forced a pleasant expression. “I thought we were to meet tomorrow morning.”

  “There…there was a sudden change of plan,” Brinks said hesitantly. “I am most eager for the job and free to leave immediately. Now. Tonight. If you’ll furnish transportation, I could go on ahead, sir.”

  His voice was rather high-pitched. And he seemed frightened, ducking his head that way. This would never do. If he feared a sane man, he would surely quail in the presence of one as unstable as the earl.

  “Well, I haven’t exactly hired you yet, now have I? Were you sacked?” Guy asked directly.

  “No, my lord. I have two letters of recommendation.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Of course.” Hesitantly the lad crossed the room, his steps tentative, his head still bowed.

  “Come, come, let’s have them,” Guy ordered, beckoning impatiently.

  As Brinks complied, Guy noted the softness of the ungloved hand that offered the envelopes. The well-tended nails were slightly dirty. Guy would have preferred some indication the bloke could work, and failing that, that he would at least be conscientious about cleanliness.

  Quickly he took out the pages and gave them a perfunctory read. One was from a Sir Alexander Morison who had been physician to Hoxton’s hospital for the insane three years before. The other from the chief administrator who worked there now. By all reports, Mr. John Brinks was a dedicated employee who was never late and always conscientious in the performance of his assigned duties.

  Guy laid the letters aside and spread his palms flat on his desk, regarding his visitor with some amusement. “Do you think I might see something other than the top of your head? You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Mr. Brinks?”

  The face appeared then, limned with warm light from the lamp that sat just to one side of the applicant. Guy’s breath caught at the sight.

  Small wonder the boy had kept his head down. Any fellow that pretty would have a damned difficult time obtaining employment anywhere other than on a stage playing female roles. Or perhaps in an institution where his unusual looks would probably go unremarked by his charges.

  However, something was wrong here. Brinks hardly looked old enough to have worked three years anywhere other than as a student at school.

  “What is your age?” Guy asked, his interested gaze traveling the length of the slender, graceful frame and back to the youthful face.

  “Twenty-six, my lord. Nearly twenty-seven.”

  “The devil you say.” Guy scoffed and shook his head. “Well, even so, I regret I can’t hire you. You won’t suit.”

  “Why not?” The words were a mere whisper.

  “Because you are too small, for one thing. This will require someone with greater strength than yours. Sorry.”

  Brinks didn’t move.

  “Oh.” Guy realized he still had the reference letters spread out on the desk. He quickly replaced them in the envelopes and handed them back. “I wish you luck in securing another position, Mr. Brinks. And again, thank you for responding.”

  Even with that obvious a dismissal, Brinks still didn’t leave. He seemed unable to stir.

  “Is there something else?” Guy asked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

  “You must hire me, my lord. Please. Indeed, I must leave London immediately. The
sooner, the better.”

  Guy studied the unique features carefully. Apprehension lit the earnest dark blue eyes framed with long lashes. Color heightened the cheekbones any woman would kill to possess. Lips, naturally full and red a moment earlier, were now firmed to a pale tight line of desperation.

  “Why so eager to get away, Mr. Brinks? Explain and I might be inclined to help you.”

  Confusion reigned for a full minute, then a sigh rent the air. “A patient, my lord. He’s been released from the hospital and has come after me. I dare not even return to my rooms to collect my things. This man is dangerous. He has threatened my life!”

  A lie, of course. Easily detected, too. Guy wondered whether Brinks realized the girlish pitch that ensued with the pleading. Interesting. “How is it that this dangerous individual was released?”

  “A…mistake, my lord.”

  Guy crossed his arms and ran a finger over his lips thoughtfully. “I thought all of the criminals at Bedlam had been removed to Broadmoor some time ago.”

  “This man has committed no crime that I know of. Yet. In his confused state, he blames me for his confinement in hospital because I was the one to…to take care of him.”

