The Viscount

Chapter Two

L ily 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 Duquesne.

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.”

He raised one eyebrow and quirked his head as if to encourage her to go on. Not so much as a flicker of sympathy.

She sighed, looked down at the faded carpet, glanced at his feet again, then back at the fearsome countenance. “I am Baroness Bradshaw.” She hesitated, waiting for him to challenge her claim. When he did not, she continued. “I believe my husband’s younger brother drugged me yesterday—or perhaps the day previous…What day is this?”

“Saturday,” he replied succinctly.

“Yesterday, then. I had been riding, came into my library and was offered a glass of wine. I only drank half. The next thing I knew, I awakened, locked in a cell in Bedlam. Of course, I didn’t know that until I escaped, but—”

He smiled slightly and bit his bottom lip, but still did not comment. Now both eyebrows rose in a silent question.

“After I awoke, I overheard two men conversing outside the door. When one left and the other entered, I knocked him on the head with the heel of my riding boot, dosed him with the vial of whatever he meant for me. These.” She reached into a pocket and produced the two small bottles. “Then I escaped in his clothes.” She looked down at her attire and back at him.

He glanced away from her, shook his head and chuckled.

Lily jumped up, tears springing to her eyes. “How dare you laugh!”

Suddenly as that, he sobered, unfolding his arms and resting his hands on his hips. “You may tell whatever jokester sent you that I am no fool. This has been a colossal waste of my time as well as yours.”

“No one sent me!”

“Then I cannot imagine why you are here concocting this elaborate ruse. I happen to know that Bradshaw died of heart failure two years ago. Now I’ll have the truth from you, or else.”

Exasperated, Lily clenched her eyes, wrung her hands and heaved a sigh. “I am Jonathan’s widow. Mother to Beaumont, the current Lord Bradshaw.”

“Ah,” Duquesne said with a scoff. “You must not be aware I once met the person John Bradshaw wed and she most assuredly is not you.”

“You knew my father, Vicar Upchurch. Surely you recall his daughter marrying above her station eight years ago? It was the news of the county at the time. Even here in Town, tongues were wagging, I expect.”

He bent, examining her features. Muttering an epithet, he shook his head, snatched up her right arm and roughly pushed up her sleeve. “We’ll see if that’s so,” he snapped, holding her arm to the light. The jagged scar in the middle of her forearm shone white in the glare of the flame.

At once, his features clouded with confusion and his eyes met hers. “But…but the child I saw was—”

“Skinny is the word you must be seeking,” Lily snapped. “Skinny and short for my age. I so regret I do not clearly recall our meeting, my lord. I’m certain we would have gotten on famously.”

But she did remember that tall, gangly youth with the kind eyes and a frown of concern for her pain. A fellow more than willing to rescue a child. He had barked orders at her father, whom no one ever dared to command. Then he had lifted her in his strong arms and carried her, murmuring comforting things near her ear. She dearly hoped a vestige of that kindness and willingness to help remained.

He grimaced, his gaze casting about as if searching for details of the incident. “The vicar interrupted my afternoon on the green and commandeered my phaeton to rush you to Dr. Ephriam. You had fallen from a tree and broken your arm. The bone was…never mind.” Again, he peered down at her scar. “A poor job he made of the repair. Did it heal without incident?”

Lily jerked her arm away and tugged down the fabric to hide the scar. “So you believe me now?”

He gently smoothed her sleeve with his palm and nodded, his lips pressed together as if pained at having sought proof of her identity. “Yes. I believe you are who you claim to be.”

“Then will you help me? My son could be in danger. If you would but furnish me a mount to ride home, I would be most grateful.”

“In danger? Why?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Because my child is the only thing standing between Jonathan’s brother and the title, of course.”

“The boy is now at Sylvana Hall?”

Lily pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment before answering. “In the care of his nurse…I hope.” She fought tears and managed to keep them from falling. God above, how frightened she was for Beau.

Again, Duquesne raised his hand, this time giving her shoulder a bracing squeeze of reassurance. “I’ll make arrangements immediately. Have a spot of that brandy while you wait.”

“I’ll come with you,” she declared.

Duquesne shook his head and offered her a smile. “Please, trust me… I’m sorry, but I cannot recall your name.”

For a long moment she studied his eyes. They were clear, a clear, gentle gray now, their expression beseeching and somewhat regretful. She also noted a lack of deceit. “I am Lillian,” she replied.

His smile widened, perfectly open and guileless, the smile of a friend happily reunited with a friend. “Lily, of course. Your father called you Lily.”

And just like that, he was gone. Out the door with all speed, bound for she knew not where. Perhaps to summon the Watch or to send word to Clive to come here and collect her. But Lily thought not.

That was not quite true. She knew not. Duquesne would have said outright that that was what he intended if he’d meant to turn her over. Somehow, Lily felt she could afford to put her life in his hands. How strange for her to trust on such short acquaintance when she had been betrayed the way she had.

But Lily saw something in Duquesne that touched her. He was so alone and yet not bitter about it. There was also a wariness about him with regard to her, and she realized it was due to instant attraction. Though she knew she was not a great beauty, Lily was no fool.

He attracted her, too, in a very physical way. Allowed to progress, Lily knew that would seriously complicate matters. She would never trade her body for a man’s assistance.

