Authors: Charis Michaels
“I’m waiting to hear you
slide the lock
!” Trevor shouted.
The two men thudded against the other side, rattling the heavy wood, and she quickly snapped the lock in place.
Tiny came up behind her. “I
warned
you not to get outta that bed. ‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘Not one inch.’ And I flat-out told you not to open that door. And what did you do?” She shook her head and held out a glass of water.
“Not now, Tiny!” Piety said. “Trevor is in a fight.”
“A fight?” asked Tiny. “Eli Limpett again? He’ll kill him for sure this time.”
“No, no, the Limpetts are gone. It’s an old man. Big and strangely dressed. He’s bellowing in another language. Have you seen someone like this, Tiny? Around the building? Could he be a neighbor?”
Tiny shook her head and kept coming, trying to shoo her back in bed. Jocelyn joined the fray, willing Piety to take care, but Piety waved them both away. “Quickly,” she told them. “The earl needs us. Look around the room. Let us find something that could be used as a weapon.”
“A
what
?” Tiny stomped her foot. “And just what do you think you’re going to do with a weapon? Mr. Trevor can take care of himself! The last thing he needs is you getting up outta that bed, trying to be part of a fight!”
“I’m not surprised,” said Piety, rifling through the first drawer she came to, “that you mention what
Mr. Trevor
wants. It’s how he found me, isn’t it? You told him. Both of you. My whole purpose in stealing away was to be separate from him, yet here he is. He asked, and you relented.”
“Piety,”
said Jocelyn, her voice fraught, “I am to blame for the earl’s presence here. I . . . I failed you in this, and I offer no excuse. But please know that we made every effort. He would not be put off. He was desperate to find you.”
Piety nodded her head but continued searching drawers and shelves for a make-shift weapon.
Jocelyn followed close behind. “But please, my lady, you must sit down. Your body has suffered too gravely for this level of exertion. Even if you were healthy, I could not agree that you should join a brawl!”
“You don’t have to agree,” said Piety, yanking open the door to a wardrobe. The movement shot pain down her left side, but she carried on. “I am acting of my own accord. I exonerate you from all blame.”
“Piety,”
warned Tiny, “you think I’m too old to pick you up and carry you back to the bed, but you’re wrong! You lost ten pounds when you were sick, and you were too skinny before that. Listen to Miss Breedlowe, and do what she says.”
“Aha!” Piety came upon the sideboard beneath the window. A thick, pedestal candle on a shiny, golden candelabra flickered brightly on a doily, its oozing wax seeping heavily around the rim. Using both hands, Piety carefully picked it up.
“Piety!”
said Jocelyn and Tiny in unison.
“Unlock the door,” she ordered, making her way across the room, holding the candle steadily in front of her.
“Piety, no!” Jocelyn exclaimed.
Tiny added her voice to Jocelyn’s protest. “No ma’am!
No ma’am
! You’re wearing nothing but a night rail, for goodness sakes, Missy Pie. It’s not even decent!”
Piety proceeded as if she had not heard. She felt her heartbeat thudding in her head, in her injured arm, in her throat. But her hands did not shake.
Jocelyn and Tiny fell into line behind her, objecting loudly, a relentless, pleading clatter. Piety ignored them. From the hall, the sounds of struggle echoed in muffled
thunks
and grunts through the door. Her strength was wavering; she was weak after so much time in bed. The candle grew too heavy, and she clunked it on the floor. She leaned against the door and listened with her hand hovering above the knob. She waited half a beat. She clicked the lock to the right. She looked over her shoulder at Tiny and Jocelyn, who were wringing their hands, stomping their feet, imploring her. She held a single finger to her lips.
She whispered calmly. “Stop. I am fine. My wound burns a little, but my fingers work. I can move it. Now,
please
. Quiet. If we can help Falcondale, we must try.”
T
revor needed only four inches, perhaps five, to reach the walking cane that the fat Limpett had left behind. Straka hadn’t seen it. Trevor could
barely
see it—with dark spots blurring his eyes—but still, he reached.
Straka had managed to knock his feet from beneath him and pin him down. Trevor was younger and faster, but it was a disadvantage to plant oneself in a small, tight space and refuse to move. His priority had been standing in front of his wife’s door, even when Straka came at him with his own knife. Now, he was trapped beneath the giant man, flailing and wheezing. Consciousness flickered and swam.
