The Impostor (5 page)

They had crossed a small footbridge to the other side of the river when they saw one of their pursuers again. Sebastian could not tell if the man was among those who had departed on the boats. He peered through the shadows, weapon drawn, and Tessa’s fingers tightened over his own.

“There you are, Montague,” said the American, his voice light and genial as he held up his pistol. “You’ve given me quite the chase tonight, but if you come along quietly, I won’t harm the girl.”

Sebastian shoved Tessa out of the way, pushing her aside with so much force he dropped his walking stick and sent her sprawling onto the ground to land on her side.

“Sevigny sent you?” he asked.

“We are working with Sevigny, yes,” said the American. He fixed his attention firmly on Sebastian, his hand steady as he kept the pistol trained on Sebastian’s forehead.

A mistake. As Sebastian watched, a red stain blossomed across the front of the American’s shirt. The man looked down in astonishment, and then, without a sound, he fell to the ground. As he collapsed, Tessa Ryder gave the hilt of Sebastian’s sword a sharp tug and freed it, sending an arc of blood drops through the air to splatter on her white cloak.

“Who taught you how to do that?” he asked curiously.

She made no answer. Instead, she threw herself at him, shoving at him with both her hands. Unbalanced, his left leg too weak to hold their combined weight, he began to crumble to the ground, and as he fell he watched, as though in slow motion, the blood blossoming scarlet in Tessa’s side as she stood where he had been standing a scant second before.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement. Another American ran toward them, his pistol outstretched and still smoking. Sebastian did not hesitate. He cast his illusion of water, of waves, of drowning, and even as he caught Tessa’s body in his arms, the American fell to his knees, struggling against the water filling his lungs.

Leaving the man to fight the illusion, he rose to his feet, lifting Tessa with him. The blood spread rapidly across her white cloak.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice low and harsh.

“Yes,” she gasped. “The bullet only grazed me.”

The sound of the shot had drawn more pursuers. They could hear the footsteps pounding toward them, and Sebastian could wait no longer. Holding Tessa upright, balancing heavily on his walking stick to support their combined weight, he led her into the closest mews. Panting heavily now, feeling the blood seeping between his fingers from the wound in her side, he forced Tessa onward, through mews and back alleys, along side streets and through the narrow spaces between houses.

But their pursuers drew closer. As they passed a stable full of sleeping horses, and guarded by a large black mastiff, Sebastian heard them shouting, their footsteps quickening as they caught sight of Tessa’s white cloak glowing against the darkness of the night.

He glanced down at Tessa. She breathed shallowly, her face pale and drawn. “Go,” she whispered. “Leave me.”

His gaze fell on the snarling mastiff and the stable full of sleepy ponies. Leaving Tessa leaning against a wall, he drew his sword from his walking stick and brought it down hard across the mastiff’s chains. Then, unshackling the door of the stables, he roused all the horses with a light pat to the rump with the flat of his blade.

The animals pounded down the streets, straight into their pursuers, who, shouting and cursing, scattered. Sebastian went to gather Tessa, and they set off once again into the darkness, through narrow streets and twisting lanes.

They emerged at last on a major thoroughfare in Holburn. By now, Tessa was only half-conscious. Hoping their pursuers would not follow them onto the busy street, Sebastian hailed a hackney. The drunk and indifferent driver took no notice of Tessa’s pale face or bloodstained cloak.

Sebastian helped her into the hired vehicle first, then lifted himself into the carriage seat beside her to hold her upright, and opened the hatch to convey instructions to the driver.

As the carriage set off down the crowded street, he cradled Tessa close to him.

“We’ll be home soon,” he said. “I’ll summon a physician.”

She did not open her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “Thanks to you. But you’ve been shot.”

“I told you, the bullet just grazed me a little,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

“You’re barely conscious,” said Sebastian roughly.

Ignoring her protests, he reached down, pushing aside the ruined cloak, and beneath it, the tatters of her gown. The bullet had only grazed her, as she had told him, but it had left a long, deep gouge that was now oozing blood.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” she said, trying to push away his hands. “I’ll be all right.”

He did not bother to respond, instead reaching into his pocket and extracting a clean, neatly folded handkerchief. As he pressed it hard against the wound, her breath hissed from between her teeth, but she remained otherwise silent.

After a moment she made an effort to raise herself next to him, keeping the cloak wrapped tightly around her though it was not cold in the carriage. She brushed back the loose hair from her face, then folded her hands very carefully in the skirts of her dress.

They pulled up in front of a gleaming, graceful Palladian town house, and Tessa asked, “Is this your home?”

He nodded. “I thought you might be comfortable here while I summoned a physician. Then I hoped we might speak.”

Tessa nodded, pulling the voluminous hood of her cloak around her so it obscured her face and the dress that fit her small frame so poorly. He pushed the door of the carriage open and exited first, turning to help her down the steps. Her small, gloveless hand trembled in his own.

After paying the coachman, he led her up the shallow marble steps to the front door of his townhouse, which swung open immediately. Coleman, his exceedingly proper butler, stood waiting to greet them.

“My lord!” the man exclaimed, looking horrified at the sight of them. He hesitated, seemingly torn between proper butler behavior and curiosity. Finally, he ventured, “What became of your lordship’s carriage?”

Sebastian did not look at his butler. He watched Tessa Ryder as she studied his hall, her expression absorbed.

“It caught on fire,” said Sebastian. “Miss Ryder requires the services of a physician. Have one sent for immediately. Then have baths drawn for both of us, and prepare a bedchamber for Miss Ryder.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Coleman, bowing, but Tessa now turned back to them, and held out her hand.

