Outside the room the thick black smoke was creeping along the hall carpet, toward the stairs. The lower floors might be engulfed by now, leaving him trapped. Arthur was not about to chance it. He unlatched a window and crawled through to the ledge. He could see a column, some window molding, a decorative medallion, nothing he could climb down or tie his rope to. Swearing, he climbed back inside, using one hand to protect the dog. He swung his cane around until it encountered the bed again, and he tied a loop around one of the heavy wooden legs, praying his knot was tight enough, the wood was strong enough, and the rope was long enough. He tossed his cane out the window before lowering himself over the ledge. He could hear shouts from below, and see faces turned his way in lantern light. No ladders, though, dash it.
Arthur was not as strong as he used to be, he quickly realized. Hell, he was not as young as he used to be, either. He had to keep kicking off the side of the building to avoid crushing the dog, which sent agonizing pain through his bad leg, and his palms were burning from the rope, but he kept going, for an hour or two, it seemed, before he felt hands on his legs, guiding him down. The hands caught him when he let go, and lowered him to the ground. Arthur sat up and pulled his wet shirt out of his waistband, sending Trumpet tumbling out, yipping, to race to Hope. People cheered and Arthur collapsed back onto the grass and Hope scooped the dog up, sobbing into Trumpet’s scruffy, sooty fur. Then she handed the dog to Mrs. Storke and, kneeling, threw herself onto Arthur’s chest, weeping.
“You did that, for me?”
She didn’t know the half of it, but would soon, resting her cheek against his doubly damp shirt. He could only stroke her hair while she cried. “Hush, my love, hush. Everything is all right.”
“Yes!”
“I told you I would find your dog. See, you can trust me.”
“Yes!”
“And you can forgive me for deceiving you?”
“Yes! Yes, and yes, you noddy. That’s my answer to your question! I will marry you, tomorrow if you can obtain a special license. I don’t even care what name you put in the registry. I just want to share that name, and your life, whoever you are. Vagabond or viscount, Arthur, I love you. I think I must always have. I know I always will.”
With Hope for all his tomorrows, Arthur knew he had finally come home. He could be anything she wanted, live anywhere she chose. He’d spend his days trying to make her as happy as she was making him at this moment.
He just prayed Brownie had saved him a fresh shirt.
A Match Made in Heaven—Or Hell
1
Nicky and Pete were arguing over a broken soldier.
“He’s mine.”
“No, he’s mine.”
“I saw him first!”
“I’ve had my eye on him for ages.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
But these were not two boys in the nursery; they were two ancient adversaries overlooking the Spanish plains, and the soldier was no cast-metal figurine. He wasn’t even a soldier, but a British lord. A battle had been fought here, but now another battle was being waged, this time for the soul of Hugh, Marquess of Hardesty.
Nicodemus, or Old Nick, as he was often called by those who would not say his name out loud, sneered as he looked down on the dusty field where the marquess lay crumpled in a pool of blood, half under his fallen horse. “Of course I have had this one in my sights. How could you think otherwise? I’ve watched this Hugh Hardesty for the last ten years, ever since he was tossed out of university. I waited while he cut a swath through London, drinking, whoring, gambling. Then I watched while he seduced all those wives and widows. It was just a matter of time before some jealous husband killed him, if he did not break his neck in an absurd race, or lose a brawl in a filthy tavern. Then he’d be mine. It just took a little longer than I expected, but he is hellhound now.”
Saint Peter wagged his chin. “No, he died a hero, saving all those other poor souls when he fought by their side.” He waved a gnarled hand at the ragged foot soldiers beginning to stir through the smoke and the stench of the battlefield. “He could have ridden off after delivering his message, but he stayed to help when he found the commanding officer wounded, rallying the troops, defending them with his sword. He was courageous and selfless, sacrificing himself and his horse for his king and his country. That makes him mine.”
“What, so many years of profligacy forgiven in one instant? Not even you could be such a
—
”
“Now, now. You know how it works. He died with honor. That is enough for us.”
