“Oh, no, Emmaline! Please untie him. Let him go.”
Whatever would her sister do next? At seventeen she was an eligible man’s worst nightmare. And this latest escapade—
“Don’t be such a bore, Lexie. ’Tis a great joke! For once, Papa will thank us. Especially when he finds out who it is we’ve got all trussed up.” Emmaline laughed her silvery, seductive laugh that drove men wild and irritated women excessively.
“Thank us! He is more like to beat us. You cannot capture someone and bring him here and…and just tie him up.”
“Of course I can. I already have. I shall lock the two of you in here together and then raise an outcry. Papa and the servants will come running and—” she waved her pretty hands in the air “—the rest will take care of itself. Papa’s investment problem will be solved, and with a bit of luck you might even be married by next week, sister.”
“Are you out of your mind?” grated an angry voice from the darkest corner of the garret.
“Ah, you’re awake!” trilled Emmaline.
Alexandra gulped. She was doing her best not to look at the near-naked man half-hidden in the shadows. But her eyes refused to behave. Stripped to the waist he was a wondrous sight, all muscle and taut sinew. His arms tensed and strained as he struggled to free himself. “Get me out of here,” he snarled.
Alexandra blinked and looked more closely. Her eyesight was not the best. She lifted a candle from the wall sconce and took a step forward. And another. “You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed.
He swivelled his head to look in her direction. “Sense at last. Yes, I’m bleeding. I’d be obliged if you’d free me from these bl—these ridiculous bonds.” There was a clanking rattle as he tried to move.
Good grief! Emmaline hadn’t just tied the man up. She’d chained him up. Alexandra closed her eyes for a few seconds. “Emmaline! How on earth did you manage—?”
“Davy did it for me. Well, he would fight, so Davy had to subdue him.”
“What did that witless boy do? Shoot the poor man?”
“Yes, actually. He did,” the man muttered.
Alexandra gasped. Her lips firmed as she struggled to subdue an outburst that would shock her stupid sister right down to her dainty pink toes. But she didn’t have time to trade words with Emmaline right now. Somehow she had to check that this poor man was well enough to be moved. Then she had to smuggle him down two flights of stairs and out of the house before this latest escapade was discovered.
First she must free him from his bonds.
She edged closer to the man and peered at the knots in the ropes, trying to avoid looking directly into his face. His voice had been imperative, used to command. He did not sound in the least as though he might be amenable to negotiation, yet somehow she must bargain with him to forgive them for this night’s events.
“Emmaline, what happened?”
Her sister shrugged. “It’s that Mr. Crombie who Papa hates so much—the man from the canal investment scheme that Papa was mad for until he heard Mr. Crombie was in charge of it.”
Good heavens! Papa had practically foamed at the mouth when he’d discovered one of his pet schemes required an entrée by way of recommendation from a Mr. Crombie. He’d been spluttering about the iniquity of Mr. Crombie ever since.
“But where did Mr. Crombie come from? I don’t understand.”
“Davy and I found him staggering around the Square. I think a footpad must have accosted him. His head was bleeding. He was incoherent and we couldn’t subdue him because he fought like a demon. He thought Davy was one of the footpads.”
Alexandra watched, horrified, as Mr. Crombie’s head sank on to his chest. He seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. “Davy shot him when he was already wounded? How could he?”
Emmaline shivered. “I know. I was too late to stop him.”
“Go and ask Davy for the key to this padlock.” Then as Emmaline stared at her mutinously, Alexandra rapped out, “Now!”
“Oh, very well. Spoilsport.” Emmaline flounced out the door.
Praying fervently that Davy would cooperate, Alexandra set the candle on the floor. She hoped it wouldn’t topple over and set the place afire. Or, just as bad, that it wouldn’t snuff out and leave her here in the gloom with their prisoner. She set to work on the hanks of hemp securing his ankles. Davy had an obsession with knots.
And a few other things. Poor, mad, dangerous Davy.
She tried to hurry but the pads of her fingers were already sore and she’d only undone one knot. Even supposing Emmaline found Davy, there was no guarantee the youth would co-operate although he was very fond of Emmaline. Too fond, Alexandra sometimes thought. When she’d remonstrated with Emmaline, her sister had become exasperated. “Alexandra, you are taking your older sister duties far too seriously,” she’d said. And Alexandra had wondered if, with their aunt reneging on her chaperone duties, she was indeed seeing problems where none existed. After all, Davy lived next door in Bayley House where his mother was the housekeeper and when Emmaline and Alexandra had first arrived in Town they’d thought him harmless and rather sweet. He was like one of the simple stable lads they’d known in Norwich. But lately Davy had become difficult. His rages were frightening because they seemed to spring out of nowhere. More to the point, Davy was a very large man.
