Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch. Miranda Jarrett

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СКАЧАТЬ you fancy a constable knockin’ on his door wit’ a warrant for hidin’ a lady’s gown? That constable’d be lookin’ for work for certain if’n he tried that!”

      She giggled again, her red-knuckled fingers over her mouth, and Jeremiah forced himself to smile in return. As foolish as the little creature was, what she said was all too true, and it echoed Desire’s warnings, too. No matter how convinced he was that Lady Byfield was being held against her will, he’d never be able to find an English judge to agree with him against George Stanhope. If he wanted to free her, he’d have to do it himself.

      “Don’t judge me bold for askin’, sir,” the girl was saying, swaying her hips suggestively beneath her apron as she looked up at him from under her stubby lashes, “but do all American men be so tall an’ comely?”

      “Nay, lass, not at all,” he answered, his face impassive. “In Rhode Island I’m rated a poor fifth-rate runtling, not worth the trouble to feed or keep. Why else do you think I’ve been sent here?”

      The girl gasped, speechless at the possibilities. Jeremiah chucked her beneath the chin and patted her cheek. “Good day to you now, darling. The lady I’m seeking is dark haired, not fair, but I still thank you for your help.”

      He lifted his hat and turned away, but she moved quickly, blocking his path with her basket.

      “Sir, oh sir!” she said, smiling as coquettishly as she could. “My name’s Betsy White, sir, an’ tonight’s my turn t’ step out t’ visit my sister. She lives in Tower Street, does my sister, the last house near the pump, an’ she don’t mind if I have friends.”

      “Miss Betsy, then.” This time he was able to dodge the girl and her basket. “Your sister in Tower Street, this very night. You can be sure I won’t forget it, lass.”

      He wouldn’t, either. He didn’t want anyone in Stanhope’s house who might recognize him tonight when he came back for Lady Byfield.

      With another war imminent, many of the ships in the channel fleet had returned to Portsmouth for a final victualing and refitting before once again settling into the necessary tedium of blockading the French coast. Ships in port meant sailors in town, and the streets of the town were crowded with crews celebrating one last, boisterous shore leave.

      Jeremiah was thankful for the sailors’ excesses. Although the citizens of Portsmouth were generally tolerant of rollicking strangers, tonight decent folk would prefer their own company and keep to their houses. Even on this quiet street, no one would notice another man who kept to the shadows, albeit one who glanced repeatedly at the bright three-quarter moon for solace against the darkness around him.

      He waited in the park across the street from Stanhope’s house, watching until the last curtains were drawn and the lights put out for the night. To his surprise, Stanhope left in a carriage with several companions, all laughing and dressed for evening amusements. Though he knew he should be relieved that Stanhope had left Caro, Jeremiah was more disappointed. He’d anticipated thrashing Stanhope in his own house. Touching the pistols in his belt for reassurance, he crossed the street and rapped on the front door with his knuckles.

      A sleepy-eyed footman finally opened the door a crack, his nightcap askew as he peered at Jeremiah. “Shove off before you wake your betters, Jack,” he ordered, seeing the rough, anonymous sailor’s clothing Jeremiah had chosen, “else I’ll call the watch on you. We’ve no use for your sort in this neighborhood.”

      But as he began to shut the door, Jeremiah braced his shoulder against the heavy oak and thrust the barrel of one of the pistols through the opening and against the footman’s ribs. The man made a garbled, gasping sound as he stared at the pistol, his hands fluttering off the doorjamb as he backed away. “Spare me, sir, oh sir, please don’t kill me, not even the master’s plate’s worth my life!”

      “Nay, I’d wager it don’t even come close,” growled Jeremiah as he forced his way into the house and shoved the door shut. A night-light hung overhead, the light from the floating wick tinted pale blue by the lantern’s glass, the footman’s round face beneath it ghastly pale. “Look at how you’re all aquiver, you yellow-bellied little coward!”

      “Please, sir, I beg your mercy! The master don’t keep no hard money in the house, but I swear on my mother’s honor that the pitchers there on that table are sterling, and—”

      “Don’t want ‘em,” said Jeremiah. “Where’s the lady Stanhope brought here yesterday?”

      The man’s mouth turned down. “At the top of the last stairs, in Addy’s old room. The door’s locked, but the key’s hanging on the peg opposite for Mrs. Warren.”

      “The devil take you if you play me false!”

      “I swear it’s true! But the master’s orders—”

      “Do you think I give a damn about that bastard’s orders?” Jeremiah jerked his head toward the adjoining room. “In there with you, and be quick about it.”

      “Oh, no, sir, I won’t let you kill me like that!” Clutching his nightcap, the man turned to run, and with a muttered oath, Jeremiah tapped him on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. The footman slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide but now unseeing.

      Swiftly Jeremiah dragged him into the drawing room and bound him to a straight-back chair with the line he’d brought in his pocket, tying a rag around the man’s mouth as a gag before he turned the chair to the wall, far away from any windows or door. He was sure he could count on at least a quarter hour before the footman was missed, maybe more, plenty of time to find Caro.

      But back in the hall he stared up the long, dark—too dark—stairway, the old fears returning, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift. He’d counted on the footman bringing some sort of candlestick to the door, not realizing the man would rely on the night-light alone. His heart pounding and his palm damp around the pistol’s butt, he tried to swallow back his growing dread. He could turn around and walk away alone in the bright moonlight, or he could climb up into the darkness to search for Caro. He could sail for Jamaica tomorrow, the way his sister hoped, and never look back.

      A coward’s comfort, or his friends and a woman who needed his help.

      Another chance to fail, or another chance to prove himself.

      No choice at all for a Sparhawk.

      He swore beneath his breath as he headed up the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. Footsteps, hell. He’d wake the whole house with the pounding of his heart. One landing, then another, the light from the lantern below fainter with each turning. His fingers gripped the pistol more tightly. Three flights, the footman had said. He was almost there. He could just make out the single closed door ahead, a gray stripe of moonlight along the bottom.

      Almost there, and still the demons hadn’t claimed him.

      “Lady Byfield?”

      Lying awake, curled on the narrow bed, Caro held her breath and listened, her ears straining to hear again what she feared she’d only imagined.

      “Are you in there? Lady Byfield, ma’am?”

      She flew off the bed and ran to the locked door. “Captain Sparhawk! Whatever are you doing here?”

      “What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

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