The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (36 page)

Put that way, it
sounded complicated. She felt another stab of her old friend, guilt.
Mr. Mason was still missing the final piece of their story, but
surely not knowing she was the one who had shot Reed shouldn’t
matter… much?

“Not that any of this
helps solve the matter of who is trying to... to harm me.” She
stumbled over using the word “kill”. It seemed too incredible.
Killing was for war, or for greedy men who killed for money. Not for
quiet country girls, of modest means, newly come to town. “Have you
plans for dealing with that?”

“I’m working on
it,” he said.

They walked a few more
steps, the Scot in pensive silence. She was wishing he’d offered
her more hope than that.

“Are you certain the
two aren’t connected?”

“Quite certain,”
she responded confidently. “Mr. Leigh... um... Gordon arrived a
full two weeks after I’d been the object of at least three
terrifying occurrences. Unless…” She stopped. She hated to speak
ill of others and, now that she was coming to know Reed, she had a
hard time believing he could ever be a danger to her.

“Unless what?”

“We did wonder, that
first night, if Mr. Gordon had climbed in the window to… um… hurt
me.” It sounded so stark, so awful, when put into words like that.
She peeked up at the investigator to see his reaction.

“Hmmm…” His
expression never changed. He paused for several long moments before
saying, “Yes, it only makes sense to keep that in mind.”

His long stride was
eating up the sidewalk, while he contemplated the circumstances. She
was almost running to keep up with him.

“It appears to me you
have a third problem,” he said. “Monsieur Moreau’s
disappearance.” He peered down at her. “You suspect he was taken
away unwillingly, I surmise.”

She was almost panting
as she tried to talk and keep pace with him. “Yes, each attack
against me took place on our way home from his studio.”

He probed further, “So
you think Moreau’s absence is connected to these attacks on you?”

She hesitated. Telling
him this next bit was a big step. It meant revealing a secret she’d
kept for half of her life. “I may have discovered the reason for
Monsieur’s disappearance, although, I hope I’m wrong.”

“Yes?”

Mr. Mason was not a
patient man, she was discovering. It must be that red hair of his. At
his prompting look, she hastened to continue. “First, I must have
your promise that what I tell you remains between us.” Tally was
nervous. She’d never told anyone about her painting.

“As I have made clear
to you on more than one occasion, Mrs. Leigh– … er ... Miss... I
never reveal my client’s secrets.” His exasperated reply made her
feel like a scolded child, but she’d needed the reassurance.

He again stopped
walking and faced her with an expectant look.

“First, you should
know my real name. It’s Lawton. I’m Wendal Lawton’s daughter.”
It was gratifying to see she had again surprised him. He always
seemed so sure of himself.

“Then why the Mrs.
Leighton?”

“I wanted to come to
London incognito. Monsieur said that for a young, unmarried woman, it
would be difficult to rent a place to live. He thought it would be
best to pretend I was married and that my spouse was away on
prolonged business. He chose the name saying it was close enough to
my real name so I wouldn’t inadvertently give away the pretence
when the name ‘Leighton’ was called by others.” She sighed,
wishing she didn’t have to reveal all of her machinations. “I
also wanted my presence in London to remain a secret from my family,
so it seemed the best way to proceed.”

“I see.”

She was relieved to see
no judgment or disapproval on his face. Just the same, inscrutable
aspect as usual.

She continued before
she lost her courage. “At the art exhibit, the other day, I
discovered…” She explained about her paintings being sold.
“Monsieur and I were going to choose a male pseudonym for me to
use, but when I arrived in London, he was gone. And now my paintings
are being sold with my father’s signature on them.”

“That’s fraud.”

“Yes, I’m aware of
that.” Now, she was the impatient one. Did he think her a complete
ninny! “But, in the circumstances, I don’t know what to do about
it?”

“You don’t think
Moreau fled because he was afraid your arrival would uncover his
scheme?”

“No.” She was
confident she was correct in this. “I have faith in him.”

Mr. Mason had begun
striding again and she was once more having trouble keeping up with
him.