“You
dare
to turn against me, Tryphon?” The old man raged, his spittle and sweat raining down on Trevor’s face. He weighed, Trevor guessed, more than twenty stone, a punishing, immovable anvil of a man.
Trevor could barely form words. “Not, turning against . . . protecting . . . my wife.” It was essential that he clarify, despite the wasted breath and exertion. If he had any hope of surviving the fight or what came next, Straka must know that he had not betrayed him.
At least, not yet.
Straka rocked forward, ignoring him, introducing even more strangling pressure to his throat, crushing him, pooling blood behind his eyes. Trevor gasped and blinked; his vision blurred. By some miracle, he remembered the cane and tried again, flinging out his hand. He grasped with fingers extended. His heels dug in. He strained; he reached.
It was no use.
The cane was inches from his hand, and he began to slip away. The world was reduced to one pinpoint of light: the fogged glass transom above Piety’s door. He honed in on the light, trying to remain lucid, but it dimmed and flickered and was blotted away. Crushing, black airlessness swelled in its place, enveloping him. His hands dropped, his legs fell still, he—
“Ooww!”
The light returned.
Trevor’s eyes shot open.
He gasped for breath, and sweet air filled his lungs.
The light became the transom; the transom took shape above the door. The floor was cold beneath him and Straka was . . .
off
.
Trevor whipped his head to the left. The old man had collapsed beside him, writhing, swatting at his neck and face. His wife stood over them with an upside-down candle. She had flung the hot wax of a burning candle onto the back of Straka’s neck.
“Piety, no,” Trevor said in a raspy voice. He reached for the forgotten cane and scrambled to his feet. “Back inside,
now
!”
“But wait, Trevor! Use this.” She dropped the candle and shoved a weighty golden candelabra at his chest.
“What in God’s name? This feels like it’s made of lead. Your arm!” He scooped up the candelabra and rolled it through the open door.
“Thank you, but no,” he told her. “The cane is better. We don’t want to kill him. Yet.”
Two feet away, Straka was gathering himself.
Trevor shouted again for Piety to get back.
He raised the cane, watching the old man stagger upright, waiting until he was the most top-heavy, the least stable.
Straka sidestepped to find balance, and Trevor struck, bringing the cane down hard—
whap!
—across the back of the old man’s head.
Thlump
. He dropped like a felled tree.
T
he task of dragging an unconscious Jonas Straka from the hallway required the combined strength of Falcondale, Miss Breedlowe, and Tiny. It was almost more work to refuse to allow Piety to help, but Trevor set her on the task of collecting Straka’s kaftan, the knife, and the cane. More doors opened at the end of the hall. He saw Piety smile and wave; and he growled, dropping Straka’s massive leg with a thunk, and swept her back to her own door.
“Do not be alarmed,” he called to the gaping neighbors. “This man has had a nasty fall. Nothing a cup of tea won’t restore. Carry on.”
They were still staring when he hustled the women inside and dragged Straka behind them.
“Piety,” he said, “since you appear to be well enough to be out of bed, walking and talking, saving my life, could I trouble you to locate something with which we might restrain my former associate, should he awaken?”
Wide-eyed, Piety nodded. Three minutes later, she returned from the bedroom with stockings.
“It was all I could find,” she said. “I don’t know where anything is. I’ve not been shown around the apartment yet, save the bed.” She looked away. “But, I suppose you know that.”
Trevor tabled, for the moment, the topic of the apartment and what either of them did or did not know. “The stockings will work nicely. Here, give them to me. I’ll need to secure him by his hands and his feet, preferably to something heavy. Please stay back.”
The women hovered, watching with wide, worried eyes, as he bound the unconscious man to an oak desk. Even Piety did not speak. He dared not speculate her level of resentment.
When he secured the last knot, he took a deep, uneven breath. “Miss Breedlowe? Miss Baker? May I have a few moments alone with Lady Piety?”
They nodded blankly, their fraught expressions like two defenseless captives, trying to decide which of their oppressors was the most sane.
