Lazarus tapped a letter opener on his desk as he eyed her with speculation. The candle lamp cast a gleam on the blade with each tap, drawing her gaze. She realized it was not a letter opener at all, but a small dagger. Rubies decorated the hilt.
“That’s an unusual knife,” she said, searching for a way to ease the growing fear she had truly made a mistake in coming here.
“It has its uses.” He tossed it onto the desk. “You expect me to believe you are here purely out of concern for my well-being?”
“What other reason would I have?”
“What indeed. You’ve been asking questions about me even after I personally warned you against it.”
“Only to find your direction.” It was the truth, but he didn’t seem to believe her.
He nodded as though making a decision of some sort and stood. “Very well. We shall strike a bargain, you and I.”
“A bargain?” Olivia asked, wary.
“I will let you examine my wounds, then you will leave here, never come back, and cease asking questions about me.”
She had no issue with his proposal. She planned on doing exactly that. She would do well to stay away from him. She had difficulties enough of her own without consorting with someone who threatened to bring more troubles down on her head. “Agreed.”
He held out his hand to seal the agreement. She hesitated, then put her gloved one in his. His fingers closed around hers. He made no movement to shake her hand, just stared at her with an unreadable expression. Olivia found she could no more look away than she could break the connection of their hands. A strange current hummed between them.
Finally, he released her and stepped back. He rubbed the palm of his hand, then realized what he was doing and scowled. “We’ll stand near the hearth so you may see better.”
He lifted the lamp from the desk and crossed the room to the fireplace. He set it on the mantel and pulled his shirt from his trousers. He stood with his side facing her, his shirt pushed upward to reveal the neat bandage wrapped around his middle.
Olivia swallowed, hesitant to touch him.
He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression questioning.
“Would you mind removing your shirt?” she asked, playing for time. “I’ll be better able to examine you.”
He watched her for a moment more, then unfastened the shirt, pulled it off, and tossed it onto the desk.
She moved closer and worked at the knot tying the bandage in place. She tried not to notice the muscles of his arms and chest, how her fingers itched to trace the scars he carried on his upper body, the way the firelight burnished his skin, the dark curling hair on his chest and the way it arrowed downward to disappear into his trousers. At last the knot came free, and she nearly wept in relief, only to feel the tension within her escalate as her body brushed against his with each unwinding of the cloth.
With the last turn, she gathered the material, clenched it in her hands to cease their shaking, then turned away to lay it on a nearby club chair. She released a shaky breath and turned back to Lazarus. She didn’t understand what was wrong with her. She’d never reacted like this with any of the soldiers she’d cared for, and she’d seen many of them completely unclothed.
She dropped to her knees in front of him to better see the entry wound of the lead ball. Sensation pooled low in her belly as she inhaled the male scent of him. Forcing herself to concentrate, she probed the neat row of stitches for signs of infection. The heat of his skin warmed her fingertips, and her breath hitched in her throat.
His hand clasped her shoulder, his fingers convulsing with each touch of her hand on his skin. His breathing grew harsh.
She looked up at him. “Am I hurting you?”
He stared at her, his gaze heavy lidded. “In a way I’m certain you can’t imagine.” His voice was thick with emotion.
Olivia frowned. What on earth did he mean? Had he suffered internal bruising? The wound looked healthy enough. Had she been mistaken? No, the blood he’d left both on her chair and her gown when he surprised her in her bedchamber had not been products of her fevered imagination.
She started to speak when the door burst open, a boy looked at Lazarus, then at Olivia, still down on her knees in front of him.
“Oh, sorry,” the lad squeaked and slammed the door shut.
Lazarus burst out laughing as what the youth thought they were doing dawned on Olivia. Her expression must have given away her dismay.
She jumped to her feet. “Aren’t you going to go after him? Tell him I was just examining your wounds?”
“Why would I do that?” He grinned. “I do have a certain reputation to maintain.”
“You’re worried about how you are perceived?” Her entire body flushed with the heat of mortifying embarrassment. “I am humiliated.”
