The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (2 page)

Choking out a horrified
gasp, she leapt from her bed, her heart hammering in her chest.
Undiluted fear tore through her and she wanted to run screaming from
the room. She forced in a few deep breaths, striving for some of her
usual calm. Then she remembered her pistols.

Thank
you, Foster, for insisting on cleaning and priming my guns!
She silently voiced her gratitude to her long-time champion. She
picked them up carefully from the bedside table and sat in the
armchair facing the window. It was fortunate that, from this angle,
the glow of the banked fireplace provided enough light to give her a
decent shot. Sitting there, in tense silence, she set one gun on the
small candle table beside her and kept the other in her right hand,
ready to fire.

Moments later she heard
fumbling sounds, a muffled shout followed by a series of pungent
curses.

The vine had given way!
She almost stood to go help... then, angry at her folly, she sank
back down on the chair. Fool! She should be relieved... elated! If he
fell, that would solve her problem and she wouldn’t have to shoot
him.

Or maybe she should
slam the window on his fingers! That’s what she should have done in
the first place — shut the window and lock it! Again she half rose
to act on that inspiration then realized it was too late.

Frozen with fear, she
watched a gloved hand grope about, trying to catch hold of the inside
of the window ledge. In horrified fascination, she sat back down and
stared as large hands grappled for and caught hold of the casement.
The window opened wider, one foot came through and stretched to
settle on the floor. Expelling a breathy laugh of victory, the man
turned to edge in backwards through the window, casually, as if he
were coming through the front door.

Her heart thundered.
Her hand trembled so badly she had to steady it on the arm of the
chair. She waited until both his feet were on the floor, then —
almost paralyzed with fear — she commanded, “Don’t move or I’ll
shoot.”

He jerked around
abruptly and, instinctively, she pulled the trigger. He must have
heard the sound of the pistol being cocked, because the intruder
dived for the floor. There was a dull thud and then, silence.

Tally jumped to her
feet. She grabbed the second pistol, aimed it in his direction, and
held her breath, waiting for him to stand up. Shivers of fear and an
odd excitement quaked through her.

Why was he so still?
She hadn’t done more than graze him. Her shot couldn’t have been
that far off the mark. She was a good shot. Foster had seen to that.
There was no way her bullet hit anything vital!

Was
there?

She’d been careful to
aim for his arm. But he’d moved, so her shot might not have hit its
intended target. Cold chills rippled down her spine. Needing better
light to see him, she picked up the oil lamp from the candle table
and hurried to the hearth to stir the embers to light it. She kept
looking over her shoulder in case he rose to attack her from behind.
Taking the taper she’d used earlier, she crouched to light it from
the glowing cinders and transferred the fire to the wick on the lamp.
Her hands shook so badly, it took several tries. She cast another
furtive look back. She hadn’t been smart. She should have gone to
fetch Foster before taking the time to light the room.

The flame caught. She
stood, turned and raised the lamp. The intruder was not a short man,
nor a slight one. She stepped gingerly toward the inert form.

Was he feigning death?

Quaking, she inched
closer, holding the lamp lower to see more clearly.

Gracious, this was no
ordinary burglar. No common thief wore such a fine woolen great coat,
nor such exceptionally crafted leather boots. His head was turned
away, so she saw only his black locks, overlong but well cut.

Were there gentlemen
thieves in London? She’d never heard of them, but then she knew
very little of what normally occurred in London.

Gingerly using the toes
of her right foot, she tried to turn the man over onto his back. He
was no lightweight, that was for sure. She put the lamp down on the
dresser to use both her hands to roll him over.

“Sweet heavens!” He
was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Although his beard
was well past shaving time, lending him a dark and dangerous air with
that strong jaw and bronzed skin…. He looked like a beautiful, but
fallen angel.

A large, dark stain
dampened his chest. Blood!
Dio
mio!

