The Birth of Blue Satan (3 page)

Consumed by these thoughts, Gideon had ridden back to Hawkhurst House, across from Green Park in Piccadilly, still in such a foul humour as to speak curtly to the new boy in his stables who was slow to take his reins. Normally quick with a smile for his servants, he had soon regretted his angry tone and resolved to go out of his way to speak more kindly to the boy in future. But he had been so anxious to see Isabella, to have her smile reward him for his loyalty, that he had not bothered with such a trifling matter then.

Now Philippe’s insinuations about the Duke of Bournemouth increased his impatience. His need to speak with Isabella deepened with every passing moment, so he resisted his valet’s more elaborate attempts to arrange his long, powdered wig.

Eventually, clad in a knee-length coat with large, turned-back cuffs and matching waistcoat in peach-coloured silk with elaborate brocade, a pair of silk inexpressibles, a fall of long, blond lace at his throat, clocked silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, a gold-hilted sword riding at his hip, and a three-cornered hat, Gideon was at last able to leave his house. He had already sent word to have a fresh horse saddled, aware that riding to the ball would get him there sooner than taking a chair. In truth, he still had an edge to his passion to work off before seeing Isabella.

Stepping out into the wide courtyard of the house, he spied the stocky figure of Thomas Barnes, his groom, walking his mare. Noting the scowl on the face of the man who had guided him and watched over him since his fourth birthday, Gideon smothered an impatient sigh. He was sure to get a sharp scolding, both for his abuse of the horse today and for his intention to ride out unaccompanied so close on midnight.

No moon was in evidence, and the small bit of light that might have been expected from the stars had been smothered by a layer of cloud. On a night like this, the streets would be thick with thieves, eager to strip an unwary man. Tom would be sorely displeased. But Gideon was not in the mood to take a scolding, not after the one he had received from his father.

“Good evening, Tom.” Affecting not to notice his servant’s scowl, Gideon reached to take the reins.

“‘Tis more good morning, my lord.”

“Do you think? I have not heard the clock strike, but perhaps the chimes are off. You must remind me to have them checked.”

Gideon’s irony was seldom lost on Thomas Barnes, who snorted. “Your lordship knows full well what time o’ the clock it is,
and
what your lordship’s asking for t’ be riding out at such an hour.”

“Now, Tom, you must be aware by now that I am a man fully grown, and as such I may keep the hours I like.”

“If you are so fully growed, how come your lordship don’t know there’s footpads wandering these streets just a’waiting for a pigeon like your lordship to pluck?”

“A pigeon? Tom, I fear you do not flatter me.”

“No. Nor I won’t be flattering your lordship neither till you shows a bit of the sense your father give you.”

Reins in hand, and reaching for the saddle, Gideon froze. His words, when they came, were very low. “Thomas, this scolding will have to cease or I shall be forced to find a groom who does not seek to remind me that he instructed me to hold the reins. It is quite beyond my limits to have you pull a prosy face in front of my friends.”

“I don’t see no friends about,” Tom mumbled, as he bent to give his master a leg up, but he threw Gideon up into his saddle without further comment and made the final adjustments to his straps. There would be no point in remonstrating further when my Lord St. Mars took on that tone.

Not that Gideon’s voice had betrayed anything more than a wry amusement, but Tom had sensed the steel underneath. And his experience told him that nothing would shake St. Mars from his reckless course when he took the bit between his teeth.

Tom could not be certain why his lordship was in such a pent-up mood of late, but he had a fairly good notion. He had ears just as keen as that fancy French valet’s. And, knowing both my Lord Hawkhurst and his tantrums better than the Frenchy did, Tom could well imagine the scene that had just transpired at Rotherham Abbey. His sympathies were divided fairly equally on this occasion, but no words of his would improve Master Gideon’s disposition. And it was not for a servant like him to tell my Lord St. Mars whom to wed.

“Foolish is as foolish does,” he muttered to himself as he helped his master’s diamond-buckled shoe into its stirrup. “And I wonder how he thinks he’s going to look, struttin’ about her ladyship’s ballroom after a ride in them fancy clothes?”

