To Lure a Proper Lady (24 page)

As Lizzie jumped from the conveyance, the silence of her surroundings struck her. During the social Season, the square would be alive with carriages waiting to take the residents to the usual round of dinners, routs, and balls. The dark windows overlooking the green space at the center of the square would be bright with the glow of candles.

Not even the remaining servants—those few who stayed behind to maintain the houses in their owners' absence, seemed to stir.

Without thought, Lizzie made straight for the front door, but the brass knocker was nowhere in evidence. Of course it wasn't. Nobody would expect callers before November at the soonest.

“You there.” The voice came from below.

Lizzie peered over the wrought-iron railing into the area below street level. The domain of servants, she'd never had occasion to venture down there. One of the maids stood next to the coal vaults, one hand on an ample hip, while the other cradled a bundle of objects in her apron.

Sarah—that was her name—glared at Lizzie. “We ain't got nothing in the way of alms. And ye've more'n yer share of cheek comin' straight t' the front door. Now off wit' ye.”

Good heavens, the maid had mistaken Lizzie for an urchin. “Your pardon for my appearing in Town without warning, but it couldn't be helped.”

Not even the deepening shadows could hide the pallor that overtook Sarah's face. “Me lady. We weren't expectin'…” She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Oh, my stars, I do ask yer forgiveness.”

Lizzie gave her a reassuring smile. “No harm done. You couldn't have known. Should I come through the servants' entrance?”

“No!” Another bob. “Beggin' yer pardon, me lady. No, ye couldn't possibly. It wouldn't be fittin'.”

Despite Sarah's admonition, Lizzie started down the steps that led to the lower space. “I'll understand if nothing's been readied. I won't require you to open the house or even prepare me special meals. I'll just need the use of my bedchamber for a few days.” At least, she hoped that was all she'd need. “And a change of clothing.”

The gowns stored here might be more appropriate to the winter months, but she could make do with a muslin day dress or two.

Sarah bit her lip, and her gaze darted to the side. “I really don't know that…Oh, beggin' yer pardon, but…” Hands shaking, she bobbed yet again.

Lizzie reached the bottom of the steps. “My goodness, what has you so flustered?”

It had to be more than just Lizzie's unexpected appearance.

Sarah's hand slipped. She let out a screech, and the contents of her apron clattered to the flagstones. Knives, forks, spoons, all embossed with the Sherrington coat of arms, glinted dully in the fading light.

Lizzie gasped. “You've been into the silver?”

“Oh, my lady, it's not what ye think,” the maid sobbed. She dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather cutlery. “I swears it.”

Kneeling, Lizzie reached for a spoon. “Then tell me what's going on.”

“I should like to know that myself,” said a masculine voice.

From beyond Sarah's shoulder, a figure appeared, one of middling height and build, just as Lizzie had described to Dysart. Lucas Barrows. The creases of his face were set in a grim expression.

“Lady Elizabeth.” He greeted her as if she'd met him on the estate during a constitutional. “I must say, this is a surprise. I had thought you were too busy with your guests in Suffolk to suddenly turn up in Town.”

Lizzie unfolded herself and squared her shoulders. “I should like an explanation both for your presence here now and the condition in which I found the estate's ledgers.”

Barrows advanced, placing himself between Lizzie and the stairs to the street. “There is nothing amiss about the ledgers. You went over them in my presence. In fact, your cousin stood as witness to that.”

She would not allow this man to intimidate her. “What of Papa? I should like an explanation of why his grace has been feeling so poorly of late. I have it on good authority that these events are all related.”

“Did that Bow Street Runner you hired put things together?” Barrows cast a glance about, as if he might discover Dysart lurking in the coal vault. “He's just tedious enough to put in an appearance. Or will he? If you'd known I was here, you wouldn't have come alone.” He advanced another step. “Would you?”

Without warning, Barrows pounced. He slammed into Lizzie with all the force of a sledgehammer. She crumpled to the flagstones, gasping for breath, as Barrows's weight settled on top of her.

Spots swam before her eyes.