Alexandra shivered. To be caught here between the prisoner and Davy in one of his moods was a nightmare. Her heart tried to thump its way out of her chest and she willed herself to calm down. She glanced at the blood trickling down the prisoner’s chest and licked her dry lips. “I will look at your wound as soon as I get you out of these bonds,” she murmured. Not that she knew anything about bullet wounds, but she had to do something.
At last! The second knot gave way and she stood up to loosen the last one. Mr. Crombie stayed quite still, saying nothing. She asked what she had been dying to ask him all along. “Why were you outside our house?”
“I wanted to see your father. He wrote me a filthy letter referring to the canal scheme I’ve organised. I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I thought it best to come and see him.”
“I see.”
The room reeked with the pungent mix of sweat, blood and candle grease.
Alexandra swallowed hard. She would have to reach across the prisoner’s chest to pick at the third bunch of knots. Holding her breath, she inched closer.
“I don’t bite,” he growled, “or if I do, it’s because I’ve been invited to do so.”
She froze, but refused to let him see how much he scared her. What did he mean, “…it’s because I’ve been invited to do so?” Why would someone ask you to bite them? Ridiculous. He was just trying to frighten her.
And succeeding.
Tightening her stomach muscles, she reached for his arm. The ropes around both arms were tied to sturdy wall hooks, but Davy must have decided a chain was needed for the man’s left arm. Perhaps Mr. Crombie was left-handed. She’d never realised before that Davy was a coward. He used his size to intimidate, but something about this man must have intimidated Davy, because the chain was looped several times around an iron spike wedged into the wall. She had to press against Mr. Crombie’s warm skin to deal with the last twist of knotted twine. Flicking a glance at him, she surprised a startled look on his chiselled face before he cloaked it with an impatient, surly expression.
In unison they inhaled, then each returned to their allotted task—she to untangle the knot and he to maintain his cold, angry stance.
“There,” she said at last, daring to touch him lightly on the arm before she stepped back. It was far too familiar a gesture for a well brought up young lady but this was not a ballroom. Nobody would ever know. Except them. And she doubted he cared. He just wanted to be set free. She struggled to sound matter-of-fact. “I’m sorry I can do nothing about the chain around your left arm. We must wait till Emmaline returns with Davy so he can unlock the padlock.”
Hot beads of moisture coated her fingers. Surreptitiously she rubbed them into her palms. Something was wrong. She looked up into his face again as he rotated the shoulder of his free arm. His teeth were gritted and rivulets of sweat coursed down his neck to meld with the trickles of blood on his magnificent chest.
“Sir, you are in great pain. Where exactly is the wound?”
He inclined his head towards his tethered arm and she peered into the shadows. When she got a good look, she hissed in her breath. It was an angry looking hole in the crease of his shoulder, and the way Davy had secured the chain was pulling the wound open painfully.
She could only be amazed at Mr. Crombie’s courage. “I am so sorry,” she said, horrified. “What happened?”
“It was that crazy halfling you call Davy,” he growled. “He bashed me on the head and was trying to pick my pockets. I couldn’t put up much of a fight because my head was ringing, but I tried. I must have been more of a challenge than I thought because the sod produced a pistol and shot me. Your sister came running up. She promised to get help but when I told her my name, she started laughing. Is anyone in your family sane?”
“It’s just that the name Crombie seems to set our father afire,” Alexandra explained. “We do not know why.”
“Nor do I know why the man wrote me a vicious letter full of innuendoes I do not understand. It seems to have something to do with the canal investment prospectus I prepared.”
Alexandra ignored his last sentence. She chewed her lip. “What on earth was my sister doing in the Square at night?”
“Miss Tallis, I have no idea. The little I’ve seen of your sister leads me to believe the young woman most likely had an illicit assignation with a lover. Or she might be meeting with a moneylender to—”
He must have seen the scandalised expression on her face because he stopped traducing Emmaline and winced as he changed position.
“Is the—is the ball lodged in your shoulder?”
“Either that or there’s someone in there jabbing me with a hot jagged poker.”
“Oh, Lord. When…” Her voice died away as the garret door was shoved open and the resultant breeze blew out her candle.
“Miss? What are you doing?” came Davy’s sing-song voice. Through the gloom she saw him shambling towards her.
“H-hello Davy!” she said brightly, backing away. The last time she’d had words with Davy, his anger had terrified her. He would not be crossed.
And she’d just tried to free his prisoner.
Emmaline trailed behind him, holding on to his coat. “Give me the key and come away, Davy,” she coaxed. “There’s a good boy. I am not hurt and Alexandra is not hurt. That’s all that matters.”