He continued, “It’s best not to leave you alone in the room with this blaggard—even bound and unconscious. I’ll need to stand over him until—well, until we decide what’s to be done. If Piety is well enough to sit with me on the couch,” he stole a look at her, “and if she is willing to hear me, can I trouble you to wait in the bedroom?”
Miss Breedlowe cleared her throat. She looked imploringly at Piety. “My lady, would you lie down? Even on the couch?”
“I’ve been lying down for weeks.” Piety sighed. “I’m weary of lying down. And I am fine—at the moment. Do you mind, terribly? Holing yourselves up in the bedroom?”
“Do not think of us, my lady. You are the—”
“Invalid,” she cut in. “I know. But today, I feel a bit of a rally. At least long enough to learn, the identity of this dead man in our parlor.”
“He’s not dead,” said Trevor. To the women, he said, “I will persuade her to rest. This morning has not been ideal, I know.”
He exhaled wearily and stole another look at Piety. Her expression was inscrutable.
When the door clicked behind the women, Trevor drew a deep, grateful breath. The urge to scoop Piety against him was overwhelming. He fought it, determined not to rush. She had bloody
run away
to be rid of him. He might muck it up a million different, unsalvageable ways, but the one thing he could, hopefully, deliver now was restraint. The day had already been a blur of ill-timed revelations and great shock. He’d reappeared in her life only to knock a man unconscious after a brawl in her hallway. There were no guarantees.
He held out an arm, gesturing awkwardly to the couch. “Will you sit with me?”
She bowed her head and demurred, crossing whisper close beside him. He let out a breath and followed.
There was no restraint in the decision of where to sit. He could prop himself up prudently apart from her or stand. He opted for neither and settled beside her on the cushions. His leg not quite, but almost, touched hers. She did not draw away.
“Piety,” he began, “how do you feel?”
She laughed. “Really, Falcondale, I’ve just flung hot wax on an unnamed man so you could bash him with a cane. Let us not begin with, ‘How do you feel?’ ”
“Right,” he said, “but we will return to this topic.”
“Maybe we will, and maybe we will not. But first, who is that man?”
Trevor nodded. “He is called Janos Straka. I’ve mentioned him to you before, perhaps not by name. He is my former employer, from the years I was in Athens. He is no man you should have ever had to see. My God, the danger I’ve put you in. I will regret it all my life.”
“I was not afraid. I only wish I’d had a more damaging weapon, but the hot wax was all I could manage. I did not want to miss. Or splatter you. And I wanted to hit bare skin, not his shirt. Or his hair.”
“You did amazingly well, Piety.” He chuckled grimly. “Thank God you were there. You saved my life. Again.”
She blinked and looked away, staring at her knees. It was impossible to know what shocked her more, the presence of Straka or his admission that she had saved his life.
He nodded. “The whole bloody row is a surprise, I know. No one has been more appalled than me.”
“But why? Why is he here?”
“It’s a long story; one which I will tell you in excruciating detail, if you can bear it. But first, he must be dealt with. Regret is not strong enough a word to express how I feel about his proximity to you, especially now. But, unfortunately, we are not finished yet. Before he’ll go, he and I have a transaction that we must conduct.”
“A transaction? But you’ve just knocked him cold. You can’t believe he’ll be open to doing business.”
“Oh, he’ll be open. I’ve something he wants, desperately.”
“What is it?”
Trevor glanced at Straka, still unconscious. “He wants money, Piety, and I have managed to sell my house. I have some to give him.”
“But the money from your house, is it a loan?”
Trevor made a strangled sound—half laugh, half cough. “Ah, no. It is a payment, shall we say. The price of my freedom. After this transaction, he has vowed to not bother us ever again.”
“But when did he come to you? How long have you been negotiating with him?”
“Just to be clear, I want no part of him and am, in no way, ‘negotiating’ of my own volition. He turned up at the wedding”—he shot her a guilty look—“and has been hounding me since.”
“The wedding! But why didn’t you tell—”
Trevor shook his head. “I kept the situation from you in order to keep you safe. He is a very bad man, Piety, and it goes without saying, a dangerous man. I had to know what he wanted, and how he intended to get it before I . . . ” Trevor sighed and looked at the ceiling. To reveal it was the only way.