Gathering herself, she wrenched against his grip, struggling to get her feet under her. If only she could gain some leverage for a shove.

Nothing. Her strength, fast dwindling, was no match for his. A wave of panic crested, threatening to drown her. She filled her lungs to scream, but before she could release it Barrows clamped his hand over her mouth.

“I ought to let you,” he gloated. “There's no one to hear.”

None but the servants, but Lizzie wouldn't point that out if she could. Sarah. Where was Sarah?

As if in reply to her question, Barrows let out a surprised grunt. His grasp loosened as he turned. Sarah loomed over him, a fork raised, ready to stab. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Lizzie rammed a knee into his groin.

He squealed like a pig and rolled away. The instant that crushing weight left her, she scrambled back, breathing hard.

But she couldn't afford to let down her guard yet. Barrows still posed a threat.

In imitation of Sarah, Lizzie grappled among the scattered silverware for a weapon. As her fingers curled about something solid, Sarah's fork plunged. The tines embedded in Barrows's neck. Once more, he howled in pain.

Good Lord, the racket they were making ought to summon the other servants. They needed a footman or two. Someone strong.

But Lizzie couldn't worry about that. Until help came, she and Sarah faced the enemy alone. The fork had done nothing to incapacitate him. Blast it, if only Sarah had struck the man's jugular.

With a roar, he yanked out the utensil, blood oozing from four tiny holes in the side of his neck. Then he leapt at Sarah.

Lizzie hefted her weapon. A butter knife, hang it all. She cast the useless piece of metal aside. She needed something heavy. There. A shovel leaned against the wall next to the coal vault. She lunged for it. Lifted. Tested its bulk.

Barrows had rolled Sarah beneath him, but the maid's hands were still free. She clawed at his eyes. Lizzie raised the shovel and prayed her aim was true. The blade struck the back of Barrows's head with a sickening
thud.

Grimacing, Sarah pushed Barrows's inert form off her and clambered to her feet. Flecks of blood from Barrows's wound dotted her bodice. “Do ye think he's dead?”

Hand shaking, Lizzie tossed the shovel aside and doubled over. Her stomach heaved, but she hadn't eaten enough to bring anything up. She forced herself to straighten and assess the situation.

Barrows lay face to the sky. In the dim light, she could not make out the color of his complexion, only the blood streaming from his neck. She wasn't about to feel for a pulse there. But she thought she caught the slight rise and fall of his chest. Her hand placed before his mouth removed any doubt. Barrows still breathed.

“He's not dead,” Lizzie confirmed, but even insensible, Barrows posed a rather large problem. They couldn't just leave him here. “Where are the others? We need a footman.”

“They've gone, me lady.” Sarah inclined her head toward Barrows's prostrate form. “He sent them all on errands, ones that would take a good part of th' day.”

An ominous note in Sarah's tone made the hairs of Lizzie's nape stand on end. “What sort of errands?”

Sarah's face crumpled. “Oh, me lady, I tried to stop it. Anything that could be easily sold, he convinced the other servants to take off and sell. His grace needed the funds, he claimed. I didn't believe him meself. I made like I'd take the silver for him, but I was going to hide it.”

“I see.” Oh, how she saw. Barrows had clearly planned to rob them blind and leave the country before they'd even realized he was gone. What she didn't understand was why, but Sarah wouldn't know that any better.

“Th' joke's on him, though.” Sarah stuck out a toe and nudged the body. “Half th' footmen are more'n likely to pocket their profits. We won't see them again.”

Lizzie squeezed Sarah's shoulder. “We're fortunate some of you remained loyal. As soon as we've sorted this out, I'll be talking to Caruthers about promoting you.”

Sarah inclined her head. “Thank ye, me lady. It means a lot.”

“In the meantime, I'll need you to carry a message to a Bow Street Runner named Dysart.”

“Oh, no, me lady.” The ruffles on Sarah's mobcap trembled as she shook her head. “I can't leave ye alone with him. What if he comes to his senses?”

“If we could carry him, I'd shut him up in the coal vault.” Lizzie laid a finger on the side of her chin. “I can't think of a better way to thank him for his years of service.”

