Scoundrel (5 page)

Remmington pushed aside thoughts of Lily and forced a smile. “I’m often thankful that my parents were adept at producing males. Sisters must be a great nuisance.” He gave Harry a speculative look. “Any plans to see to your own marital affairs in the near future?”

“I have my eye on a lady, but she has yet to notice that I occupy the same universe. Perhaps I should start pestering her brother with endless lists of my husbandly qualities.” Harry grinned and shrugged the matter of his marriage aside. “What about you, Remmington? You must be an old man of thirty by now. Any plans to set up your own nursery?”

Yes.

The voice came unbidden from inside his head, a soft, feminine voice. It was Lily’s answer when he’d asked her to dance, filled with hopes he hadn’t understood at the time. What a fool he’d been. What a fool he was now, to regret what could never be. Always the fool where beautiful women were concerned. Some things never changed.

“I’m in no hurry to remarry,” he said, walking with Harry toward the carriage.

“Well, I’m in no hurry to find myself in a state that makes most men I know positively morose. Although I’ll admit that—” Harry stopped in midsentence. “Good God. Will you look at that.”

Remmington turned around. One could see almost anything on the streets of
London
, but his face registered surprise at the sight that greeted him.

The new gaslights of Saint James’s Street revealed the shadowy form of a woman as she raced down the middle of the foggy street, her figure vague and muted in the dim light. He watched with an eerie sense of the surreal as she drew nearer and her features became distinct.

The fog that surrounded her began to drift away, a trick of the eye that made her look as if she emerged from the night itself. The voluminous folds of a dark blue robe billowed out from her waist like silk sails in a brisk wind. The skirt of a pristine white nightgown revealed itself beneath the robe, and her flight outlined long, lithe legs against the smooth fabric. Waist-length auburn hair floated over her shoulders in fiery waves. One slender hand held the skirt of her robe and nightgown above the path of her slippered feet while the other hand clutched her throat. The expression on her face was one of sheer terror. She glanced over her shoulder several times, as though certain the hounds of hell were on her heels.

The girl was less than fifteen feet away when Remmington swore under his breath, recognizing the shadowy figure at last. He thought she was running right to him, but she changed direction at the last moment, obviously intent on the entrance to White’s. Two long strides from the side of the carriage and he intercepted her. He caught her with one outstretched arm and her breath came out in a whoosh. He pushed her toward Harry and the waiting carriage.

“Get her inside, man. She can’t be seen on the street!” Remmington spun around to face the club’s doorman. The liveried servant’s mouth hung wide open. He pressed ten pounds into the man’s palm. “One word of this incident and I will know where to direct my anger.”

Remmington didn’t think it possible, but the man’s eyes actually opened wider as he stared at the money.

“No! My father!” the girl cried out. She tried to pull away from Harry’s grip. Her voice sounded strained, and she put her hand again to the high, ruffled neckline of her nightgown. She turned her attention to Remmington, both hands at her neck now as if she found it painful to speak. “He’s… inside.”

“No, he isn’t,” Remmington replied.

Harry stared down at the woman in silence, his expression incredulous. “Good God! Lady—”

“Shut up,” Remmington snapped. He turned Harry toward the door to his carriage. “Just get her inside before anyone else sees her.”

Harry pushed Lady Lillian into the plush carriage and took the seat opposite hers. Remmington followed a moment later, then he signaled to the driver with a rap on the roof before he sat next to Lily. She clutched at his arm as the carriage lurched forward, but pushed away from him as soon as she regained her balance. Her breath came in quick pants and he could feel her tremble. The fear in her eyes made him uneasy.

“Would you mind telling us just what you are doing on the streets at this time of night?”

“Must find…” She lifted her hand to her throat. Her words died on a hoarse whisper. “… Papa.”

He reached out to push aside the lacy frills that concealed her neck. She slapped his hand away, but not quickly enough. The ugly red marks on her throat made him swear under his breath. Someone had tried to strangle her! Rage flowed through him, instant and potent, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “Who did this to you, Lily?”

Harry leaned forward. He’d also noticed the bruises. “Give us the name and we’ll take care of the blackguard.”

“Don’t… know. Must… find—”

“There, there, Lady Lillian,” Harry said. “We’ll take you home to Crofford House and get to the bottom of this foul deed.” Harry leaned forward to place his hand over hers, but Lily jerked away and pressed herself even further into the corner of the carriage.

“No!” She shook her head.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Remmington murmured. “We only want to help you, Lily. Are you afraid that whoever did this is still in your house?”

Her gaze moved slowly to Harry, then back again before she finally nodded. Remmington covered her hand before he remembered that she’d refused the same meager comfort from Harry. He was absurdly pleased when she didn’t draw away from him. “How many were there?”

“I saw… one,” she said with difficulty. “I screamed… no one came. Please take—”

“How many servants are in residence?”

“Seven.”

Remmington frowned. Not an unusually large number of servants, but enough that one should have heard her cries for help. Harry’s comment echoed his thoughts.

“It seems unlikely that just one man could take care of seven servants.”

Lily tugged on Remmington’s sleeve. “Papa is at White’s.”

He winced at the sound of her raspy voice, then slowly shook his head. “No, Lily. I saw your father leave White’s an hour ago. Where else might he be?”

Her expression grew uncertain. “I don’t know.”

He exchanged a worried glance with Harry, then nodded toward the trapdoor in the ceiling. “Tell the driver to take us to my house.”

Harry stood up to carry out the order, but Lily shook her head. “I cannot—”

“We will stop just long enough to get some of my men,” Remmington told her, “then we will go check on your servants. If your father doesn’t turn up in the meantime, I will send someone out to search for him.”

