In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) (4 page)

Regan strode across the marble foyer of the Opera House, joining the crowd slipping out down to the street. Brent followed closely, only two steps behind her. Regan still did not like having a man who made his living through force around her, but for the few words he had spoken, he seemed like any other man.

There was nothing mysterious about him. Secrets didn’t lurk in his eyes. Not like Captain Hazard’s.

The cold air wrapped around her body, penetrating her cloak. Regan inhaled the frosty air and smiled. She loved the cold. Loved the way it made her skin zing.

Light from the towering lamps of the Opera House illuminated the wide granite steps that swept down to the carriage-choked road. She squinted, searching the vehicles for her own coach. She spotted the flash of Chance green down the street to the right. The carriage was trapped in between several hackneys and a black coach.

Regan started for the steps. “I see it.”

“My lady!” Mr. Brent called out, catching up to her. “We should wait here for the carriage. It is safer. Much safer.”

Regan stopped on the stair and stared wistfully at her carriage. “I see. Well, whatever you think best.”

Gripping her umbrella, Regan glanced up at the tall blond-haired man beside her. He was right. Anyone could be out in that crowd.

Regan swallowed. She hated living like this. Hated having to worry about what waited behind corners or down dark alleys. They waited for several moments, until only a few other of the glittering
ton
stood on the steps.

The green carriage stopped at the bottom of the steps and Regan hurried down the now empty stairs. The footman folded down the step, then helped her in, and Mr. Brent swung himself up into the driver’s box.

Regan pressed her toes against the charcoal burner, taking in its soothing heat. The carriage bounced and a thud echoed in the compartment. Leaning forward, she called to her driver, “Is anything amiss, Hopkins?”

There was a pause. “No, my lady.”

“Drive on then.”

The carriage rushed off into the emptying street. Regan dropped her umbrella on the seat beside her. Leaning back against the cushioned squabs, she stared out at the street as the carriage rolled by. It took her a few moments to realize where they were. When she did, she jolted toward the window and pressed her hands against the glass.

She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath as they passed the Inns of Court and turned onto Fleet Street.
This is not the way to Park Lane.

Dear Lord. They were headed for Whitechapel. She stared out with wide eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. The carriage couldn’t go there at this hour of the night! Not without a regiment of guards.

Regan fell back from the window, trying to understand what was happening.
Mr. Brent
. The thud that she had dismissed now loomed like a terrifying warning. A warning she most certainly should have heeded.

Chapter 5

As the carriage raced through the empty, narrow streets, Regan grabbed the door handle. She refused to sit and wait for God knew what to happen! She pushed the door open, but the street unexpectedly narrowed and the heavy door struck at the building walls, screeching against brick. It slammed shut.

The jarring impact shot through Regan’s hand. She bit back a cry. Twisting around, she glanced out the opposite window. Like the other side, the carriage passed dangerously close to the coal-blackened buildings.

Regan stared out the window. The street outside blurred into a darkened mass. She tried to stay calm. She tried.

The carriage lurched to the right as it whipped around a corner, turning down an even narrower alley. Regan braced her hands against the velvet seat. She paused as her fingers brushed her umbrella.

She grabbed it and clasped it firmly with both hands. The spokes, hidden beneath the black fabric dug into her fingers. The three-inch steel feral flashed in the darkness.

It was all she had. . . God help her, she’d used it if need be.

Though she was loath to use aggressive behavior, she was not about to let a bunch of ruffians kill her. She refused to give in. Refused to let her father’s hard work be for naught.

The carriage jolted to a stop, throwing Regan forward. She threw out a hand, landing on the soft rug on the floor. The wind whooshed out of her chest, as dull whiteness flickered before her eyes.

The clank of metal on metal and the thud of footsteps on cobblestone echoed in the night. Keeping a firm grip on the umbrella, Regan pushed herself back into the seat and edged toward the widow.

Gray mist, like a solid wall of floating milk, masked her surroundings. A tall, stone building loomed like a phantom in the fog. Regan’s eyes burned as she fought against blinking. Her breath came in painful jerks.

What now?