“It's no more'n he deserves.”

She crouched behind his head, placed her hands beneath his shoulders, and lifted, while Sarah strained at his ankles, but his dead weight would not budge. No matter how they heaved and shoved, they only managed to displace him by a couple inches. The few feet to the coal vault suddenly seemed like a ten-mile trek.

Panting, Lizzie dropped his upper body. He groaned, and his hands twitched. She froze, but an instant later he settled quiet as before.

Sarah eyed him. “I don't like this.”

Lizzie privately agreed. “We should at least tie him so that if he wakes up, he'll be subdued.” Then they might see about getting him into the coal vault. “Do you think you can find me some ropes?”

“Bed ropes, p'rhaps. But I still don't like leaving ye with him.”

“I don't see that we have a choice there. Make it quick. And if he's left any brandy, bring that, too. We could both use a bit of bracing.”

With a nod, Sarah trotted off. Lizzie stepped back and studied Barrows's form. Out cold, by all appearances. Even the blood flowing from his neck wound had slowed to a trickle.

She rubbed her sweaty palms on her breeches. A handier weapon than the coal shovel wouldn't be out of place. Scanning the scattered silverware, she spotted the perfect solution. A long-bladed knife, this one more appropriate to carving a roast at the dining table—in a pinch, it would do.

She swooped for it. Just as her fingers closed on the handle, a hand shackled her wrist. Her pulse began to gallop.

“Did you think it would be so easy?” Barrows whispered in her ear.

She jammed an elbow back toward his chest, but he evaded the blow. His grip tightened painfully until she could feel the bones grind. The knife dropped with a clatter onto the flagstones, but no sooner had it come to rest than Barrows swept it up. Turning her against his chest, he brought the blade to her throat.

“Careful now. We wouldn't want me to slip, would we?”

“You wouldn't dare,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Spoken like a true duchess.” The casualness of his tone did nothing to reassure her. “It's true, you're worth more to me alive than dead, but if you hinder my escape, I shall have no choice but to cut your aristocratic little throat.”

As he spoke the words, Sarah reappeared from the servants' entrance. Her eyes widened and the bundle of rope dropped from her arms.

Despite the blade's bite at her jugular, Lizzie cried out. “Sarah, run!”

As Dysart emerged from the Bow Street magistrates' court, he drew in a lungful of smoke. He would love nothing more than to lean his shoulders against his favorite wall and let the tobacco's calming effect clear his whirling thoughts, but he didn't have that kind of time.

The case. He must concentrate his energies there, now that he had a lead. He'd sent all available hands to comb the rookeries for word of Barrows, and Dysart needed to set off himself. Several fences of his acquaintance seemed prime candidates for questioning. A man like Barrows might not stop at skimming funds. He might also attempt to sell a stray jewel or expensive knickknack.

But though Dysart was ready and armed for the task of venturing into London's more dodgy areas, his brain refused to focus. It kept straying to Lizzie—Lady Elizabeth. He must think of her in more formal terms.

Later.

Yes, later when he had news, but then he'd have to face her, along with all the confounded feelings she aroused. Damn it.

Before he could stride off, a hackney rolled up, and a familiar figure stepped out. “Thank God I've caught you.” Riggs held out a hand.

Dysart shook it. “How the hell did ye get t' Town so quickly?”

“I'd've been here yesterday if it wasn't for the rain. I was following you. We're after the same man, but I also need to talk to you.”

“I've already got as many hands out looking as I can. About t' set off meself. Can whatever ye has to tell me wait?”

Before Riggs could reply, another man stepped from the building—Potter, one of the magistrates' clerks, on his way home. He stopped when he spied the man beside Dysart. “Good Lord, is that Riggs? We haven't seen you in ages.”

The men shook hands, while Dysart drummed his fingers against his thigh.

Riggs grinned. “You haven't changed a bit.”

Potter squared his shoulders and rubbed his palms down the lurid pattern of flowers on the front of his waistcoat.