  “Ah. And how has he threatened your life? How? Be specific, please,” Guy ordered.

  “Well, uh, he’s been following me.” Brinks swallowed hard, obviously struggling to control the fidgets. Unused to lying this way, Guy figured.

  “Following you, eh?” he asked, encouraging further elaboration.

  “Yes, and going about Town claiming to be me on occasion. He has even charged some things to my accounts at several shops! I dare not even show myself about the city for fear some will take me as the imposter.”

  “My word, what a dastardly thing for him to do!” Guy exclaimed, becoming more fascinated by the minute with this Banbury tale. “Do tell, what else has he done?”

  “I fear to guess, my lord. Please, could you furnish me with transportation of some sort and send me on to Edgefield this very night?”

  “I see. And if I should do this, you feel you would be safe?”

  The nod was almost frantic. “I believe so. I would be most beholden to you if you would arrange it. I promise I would work hard and care for your father as if he were my own.” A slight pause ensued. “For as long as I am there.”

  Guy straightened in his chair and leaned forward. “You know of Edgefield? How is that? The place of employment was never mentioned in my query to your director.”

  Brinks hesitated, then took a deep breath. “That is where your father resides, is it not?”

  “I prefer my father’s place of residence to remain undisclosed. Most people believe he is at our family seat in Northumberland and I prefer they continue to believe that. You will tell no one of this, do you hear?”

  “Of course not, my lord.” Brinks shifted, either unable or unwilling to fabricate any further explanation.

  Guy meant to find how this bit of information had got out. “You obviously know more of my circumstances than is warranted. Are you from Kent yourself?”

  “Uh…I hail from nearby Maidstone. I suppose I must have overheard someone say…” The explanation drifted away to an uncomfortable silence.

  Guy knew it was useless to continue in that vein. He would have to be more direct. There was definitely something peculiar here and he needed to find out what it was.

  This application was no jest, he was sure of that now. Desperation and fear ran deep in those troubled eyes that were avoiding his.

  Playing at this no longer proved amusing and it was time to end it.

  Guy stood. “The interview is now concluded. I do believe you need help,” he said with all honesty.

  “Then you will hire me? I may leave London now?” Relief softened the face to the point where it was no longer merely pretty.

  Guy frowned at the realization. With the worst edge of terror alleviated, Brinks had transformed into an exquisite beauty.

  “No, you are not hired,” he answered emphatically as he leaned forward over his desk, resting his weight on his palms, his face scarcely two feet distant from the frightened applicant.

  “Please, sir! You must!”

  Guy shook his head slowly. “I believe it’s time for you to abandon this farce and tell me why a young woman would hack off her hair, don a cheap suit of clothes and seek out employment as a man. It is a dangerous charade, dear girl, whatever your reasons. Are you mad?”

  Chapter Two

  Lily ran, her last hope fleeing faster than her feet. She flung open the door, dashed out into the hallway and ran headlong into the old butler.

  With a cry and a grunt, they fell sprawling, a tangle of arms and legs. Before she could scramble to her feet, a large hand manacled her wrist.

  “Be still!” Duquesne thundered, crouching over her like a fiend from hell. His tawny hair tumbled across his brow. His piercing eyes, the gray of deadly steel, devoid now of former pleasantness, dared her to move. His jaw clenched and his full lips firmed in a grimace.

  Lily cringed. The vise of his fingers loosened, but he did not release her as his attention turned to the elderly servant.

  “Boddy? Easy now. Don’t try to rise too soon. Is anything broken?” He spoke loudly, but with what seemed tender concern.

  She watched, amazed at the way he handled his servant, encouraging him to tentatively test his neck, back and each limb. Then Duquesne stood and assisted the old man to his feet, dragging Lily upright much less carefully with his other hand.

  “None the worse, m’lord,” croaked the old man who was frowning at her.