The carriage door behind her squealed open, and before Regan could turn toward the sound, a hand grabbed the back of her gown just below her shoulder blades and yanked her out.

She shrieked as she tumbled backwards out of the vehicle, her back to her attackers. Her elbows whacked the sides of the door frame and her cheek caught the metal step. Still, she kept a grip on the umbrella. She cried out as she landed on the wet ground, her knees cracking onto the rough stones. Sharp, white pain seared up her thighs and screamed in her joints.

“Get the ‘igh kick up,” snapped one of the men from behind her.

A pair of large hands dug into her ribcage and yanked her up to her feet. Everything around her momentarily swayed and the umbrella in her right hand felt heavy. Regan snapped her head up. The soupy fog blinded her for a moment.

A shadow stood just beyond her view. “’Ello, darling. Did you get my love letter?”

The deep, east side voice rumbled around her. Fear clenched her stomach. “Who. . .Who are you?”

A laugh came from the shadowy figure. “Call me John, lass. John Smith.” His ghostly form bowed mockingly. “How do you do Your Royal Highness?”

Regan fought against the hands still holding her, but they slid to her waist and lingered beneath her breasts. She sucked in a breath. She had to wait till just the right moment to use her umbrella.

She tried to twist away, but he held her fast. The man’s fingers slithered back and sunk into her upper arms, pinching the skin just beneath her gown. He yanked her back against him.

Regan tilted her head sideways, trying to look at the man behind her, but he was too tall.

“Release me,” she growled. “Release me!”

In answer, he jerked her back into his groin, tilting his hips against her.

Regan flinched.

Tensing her body away from him, she grated, “I don’t understand what you want. I’m only trying to help—”

“Look ‘ere lads,” John proclaimed. “The toffy blueblood what’s educated don’t understand.”

It was as if he were trying to keep her from seeing him. Her fingers coiled even tighter around her umbrella, keeping her hand from trembling. Not yet. She couldn’t use it yet.

“I sent you a warning and you didn’t heed it. Apparently, a knife with a kindly note isn’t clear enough.”

She had to reason with him. “I only seek to help—”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you do here. But my employer does.” His voice was like pebbles grating against each other.

Her eyes searched the fog, trying to see him. “Your employer? Who—”

The fog slowly parted and a man stepped forward revealing a figure from a hell and damnation play. A black mask covered his face. Two slits in the heavy fabric revealed glittering blue eyes, but nothing more.

Regan’s throat tightened as if his fist were squeezing it.

John, as he called himself, stepped closer and lifted his thick, gloved hand, placing a single, black-gloved finger on her lips.

Regan jerked back, but her shoulders jabbed into the solid chest of the man behind her.

A soft chuckle came from behind the black mask. “You ain’t going nowhere, luv, until you promise me you won’t come back here.”

Her father’s wrinkled face and blue eyes sparkling with warmth came to her mind. He was the reason why she was doing this. And she would not give in. “I cannot promise that, sir.”

The man turned his head to the side, looking into the fog. “Imagine that. The lady ain’t got enough sense to piss in the pot I’m holding out for her.”

The deep laughs of three or four men rippled through the night air.

Regan swallowed. Hard. “Perhaps. . . Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement. I—“

“No!” he pointed a rigid finger at her. “Bill, me lad. Let the ‘igh kick go.”

The hands holding her arms pushed her forward. Regan stumbled into the fog masking the bodies of the other men. “Please! I—“

Hands shot forward out of the gray fog and shoved her. Regan’s heart jumped to her throat and she stifled a scream. Another pair of hands came out of the darkness and pushed her. Regan stumbled forward and she nearly lost her umbrella.

How many were there? Five?

Laughter filtered about her.

They were only trying to scare her. She was sure of it. But Regan turned about. “Don’t. There must be a solution!”

“
Don’t,
” the men taunted. They stepped closer, narrowing the circle they had formed. Regan could barely make them out, but she could feel them. A hand slithered over her shoulder. Regan jerked away.

Another hand, broad and rough, pinched her backside. The sharp pain stuck like a needle. She gritted her teeth, tightening her fingers on her umbrella as if it were her lifeline.