“My lord,” she said, “I must speak with you immediately. Tonight.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Miss Ryder,” he said, “we have just been chased across all of London by a gang of American cutthroats. You have been shot at and are grievously wounded. You need rest. What is so important that it cannot wait until morning?”

“Your life, my lord,” said Tessa.

For the first time that night, Sebastian really looked at her, in the gleaming lamps of his hall. Tessa Ryder was no beauty. She had none of Jane’s ripe, melting loveliness, none of her ability to command a stage and a room.

But the fierceness of her expression, the determination etched in each delicate line of her face, marked her with something beyond mere beauty, an inner strength and a power that rendered her sensitive features more compelling than physical perfection.

As he watched her, something stirred in his mind, a memory perhaps, as though he had once known her a very long time ago, in a place he could not quite remember. There was something about the way she carried her head, something about the curve of her profile, that was hauntingly familiar.

But he knew with great certainty he had never met Tessa Ryder before.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Coleman, after the physician has tended to Miss Ryder, I will speak to her in the library. See to it there is a fire lit.” He glanced at Tessa one last time. She shivered in her ruined cloak, her face pale and drawn in the lamplight.

“And have the kitchen send up some tea and toast,” he said.

Chapter Five

Three hours later, Sebastian sat in his library, absently massaging his left leg and nursing a glass of brandy. Flames crackled in the hearth, making the shadows dance like goblins around the room. When the door swung open, he looked up. Tessa entered the room.

“You will forgive me if I do not rise, Miss Ryder,” he said.

“Your leg pains you, sir?” she asked, coming into the center of the room. The firelight turned her hair into the polished gold of a Stradivarius. She looked considerably cleaner, but she was still pale and she moved very carefully.

“I was wounded at Talavera,” said Sebastian. He poured a glass of brandy from the decanter and held it out to her. “I’m afraid it never fully recovered.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Tessa quietly.

She stepped forward and accepted the glass. Her fingers brushed against his, the faintest of touches, but a jolt of heat burned across his nerve endings where their skin had met. She must have felt it too, because she drew her breath in sharply and jerked back, the glass slipping from her hand. It fell to the floor with a muffled thud, rolling across the carpet and beneath his chair.

“I’m sorry.”

She fell to her knees at his feet and bent forward, as though to reach for the glass, but straightened immediately with a wince, one hand going to her side.

“Leave the glass,” he said sharply.

He caught her hands in his own. A faint flush crept up her face at his touch and her gaze flew up to meet his.

She was close enough to kiss. He could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, and wondered what she would do if he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.

“But your carpet,” she breathed. “The brandy.”

A strand of her loose hair fell across her forehead. He repressed an urge to brush it back.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “One of the maids will clean it up later. Sit before you hurt yourself further. The physician tells me your wound will heal nicely, but not if you pull at it.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Looking away, she pulled her hands free and rose to her feet. “Thank you. It was very good of you to send for him.”

She took a chair opposite him. Sebastian tilted his head to one side. “Why did you do it?”

“What?”

“You pushed me out of the way,” he said. “You could have let me take the bullet instead. It was meant for me. Those men were not there to kill you.”

She was silent for a long moment, and her mouth trembled briefly. Finally she said, “I came here because of a…a mission.”

“I think it’s time you explained it to me then,” said Sebastian.

She looked up at him with an expression he did not understand. For a moment, she seemed not to have heard his question. “You are aware now, I think, that Pierre Sevigny has returned,” she said at last.

For a moment the room was utterly silent. Sebastian continued to study her.

“As those Americans claimed affiliation with Sevigny, I am aware he has returned,” said Sebastian. “Only I was told you were working for him.”

“You must be insane,” snapped Tessa. “I would never work for Sevigny. Who told you that?”

“Sir Francis Hughes,” he said. “He was the one who told me that you would be at Carlton House tonight, disguised as Jane Cameron.”

Tessa shook her head. “Francis Hughes?” she repeated. “When did you see Francis Hughes?”

“Tonight. Just before the ball. “

Tessa shook her head. “But that’s impossible,” she said. “Sevigny kidnapped Francis Hughes more than a year ago.”

For a long moment, Sebastian stared at her. “Sevigny kidnapped Francis a year ago? Absurd. He was here only a few hours ago.”

She shook her head. “You believe you saw Francis just an hour ago,” she said. “No doubt Sevigny took possession of your friend’s body. Did nothing seem amiss to you?”

“No,” said Sebastian. He hesitated, trying to remember what Francis had been like during his brief visit a few hours before. He had seemed as charming and laughing as always as he sat in Sebastian’s study, using his telekinetic Gift with his usual casual ease. “I had no cause to suspect at the time that Sevigny had returned. Francis implied you were working alone, and you were merely seeking revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” asked Tessa, looking even more bewildered.

Sebastian cleared his throat. Somehow, it was difficult to repeat what Francis had said to the clear-eyed woman sitting before him. “Francis implied that you, ah, were Sevigny’s friend. His lover, to be precise.”

“I see.” Tessa frowned. “But what cause would he have to—” She broke off, and he could all but see the wheels in her mind turning as she crossed her arms before her and paced the study floor. “I see,” she said at last. “Of course.”

She trailed over to the window to gaze out into the night, her hair falling in thick ropes over her shoulders. “He would tell you that,” she said softly, almost as though she were speaking to herself. “It would get rid of both of his problems at once, if he could persuade you to kill me. What did Sevigny tell you, precisely?”