Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (11 page)

“What do you mean,” Tillie repeated, loudly this time, “he missed the battle?”

“Tillie,” Peter said, “you must understand—”

“They told me he died at Waterloo.” She looked from man to man, searching their faces. “They came

to my
house.
They told me he died at Waterloo.”

Her voice was growing shrill, panicked. And Peter didn’t know what to do. He could have killed Robbie; did the man have no sense? “Tillie,” he said, saying her name again, stalling for time.

“How did he die?” she persisted. “I want you to tell me right now.”

He looked at her; she was starting to shake.

“Tell me how he died.”

‘Tillie, I—”

‘Tell—”

BOOM!

They all three jumped as an explosion of fireworks took off not twenty yards from their spot.

“Ripping good show!” Robbie yelled, his face to the sky.

Peter glanced up at the fireworks; it was impossible not to look. Pink, blue, green—starbursts in the heavens, crackling, splintering, raining showers of sparks down on the gardens.

“Peter,” Tillie said, tugging at his sleeve, “tell me. Tell me
now.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, knowing he should be giving her his full attention but somehow unable to keep his eyes off the fireworks. He glanced at her, then back up at the sky, then back at—“Peter!” she nearly yelled.

“It was a cart,” Robbie said suddenly, looking down at her during a lull in the pyrotechnics.

“Fell on him.”

“He was crushed by a cart?”

“A
wagon, actually,” Robbie said, correcting himself. “He was—” BOOM!

“Whoa!” Robbie yelled. “Look at that one!” “Peter,” Tillie begged.

“It was stupid,” Peter said, finally forcing his eyes off the sky. “It was stupid and horrible and unforgivable. It should have been broken up for firewood weeks earlier.”

“What happened?” she whispered. And he told her. Not everything, not every last detail; this wasn’t the time or the place. But he sketched it out, enough so that she understood the truth. Harry was a hero, but he hadn’t died a hero’s death; at least not in the way England viewed its heroes.

It shouldn’t have mattered, of course, but he could tell from her face that it did.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “You lied to me. How could you lie?” “Tillie, I—”

“You
lied
to me. You told me he died in battle.”

“I never—”

“You let me believe it,” she cried out. “How could you?”

“Tillie,” he said desperately. “I—” BOOM!

They both looked up; they couldn’t help it. “I don’t know why they lied to you,”

Peter said once the explosion had trickled down into spiraling green sparks. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know the truth until Lady Neeley’s dinner party. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t—“Don’t,” she said haltingly. “Don’t try to explain.”

She had just
asked
him to explain. “Tillie—”

“Tomorrow,” she choked out. “Talk to me tomorrow. Right now I… right now .

..”

BOOM!

And then, as pink sparks rained from above, she took off, skirts in her hands, running blindly through

the one clear spot in the crowd, right past Prinny, right past the orchestra.

Right out of his life.

“You idiot!” Peter hissed at Robbie.

“Eh?” Robbie was too busy staring up at the sky.

“Forget it,” Peter snapped. He had to find Tillie. He knew she didn’t want to see him, and ordinarily he would have respected her wishes, but damn it all, this was Vauxhall Gardens, and there were thousands of people milling about, some to be entertained and some with more malicious intentions.

It was no place for a lady alone, especially one as obviously distraught as Tillie.

He followed her through the clearing, mumbling an apology as he bumped into one of Prinny’s guards. Tillie’s dress was a pale, pale green, almost ethereal in the gaslight, and once she’d been slowed down by the crowds, she was easy to follow. He couldn’t catch up with her, but at least he could see her.

She moved quickly through the throng, at least more quickly than he was able.

She was small and could squeeze into spaces through which he could only bludgeon his way. The distance between them grew, but Peter could still see her, thanks to the slight incline they were both trying to make their way down.

And then— “Ah, damn,” he sighed. She was heading for the Chinese pagoda.

Why the hell would she do that? He had no idea who else was inside, if anyone. Not to mention the fact that there were probably multiple exits. It’d be fiendishly difficult to keep track of her once she ran inside.

‘Tillie,” he grumbled, redoubling his efforts to close the space between them.