Enough was enough. She lifted it high, pointed the feral, and jabbed it as hard as she could at the nearest body. The heavy, steel feral punctured flesh with a sickening pop.

“Son of a bitch!” a deep voice cried out. One of the men staggered and gasped.

Regan stood frozen, her arm still extended. Her chest lifted and fell in rapid breaths. She yanked her umbrella back then held it at the ready, waiting for another to advance.

The man she’d struck reeled forward, clutching at his masked face. Blood gushed from between his thick fingers. It trickled onto his patched, brown shirt and thin, gray coat.

“Bitch!” John yelled. His friend sputtered and blood sprayed the air. Slowly, the other masked men began to take solid form, closing in.

Drawing in a gulping breath, a strange satisfaction washed over her. “I wished reason, yet you insisted on violence.“

“Shut up!” He grabbed hold of her umbrella and whipped it aside, then violently grabbed her cloaked shoulder. He lifted his fisted hand and let fly. Her world erupted in stars and pain as his knuckles slammed against her cheek. Her head erupted in red and purple color as her body went limp and then everything went dark.

***

R
egan slowly stretched out her fingers and water splashed over her hand. She swallowed. Water?

She forced herself to pry open her eyes. The dark shadows of night danced over a muddy, green-covered puddle just before her face. Regan jerked her head up off the ground as pain pierced her face.

Propping herself up on her hands, she stared at the wet ground, trying to remember what had happened.

Whitechapel. And
John
. Whoever
John
really was. Shivering, she rubbed her hands along her shoulders and glanced about. Miraculously, her carriage was standing just a few feet away, the horses pawing at the earth, the door wide open. It couldn’t have been too long or the horses would have been stolen.

Dear Lord, Mr. Brent. And her driver!

Regan planted her hands on the ground and dug her toes into the muddy stones. She pushed herself up and staggered for a moment toward the coach. The coach swam before her. Holding out a hand, she brushed the side of the vehicle then leaned against it and took a deep breath.

“Mr. Brent?” Using the side of the vehicle for support, Regan walked toward the driver’s box and peered up at it. The reins hung slack over the side.

The box stood a good five feet off the ground. Even with the carriage lanterns swinging gently as the horses shifted hooves, she could make out no one. Regan grabbed hold of the side and dug her foot into the step.

Pulling herself up with shaking arms, her dress caught on the break and ripped. She yanked the material free and stepped up into the box. Mr. Brent’s broad body was sprawled face down on the floor. Black blood matted his russet hair.

Regan’s stomach twisted. Crouching beside him, she pushed aside the collar of his brown coat and placed two fingers at his neck. “Please, Mr. Brent,” she whispered. A pulse, slow and sluggish, pressed against her fingertips.
Oh, thank goodness
. Regan blew out a breath, straightened, and turned her attention to her driver, Mr. Hopkins.

The driver sat twisted in the seat, his body resting against the side of the box. His black tricorn hat hung lopsided from the crown of his head.

Regan reached out and gently shook his arm. “Mr. Hopkins? Mr. Hopkins?”

The driver moaned.

Regan shook him again, her eyes searching his body for any sign of injury. No blood spattered his coat, face, or hair. None that she could see. “Mr. Hopkins, please.”

He moaned again and shifted in his seat. His head rolled towards her. A black and purple bruise bloomed on his forehead. He blinked.

How could anyone do anything so hateful?

Gently, Regan laid her hand on his shoulder. “Hopkins, I do not know how to drive the coach. And Mr. Brent—“ Regan lowered her gaze to Brent’s limp body. “Mr. Brent is incapacitated. We must leave.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Are you able to drive the coach?”

Hopkins sat for a moment, his eyes drifting shut. Slowly, he opened them then grasped the side of the box and pushed himself upright. “Of course, Milady.”

Home was a good deal too far away. “Take us to Hazard’s.”

It was the only haven she had now.

The driver leaned over and grabbed at the reins. Hopkins swayed to the right. “Right, Milady.”

Regan reached for his gnarled hands, steadying him.

“Let me help you,” she whispered as she grasped the leather strips just behind his fingers.