His Sinful Secret (25 page)

“Is she injured?” Fitzhugh eyed the child in her arms and ignored her comment. Just as well. She was cold, wet, and in no mood to argue.

“I don’t think so.” Julianne gazed down at Chloe’s wan face. “Hungry, I’d guess, and frightened, but from the way her arms cling to me, she’s not been alone for too long. She’s still strong.”

Was it only a few hours? From how cold it was in the house, Julianne was afraid it might have been longer. Overnight? One terrifying night alone in a deserted building was too much for any child.

Julianne wanted to weep, but she was also joyous, in a curious way. It was over. She was going to have to tell the truth.

What a relief.

 

The damned attack took him unawares. The bullet caught his sleeve and forearm, tearing through his cloak. Michael instinctively fell—an old soldier’s trick—and weighed his options as he rolled into the shadow of a clipped hedge. Already people were shouting, because while many of his acquaintances were sporting men, Mayfair didn’t normally echo with the resounding retort of gunfire.

Regardless of the damage to his expensive coat and breeches, he opted to crawl through the shrubbery and try and get a glimpse of his assailant in the driving rain. He was armed, but not with a rifle or pistol.

The assailant was hidden. This was not a casual attack on a well-dressed man for his purse.

Still . . . very careless to attempt the shot in this weather. Not at all like Roget. Michael slid into the shadows and crouched behind a dripping bush, waiting to see a dark figure emerge from the alley across the street. It was almost dusk, and the light was indistinct.

Once you located the enemy, then the game became more even.

This was not the time to sprint across the street in obvious pursuit. In the steady downpour, perhaps his attacker thought he’d hit his target. Michael edged sideways and watched for any movement.

There.
A silhouette appeared in the streaming rain, the glint of a pale face showed, and then the figure turned, went still as he obviously realized there was no body on the ground where it should be. Then he ran toward a nearby alley, to be lost in the rain.

Missed, you bastard,
Michael thought grimly. Though he was tempted to follow, and normally would have, he wasn’t carrying a sidearm.

Curious, that. Usually, he would have followed, wounded or not. But he had a feeling that his days of risking his neck, as he’d told Charles, might be over. In the meantime, he was bleeding, which seemed to be a common occurrence lately. He jerked back his sleeve, cursed, and then got out his handkerchief and did his best to stem the flow of blood. The number of shirts and jackets he was replacing these days would make his tailor a rich man.

A third clumsy attempt . . . this wasn’t Roget.

That conclusion was both reassuring—he was still alive because it wasn’t Roget—and disappointing. As it all stood, he had no idea who was trying to kill him, and his old enemy was still at large.

“You all right, my lord?” A young footman from a nearby house dashed up, rain dampening his fitted jacket and hair. His gaze dropped to the bloody handkerchief pressed against Michael’s sleeve. He looked almost comically horrified. “You’re shot.”

“Just a graze,” he assured him, muttering an inner curse that it had happened so close to home. Obviously the servant recognized him, and in very little time word would spread that Lord Longhaven was attacked on the street.

“Shall I summon a physician?”

“No need, but thank you,” he assured the helpful young man. To stave off any other offers of assistance from the other staring pedestrians, he set off briskly down the street. He could go to Antonia again, or Luke, for that matter, who lived perhaps five houses away. However, he pictured himself arriving, bleeding, on Viscount Altea’s doorstep, and it would just inflame the gossip. Luke wouldn’t blink an eye, but servants talked.

No, it was best to just go home and try to go up to his rooms as unobtrusively as possible so he could assess the damage. Fitzhugh was off shadowing Julianne, but he could take care of the wound later, if need be. It burned, but didn’t feel serious.

A much more serious matter was explaining it to his wife. A wicked knife wound was out of the ordinary and he hadn’t ever offered any kind of reasonable explanation, but not long afterward having a graze from a ball on his arm would require more frankness. They were getting to know each other in ways besides the communion they had in bed, and he knew she’d have—and ask—questions.

