A Christmas Keepsake (11 page)

The Countess flushed with real pleasure. “Would you? It has always been a favorite pastime of mine.”

With all the air of one making good her escape, the countess retired to the instrument. She didn’t bother selecting any music, she simply started to play with a facility that indicated long hours of dedicated practice.

Christy sank back against the cushions of her chair in relief, and closed her eyes. Slowly, the knots of tension untied themselves.

She had almost drifted off to sleep when the gentlemen joined, them at last. She roused herself, opening her eyes to find the major standing before her, frowning. The strains of Mozart still filled the room. Apparently, her hostess had not noticed her inattentiveness.

“We had best be leaving.” Major Holborn turned to his cousin. “Both of us must be up betimes on the morrow. Thank you for a most interesting evening, St. Ives.”

“Delighted, little cousin, quite delighted.”

Lady St. Ives turned from the instrument. “You cannot stay?” Honest regret sounded in her voice.

Christy shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I had a wonderful time, though.”

Becoming color flooded the countess’s cheeks. “You must come again, Miss Campbell. James, I cannot thank you enough for bringing her.”

The major’s mobile eyebrows rose. “My pleasure,” was all he said.

Amid repeated thanks, they escaped the room and headed down the stairs to the front hall, where the efficient Doring waited to assist them with their things. He offered to send a footman running for a hackney, but the major waved this aside. They would find one at the corner, he assured the butler, and escorted Christy outside.

“Thank heavens that’s over with,” she breathed as the door closed behind them.

“Bored?” he asked.

“No. How could I be? Look, is everyone really worried about a revolution, or are they just working themselves up over nothing?”

The gentle amusement faded from his face. “It is a distinct possibility. Prinny has not endeared himself to the common people. He—” He broke off and glanced behind them.

“What is it?” Her tiredness evaporating, Christy spun about.

The major turned more slowly, and his grip tightened on her arm.

Three men approached, all garbed in dark clothing. Even their faces appeared unnaturally shadowed. The next moment, Christy realized they wore masks covering their eyes and noses.

Her rapid heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her hand closed over the major’s in sudden fear. “What—”

One of the men raised his arm, and the deafening explosion of a pistol filled the air. The major’s hat flew from his head, and he staggered backward.

Christy froze, too shocked to react. Another man raised a pistol and her paralysis vanished. She grabbed the major’s arm, and together they ran, bending low, maneuvering in a zigzag pattern. Either that first man was one colossally good aim to be able to miss at so short a distance, or this was a serious attempt at murder that very nearly succeeded.

The other gun fired behind them, its explosion deafening in the snowy stillness. Christy ducked around a corner a bare pace ahead of the major, ran a few yards, then darted through a narrower opening.

The major passed her, grasping her hand as he pulled into the lead. His long-legged stride would have outdistanced her, but her panic pumped adrenaline through her system, sending her racing along at his side.

“Here!” The major’s voice reached her through the pounding in her ears.

He veered sideways through an opening in the darker shadows she hadn’t noticed. Where they were now, she had no idea at all. She ran on, stumbling over piles of rubble.

She stepped on a jagged brick, and bit back an exclamation of pain. Her slippers must be in shreds. Her toes were so numb from the cold she could barely feel them—which was a blessing, under the circumstances.

“Steady.” Major Holborn caught her as she tripped again. His tension sounded in the grim note in his voice.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she gasped for breath, but still she ran after him, twisting and turning through a maze of back alleys. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit dropped away, fading, as their trail eluded the men. Abruptly, the major lunged to the left again. Christy staggered after him, and they stopped at last.

She leaned against an icy cold wall, panting, her fingers clutching the uneven surface in an attempt to keep her strained leg muscles from collapsing under her. Numb as they were, her feet ached. She stood on something uneven. And sharp. She kicked aside a large chunk of broken brick—one of the many strewn in untidy heaps—and rubbed her injured feet.

She leaned back again and realized she trembled, with both the exertion and the fear of what would happen if they were caught. She glanced at the major. “This—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth and drew her closer to him. “Quiet.” The word sounded on the merest breath of air.

With difficulty, Christy forced herself to breathe slower, so her ragged gasps wouldn’t be audible. Then she, too, heard the crunching of the snow, the footsteps the major’s quicker ears must have caught. Somewhere close—too close—a cat hissed and howled, and a small dog let loose a volley of high-pitched yapping. A deep voice muttered words Christy couldn’t quite catch, and another answered.

She tensed, pressed against her wall. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, a dim, rectangular shape took form beside her—a door into the building. Blackness engulfed their surroundings, making it impossible to see farther away. For all she knew, they had chosen a dead-end alley in which to hide.

The footsteps paused, and Christy cringed back, willing herself to disappear. She held her breath, desperate to make no noise, then the soft crunch of snow receded as the man continued on his way. Her heart resumed beating with a painful jerk.

Limp with reaction, she sagged against Major Holborn. His arm circled about her, supporting her, comforting in his mere presence. Far too comforting. She’d be happy to stay there for a very long while. Corny clichés about safe harbors drifted through her mind, and she allowed her cheek to rest against the smooth wool of his cloak.

Her breathing had almost slowed to normal when his arm slipped from around her and he caught her hand once more. Again, his voice barely reached her. “I think it’s safe to go now.” She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder to reach his ear to whisper back: “Will you finally admit someone is trying to kill you? Those men weren’t muggers, and they certainly weren’t playing games.”

He hesitated a moment, then returned a very unsatisfying: “Possibly.”