He didn’t even think she knew he was chasing her, and still she’d chosen the one surefire way to lose him.

BOOM!

Peter flinched. Another firework, for certain, but this one sounded odd, whistling just overhead, as if it had been pointed too low. He looked back up, trying to figure out what had happened, when—“Oh my God.”
The words fell unbidden from his lips, low and shaking with terror. The entire east side of the Chinese pagoda had exploded into flames.

“Tillie!” he screamed, and if he’d thought he was trying hard to get through the crowds before, he knew better now. He moved like a madman, knocking people over, trampling feet and elbowing ribs, shoulders, even faces, as he fought to reach the pagoda.

Around him people were laughing, pointing to the fiery pagoda, obviously thinking that it was part of the spectacle.

At last he reached the pagoda, but when he attempted to run up the steps, he was blocked by two burly guards.

“Y’can’t go in there,” one of them said. “Too dangerous.”

“There’s a woman in there,” Peter snarled, struggling to free himself from their grasp.

“No, there—”

“I saw her,” he nearly screamed. “Let me go!”

The two men looked at one another, and then one of them muttered, “It’s yer own head,” and let him go.

He burst into the building, holding a handkerchief over his mouth against the smoke. Did Tillie have a handkerchief? Was she even alive?

He searched the bottom floor; it was filling with smoke, but so far the fire seemed to be contained to the upper levels. Tillie was nowhere to be found.

The
air
was filling with crackles and pops, and beside him a piece of timber fell to the floor. Peter looked up; the ceiling seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes. Another minute and he would be dead. If he was going to save Tillie he was going to have to pray that she was conscious and hanging from an upstairs window, because he didn’t think the stairs would hold him for an ascent.

Choking on the acrid smoke, he stumbled out the back door, frantically scanning the upper windows, all the while looking for a route up the west side of the building, which was still entirely intact. “Tillie!” he screamed, one last time, even though he doubted she could hear him over the roar of the flames.

“Peter!”

His heart slammed in his chest as he whirled toward the sound of her voice, only to find her standing outside, struggling against two large men who were trying to keep her from running to him.

‘Tillie?” he whispered.

Somehow she broke free, and she ran to him, and it was only then that he emerged from his trance, because he was still too close to the burning building, and in about ten seconds, she would be as well.

He scooped her up before she could throw her arms around him, not breaking his stride until they were both a safe distance from the pagoda.

“What were you doing?” she cried out, still clutching his shoulders. “Why were you in the pagoda?”

“Saving you! I saw you run in—”

“But I ran right back out—”

“But I didn’t know that!”

They ran out of words, and for a moment no one spoke, and then Tillie whispered, “I almost died when

I saw you inside. I saw you through the window.”

His eyes were still stinging and watery from the smoke, but somehow, when he looked at her, everything was crystal clear. “I have never been so scared in my entire life as when I saw that rocket hit the pagoda,” he said, and he realized it was true. Two years of war, of death, of destruction, and yet nothing had had the power to terrify him like the thought of losing her.

And he knew—right then and there he knew to the tips of his toes that he could not wait a year to marry her. He had no idea how he’d make her parents agree, but he would find a way. And if he didn’t … Well, a Scottish wedding had been good enough for plenty of couples before them.

But one thing was certain. He couldn’t face the thought of a life without her.

“Tillie, I…” There were so many things he wanted to say. He didn’t know where to start, how to begin. He hoped she could see it in his eyes, because the words just weren’t there. The words didn’t exist to express what was in his heart.

“I love you,” he whispered, and even that didn’t seem enough. “I love you, and—”

“Tillie!” someone shrieked, and they both turned to see her mother racing toward them with more speed than anyone—including Lady Canby herself—would have ever dreamed she possessed.

“Tillie Tillie Tillie,” the countess kept repeating, once she’d reached their sides and was smothering her daughter with hugs. “Someone told me you were in the pagoda. Someone said—”

“I’m all right, Mama,” Tillie assured her. “I’m fine.”

Lady Canby stopped, blinked, then turned to Peter, taking in his sooty and disheveled appearance. “Did you save her?” she asked.