He shrugged. “Should have thought of that before you came here. I doubt he’d believe me anyway.”
“Why ever not?” She strode to the desk in a fit of pique and tore open the package of clean bandages.
She froze as she felt him behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of him through her gown. One hand splayed across her stomach and pulled her against him. “Because,” he whispered in her ear, “he saw how much I want you.” With his free hand, he tilted her head back, running his fingers along the line of her jaw.
Olivia fought the urge to lean back against him. To revel in the strength of his hands and body. To reach back, cup his head, and bring his mouth to hers.
His lips touched her neck, and she froze. What was she doing? She wrenched free of his caresses, upset over the emotions he aroused in her. He, a complete stranger whom she knew nothing about. She didn’t know if she was more upset because of how he made her feel or the fact he had taken liberties with her person. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
“You wanted me to touch you, or you wouldn’t have come here, wouldn’t have sought out someone like me.”
She lashed out, if only to put distance between them for deep in her heart, she was afraid what he said was true—she had wanted him to touch her and so much more. “You are vile and disgusting. I should have left you to bleed to death.”
He stiffened. “You wouldn’t have been the first to do so.”
Lazarus stared at her a moment longer, his eyes like chips of ice. He crossed the room and opened the door. “Take Miss St. Germaine home,” he said to someone out of sight. “And see that she doesn’t come here again.”
Turning away, he snatched his shirt from the desk and shoved his arms into the sleeves.
The boy who had accosted her on Bond Street moved into the room and stood near the door. “Miss.”
She looked at the two men. “You sent him to warn me off.”
Lazarus finished fastening his shirt and crossed his arms over his chest. “You were asking questions about me. Patrick was sent to frighten you into stopping.”
“And if I continue to ask about you, what would Patrick do then?”
“Whatever was necessary.”
Inhaling sharply at the implied threat, Olivia took a step back. She’d been worried about his health, and he stood threatening her with no more concern than if they were discussing the weather. Fingers was right; she shouldn’t have gone to the Lamb and the Lion to seek Lazarus out. She should have forced herself to forget his very existence.
She glanced at Patrick. Remembering how he’d gone from a laughing young man to a menacing cutthroat in a manner of seconds, she didn’t want to go anywhere with him. How could she be certain he still didn’t mean to hurt her? “If Fingers could take me back to the tavern, my own coach is waiting for me there,” she offered.
Lazarus shook his head. “He has other things to do.”
“But he”—she gestured to Patrick—“is a stranger to me. You cannot expect me to ride with him alone.”
“And Fingers is not?”
“I know he won’t hurt me.”
“Don’t be so certain. He will do what I tell him.”
“He could have taken me anywhere tonight, yet he brought me here, to you, as I asked.”
“And he will answer for that.” He motioned the young man forward with a quick movement of his hand. “Miss St. Germaine is leaving
now
.”
“I’m not going anywhere with him.” She copied his stance, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he snapped.
“I will not. I am not one of your minions to be ordered about.”
“Fine. Then you go alone.” He turned to Patrick. “Show her where the door is and make sure she leaves.”
She stared at him in disbelief. He truly meant for her to find the way on her own? She would be lucky to make it out of the docks without her throat cut much less back to her carriage. “I thought you were a gentleman. You have proven me wrong twice this evening.”
Lazarus’ harsh bark of laughter filled the room. “I am no gentleman. Some say I am not even civilized.” He held out his arms as though inviting her perusal. “Do I look like a gentleman?”
He wore black boots, not the fashionable Hessians the gentlemen of the
Ton
wore, but they seemed to be well made nonetheless, dark trousers, and a white linen shirt. His black hair was a little longer than the current fashion, but he could have easily passed for a member of the aristocracy enjoying a pleasant evening at home. She met his gaze with her own.
“Yes, you do,” she said softly and walked to the door. She turned back, her hand on the door casing. “But you do not act like one,” she whispered and left the room.
Chapter Four
Fingers pulled the collar of his coat tighter. He looked up. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the moon shone brightly against the sky. Not a good night for what Lazarus had planned. He hoped a few clouds would blow in to cover the moon in time.