“He hasn't,” Dysart agreed. “His togs put th' fireworks at Vauxhall t' shame.”

Potter's grin melted. “You ought to head home, Dysart. If ye don't mind me saying so, ye look completely done in. Bed would do ye good.”

Only if Lizzie occupied that bed. Dysart grimaced and took another drag of his cheroot. “I can't go home. We need t' be off. Official business.”

“Please, sirs!” A red-faced woman dressed in serviceable linen jogged up to the court entrance, clutching her side.

“Can we be of service?” Potter asked.

“I need a Runner,” she gasped. “One named Dysart. Quick.”

Instincts jangling alive, Dysart kicked himself away from the wall and tossed aside his cheroot. “I'm Dysart. What do ye need?”

“Oh, please.” The maid struggled to draw breath. “He's got my lady.”

Dysart's hands turned to blocks of ice. “Who's yer lady and who has her?”

“Barrows.”

Beside him, Riggs went rigid.

Shite. Lizzie. “Did ye run all the way from Grosvenor Square?”

The maid didn't question how he knew where she'd come from. She simply nodded. “Best I could.”

“Yer not runnin' back.” He glanced about the street for a hackney. Riggs's conveyance still waited on the cobblestones.

Potter set a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn't you alert the others?”

“Can't. They're all out on this case.” And if this maid had come along any later, he'd have been gone, as well. A heavy knot formed in his stomach. At least the pistol he'd tucked into his waistband earlier was a comforting weight at the small of his back. It would be his sole support, along with the knife in his boot. “I got Riggs to watch me back if he's willing.”

Riggs gave a single jerk of his head in assent.

“Then let's go.”

Panic was not a reaction a Bow Street Runner could afford. Dysart had learned that lesson early on in his career. On his arrival in Grosvenor Square, his schooling all but disintegrated when he saw the state of the servants' yard.

Fighting off the surge of energy that compelled him to
act, now,
without a plan, he forced himself to breathe deeply and set his mind to assessing. Scattered silver. Coal shovel left lying. Blood on the flagstones. No sign of his quarry—either of them. The maid, Sarah, had led him to expect his first three observances, but not the last.

“I don't understand, sir.” Sarah's lips were trembling. There was still another reason for Dysart to keep cool.

He set his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Think. Where would Barrows take Lady Elizabeth?”

“Into the house, I reckon.”

“Any particular room?” Riggs added. His keen eye had sent the same analytical gaze around the yard.

She choked on a sob. “I don't know, sir.”

“Then we search, room by room. But we need to be quiet about it, so no one cottons on that we're here.” And if Barrows had done Lizzie any harm with that knife, Dysart didn't need Sarah to see that—or what he would do to Barrows when he caught the bastard. “Understand?”

“We?” Sarah's voice wobbled. “Ye don't mean me, do ye?”

“I've got Riggs. Ye can wait out here. And if, by chance, some of the footmen return…” He hesitated. Even one more man on their side would tip the odds in their favor, but if help came at the wrong time—that might well prove disastrous. No, he was better off with just Riggs. “Make certain no one interrupts us. I'll let ye know when it's safe.”

Riggs in his wake, Dysart stole in through the servants' entrance, where a rapid but silent inspection of that level proved it deserted. The entire townhouse lay under a blanket of unnatural quiet so that each of his footfalls echoed loudly in his ears. The goddamned place was worse than a crypt.

Up a flight of dark servants' stairs to the ground floor. At the door, he paused, his ears straining for a sound beyond the pounding of his own pulse.

There. His heartbeat accelerated.

A glance at Riggs and an answering nod confirmed what he'd heard. The low rumble of a masculine voice, the words too muffled to distinguish. Barrows was somewhere on this floor. Dysart could only pray the other participant in the conversation was Lizzie and not an accomplice. But Sarah would have told them if Barrows had any cronies.

Dysart had to hold on to hope that Lizzie was alive and unharmed.

Reaching beneath his topcoat, he slipped his pistol into his hand, holding it low. A jerk of his head indicated Riggs was to follow. Then he crept along the passage in the direction of the voices.