She stopped abruptly.
He kept on going, before realizing he’d left her behind and
retracing his steps back to her.

“Yes?” he inquired
in a long-suffering, yet courteous tone.

“You walk much too
fast for a lady to keep up, sir,” she complained. “A woman’s
attire is an impediment to racing about at such speeds.”

His face reddened.
“Forgive me. I tend to walk faster when I’m preoccupied.”

She patted his arm to
let him know she didn’t hold it against him, then continued
answering him as if nothing had happened. “I don’t think Monsieur
is involved in those events. I know it may not seem reasonable to
you, but you don’t know him like I do. The truth is — I’m
worried about him.”

Mr. Mason walked at a
deliberately slow pace for several moments. “Perhaps we should
solve one problem at a time.” In response to her silent question,
he added, “Mr. Gordon’s identity first?” He looked for her
agreement.

“Yes. Once he goes
home, it should be easier to resolve the rest.” She was almost
convinced Reed was no threat to her physically. On the contrary, he
was protective of her.

But
that was without his memory
, that little niggle of doubt
persisted in saying.

She couldn’t help
wondering how protective he’d be upon recovering his memory and
realizing that, not only was she not his wife, but she was the one
who had shot him!

* * *

It was good to be out
and moving about, Reed reflected. Even if he was worried about
meeting someone he should know but didn’t.

Talia was in her studio
painting and there had been no sign of Mr. Mason. The perfect
occasion for another venture. He’d already had enough of walking
safely in the park. It wasn’t helping him recover his memory any
faster. Today, dressed like a gentleman, in what he assumed were his
own clothes, he’d taken the bold step of walking along Oxford
Street perusing the shops, keeping a wary eye out for anyone who
might recognize him.

Not that it had borne
any fruit. His perfect day had suddenly turned bitterly cold and he’d
met less and less people as the afternoon advanced. And, presently,
dusk was darkening the sky. His stomach growled in protest and he
realized he’d had nothing to eat or drink in hours. Now, he was
tired and anxious to get home.

To make matters worse,
he had the distinct feeling he was being followed. He made a rapid
decision to slip down the next lane. It was the same one he’d tried
on his way here. He recognized the commercial buildings that backed
onto it. It should get him home faster, but his real purpose was to
lose whoever was tracking him.

The instant he entered
the enclosed space that was little more than a wide path, he knew
he’d made a serious mistake. An unnatural silence assailed him. He
halted on the spot. Warily, he glanced around. Suddenly, men seemed
to come at him from everywhere. They looked like no English men he’d
ever seen and appeared to be pouring out of the cracks in the walls —
big ugly knives and wooden bats in their hands — all converging on
him!

This was not good. He
didn’t like his odds. Whoever had shot him obviously intended to
finish the job. For a moment, he considered turning around and
running. But it was too late.

Facing the onslaught,
he decided that if he was going down, he was going to go down
fighting. He wasn’t ready to die. He had Talia to live for. Their
whole future lay ahead of them. A surge of anger swept through him at
the idea that these thugs wanted to take all that promise away.

Keeping a steady eye on
them, his breathing stilled, his mind quieted. Now that he was
calmer, he saw that there were less than he’d first thought. More
than four, less than seven, perhaps. He waited for them to make the
first move. It was uncanny. As if he had inner knowledge he hadn’t
been aware of until now. He widened his stance, feet shoulder-width
apart, arms loosely bent at his side, hands forming flat fists. He
felt prepared… right.

Suddenly, giving an
eerie war cry, two of the men charged him. The others watched.
Triumphant, evil leers on their faces, certain of their power, their
ability to crush him.

Big, beefy hands
grabbed him from the behind.

Without turning his
head, Reed’s elbow leapt back from his side to jab hard into the
man’s stomach. At the same time, his foot kicked a lethal-looking
knife out of the hand of the cove approaching from the front. His
momentum allowed him to continue spinning around to kick the man
behind him, who had recovered from Reed’s first foray, in the
bollocks. Crouching he reached up and behind him to grab the now
knifeless foe, who was about to get him in the back, and bring him
over Reed’s head to slam him onto the ground. In less than sixty
seconds, the two assailants lay on the ground, one lifeless the other
moaning and gasping for breath.

