Lord of Ice (27 page)

“No. You will do exactly as I say. Above all, we do not wish to appear overly eager. I see I shall have to conduct this affair for you from start to finish.”

“Father?”

Algernon considered for a moment, studying the far wall absently; then he nodded, speaking rapidly under his breath, as though to himself. “We’ll send your mother and sisters over to call on her, yes, the womenfolk first. They’ll be too suspicious if it comes from me. You will escort them. From there, we shall invite her to dine. A formal reception. Of course. We are her kin, are we not? It is proper that we accept her, even though she is illegitimate.”

“If the Knight family has given her their blessing, we cannot fail to do the same.”

“Exactly. Finally, you begin to see things my way. And Crispin, when she comes to dinner—”

“Yes, Father?”

“Dazzle her, if you know what’s good for you.” With a hard, warning look, he straightened up, turned his back on his son, and walked out to give his vapid twit of a wife her orders.

A short while after Miranda had fled the stable, Damien had collected himself and had saddled one of Robert’s more manageable geldings, in no mood to fight with his temperamental stallion. As he guided the horse through the darkened streets of Town, heading for Lucien’s home in Upper Brooke Street, he turned his thoughts away from brooding upon the painful exchange between him and his ward, returning instead to the suspicions that had begun taking shape in his mind before Miranda had come into the stable.

That horse should not have bolted on her. He had taken pains to be certain of the mare’s steady temperament before buying it, but today the animal had run as though it had been stung by a bee or struck by some small missile, such as a rock or a pebble from a slingshot. He had checked the mare from head to hoof, but had found no mark or injury to suggest such an attack. Of course, it would have taken a hard blow indeed to have penetrated the horse’s thick, protective winter coat.

He had questioned the grooms who had been watching Miranda, but they had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, yet they vouched that Miranda had done nothing to spook the horse, either. Lately the near misses and mishaps were becoming too numerous to discount as mere coincidence. Absurd as it sounded, he was beginning to wonder if someone was out to get Miranda. First she had been attacked on Bordesley Green by men he had assumed were Mud City outlaws; then she had nearly been run down by a carriage on Bond Street, again, another seeming accident; now her docile mare had bolted off under her like a streak of lightning. It didn’t make sense. That was why he was going to talk to Lucien.

This sort of intrigue was just his spy brother’s area of expertise, and Damien was the first to admit that his own thinking was less than crystal clear of late. He meant to speak to his twin about all of it; if nothing else, Lucien would reassure him that he was merely suffering from overprotective paranoia.

The only two people that he could think of who had reason to despise Miranda were Mr. Reed and Mistress Brocklehurst of Yardley School, for revealing the abuse of the students that had been going on there, but their involvement seemed unlikely; the timing of the mishaps did not fit. The attack on Bordesley Green had occurred well before he had turned the headmaster over to justice. Indeed, the dangers had begun rolling at her shortly after Jason’s death.

The parallel he drew chilled him to the marrow. Could the person who murdered Jason now be after Miranda? But why? Surely his half-demented brain was playing tricks on him, he thought, but at least he had managed to hide his concerns from her. There was no point in alarming the girl, on top of everything else. He worried a little about leaving her alone at the moment, if indeed someone were trying to harm her, but he felt she would be safe behind the formidable gates of Knight House, with the half dozen guard dogs and the staff of over three dozen servants to watch over her. Besides, Robert was at home, and for his part, Damien did not expect to be gone for more than a couple of hours.

Arriving in Upper Brooke Street before Lucien and Alice’s elegant, flat-fronted townhouse, with its richly carved doorway, brass lamps, and delicate wrought-iron balconies on the upper windows, he swung down from his mount and called for one of Lucien’s grooms. Leaving the animal with the servant, he was admitted into the entrance hall by Alice’s excellent butler, Mr. Hattersley.

The little bald man took his coat and invited him upstairs to wait while he went to summon Lord Lucien. Damien went up to the drawing room and made himself at home. When a quarter hour had passed, however, and still his brother did not appear, he inquired impatiently with the butler.