Tom followed Gideon’s horse to the immense wrought-iron and gilt gate that shielded Hawkhurst House, with its thirty rooms, its stables and its outbuildings, from the roughness of the city streets. He moved past him to swing the heavy gate open, and Gideon walked his horse through it. There was no more need for talk. Gideon knew the risks he took and had no patience with his servant’s worries. For his part, Tom knew that he would not sleep until his master was safely home that night.

The night was as black as the depths of a well, the park uncannily empty, the street immensely quiet, as Tom swung the gate closed. Gideon turned in the street. “On my return, I do not wish to find you manning this gate. The porter will let me in. It is, after all, his job.”

Tom was on the point of responding when he heard a horse coming slowly, then faster down the darkened street, its iron-shod hooves ringing sharply on the cobblestones.

With a sudden worry, he swung the gate open again, starting forward just as the shadowy form of a rider came within view.

Gideon swiveled in his saddle to peer at the approaching figure. “What the—”

The stranger was hurtling towards him like a kite diving for its prey. Tom strained to make out the man’s face, but nothing could be seen on this moonless night except a black, fluttering mass riding swiftly towards them, its features shrouded or obscured. He had an uneasy impulse to reach for his master’s reins, but Gideon stopped him, spinning his mare, one hand reaching for his sword.

“A word with you, St. Mars!” the rider called out, easing up on his horse.

Gideon released his hilt.

It’s a messenger
, Tom thought with relief—a relief still tinged with a nagging anxiety.
A messenger belike from the Abbey and Gideon’s father
.

Then, as the stranger’s horse moved within the circle of light cast by the gate’s one lamp, the figure, which was swathed in a long black cloak, began to ride at Gideon again at full tilt.

He wore a Venetian mask. His head was covered by a long, black hood. A glint of steel flashed in his hand.

“Master Gideon, your back!”

Gideon’s horse spun on its two hind hooves, knocking Tom aside. As the rider flew past, he raised his weapon and slashed. Reaching for his own sword too late, Gideon jerked with a cry. His horse reared and twisted, flinging him hard to the ground.

Fair Nymphs, and well-dressed Youths around her shone,

But every eye was fixed on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling Cross she wore,

Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,

Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those:

Favours to none, to all she smile extends;

Oft she rejects, but never once offends.

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,

Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide:

If to her share some female errors fall,

Look on her face, and you’ll forget ‘em all.

CHAPTER 2

“Master Gideon!”

As the stranger galloped away, his long, black cape streaming after him like the wings of death, Tom rushed to kneel at his master’s side.

“Go after him, Tom.” Gideon struggled to sit, clasping a pale, lean hand to his left shoulder. “Take my horse and ride after the devil. Take my sword.”

“No, sir! You’re hurt!” Tom reached shaking fingers to feel a spot that was widening on Gideon’s sleeve.

“Go after him, I said! The damned coward’s getting away!”

“Aye, but there’s nothing can be done about that now. His lordship would eat me for dinner if I let you bleed in the street.”

Ignoring Gideon’s swearing, Tom scooped him up and staggered towards the door. A warm, sticky liquid pooled in the palm of his hand, giving him strength. In a matter of seconds, he had crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to the house.

“Open up!” he shouted, kicking furiously at the door.

“Curse you, put me down!”

“Not on your life, my lord.” In the shock of the moment, Tom had forgotten to use his master’s proper address, but he was reminded to use it now.

“Loose me, or I’ll be the one  to have your head on a platter!”

The fact that Gideon had barely struggled in his arms told Tom that he was weaker than he would admit. But at least he could speak. He had not lost consciousness. Perhaps the wound was not as severe as Tom had feared.

“Very well, my lord, but if you get dizzy, you must lean on me.”

The door opened slowly at first, but once the liveried footman saw who was waiting outside, he threw it wide.

“My Lord St. Mars!”

“I am quite all right, Will,” Gideon said as Tom gently lowered him to his feet. “‘Tis nothing but a scratch.”