Couldn’t that exasperating man get it through his thick skull he was in serious danger? He persisted in considering these assaults on him mere harassment! Whether he believed it or not, someone wanted Major James Edward Holborn dead. And Christy desperately didn’t want that to happen.

She cast a sideways glance up at his tall, broad-shouldered figure in the heavy cloak covering his elegant evening dress. No, she didn’t want anything to happen to him; she would do everything in her power to prevent it. She looked around, then hugged herself in frustration. “I feel so darned vulnerable.”

An unexpected touch of amusement crept into his voice, and his warm breath misted as it hit the icy air. “Arm yourself. There should be plenty of weapons at hand.” He peered through the darkness. “Hard to see, though. Which under the circumstances is lucky. Our footprints would be all too visible in the snow.” Christy stooped, but no projectile of a comfortable size met her searching fingers. She wouldn’t mind a
little
bit of light. The major inched forward, still holding her hand, and perforce she followed.

Two steps later, a bruised toe led her to a brick fragment of the right size. She tucked it into the pocket of her down coat, encountered the plastic bag, and fished out one more of the precious chocolate chips. She needed the energy. She shied from considering what she’d do when she ran out of them. She couldn’t survive thirty-eight years without her favorite fix. She found several more chunks of stone and brick, and crammed them into her pockets. The major paused at the corner to check both ways, then drew Christy after him.

“Which way?” she whispered.

He shook his head, a gesture barely visible in the darkness of the narrow alley. Again, they wended their way through a maze of short turnings, and emerged at last onto a wider street. Before them...

Christy came to an abrupt halt. Directly in front of them stood two men in heavy dark coats, their faces in deep shadow, their eyes completely obscured by masks.

Christy gasped. For one moment the men stared at them, as startled as they, then one raised his pistol. The major caught Christy’s hand, and as they turned, the pistol fired with a resounding explosion.

A sharp exclamation escaped the major, and he clasped his upper arm. Frantic, Christy caught his good elbow and thrust him ahead, then swung back as she pulled a brick piece from her pocket. With all her energy, she heaved it, only to miss the man by a bare inch. His companion raised his pistol.

Steadying her rising panic, she hurled another chunk, this time hitting their assailant in the shoulder as he released the hammer. A spark flickered from the pan, pale smoke puffed from the barrel, and the ball whined past her ear. It hit the side of a brick building, and buried itself harmlessly in the snow.

She heaved the last of her limited arsenal, then grabbed the major’s arm and pulled him once more through a crazy maze of rapid turnings, down more dark alleys and mews, until the sounds of pursuit once more faded away. She collapsed against a wooden fence, it gave way behind her, and she fell backward.

A gate. The major followed her through, shoved it shut, and crouched against it.

Christy picked herself up and brushed off the snow. For a long minute she huddled there, until her breathing steadied enough for her to speak. “How bad were you hit?”

He remained silent. She could feel his tension, the tautness of his muscles as he leaned against her. She covered his hand which gripped his arm, and warm blood oozed over her fingers. She swore softly.

Startled, he stared at her, and a soft chuckle escaped him.

“You have taken the words out of my mouth, Miss Campbell, but I assure you, they would have been better left there.”

She searched for an appropriate response. “Hell and the devil confound it,” she said evenly, borrowing his own phrase.

His broad shoulders shook, and a spasm of pain flickered across his face. He sobered at once.

She stood. “Let’s get you home.”

“I believe we will do best to go to the Runcorns’.”

His voice sounded tight, forced, so unlike himself it scared her. She located a handkerchief she had stuffed in her pocket, now crumpled from being buried under the broken bricks. It missed by two inches being long enough to tie around his arm. Frustrated, she folded it into a pad. He took it from her and pressed it to his arm.

“Will you be all right?” Even in the darkness, she could see the strained set of his jaw.

“Confound it, Miss Campbell, this is not the first time I’ve been grazed by a ball.”

“Is that all? A graze?” She wished she could believe him. She eased open the gate, gestured for him to pass through, then closed it behind them.

Cautiously they advanced, and turned the next corner. To Christy’s surprise, they emerged onto a major thoroughfare. Oil lamps burned fitfully at distant intervals, and a number of carriages swept past.

“Oxford Street.” Satisfaction sounded in the major’s voice. “Very good, Miss Campbell.”

“Of course,” she said, somewhat hollowly. “I brought us here on purpose, you know.”

She stepped forward, and spotted one of those covered carriages that looked like the ones they’d ridden in before. “A hackney?” she asked, then hailed it. To her relief, it stopped. She urged the major inside, gave the direction of the orphanage, and followed him within. With a sigh, she sank onto the seat, and the pain in her feet began at once.

“You seem to be a very capable young lady.” A waver of determined amusement colored his words.

“You don’t have very great expectations for women,” she
countered. He
leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. As they passed near one of the few street lights, she caught a glimpse of his tense face, his thinned lips—proof of the pain he tried to ignore. Christy watched him closely, wondering how much blood he had lost. He was quite right about being glad for the darkness. Once he had been hit, their assailants would have been able to follow the trail of dripping crimson.

At last, the hackney drew up before the orphanage off Golden Lane. With a sharp order for the major to stay put, and not leave the carriage under any circumstances, Christy jumped out and ran up the steps. The door was locked, so she applied the knocker with vigor.

A long minute passed, and Christy cast an uneasy glance about. Then the door opened and Nancy stood there, yawning, a warm shawl wrapped about the shoulders of her dressing gown.

“They’ve shot Major Holborn in the arm,” Christy said. “Help me get him inside, we’ve got to take care of it.”

Mr. Runcorn appeared in the lighted hall behind the maid. “What’s this? Miss Campbell? Did you say James—”