As ever, when
frightened, her mother tongue came flying to the fore. She fell to
her knees beside his body. Her ball must have hit him in the chest!
Was he was going to die here on the bedroom floor? Panic, sheer and
uncontrolled, rushed through her. She hadn’t meant to kill him! She
pushed his unbuttoned coat and jacket aside and, yanking his shirt
from his pants, she pushed it up to his neck, frantic to find the
wound and stanch the blood.

For a breath-stealing
instant, the sight of that wide expanse shocked her. She’d never
seen a man’s bare chest up this close. Never imagined… well,
had
imagined… but it had never looked like this!

Blood streaked his left
side, yet Tally was transfixed by his perfectly sculpted muscles. She
hesitated. It would be wonderful to paint such a chest. Her hands
reached to touch…

Don’t
be a fool!
She pulled them back and fisted her hands. How
could she be so shallow? To think of painting him at a time like
this!

But... where was the
wound? Where was the blood coming from? She pulled his shirt away
from his skin and slid her hand up his arm, under his shirt. Just
above his elbow, she was unable to move any higher without shifting
his body onto the side. He was heavy, so she just barely managed to
lean him sideways enough to push her hand up under his clothes at the
back, to feel where the ball had entered. It appeared to have hit him
in the shoulder, but she wasn’t able to find the entry point.

Relief weakened her
knees to know the blood was seeping from his shoulder not his chest,
though she was appalled at how much blood there was.

It was the first time
she’d shot any one and her nerves were fluttering madly about like
a trapped bird’s wings. She put her hand to his heart. The powerful
beat had her snatching it back as if scalded. He certainly was not
dead or dying! Even so, she needed to get help for him.

She pulled his coat
closed to cover him before she raced from the room and flew down the
stairs. It was lucky she was used to moving about in the dark
because, apart from the faint glow of moonlight filtering in through
the fanlight above the door in the hallway, it was total darkness.

At the bottom, she was
on her way toward the back of the house, when a loud snore, coming
from the front hallway, stopped her. Startled, she peeked around the
corner.

Even in her distress,
she had to smile. Foster, the old dear, was guarding the door.
Sitting soldier-straight in a high-backed chair, he was bundled up
with woolen hat and scarf against the night chill, his ancient
blunderbuss across his lap. He was sound asleep. Not even the
deafening gunshot that was still ringing in her ears had disturbed
his deep slumber. In truth, his hearing was really very poor now, but
still....

She hated to wake him,
but who else could help her? They were just the two of them in the
house. They’d hired only Joseph, a small boy of uncertain age,
though definitely no more than nine, to help Foster with the chores
and do the running. But he went home at the end of the afternoon to
his mother and younger brothers and sisters.

She tiptoed nearer,
carefully, fearful of waking him abruptly with that dangerous-looking
contraption in his arms.

“Foster,” she
whispered loudly.

No reaction.

“Foster!” She
raised her voice even louder. She patted his arm lightly.

Still nothing.

Grasping his shoulder,
she shook him vigorously. This time, she shouted his name.

“Heh? What?” He
straightened and, before she knew it, had his weapon aimed at her.
For an elderly man, he was quick to react!

“It’s Tally!” She
pushed the tip of the gun away. “I need your help.” She saw his
rheumy eyes clearing as he wakened. “Quickly! I shot a burglar.”

“What?” That jolted
him awake. He looked around. “Where?”

“In my room.” Tally
headed for the stairs.

“Eh? How did he get
up there?” Foster hobbled stiffly along beside her and they started
up the steps. “Ain’t nobody come by me.”

“He climbed in the
window.” Noticing him wince, she slowed down. Her heart ached to
see how frail he looked. A puff of wind could knock him over! And how
much help would he be if the intruder upstairs recovered enough to
stand and fight?

“He’s no burglar!”
He wheezed and stopped to catch his breath. “I told ye. Someone is
trying to kill you.”

“Not that again!”
She brushed the idea away with a wave of her hand. “Why would any
body want to harm me? Who, in London, even knows I exist?”

“I don’t know why,
Miss Tally, but they’re after you, that’s for demmed sure.”