Mr. Hattersley turned bright red and stammered that Lord Lucien had shouted from inside his lady’s locked bedchamber that he would come soon.

Bloody newlyweds,
Damien thought. Mr. Hattersley offered him a brandy, which he accepted, along with the day’s issue of the
Times
. He skimmed the newspaper, trying to take his mind off the crushed look in Miranda’s beautiful green eyes after he had dashed any chance of a future between them upon the rocks of his own hard nature.

At last, Lucien sauntered into the drawing room, barefooted, wearing nothing but black trousers and a voluminous dressing gown of dark orange silk. It lay open down his bare chest and billowed behind him with flamelike grace as he prowled into the room, his skin flushed, his hair tousled, his eyes glowing like pewter. His lazy smile was totally satisfied, totally relaxed.

Damien took one look at his brother and remembered anew how deprived he, himself, was. “Took you long enough,” he remarked with a glower.

Lucien chuckled, sighed, and poured himself a brandy. “Damn me if I have not begotten a son this night.” He tossed back his brandy and turned to him languidly. “What brings you to my nest of connubial bliss, brother?”

“I need your skills.”

“What’s afoot?”

Damien folded the paper, cast it onto the couch beside him, and stood. “I think someone may be trying to harm Miranda.”

Lucien furrowed his brow. Damien told him about how the mare had bolted, then retraced the whole story, starting with the attack on Bordesley Green. He told him about the schoolmaster’s crimes against the girls at Yardley, in case that sounded to Lucien like a possible source of the trouble, as well as the mysterious runaway carriage on Bond Street that had nearly run Miranda down.

“Miranda told me about the men on Bordesley Green,” Lucien began.

“When?” Damien cut him off in surprise.

“A couple of days ago. I wanted to talk to her privately.”

“What for?”

Lucien smiled angelically. “To see if she was good enough for you, of course.”

Damien scowled at him in warning.

“It was a thorough interrogation. Don’t you wish to know my ruling?”

“No.”

Lucien shrugged it off. “She said the men who attacked her were outlaws. Do you have reason to suppose differently?”

“Well, it’s all quite coincidental, don’t you think? Especially considering that these mishaps began shortly after Jason’s murder—a murder in which the killer still hasn’t been found.”

Lucien stroked his jaw. “Was Jason involved in any illegal or unseemly activities before his death? We both know he had been drinking heavily. Men can sometimes go astray—”

“Not Jason—certainly not criminal activity. He had a few favorite whores who visited him on regular occasions, that’s all.”

“Do you know who these women are?”

“Bow Street has already questioned them. I’m sure they have nothing to do with it.”

“I recall after you met with Jason’s solicitor after the memorial service, you mentioned your dismay upon learning that Jason had spent the whole five thousand pounds that Miranda’s father left for her.”

“Yes.”

“What did he spend it on?”

Damien glanced at the floor, searching his mind. “I don’t know. He lived in a hellhole. He didn’t gamble to any large degree. He didn’t love finery. Perhaps on the women? But that doesn’t seem likely. They’re low street prostitutes, not courtesans.”

Lucien shook his head and began pacing. “You’re right. Something isn’t adding up. This is all beginning to sound damned strange. Start over again from the beginning. I want to know every detail you can recall, no matter how small or insignificant.”

Damien did his best to piece a fuller picture together for his brother, answering Lucien’s rapid-fire questions as well as his memory served. He scratched his eyebrow, racking his brain as Lucien questioned him on the Pavilion theater, the makeup of the audience, whether or not Mr. Reed was known to have any family who might seek revenge, and on Miranda’s relationship with “Trick” Slidell. Had there been any other beaux she had mentioned? No, he told him.

“What of those men you killed in Birmingham?”

“Why do you keep coming back to them?”

“Indulge me. There were four, you say?”

“Yes. They were armed with pistols and knives,” Damien repeated wearily. “One had a sword. They each had horses, thus my first thought was that they were highwaymen.”