He took a pull of whiskey from his flask to chase away the bitter cold. It was early April, yet tonight it felt like the coldest winter night. He looked up and down the street. Patrick stood near the coach as it sat at the curb waiting for them. He took off his hat and slapped it against his leg twice before settling it back on his head.
At the sign of their pre-arranged signal, Fingers nodded to Muldoon, who leaned against the building, and sank deeper into the shadows and waited for their prey.
A few minutes later, he heard footsteps coming in his direction. He waited until the rich toff passed by, then pounced. He and Muldoon grabbed the man by his arms and bundled him toward the waiting coach.
“What the devil?” Lord Glenville tried to pull free, drag his feet, anything to stop the forward momentum, but Fingers kept them moving.
One hard shove between the shoulder blades sent his lordship careening into the coach. He landed on the floor with a thud, his shoulder bouncing off the opposite wall. Fingers followed him in, tossing a guinea to Muldoon for his trouble. As soon as Fingers pulled the door shut, the coach shot into motion.
Glenville scrambled to his knees and grabbed the bench seat to keep from being thrown sideways as the coach careened around a corner. Fingers smiled in the darkness. Patrick was the fastest coach driver in all of St. Giles. His lordship was in for quite a ride. “Take a seat, Guv’nor.” Fingers lit the lamp nearest to him.
Glenville squinted against the sudden light. He slid onto the leather seat and faced his abductor. “What is this about? Do you know who I am?”
“Aye. The Earl of Glenville.” Fingers spit on the floor in a show of disrespect. “Lazarus wants to see ye.” He leaned back against the buttery leather seat.
“If this person wants to see me, he can call on me at the appropriate time. Now, I suggest you order the driver to take me back to White’s before you find yourself in trouble with the law.”
“Ooh, you be siccin‘ the Watch on us then?” Fingers rubbed his hands together with glee. It had been some time since he’d pitted his skills against the law. “Mayhap a Bow Street Runner, too?”
To prove their excursion wasn’t a lark, he pulled his pistol from within the folds of his coat. “There isna gonna be a single thing
the law
”—he sneered the two words—“kin do. We’re jus’ going for a ride, two friends meeting another.”
His lordship glanced from Finger’s face to the gun.
Fingers cocked the pistol. He wanted the earl to have no doubts that he would shoot him without a moment’s regret. He deserved anything that happened to him for the way he’d treated his wife, and if that “anything” happened to be fatal, Fingers was certain the Lady Glenville wouldn’t be shedding any tears.
Silence stretched between them, the tension growing with each passing mile. Fingers didn’t allow either his gaze or the pistol to waver from his quarry. He hoped the intensity of his stare caused the earl to grow more and more uneasy. It served the bastard right.
“Where the blazes are you taking me?” Glenville demanded, finally finding his tongue, not to mention his courage.
The coach rolled to a stop just as Fingers opened his mouth to respond. The door opened from the outside. He gestured toward it with the gun. “Get out.”
Glenville shook his head. “I don’t think so. If you’re going to shoot me, you’ll do it here.”
“I willna shoot ye. Yet. Now get out. Lazarus is waitin’.”
“Tell him to come inside. We can talk in here just as well as we can out there.”
“Nobody tells Lazarus what to do.” Fingers looked toward the door, then tilted his head toward the earl.
Two hands reached into the coach and dragged the earl out. He landed in a heap at the side of the road.
Jumping to his feet, he advanced on Patrick. “What the bloody hell is going on here. I demand—”
“You aren’t in much of a position to be demanding anything.”
Glenville spun to the left, scanning the thick copse of trees.
A man dressed in black moved out of the shadows behind the earl. He nodded to Fingers and moved closer.
Glenville turned to face him. “You must be Lazarus.
Will inclined his head. “I am he.”
“And do you know the penalty for kidnapping a member of the peerage?”
“For there to be a kidnapping, a body must be missing. A letter from you stating you will be visiting friends but giving no specifics would negate any thoughts of foul play.”