Were our positions reversed,
he told himself as he walked up the wet grandiose steps of Southbrook House,
I would certainly ask
her
what had happened. And moreover, I would expect the truth.

No, that word was cold, inadequate to his powerful reaction to the idea of anything marring her perfect skin, causing her pain, endangering her life. He trusted Fitzhugh, but she’d evaded his valet more than once. With this third attempt on his life, maybe he should assign an operative to watch Julianne. With two vigilant men plus Antonia, surely she’d be safe.

Unless, of course, a sharpshooter decided to target her from a distance. Safe was an illusion. What he needed to do was find whoever wanted him dead and end this.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Rutgers stood in the foyer, moving to take his cloak. Michael shook his head, keeping the concealing cloth pulled around him. “I’m soaked through. I’ll have Fitzhugh take care of this upstairs. Perhaps dry it by the fire.”

“Very good.” The elderly butler stepped back.

“Is Lady Longhaven home?”

“Not as of yet, my lord.”

It was getting dark. What the devil was that about?

A drop of blood splashed on Michael’s boot. “I would like to be informed of her return immediately,” he said with as much aplomb as possible before he turned away and headed down the hallway toward the huge double staircase that led to the private family apartments. He hoped he didn’t leave a trail of scarlet spots behind him.

An hour later, after bathing in hot water to ease the autumn chill, a makeshift bandage over what proved to be, as he suspected, just a flesh wound, and dressed in dry clothes, Michael joined his father in his study.

“You wished to see me, sir?” He selected a chair and dropped into it, the throb in his forearm not quite a crescendo but certainly a melody in the background.

The sixth Duke of Southbrook splashed expensive French brandy into a glass and passed it over. “I assume you’ll be joining us this evening.”

Michael quirked a brow. “Put that way, it doesn’t sound quite like a ducal decree, but I am guessing it is one.”

“I know it sounds dull as unbuttered toast, but your mother’s dinner party is important to her.”

“For Lady Hampton’s niece, correct?” It did sound dull. The young woman was a debutante, and if memory served, inclined to giggle. They were cousins in some remote way, and of course, being sponsored by the Duchess of Southbrook was always a coup.

“Lady Felicity happens also to be a friend of your wife.” His father smiled genially over the rim of his glass.

The inference was that Michael would please both his mother and his wife by attending. “Please tell me you’ll dip into some of your more rare vintages as recompense for my cooperation.”

A chuckle. “Of course. I am not looking forward to it all that much either, but marriage is a compromise.”

Or a treaty, as Michael had whispered to Julianne when they’d lain together in the garden. Perhaps she was right: he’d had too much war in his life. Compromise sounded better, but, truthfully, they were the same.

Michael glanced at the case clock in the corner of the room. “Speaking of my wife, she seems to be running late.”

“Dinner isn’t for several hours,” his father pointed out.

True. Michael forced himself to relax as best as possible since his recent experience with a bullet whizzing out of the dreary afternoon was so fresh in his mind. His sore arm made the event difficult to set aside.

Can I confine Julianne to the house until this was settled,
he wondered, moodily settling lower in his chair, only half listening to his father’s description of the stallion he was considering purchasing to put to stud to improve their bloodstock.

No, he couldn’t forbid her to go out without explaining that he was afraid she might be in danger.

Not without revealing more than he cared to about who and what he was.

Restively, he drank more brandy and wondered where she might be.

T
he wheel had broken, stranding them.

It was an old hackney cab, so maybe not so surprising, but the sideways lurch of the vehicle into the mud hadn’t been welcome, and the incessant rain had rendered the roads a quagmire. As if poor little Chloe hadn’t been through enough.

The stalwart Fitzhugh had come to the rescue yet again, putting Julianne and her small charge up on his horse and leading it, but that took forever, and at the end of the journey all of them were soaked to the skin, shivering. And now it was well past dark.

Well
past dark.