A scratch that was making an ever-widening stain on his lordship’s upper sleeve, as both servants could see in the candlelight that spilled from the hall. Still, when Tom saw that his master’s torso had been spared, his chest filled with blessed relief.

The housekeeper hurried forward from the servants’ hall. When she saw the blood on Gideon’s coat, she shrieked. “Oh, my lord!”

“Have Philippe called to my chamber, if you please, Mrs. Dixon. I shall be requiring a change of clothes.”

“And a surgeon, too.” Tom was ready to run into the street. “Shall I fetch the Watch, my lord?”

“Yes.” As Gideon mounted the stairs, he turned. “No— wait. I do not wish to be bothered with either this evening. You may fetch them in the morning.”

“But, my lord—”

“No, Tom. I shall be fine, truly I shall. I do not wish to be questioned now. It would be a complete waste of time in any case, since they will never catch the scoundrel. And I must not miss Lord Eppington’s ball.”

With that, he turned his back and continued to climb, leaving his three servants below, and speechless.

“But—my lord!” Tom was the first to find his voice.

He was given no further chance to use it, for Gideon ignored him as he disappeared at the bend in the stairs.

“Now, there’s a queer start,” Will said, looking to Tom for enlightenment.

Tom was so angry with his headstrong master, he could not stomach any remarks about him right now. “Mind your tongue!” he said sharply. “And don’t be speaking about the master in that impudent way. Get along with you, now!”

The footman knew the privileged position Thomas Barnes held in my Lord St. Mars’s household. Thus, he held back the retort he might have made and, with a haughty look, retired to the back of the house to tell his fellow servants what he’d witnessed up front.

Gideon slowly made his way up the last two steps, aware that to hurry would cause him to lose more blood. He could not afford to take that risk since his head had already begun to swim.

In the hall, he was met by his anxious valet. “
Tiens!”
Philippe exclaimed. “But
Monseigneur
is hurt!
C’est grave
?
”

“I think not,” Gideon said, leading Philippe back through his chamber, lit only by the embers of a dying fire, then passed into his wardrobe. He lowered himself gingerly onto the dressing-table chair. “But you shall have to bind me up and bring me a fresh suit to wear.”

“
Mais, non, non, non!
Monsieur
cannot possibly think he is going out.” The Frenchman scurried about the room, lighting the candles again.

“Philippe—” Gideon closed his eyes and spoke through gritted teeth— “I have had enough words on this subject from Thomas Barnes. You will do as I have asked.”

Philippe swallowed his next remark. With a muffled “tsk” he went to work, removing Gideon’s ruined coat and vest, and his lace-trimmed shirt. This last was most difficult, for its upper left sleeve was drenched in blood, which had begun to clot.

The clothing’s absence revealed a long, deep slash, running across the top of Gideon’s left arm.

“
Mon Dieu
! Who is it who has dared to harm
monsieur
in this manner?”

“I wish I knew,” Gideon said, trying not to wince as Philippe wiped the blood from about his wound. “But Tom—damn him!—refused to ride the blackguard down. He might have caught him, too, if he hadn’t insisted on playing nursemaid to me.”

“For once,
monsieur le vicomte
, I find myself completely in agreement with this Thomas.”

Fortunately for Gideon’s temper, Philippe quickly became engrossed in dressing his wound, so Gideon was spared further comment. The attack had left him more shaken than he cared to admit. Not so much from the wound, though the loss of blood was making him feel light-headed, but from the purposeful way in which it had been dealt.

Who could have wished to do him harm? Someone he knew for certain, for the man had called out his name to put him off guard. Even stranger had been the fact that his assailant had not lingered to finish the job, although perhaps Tom’s presence could account for his good fortune. If the man had truly wished to finish him, he might have expected to easily with no one but an unarmed servant to stand between them. Only an intimate could have known how fiercely Tom would have fought in his behalf.

Had
his attacker known?

Gideon had no time to ponder this or any other question, or he would never make it to the ball. And he must go. Isabella would certainly take pique if he failed to appear, and if she was seriously considering the Duke, Gideon’s absence might be just enough to tip the scales in his Grace’s favour.