“Seems a logical conclusion. Was Colonel Morris able to identify them with any certainty?”

“No.”

“What did they look like?”

He shrugged, sending him a dark look.

“Ah, you beat them beyond recognition. Well, then,” Lucien said, his eyes glittering with intrigue over the puzzle. “Did you hear their voices long enough to pick up any accents?”

“General sort of low Cockney, I guess. I couldn’t identify a region.”

“Was there
anything
about these poor bleeders to distinguish them?”

“Let me think.” He had been so deeply immersed in his battle mode that it was difficult now to recall details. “I believe one had a gold tooth. Another had a tattoo of an eagle or something.”

“An eagle?”

“An eagle or a hawk. It was holding something in its talons. What the devil was it?” He snapped his fingers as the picture flashed back to him. “A dagger. That’s it. It was some bird of prey clutching a dagger in its talons.”

Lucien had gone very still. “Are you sure of this? Did you see it clearly?”

He nodded uneasily. “I saw it perfectly before they buried the sod. Why?”

Lucien paused and set down his drink, then looked at him, bracing his hands on his waist. “That’s the insignia of a criminal gang based in the East End, not far,” he said slowly, “from where Jason was killed.”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

The hairs on Damien’s nape prickled with danger, but his voice was steely. “What are they called?”

“The Raptors.”

“Let’s pay them a visit.”

Lucien passed a dark glance over his face, no doubt knowing that if he declined, Damien would simply go alone. He nodded resolutely then went to get dressed.

“How the devil do you know about London gangs, anyway?” Damien asked a short while later as Lucien tossed him a sword, hilt first. Damien caught it out of the air and accepted a pistol from his brother, as well.

“If you really want to know, we occasionally use their ilk as informants,” Lucien answered, strapping on his sword. Having been recalled from his “diplomatic” post on the Continent after the fall of Napoleon, Lucien had been assigned to an ongoing counter-espionage effort. It brought him in contact with a great many unsavory characters. One thing Damien could say for his brother: For his country’s sake, Lucien was not afraid to walk along the edge of what most honor-obsessed gentlemen of their class would have considered despicable conduct. It was only Alice’s virtuous influence that had stopped Lucien from becoming tainted by the darkness he flirted with.

“There are certain pockets of these people to whose activities—within reason—we turn a blind eye,” he explained. “One young cutthroat in particular has been most forthcoming when I need information. He was sentenced to the gallows, but I had him freed. He’s more useful to me alive. He is known as 'Billy Blade.' “

“Billy Blade?” Damien echoed in a dubious tone, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.

Lucien flashed him a wily grin. “If I told you his real name—which I can’t—but if I could, you’d be shocked.”

“Who is he?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you that, old chap. Suffice to say that Billy Blade heads a rival gang known as the Tomahawks.”

“Wild savages?”

“Indeed. He’ll know what’s going on with the Raptors. These gangs spy on each other like countries and run their own little districts like medieval warlords. They have their own armies, their own black-market industries, their own codes of respect. My friend, you are about to enter an England you never knew you were fighting for.”

Damien shrugged as they stalked out to the carriage. “As long as they’re bribable.”

“It is their most endearing trait.” Lucien jangled the small leather purse of coins he had brought along for that purpose. “They are also territorial, treacherous as rats, and highly dangerous, so don’t lose your temper. Let me do the talking.”

“I’ve been doing that since we were four,” he muttered.

Seemingly out of thin air, Lucien had conjured two of his young secret agents, Marc Skipton and Kyle Stewart, to drive them into the brick-and-mortar jungle of the East End and to guard the carriage while they were meeting with the mysterious leader of the gang. Without further ado, they climbed into Lucien’s unmarked black coach and were under way.

The crescent moon hung over the dark rooftops, while below, the labyrinth of nameless streets in London’s poorest regions crawled with corruption and the constant threat of violence. The dilapidated tenement houses and shadowed, filth-strewn alleys were fraught with danger. Through this stinking, uninhabitable maze of poverty, disease, and degradation, they soon arrived at a raucous gin shop, where a low and drunken rabble had gathered to lay wagers on a dogfight.