He was stunned! Where
had his astonishing skills come from?

He hadn’t time to
dwell on it, because another brave, or perhaps foolhardy, fellow
rushed forward. Reed let him come in close. Then he knocked the
brute’s wooden club away and grabbed his collar, pulling him right
up against him. This unexpected move threw his opponent off balance,
giving Reed the opening to bend low and drive his good shoulder into
the man’s stomach. Using the thug’s forward momentum, he
straightened his legs, twisted his body and heaved the scoundrel over
his shoulder, catapulting him onto the ground, where he lay
motionless.

That instantly wiped
away the evil smirks on the faces of the remaining assassins. Darting
a quick glance, Reed saw their shocked stares.

He moved his back
closer to the wall on one side of the lane and twisted a fraction to
face the next wave of men advancing on him, heavy sticks and large
blades in the air, yelling, making a unified run at him. They looked
even nastier, now that their friends had been vanquished. But their
mistake was in coming at him together. Alone, they might have had a
chance. Together, in the confined space of the lane, they were unable
to swing their weapons freely, without endangering their fellow
henchmen. Because of this blunder, he was able to deal one-on-one
with each of them.

Instinctively leaning
forward onto the balls of his feet, he was ready when they struck.
The first one came too close… for him! Reed was able to catch his
arm and, using a similar maneuver to the last one, he threw the
assailant head first into the wall. He stepped sideways to confront
the next one and just managed to dodge the evil-looking machete about
to come down on his head. Shooting out his foot, he tripped the
miscreant and kicked him in the back of the head, rendering him
unconscious. He wheeled around quickly, expecting to face another
attack, but all he saw was their backsides as they ran away,
terrified.

He bent over, hands on
his thighs, to catch his breath. His legs were like putty! He’d
been sure he was about to die. That made him think. He should be
getting out of there, now, instead of recovering his breath here!
Straightening up, he strode rapidly to the other end of the lane.
Before walking out onto the sidewalk of the main street, he paused to
pull his cuffs down and push an unsteady hand through his hair.

Damn! He clutched his
shoulder. His wound was burning again. Not surprising, after engaging
in that battle. He was lucky to be walking out of there alive!

He took a last look at
the men still sprawled there unmoving and wished he could call the
constabulary to haul the ugly-looking customers away, but without his
memory, they’d probably take him in too!

He spotted a
well-dressed man at the entrance to the lane, from whence he’d
come. He was about to call a warning, but the man hastened away. For
a moment there, he’d thought the man looked like Mason. But with
the waning sun, Reed’s vision was impaired. Wise man, whoever he
was. He’d seen the scuffle and decided not to risk it.

Exiting the lane, he
began to think about what had happened. Where had he learned to fight
like that? A faint image of an aged man, with a long white beard,
hovered at the edges of his memory. The oriental-looking elder wore a
white robe and moved silently about a large room, while he, Reed,
circled around, alternately attacking and defending. No name came to
mind, blast it all! Another impression of himself facing a large man
in combat position, slid into his mind. They bowed to each other
then... then… nothing.

He stopped for a moment
hoping a name, something, any scrap of knowledge might appear, but
after minutes ticked by without an answer, he straightened his
cravat, lifted his shoulders in resignation, and continued on his way
home.

* * *

“He stood there, cool
as you please and let them come at him. Och, I thought I was going to
have to go in there to help him,” Mr. Mason said. “They looked so
fierce, I knew that, even with my pistols, there was every chance I
might end up very seriously hurt or dead. But Gordon dealt with them
like they were mere gnats bothering him on a hot summer’s day.”

When he was excited,
Mr. Mason`s Scottish lineage betrayed him, Tally noted. He was
describing how Reed fought off a band of at least five attackers that
afternoon. He was so astounded by what he’d witnessed, the usually
reserved investigator was repeating the tale for the third time,
aided and abetted by Foster’s request for him to explain it in more
detail.