Davy ignored her and lunged towards Alexandra.
She backed against Mr. Crombie’s legs for protection.
“Mine!” Davy yelled, gesticulating at the prisoner. Mr. Crombie grabbed Alexandra with his free arm and tucked her beside him. With his bare foot he booted Davy’s chin and Davy dropped like a stone, bashing his head on the floor for good measure.
“Bloody hell! I think I’ve broken my toe,” Mr. Crombie muttered. “What a circus. Tie him up quickly,” he advised Alexandra. “When he wakes we might not be able to control him.” Slowly he released her.
Alexandra was having difficulty breathing. It might have been the fear of Davy’s irrational anger, or it might have been the startling sensation of being clamped to Mr. Crombie’s side as he steadied her. Through the jaconet muslin of her dress she had felt the corded muscles of his arm.
Reluctantly she bent down to gather the pieces of rope she had discarded. “Quick, Emmaline. Help me.”
“Do it yourself. I have other fish to fry. I am already late.” Emmaline whirled around and the door slammed behind her.
Obviously Emmaline had been going out to meet someone when she’d seen Davy and Mr. Crombie. Alexandra firmed her lips, trying not to cry. Anger and fear warred with each other. She was in a dark, isolated room with two men, one of whom she knew nothing about and the other who was renowned for his uncertain behaviour. And Emmaline, angry as a hornet with her sister, was running around in the dark meeting God-knew-who in the mood to do something really stupid.
Above her, her saviour’s voice muttered, “Selfish little—” He bit off the last word.
That was true, but Alexandra understood her sister. Cooped up in their house on the outskirts of Norwich, Emmaline had dreamed for years of one perfect Season in London. Well, they’d got their Season and it had been a disaster. Their chaperone was useless and their father had no acquaintances in London under the age of forty. Disappointment and despair were eating at Emmaline’s usually happy disposition. They were faced with the prospect of returning to Norwich soon without so much as a beau between them.
Alexandra tied Davy’s ankles together, knotting the ends of the rope several times. “Tie his hands together before you go searching for the key,” Mr. Crombie advised. “He might wake up swinging his fists.”
“Oh…yes,” Alexandra murmured. Mr. Crombie was remarkably helpful.
She clenched her hands and screwed up the courage to poke in the pockets of Davy’s smelly moleskins. No key. Holding her breath, she bent over and unbuttoned his jacket, fearful that at any moment he would awaken, belligerent and wrathful. She had to force her unwilling fingers to poke inside the pockets.
“Got it!” she said at last, holding it up. She turned to show Mr. Crombie and caught him watching her with a half-smile. It was the first time she’d seen anything except a dour expression on his face. What had amused him?
She scrambled away from Davy’s prone body and stood on tiptoe to insert the key into the padlock above the prisoner’s head. Using her sense of touch, she managed to slot the key in place. “There!” she said triumphantly.
Slowly Mr. Crombie lowered his arm and she stepped back, her heart racing.
He grasped the elbow of his injured arm with his good hand to support it. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. “Your main problem lies over there.” He nodded towards Davy.
“I-I know,” she muttered. “What shall we do now?”
Mr. Crombie flexed his neck and shoulders and the breath whistled out between his teeth as a spasm of pain crossed his face.
“You need a surgeon,” Alexandra fussed, “but how can I bring one here?”
He shook his head, and in the darkness his eyes gleamed. “You can’t. First, we’ll get Davy out of here. Where does he live?”
“Next door at Bayley House.”
“Good. That’s not too difficult at any rate.” Mr. Crombie prowled over to the wall sconce and picked up a candle. “Somehow we must get him downstairs and outside. What becomes of him after that…” He shrugged and winced again.
Alexandra didn’t care what happened to Davy. She would never forgive him for this night’s work.
She peered out the tiny window. “’Tis still full dark. If he stays unconscious I might be able to—” She trailed off. Alone, she could do nothing. Davy was a big man.
“Could you carry his feet?” Mr. Crombie asked. “If so, I can manage the rest of him.”
“But sir, your shoulder!”
“There’s no help for it, Alexandra.”
He’d called her ‘Alexandra.’ In all the to-do he’d remembered her name. She smiled to herself in the darkness.
Davy must weigh a ton. Alexandra’s thighs ached as, stooping, she backed carefully out of the door and along the short corridor leading to the servants’ stairs.
Here things became difficult. Trussed up like a rigid parcel, Davy was very awkward to manipulate around the corner of the narrow attic staircase. She heard Mr. Crombie draw in his breath a couple of times, and as they neared the next level where wall sconces flickered, fresh blood spatters dotted Davy’s jacket.