How late was it, precisely? She wasn’t sure. They had stopped at a tavern to make sure Chloe had something to eat, and both Julianne and Fitzhugh had sat in silent consternation to watch such a small child devour an entire meat pie and down several glasses of water as if parched. As usual, she’d said nothing. Once, Julianne’s husband’s valet had given her a questioning look over the child’s silence, to which she’d just shaken her head.

They were all miserable when they reached the rarified streets of Mayfair, and none of them looked as if they belonged there. Julianne’s silk gown was ruined, her slippers unrecognizable and certainly not functional, and her cloak so wet it did nothing to stave off the cold. The only amusing part of it was that Julianne couldn’t tell which of them—she or her husband’s valet—was more chagrined as they alighted, muddy and disreputable, from his weary horse.

The lights of the mansion were brilliant, and belatedly she realized there was a dinner going on and perhaps the festivities had started. Her heart sank. It wasn’t at all how she wished to do this.

Not exactly an ideal arrival.

“There is always the servant’s entrance, madam.”

Fitzhugh’s tone was so pained, she almost laughed, but she was hardly in a mirthful mood. The thought of even going around the house was too much. She wanted to get inside to warmth as soon as possible, not for her sake so much but for Chloe’s. “No,” she said with finality. “I know there are guests, but I refuse to drag her in through the back door, Fitzhugh. She’s been hidden enough.”

For a moment it looked like he would argue, but then he gazed at the wet, bedraggled child in her arms and nodded. “It could be you are right, Lady Longhaven.”

“I am not anxious to tell everyone what I’ve done,” she confessed. “You know Michael better than most. Will he forgive me?”

“The colonel is most fair. You will have to walk through that door to find out.” Even wet and muddy, the former sergeant held himself with formidable dignity.

She gazed at the formal portico with the elaborate carved door and reminded herself Chloe had every right to be there. It would be preferable if she weren’t bedraggled and tired herself, and the situation certainly not how she ever wanted to reveal this secret, but it had to be done, and perhaps it was best to have it over quickly.

Actually, she didn’t see any other way. Sneaking in the back might be fine otherwise, but not to hide Chloe. She was a human being and though the circumstances of her birth were less than perfect, none of it was her fault.

Still, in front of a bevy of guests . . .

Hopefully they were all in the dining room, so Julianne could at least enter discreetly and bathe and change before she had to begin the explanations.

Even now, she wasn’t at all positive how the duke and duchess were going to react. “Come on, darling.” She brushed back several sodden curls from Chloe’s forehead. The little girl was obviously exhausted, her eyes half closed. “You’ll like it here. I promise.”

Squaring her shoulders, Julianne went up the steps. To her surprise, the door was yanked open before she even got there. Michael himself stood outlined by the welcome light that spilled into the chilly night. In contrast to her current state, he was beautifully dressed in tailored evening clothes, his cravat snowy white, his boots polished to a high sheen.

“Where the devil have you been?” he demanded, his gaze traveling over her soaked, disheveled appearance, and then shooting in accusation to his valet. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain it all, Colonel.” Fitzhugh responded in his usual stoic, calm tone, standing beside her.

Julianne was shivering. “No,
I
will explain. But may we discuss this inside?”

Her husband seemed to realize he was blocking the doorway, for he stepped back. She gratefully entered the warmth of the house, her skirts leaving a muddy trail across the polished floor. She was dripping everywhere, she knew with resignation, even droplets from her eyelashes. Julianne blinked and wished for a dry handkerchief to blow her nose.

“May I take your cloak, my lady?” Rutgers stood there politely, as if she hadn’t arrived in a sodden mess, carrying a small child.

Ruefully, she said, “I think it is possibly past salvaging.”

“Throw it out,” Michael said in clipped tones, slipping the wet garment from her shoulders.

The austere butler seemed to agree, for though it wasn’t obvious, he held it away from his impeccable clothing and nodded at one of the footmen, who hastened forward to take it from him. Her slippers were even worse, but she was hardly going to take off her shoes in the grand foyer of the ducal mansion. “I’m sorry for the mess, Rutgers,” she apologized. “There was a bit of an accident.”