“She saved herself,” Peter admitted.

“But he tried,” Tillie said. “He went in to find me.”

“I…” The countess looked lost for words and then finally she just said, “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Peter said.

“I think you did,” Lady Canby replied, yanking a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbing at her eyes. “I …” She looked back at Tillie. “I can’t lose another one, Tillie. I can’t lose you.”

“I know, Mama,” Tillie said, her voice soothing. “I’m all right. You can see that I am.”

“I know, I know, I—” And then something seemed to snap in her, because she lurched back, jammed

her hands on Tillie’s shoulders, and started to shake. “What did you think you were doing?” she yelled. “Running off by yourself!”

“I didn’t know it was going to catch fire,” Tillie gasped.

“In Vauxhall Gardens! Do you know what happens to young women in places like these! I’m going to—”

“Lady Canby,” Peter said, laying a calm hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps now is not the time …”

Lady Canby stopped and nodded, glancing around them to see if anyone had witnessed her loss of composure.

Amazingly, they didn’t seem to have attracted a crowd; most everyone was still too busy watching the pagoda’s grand finale. And indeed, even the three of them were unable to take then” eyes off the structure as it finally imploded, collapsing to the ground in a fiery inferno.

“Good God,” Peter whispered, sucking in his breath.

“Peter,” Tillie said, choking on his name. It was just one word, but he understood perfectly.

“You’re going home,” Lady Canby said sternly, yanking on Tillie’s hand. “Our carriage is just through that gate.”

“Mama, I need to speak with Mr.—”

“You can say whatever you need to say tomorrow.” Lady Canby gave Peter a sharp look. “Isn’t that

true, Mr. Thompson?”

“Of course,” he said. “But I will escort you to your carriage.”

“That is not—”

“It’s necessary,” Peter stated.

Lady Canby blinked at his firm tone, and then she said, “I suppose it is.” Her voice was soft, and just a little bit thoughtful, and Peter wondered if she’d only just realized how deeply he cared for her daughter.

He took them to their carriage, then watched as it rolled from sight, wondering how he would wait until the morrow. It was ludicrous, really. He’d asked Tillie to wait a year for him, maybe even two, and now he couldn’t contain himself for fourteen hours.

He turned back to the Gardens, then sighed. He didn’t want to go back in there, even if it meant taking the long way around to where the hackney cabs were queuing for customers.

“Mr. Thompson! Peter!”

He turned to see Tillie’s father dashing through the gate. “Lord Canby,” he said. “I—”

“Have you seen my wife?” the earl interrupted frantically. “Or Tillie?”

Peter quickly related the events of the evening and assured him of their safety, noting how the older

man sagged with relief. “They left not two minutes ago,” he told the earl.

Tillie’s father smiled wryly. “Completely forgetting about me,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve a carriage around the corner.”

Peter shook his head ruefully. “I came in a hack,” he admitted. It revealed his shocking lack of funds, but if the earl wasn’t already aware of the state of Peter’s purse, he would be soon. No man would consider a marriage proposal for his daughter without investigating the suitor’s financial situation.

The earl sighed, shaking his head at the situation. “Well,” he said, planting his hands on his hips as he glanced up the street. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to walk.”

“Walk, my lord?”

Lord Canby gave him an assessing sort of glance. “Are you up for it?”

“Of course,” Peter said quickly. It would be a hike to Mayfair, where the Canbys lived, and then some

to his apartments in Portman Square, but it was nothing compared to what he’d done on the peninsula.

“Good. I’ll put you in my carriage once we reach Canby House.”

They walked quickly but quietly across the bridge, pausing only to admire the occasional firework still exploding in the sky.

“One would think they’d have shot them all off by now,” Lord Canby said, leaning against the side.

“Or stopped altogether,” Peter said sharply. “After what happened with the pagoda …”

“Indeed.”

Peter intended to resume walking—he was quite sure that he did—but somehow, instead, he blurted

out, “I want to marry Tillie.”

The earl turned and looked him squarely in the eye. “I beg your pardon?”