Was he right? It had
been easier to scoff at his notion that she was a target of foul
play, before that man had crawled through her bedroom window.

“Did ye kill him?”
He took another step, a gleam of gleeful expectation in his sharp,
aging eyes.

“I hope not!” She
ignored his snort of disapproval. “I hit him in the back of the
shoulder, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”

They reached the top of
the stairs and were almost at the door to her room. Foster put his
gun to his shoulder and, nudging her aside, shuffled ahead to enter
first, determined to protect her.

“Serve him right.”
Foster muttered fiercely, stomping into the room. His head swiveled
left and right. “Where is he?”

“What do you mean?”
Tally rushed forward. “He can’t have gone!” She peeked around
Foster’s shoulder and gasped. The man was no longer there!

Pure instinct had her
spinning around to check behind the door. It’s where she’d have
hidden to wait and attack the shooter, when he came through the door.
She inhaled sharply. That was exactly where he was. Only he’d
passed out and was lying slumped up against the wall. An empty
candlestick holder lay beside his lifeless hand.

Foster’s head would
have suffered serious damage had the intruder succeeded in wielding
it. She should have tied him up before going to get help.

“There he is!” She
exclaimed. “Behind the door!” She moved cautiously to the
stranger’s side. “He must have regained consciousness and dragged
himself…” She pointed to the floor. “Look at the trail of blood
on the carpet.”

Foster moved to stand
beside her and was gawking at the intruder lying lifeless half on the
floor, half propped up against the wall. “But Miss Tally, that
there’s no thief.” He pointed an arthritic finger at the man.
“He’s a gentleman. Look at his clothes!”

Then he shook his head
and, lifting the blunderbuss, growled, “Nah, he may be dressed
fancy but a real gentleman don’t go climbing in a young lady’s
window.”

“I agree.” She
quickly searched for a reasonable explanation, before Foster took it
into his head to use his ancient but deadly weapon on the stranger.

“He might have been
looking for the previous tenant.” Seeing his doubtful look, she
tried another idea. “Or he might have planned a secret tryst with
some woman and mistook the house.”

Foster snorted his
incredulity.

She explained further,
“you know there are several of our neighbors who seem a little
questionable.” To herself she added,
and
that’s probably what they’re saying about you too, staying here
in this house with no companion
.

The area they were
living in was less fashionable than Mayfair, it was true, but until
now it had seemed respectable, though still almost deserted leading
up to the Season.

“Take the widow from
Number 18, on the corner. There are a lot of comings and goings at
all hours there.”

“Miss Tally!”
Foster looked discomfited to discover she was no longer an oblivious,
green girl.

“He might have been
trying to surprise his mistress or was spying on her because he …”
she tailed off. With Foster itching to shoot the man, it was best not
to mention where her imagination was taking her. She kept her hand
firmly anchored on Foster’s gun to prevent him from pointing it at
the intruder.

Her feisty factotum
appeared to be relenting, and she was about to remove her hand from
the gun, when he said, “Hmmm... mebbe so, but a refined man knocks
at the door. He doesn’t climb in the window.”

“Perhaps he does if
he wants to avoid an angry husband.”

“Missy!” His
outrage came more from her stating the obvious, than from anything
else. Nevertheless, she stepped in front of the blunderbuss to block
his aim.

She leaned down to
bring the lamp closer and pulled back the unconscious man’s coat
for Foster to see the wound.

“Blast his eyes!”
the old man exclaimed. “The man was set to ravish you! Look at him,
bare chest and all.”

“No, no. I did that.”

At his shocked look,
she quickly explained, “I was searching for the wound. The blood
was all over his chest and I wanted to stop it.” She twisted her
hands in anguish. “I was afraid I had killed him!” Glancing down,
she shuddered. Her hands were covered in blood. She gulped back her
dismay. “When I saw it was coming from the back of his shoulder, I
came to get you to help me. We’ll need to cut his coat off so we
can stanch the blood. But first, let us move him out of my room,
then, we can call a doctor.”