  “Thank God for that,” Duquesne said with a gust of relief. He raised his voice again, but not in anger. “Even so, I believe you’d best go and lie down. Lean on me and we’ll make for your room.”

  The butler straightened and stood away, jutting out his pointy chin and adjusting his waistcoat. One palsied hand patted down the long strands of gray that had previously covered his shiny bald dome.

  His squinty gaze focused on Lily’s wrist, still caught fast in Duquesne’s grip. “I shall summon the night watch.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Duquesne declared. “Off to bed with you, and that’s an order.” His firm words echoed in the cavernous hallway.

  “As you wish, m’lord.” The butler shot a threatening look at Lily and shuffled off into the shadows mumbling to himself.

  Duquesne forced her back into his study and over to one of the high-backed leather chairs. “Sit,” he ordered, letting go of her arm and turning to close the door.

  He looked fierce. And terribly handsome, a tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man with strong classic features and a supremely self-confident air.

  That had been the first thing she had noticed about him, how handsome he was. She had known handsome men before, several of them. Bounders, the lot. For instance, Clive was handsome. Her husband Jonathan had not been. Consequently, the attribute of good looks did absolutely nothing in the way of recommending trust in this man.

  The concern he had shown to his servant obviously did not extend to her.

  He drew up to his full, considerable height, his hands on his hips. “Now either you will explain yourself or I shall haul you to the magistrate and have him determine why you applied for employment with false references.”

  Lily could not think of any lie that might elicit his aid any better than the truth would do. Earlier she had considered simply laying the situation before him and pleading for help. She wished she had done that at the outset. Her chances might have been better. Now she had no choice.

  All she had wanted was the means to reach home, to make certain her son was safe and not in Clive’s clutches. Since she had already been dressed for the part and no one—not the men at the hospital, the hack driver or the old butler himself—had paused to question her gender this evening, Lily had believed playing out her charade as Brinks might work. Unfortunately she had not anticipated the keen eye of Lord Duque
sne.

  She had elected not to trust a man about whom she knew nothing. Well, hardly anything past one brief encounter when she was a child and current rumors of his rough existence. Lily was aware, of course, that Edgemont, one of his father’s estates, lay adjacent to that of her son. She had heard that Duquesne’s father, the earl, was sequestered there and that Duquesne had chosen some years ago to reside permanently in London.

  If Brinks had not mentioned his name tonight, she would never have thought to come here. The problem was, Lily knew more about Duquesne—little as that was—than she did about anyone else in London.

  This house declared more about the current state of his finances than she might have guessed. There was little furniture in evidence, at least in the foyer, hallway and his study. No paintings, sculptures or any other trappings of wealth. Except for this room, what she had seen of the place thus far made it look abandoned and uninhabited.

  The chair in which she sat badly needed repair and the ancient velvet draperies at the window appeared threadbare even in the low light cast by the lamp. For the first time she noticed that the bookshelves lining three walls of the chamber were almost completely bare.

  A fragile hope bloomed. Perhaps, if she could not appeal to Duquesne’s honor, he could be bought. Everyone knew he needed money. Why else would he do what he did? But he was a solitary soul and that was evident, too. Perhaps he liked his circumstances just as they were. Then again, perhaps not. She must take the chance, Lily decided. She would purchase his protection, whatever the cost.

  His clothing gave her pause. It was not cheap, by any means. The nankeen trousers were obviously tailor-made for his form. The linen shirt, though wrinkled, was, also. Over that he wore a long open robe of cut velvet that must have come dear, though it was old and somewhat out of style.

  She noted his feet were bare. Long, narrow and pale, they imparted just a note of vulnerability that made him seem human.

  He now leaned against the front of the scarred old desk, arms folded over his massive chest, ankles crossed, and waited for her confession. “Well?”

  Lily cleared her throat and sat forward, hands clasped on her knees. She looked up at him, feeling like a penitent and hating it. “I must throw myself upon your mercy, my lord, and hope that you will afford me protection.”