Lucien beckoned Damien out of the carriage and nodded to Marc to drive on, having already arranged for where they would meet in half an hour. His battle-honed senses on high alert, Damien followed as his brother marched grimly ahead of him. They went around the building where another lively operation was in progress: a few burly men loading sealed wooden cartons onto a wagon.

“Stolen goods,” Lucien explained under his breath. “They do their thieving in London and hawk whatever they can up north and in the West Country, where it’s harder to trace.”

“Charming,” Damien murmured.

“Who’s there? What do ye want?” one of the big workmen called pugnaciously as they approached.

“I’m looking for Blade. Is he here?”

“Maybe.” The man rested his fists on his waist, blocking their path. “Who’s askin'?”

“Tell him Lucifer is here.”

Damien looked askance at him in dark amusement. As wild youngbloods on the Town before they had entered the military, the Knight twins had been dubbed Lucifer and Demon by their carousing friends. The nicknames had followed them into the army, gaining new meaning once their respective talents in battle had been discovered. Lucien had headed up the regiment’s swift, stealthy light infantry company, expert sharpshooters and scouts who could move like ghosts through the sparse terrain; Damien had captained the stalwart, unflinching grenadiers, the shock troops of the regiment, first into every battle.

“Lucifer, eh? And who’s that?” The man nodded toward Damien.

“That’s Demon,” his brother said smoothly. “Go and tell Blade that we are here.”

Damien stood beside him, at the ready, as Lucien stared the brute down.

“Wait 'ere,” the big man grunted after a tense moment, then slouched off into the shadows and disappeared through the door. He returned a few minutes later and waved them over. “Blade says he’ll see you.”

“What an honor,” Damien muttered under his breath. Lucien went ahead of him.

Scanning his surroundings as they crossed to the back entrance, Damien took a quick mental count of the lawless men loading the wagons or simply loitering around the area. Fifteen. He counted another dozen when the big, lumbering fellow led them into the seedy countinghouse that backed the gin shop, and up the cramped stairs to the second floor. They proceeded down a narrow hallway with peeling paint on the walls to the back room, where they were ushered into the presence of the gang’s illustrious leader.

“Billy.” Lucien greeted him with his most charming smile.

Damien hid his astonishment. 'Blade' was appallingly young, scarcely five-and-twenty—but then, life in this environment was short, nasty, and brutish. Dressed with rough-and-tumble flamboyance, he was a handsome youth with shrewd eyes and a jaded smirk of a smile. He wore black leather trousers and no cravat, but a loose-fitting jacket of abused black velvet with a red carnation tucked in the boutonniere. Beneath his coat, a garish, red-and-purple waistcoat and a dirty shirt of natural linen hugged his lean, sinewy frame. Thick gold rings, some set with jewels, gleamed on his nimble fingers as he toyed with his dagger, his warning stare removing all doubt that he was cock of the walk. A solid gold watch-chain winked against the gaudy superfine of his vest and disappeared into his waistcoat pocket, as though in brazen invitation to any of his cutthroat associates to dare try to take it from him.

He did not trouble himself to rise at their entrance, but kicked the chair across from him in Lucien’s direction, offering him a seat with an insolent nod. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the hell-born babe drawled, glancing from one twin’s face to the other. “There’s two of you, Luce. You twins?”

Lucien nodded.

“Me mum was a twin. Not identical, though. Who’s firstborn?”

“Demon is,” Lucien said, nodding toward him, “but this is not a social call, Blade. May we speak privately?”

Blade sneered faintly, but obliged him, dismissing a few of his shadowy cronies with a princely flick of his hand, keeping only two very treacherous-looking ones on either side of him.

When the door had closed, the lad’s hard-eyed gaze slid from it to Lucien.

Lucien set the purse of gold on the table between them.