“He died disobeying orders, as usual. The thirty-year-old heir to a duke would never be allowed in the thick of battle, not without ensuring the succession first. I believe there was something mentioned about honoring thy parents. Then there is the fact that they let him act as courier on the Peninsula simply because he was such an embarrassment in London. Not one but two undersecretaries’ wives, at the same time.” Nicky grinned, showing pointed teeth. “Absolutely a lad after my own heart. Let’s see…adultery, coveting thy neighbor’s wife, definitely blaspheming when he was accused, then bearing false witness when he swore he had been elsewhere.”
“That last was nobly done, to protect the ladies’ reputations.”
“Stubble it, Peter. He’s mine.”
The brangling might have gone on for days—or decades—but the marquess moved an arm.
“Heaven be praised,” Saint Peter said, predictably. “He lives.”
“Not for long,” the devil said. “If the scavengers don’t kill him for his silver buttons, a little rain and a chill will finish him off, what with that head wound and the other injuries.” He raised one hand, as if to call down the storm.
“You cannot,” Saint Peter thundered. “His time has not come.”
Never being one for formalities, Old Nick brushed that aside. “What’s another hour or day? He’ll be mine soon enough.”
Saint Peter studied the wounded man, looking far deeper than the broken bones. “Perhaps not.”
Nicodemus snorted. “Care to make a wager, old man? Not an actual bet, of course, knowing your attitude toward these things, but just a small bit of play between gentlemen, to liven up the job.”
Saint Peter was tempted. “You’re too sure of yourself, sir. There is always a chance he can reform, you know. A brush with death can do that, show a man the error of his ways.”
“Or it can show him how fragile life is, so he should enjoy his few years to the fullest. He’ll go back to hell-raking as soon as his wounds heal.”
“Not necessarily. That is what redemption is all about. Even the worst libertine can change with enough encouragement. Why, the love of a good woman has been known to work wonders.”
“Bosh. That is the stuff of fiction. Good women have been loving Hardesty for all of his thirty years, to no effect. He’s never loved one enough to care to earn her respect, much less be faithful. I doubt the man has a heart.”
“Oh, he has a heart, all right. And he’ll love the woman I have in mind.”
“Never. Good women do not interest
him
.”
“This one will. I’ll make sure she is beautiful enough to stir even his jaded senses.”
“I’ll make him blind so he can’t see her.”
Saint Peter was adamant. “She will be so good at heart that her inner beauty will show through.”
The devil sneered. “I’ll make
him
deaf so he cannot hear this paragon’s sweetness.”
“What? You’d make him deaf and blind, just to prove your point that he cannot be saved?”
Nick shrugged. “We all have our objectives.”
“But he is not ours yet. No,” Saint Peter declared, “I say we let Lord Hardesty’s life take what course it will, without interference, then see who wins his soul.”
Old Nick agreed. “No interference.” He lied, of course. He was the devil.
As soon as Saint Peter left to gather those poor souls who’d perished here with a prayer on their lips, the devil snapped his fingers, calling forth a gremlin. Small, hairy, with big ears, a long tail, and sharp, snaggled teeth, the creature drooled on its master’s cloven feet. “You,” Nicodemus ordered. “You will accompany Lord Hardesty to keep all good women away from him.”
The gremlin scratched its nether regions, then under its armpit.
The devil realized that would not do, so he changed the yellow-eyed demon into a monkey. No, that would not work, either. Not even a decadent English lordling was foolish enough to carry a simian into battle. A goat would be eaten before nightfall, and a snake never could be trusted. He snapped his fingers again. “A dog. Perfect. Do your job and you will be rewarded. Fail and you will be roasted on a spit until hell freezes over.”
*
Hugh awoke in pain and so weak he could barely open his eyes. He could not feel his legs, and wished he could not feel his head. They ought to let a fellow sleep off his overindulgence in peace, he complained to himself, although he could never recall feeling quite this wretched after the worst debauchery. Then he recalled the battle. This was no morning after; this was eternity. He was dead, and right where his nanny, his tutors, the gossip columns, and his father always said he’d end, in hell.