Or would she? No, that sort of dishonorable arrangement would never do.

But she had no money left after hiring the hack to get here, and there did not appear to be any coin here in this poor place to steal. Walking to Sylvana Hall would take entirely too long to be of any use. Besides, that was precisely what Clive would expect her to do and he would surely catch her along the way.

Her best chance now lay with Duquesne’s providing her means to arrive home quickly before Brinks awoke, raised a cry and notified Clive that she was missing.

Lily spent some time deciding what she might do once she arrived at the Hall, how she would spirit Beau away from there to safety and where they might go. But where could they go? Sylvana Hall was their home. She had responsibilities there that she had no intention of turning over to Clive. Unless she could prove what she thought he had done, he would remain a threat. What she and Beau needed was a permanent guard. Then an outrageous plan occurred to her.

A headache formed directly between her eyes, a me-grim she could not afford at present considering all she had to accomplish before morning.

She took up the half-empty bottle of brandy from the desk and looked for a glass. Finding none, she upended the bottle to her lips and allowed herself two sips for courage.

That was how he found her when he returned.

Guy stifled a laugh at the picture she presented, one hand propped rakishly on the edge of his desk, her hips cocked to one side and her head leaning back to drink his liquor.

The light caught on the ragged wisps of her red-gold curls, furnishing a halo effect. Gilding Lily, the rowdy angel, he thought with an inner smile.

He felt damned glad she was not what he had first thought her to be, some charlatan’s whore sent round to ply a scam or worse. Or perhaps a spy. He was ever alert for those since he did a bit of work now and again for the war department and had accrued a few enemies due to that. Fortunately, with peace breaking out, those chores were mostly behind him now and—profits aside—he was relieved.

Lily’s story seemed too bizarre for a fiction. While Guy did not know Clive Bradshaw personally, he knew there were men who would do damn near anything to acquire a title and whatever went with it. She was right to worry about the boy. And, judging by what she had suffered at Bradshaw’s hands, she should be more worried than she was about herself. Damned if he didn’t admire her spirit.

She lowered the bottle to the desk with a solid thunk and faced him as directly as a man might have done. “Is my mount ready?”

Guy crossed to the desk, reached around her to snag the bottle and took a healthy swig himself. He offered it to her again and watched her shake her head impatiently.

He set the decanter aside for the moment. “I’ve sent for someone reliable, a man I trust with my life. When he arrives, I shall have him go and fetch your son and his nurse. Safer if you wait here.”

The blue eyes went wide. “I cannot stay here!”

“Better than in the madhouse,” he quipped, looking around him, “though not by much, I’m afraid.”

She began to pace, rubbing her arms with her palms in a gesture that betrayed more consternation than he had seen yet from her. “Mrs. Prine will likely die of apoplexy if a perfect stranger demands they leave the Hall and go with him to London. And besides, she doesn’t ride,” Lily said, flinging the words over her shoulder as she paused at the window.

“By hook, crook or pony cart, she’ll arrive with her charge no later than midafternoon, I promise. And you need not worry for their safety.”

Her hands flared helplessly. “I cannot simply sit and wait!”

“Of course not. You must go upstairs and have a good sleep. Your son will be shocked enough at your appearance. If you look done-in, as well, he’ll be frightened out of his wits.”

She scoffed. “You don’t know my Beau!”

Guy smiled. “Has your grit, does he? How old is the scamp?”

He proffered the bottle again and she took it, downed a delicate sip and handed it back, resuming her pacing as she did so.

“He turned seven last month.”

“Ah, well, I wager he’ll relish the adventure.”

She collapsed into the chair and buried her face in her hands. Guy watched her sob twice, then go still. She sniffed heavily once and brushed the tears from her face with a determined swipe of both palms. “Botheration!” Then she shrugged and looked up at him. “Forgive me. I know how men despise tears.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said gently, raking the disheveled curls off her brow with his finger.

“I would like to avoid being treated as one,” she quipped with a self-conscious laugh and another sniff.

Indeed. “Why don’t you begin from the beginning and tell me again how it happened in detail? No matter how insignificant you think something might be, include it. I might be able to use it.”

“Use it? For what?”

“I don’t know yet, but you may rest assured this is not over, Lily. Not by a long mark. Bradshaw made a bold move and has gone too far to simply let it lie. Now begin, and leave out nothing.”

He watched her carefully as she related her story.

“So you recognized Bradshaw’s voice?” he asked her when she’d finished.

“No, but who else could it have been? I assumed it was Clive because he is the only one who would gain anything by such a deed. He would assume control of my widow’s portion—the usual third of the estate—and also the remainder that is being held in trust for Beau. Not to mention Beau himself.” She swallowed hard, fighting to maintain control of her emotions. “If he would imprison me the way he intended, I shudder to think what he might do to a defenseless child who stands between him and what he wants.”

What had been done to Lily frightened her, Guy could see, but not nearly so much as what Bradshaw might be planning for her son. She was right about one thing. Being the nearest male relative, Bradshaw would acquire the title himself if the boy were out of his way.

“Who might be assisting him in this plot aside from Brinks? That’s what worries me,” Guy admitted. “He would have to prove your insanity in order to obtain a paper of committal to an institution.”

Guy watched her gaze slide away as she worried her lips with her teeth. “What is it? What are you not telling me, Lily?”