Blade picked it up, weighing it in his palm. “If you’re here about that dead army swell, I already told you, nobody seen a damned thing. They arrested Rooster, but I 'eard they let him go.”

Lucien nodded. “We know that. No, I’ve come to ask you about your old friends, the Raptors.”

Blade growled and narrowed his eyes. “Wot about 'em?”

“Four of them turned up dead in Birmingham. Did your men do it?”

Damien realized his brother was first testing the young cutthroat. Blade stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and glanced at his two companions, who chuckled gruffly at the news.

“Those mother-lovin' sods. I wish we had.”

“Do you know what they were doing up there?”

“No,” he said with a malevolent gleam in his eyes. He took a swig from his flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But give me a few days and I’ll find out.”

The next morning, Miranda feigned a headache, too humiliated by Damien’s rejection to come out of her room. As a girl who prided herself on never crying, she did not want him to see her with her eyes all red and her nose stuffed up, for he would know she had wept over him all night like a blasted watering pot. Her self-respect had suffered enough without that added shame.

She knew she deserved it, though. That was the worst part. Like some brash poacher in an orchard, she had reached for forbidden fruit that hung too far above her head and had toppled to the ground for her folly.

He was an earl and a hero of the nation. She was penniless, illegitimate. The fine clothes she had been given to wear and the elegant surroundings of the mansion had caused her to forget herself, but he had put her back in her place. As Reed and Brocklehurst had taken such pains to teach her, she was nobody. She would not forget it again. As dear as the people at Knight House had become to her, Damien’s bludgeoning words had reminded her that she did not really belong here, either, no more than she had belonged at Yardley.

Pacing in her room, she considered running away and joining one of the great London theaters, but now that she had become associated with the Knight family in the eyes of the ton, it would only make them look bad, and that was a poor way to repay all their kindness.

She only wished Damien would have told her the truth in the first place instead of trying to talk around it with a lot of nonsense about his “going mad.” Having looked his demons in the eyes herself, she knew his problem was serious, but he was a fool to say there was no cure. She also rather wished he would have spoken up before she had declared herself like a lovesick country bumpkin.

Just then, a courteous knock sounded at her chamber door.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Walsh, Miss.”

She opened the door and looked inquiringly at the tall, dignified butler.

“Good day, Mr. Walsh.”

He bowed his head. “Pardon my intrusion, Miss FitzHubert. Some visitors have just arrived to call on you. I know you are not feeling well, but in this case, I thought perhaps you might wish to see them.” With a tender look of gravity, he offered her a calling card on his small silver tray. “I shall send them away at once if you are not up to it.”

Miranda took the card from the tray and looked at the name engraved on it.
Anne Sherbrooke, Viscountess Hubert.

“My aunt,” she breathed, her eyes widening. Why, it was Uncle Algernon’s wife! Uncle Jason had occasionally mentioned the middle brother, Algernon, who had become Lord Hubert after Papa’s death—the uncle who wanted nothing to do with her on account of her bastardy. Uncle Jason had always said that “Algy” was a cold fish.

“Her Ladyship has brought her children with her,” Mr. Walsh added.

“I have cousins?” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“Indeed, Miss, there are three—two young ladies, one gentleman.”

“Three cousins! Oh, I think I shall have to see them,” she murmured, her heart beginning to pound with nervousness, yet she could not help but feel a bit cynical. It figured. Now that she had proven that she could acquit herself respectably in Society, her relatives must have deemed it safe to acknowledge her. She had half a mind to thumb her nose at them, but there was a faint glimmer of hope in her heart that maybe, among her own kin, she would finally find the place where she belonged.

“Shall I advise Her Grace that you could use reinforcements?” the butler asked gently.

Her gaze flew to his lined face. “Bless you, Mr. Walsh. I should be forever grateful if the duchess would go in with me.”

He gave her a knowing smile and nodded.

“Oh, Mr. Walsh,” she called as he started to close the door. She picked up the little key Lord Lucien had given her and showed it to him. “Do you happen to know what this opens?”