She nodded, but her hands were clenched in tight fists, her lower lip caught between her teeth. There was a look of bewildered fear in her eyes. As he gazed down at her stricken face, he was nearly overwhelmed by the need to take her into his arms and keep her safe. He wanted to kill the man who had done this to her.

“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” His frustration deepened when she shook her head. “Can you remember anything at all? The color of his eyes? His height or size? Are you certain it was not a servant, or someone you know?”

Her breaths became more rapid and shallow with each question. She held one hand to her throat, the other to her forehead.

“Take a deep breath,” he ordered, worried she would faint. He knew from his experience in battles that anyone frightened this badly would respond more readily to command than to pity. “That’s right. Now take one more and you’ll feel better.”

She took several before her breathing returned to a more normal rate. “Too many… questions. No answers.”

He didn’t quite believe her. She had to remember something. She must be top shaken to recall the answers clearly at the moment, but he didn’t know how to calm her down.

“We need a plan. Give me a moment to think this through.” Unable to concentrate when he looked at her, he pushed aside the carriage curtains and gazed out at the night. He closed his eyes and pictured the marks that lined her throat. By tomorrow, they would be dark, vicious bruises. He couldn’t imagine that any sane man would take that slender throat between his hands to deliberately choke the life from her. He could think of any number of things a man might want to do to a beautiful, defenseless woman, but murder was not one of them.

His hands became fists as he wondered just what sort of man she’d encountered. Perhaps she’d stumbled across a common thief, startled him enough that he’d turned on her. Only a fool would rob a house when the family was in residence, yet who else would try to kill her? It was a daring plan, but a definite possibility. If a thief knew that Lily and her father were at a ball, it would be logical to assume they would remain there until the very early hours of the morning. Yet that night Lily had gone home early, and Remmington knew the reason why.

His gaze returned to her. If he hadn’t interfered in her life earlier that evening, she might still be at the Ashlands’ ball. Without thinking, he reached out to stroke her cheek. “Don’t worry, Lily. You’re safe now.”

The carriage drew to a halt and he heard the driver announce that they were at his town house. He gave her hand a squeeze, then he opened the door and jumped down from the carriage and raced up the steps.

Lily’s fear returned as soon as he left her side. More than anything, she wanted to find her father. What if he returned home and encountered her attacker?

She squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the thought. Instead, she forced herself to remember every moment that led up to the attack, to examine every detail for hidden clues. Until Remmington began to ask questions, she’d thought only of that horrible mask and the terrifying need to escape. She hadn’t thought about small things such as the culprit’s hair color or his build. He’d seemed larger than life at the time, but now she didn’t think he was much taller than she. She couldn’t recall seeing his hair. A black hood attached to the back of his mask covered his head completely.

She pictured the mask just as she had seen it in her mirror—the ghostly white porcelain face, ceramic red lips that curled at the corners into an endless smile, and enormous black eyes pierced in the very center with peepholes. She couldn’t see anything of his eyes in those peepholes, nothing that would hint at anything human beneath the mask. Sheer terror had held her motionless, then the sound of screaming, and the odd realization that it was her own.

Her hand moved to her hip to feel a bruise there, then she remembered how her hip had struck the corner of her vanity when he threw her to the floor, the sound of her vanity as it toppled over. She had lain on her back, the weight of her attacker straddled over her chest, his knees pressed against her shoulders to keep her pinned to the floor. He fastened his hands around her throat, an unbreakable vise that squeezed and choked, then she couldn’t breathe at all. Then the pain of his grip was unbearable.

Lily closed her eyes even tighter to remember, to go beyond the blurred vision. What she recalled made her stomach roil. Suddenly the crushing weight on her chest had been gone. He had kept hold of her neck with one hand while he reached behind him with the other to pull up the skirts of her nightgown. He released his hold on her throat just when the blackness threatened to overcome her. His hands moved to the fastenings of his pants, then he shifted his weight from her shoulders and freed her for a moment.

She had felt something in her hand, realized that sometime during their struggle she’d grasped one of the candlesticks that had fallen next to her from the vanity. The candlestick was very old and very heavy. She gathered all her strength to swing it upward. There was a dull, almost hollow sound when it connected with the side of his head. Then there was a dim memory of him crumpling to the floor. Her lungs were bursting. She couldn’t fill them with enough air.

Somehow she knew he wasn’t dead. It was that fear, that certainty that spurred her to action. She’d struggled to her feet, but staggered no more than a few steps before she felt his hand wrap around her ankle. The candlestick was still clutched in her hand. Without a thought, she brought it down on his wrist. His bellow of pain gave her the strength to run, to flee that nightmare and take her chances on the street. She tried to remember if he’d followed her. There was a moment when she glanced over her shoulder as she raced down the stairway and—

The carriage door snapped open and Remmington stepped inside. An instant later, his hand covered Lily’s mouth to cut off her startled cry.

“It’s only me, Lily!” He sat next to her in the carriage and pulled her onto his lap, his hold on her gentle despite his harsh words. His hand came slowly away from her mouth. He looked worried that she would start screaming. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Breathe, damn it.”

Lily nodded and tried to obey the order, taking deep gulps of air.

He glared at Harry. “What the
hell
did you do to her?”

The barely leashed violence of his voice startled Lily. She glanced up and saw that Harry had braced himself against the back of his seat. He looked just as alarmed by Remmington’s tone.

“N-nothing! She’s been sitting here quiet as a tomb the entire time you were in there.”

The two men stared at each other, then Remmington finally nodded toward the trapdoor. Harry obeyed the silent order and signaled to the driver by rapping on the roof. A moment later, the carriage lurched forward.