The heat, the pain, the stench, the cries of agony all around were overwhelming. Hugh sank back into whatever limbo he could find. When he returned to awareness the next time, the torture was as intense, but joined with a din that threatened to shatter his skull. He tried to separate the sounds: shouts, growls, and high-pitched, frantic gibberish, although that might have been Spanish spoken so fast he could not translate. Then one voice rose above the others, assured, assertive, and in English, thank whatever powers held sway in this purgatory. “Sit,” the unmistakably feminine voice said. “Sit, sir, or I swear I shall shoot.”
Hugh was already dead, so he wasn’t afraid of the threat, but he tried to sit up anyway. He saw no reason to antagonize the authorities, not on his first day here, at any rate. His legs would not move, his head was too heavy to lift, and his muscles had turned to mush. He sank back against what felt like a bed of nails.
“Oh, you are awake, my lord. Excellent. Please call off your dog so we might see to your wounds.”
He was wounded, not dead? Someone was going to help him, take away his pain? Hugh almost cried in relief. In fact, he was weeping, to his embarrassment. He tried to brush the moisture away from his cheeks but his right arm appeared to be immobile, strapped to his chest. His left hand discovered a large bandage around his head and over one eye. He managed to open his other eye to look at his rescuer.
She was a tall woman, dressed head to toe in black, with a pinched face and a scowl that might have frightened small children. She wore a bloodstained apron, and had a pistol pointed right at his privates. Maybe he was in hell after all, Hugh thought. No, he could see a large cross on the wall behind the female. Surely the devil did not decorate with religious symbols. He had to be in some
kin
d of Spanish convent, judging from the flock of other black-robed women clutching their Bibles and beads near a door. His aching brain tried to comprehend why one of the nuns was speaking such perfectly accented, educated English, but the more important question was why she was threatening to emasculate him. Hugh tried to ask, but his mouth appeared glued shut. Now that he was aware of it, he was parched and parboiled. “Water,” he tried to beg, but managed only the sound of a fish gasping its last breath.
“Please, my lord, tell your dog to stand down.”
“Don’t…have a…dog,” Hugh managed to croak.
“Tell that to the imp of Satan on your lap. The cur has already bitten two of the sisters. He will not let anyone but the surgeon come near you, and the poor man is run ragged as it is. You wound needs attention, and your next dose of laudanum is due, along with the fever powders the surgeon left.”
Hugh raised his head an inch—all he could accomplish—and found himself staring into odd yellow eyes
ami
d bristly brown fur. “Not mine.”
“Well, he thinks he is, my lord, and no one has been able to convince him otherwise. He saved your life out on the battlefield, chasing away the looters and barking to draw the attention of the litter bearers who had left you for dead. Unfortunately, he insists on guarding you still.”
The dog was a mangy-looking mongrel with big ears and a long, skinny tail. As ugly as the animal was, Hugh was doubly relieved to see him. The English abyss was not aiming for his apparatus, and his legs could move, once the creature shifted off them. He fumbled to pat the coarse-haired head, earning him a wag of that rat’s tail, and a snaggle-toothed dog grin. He’d seen uglier dogs, Hugh was sure, but he could not recall when or where. Then the beast snarled at the nun with the gun.
The woman was growing impatient. “We are too busy for this nonsense, my lord. Tell that ill-mannered menace to be quiet, for he has been disturbing all the other patients. And we really have to change your dressings now before you become infected, so make your watchdog behave or I will shoot him, I swear I will.”
Hugh stroked the dog again. “We need help, old boy. I think the lady means to offer it.”
The dog fixed his yellow-eyed stare on Hugh, then on the woman, as if he were trying to solve a conundrum. What kind of woman was this, he seemed to be asking himself, friend or foe? Sure as Hades, no good woman would shoot a dog. Satisfied, he circled Lord Hardesty’s legs three times, tucked his nose between his paws, and went to sleep.