Her heart contracted. Poor Mr. Crombie. He must be in abominable pain. Oh, she so desperately hoped this would be over soon. Well, more or less. Walking backwards, she was afforded an excellent view of Mr. Crombie’s chest. She’d never seen a man’s naked chest before, but she was sure Mr. Crombie’s was exceptional. Muscles bunched and tautened as he struggled to bear the brunt of Davy’s weight.
Fortunately no doors opened as they shuffled along the hallway towards the next flight of stairs. As they passed, the big long-case clock in the hall bonged the hour and Alexandra nearly jumped out of her skin. Mr. Crombie stifled a laugh.
Then they were into the kitchens, home and free. The dying fire still glowed and Mr. Crombie untied the ropes around Davy’s hands and ankles and tossed them into the grate. Together they rolled the inert Davy out of the back door onto the flagstones in the kitchen garden. At the last minute Alexandra’s conscience smote her and she tossed a rug over him. Then she quickly slammed the kitchen door shut and locked it.
Heaving a thankful sigh, she wiped her hands on her skirts. There was a loud thunk behind her and she spun around. Mr. Crombie had folded up like a parasol. He’d collapsed on to a kitchen stool, his head bowed. He tried to lean forward to prop his good elbow on the kitchen table but missed and his elbow skidded off the edge. Alexandra heard him groan, then curse fluently and at great length. His head drooped as he hunched over the table.
She must think of something to ease his pain. Quickly. It wasn’t fair that this man should suffer because of Davy and her sister. “Would brandy help, sir?” she whispered.
He nodded, his eyes slitting open for a second. In the firelight she saw that they were a rich brown.
She sped into the stillroom adjoining the butler’s pantry and grabbed the pantry key off the hook where Fawcett hid it from the staff. It was dark in the pantry. Groping around, the only bottle she could find was a flagon on the top shelf. Bringing it out to the light, she peered at the label.
“Armagnac. Is this right?” she asked doubtfully, dumping the flagon on the table.
Mr. Crombie answered with another question. “Your father drinks smuggled brandy?”
Alexandra shrugged. “I have no idea.” She became absorbed in pouring him a glass of the golden-red brandy.
Mr. Crombie’s even white teeth glinted in the firelight. “Wise girl,” he commented, and drained the glass with one gulp. “Another please. Then somehow I must get out of here.”
Alexandra was conscious of a disappointed, sinking feeling. Of course he had to go. What was she thinking? As she poured him a second glassful he glanced up and said, “You are not at all like your sister.”
Alexandra grimaced. The world had been saying that since Emmaline was born. She knew very well she couldn’t hold a candle to the brightness of Emmaline’s sun.
You should be darned grateful I’m not like Emmaline, she thought, otherwise you and I would have been caught by Papa. He would be fussing and fuming and yelling. And no doubt Papa would have derived the best possible advantage from the situation. He would have pushed his way on to the list of canal investors and probably married her off to Mr. Crombie to boot.
“I know,” she said aloud.
He stared at her for a moment, the treacle brown eyes softening. “I didn’t mean it in a negative sense,” he said quietly. “You are worth ten of your sister.”
“Oh!” Nobody had ever said that before. Then she noticed that his eyes were fixed on the gaping neckline of her new dress. She had left off her fichu since they had dined en famille this evening. Mr. Crombie seemed to think that was a good thing. Alexandra felt an odd sensation, as if she were hot and cold at the same time. Concentrate, Alexandra, she told herself. Just because he’s the most fascinating male you’ve ever met, doesn’t mean you have to make a fool of yourself. She took a deep breath. “Sir, do you live far from here?”
He shook his head. “Not far at all—in Great Jermyn Street. But I’m not sure I can walk even that short distance at the moment—”
She shook her head. “I was thinking, sir, that I could wake Jemmy and he could carry a message to your man.”
“Jemmy?”
“He runs errands and helps in the kitchen.”
There was a hopeful look in Mr. Crombie’s brown eyes. “Won’t this Jemmy tell your father what happened here tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back. Oh, Jemmy would tell her father all right. Papa ruled his household with a rod of iron and any failure to disclose such an event would mean instant dismissal without a reference at the very least.
But Jemmy wouldn’t be able to carry tales to her father until tomorrow, and by then Mr. Crombie would be safe. As for her, it would mean another three or four days confined to her room. Her father seemed to delight in confining her to her bedchamber for the least transgression. At least this time she would have something to think about as she paced the floor, bored and lonely.
She tapped on the door at the back of the kitchens where Jemmy and the boot-boy slept. Jemmy dragged on his jacket as he came through the doorway. “Miss?” He must sleep in his clothes. Blinking in the firelight, he listened to Mr. Crombie’s instructions, then opened the back door and sped out into the night.