The Officer and the Proper Lady

He was still deep in thought as he reached the house in Albemarle Street and dismounted. A shout and the clatter of hooves roused him.

‘Carlow!’

‘Monty?’ His old comrade reined in the team of chest nuts pulling his high-perch phaeton. ‘What’s up?’

‘Your wife,’ Mil den hall said urgently. ‘Is she home?’

‘Of course she’s home.’ The front door opened. ‘Wellow, where is Mrs Carlow?’

‘She went to visit Lady Mil den hall at about two, Major. She took the small town coach and Richards. She has not yet returned.’

Hal pulled out his watch. ‘And it is just past three. Not so long for a call, Monty.’

‘But she left our house almost at once; she came to ask Midge for Hebden’s address.’

‘What?’ Hal felt the blood drain from his face. ‘And Midge gave it to her?’

‘Yes. Apparently your wife told Midge that she had something to tell Hebden that would stop his campaign of vengeance.’

‘Hell and damnation—the man is here, in town?’

‘Yes, Bloomsbury Square.’ Monty began to turn his team. ‘North side.’ He gave the number as Hal swung back into the saddle. ‘Don’t try the main street, there’s a brewer’s dray over turned at the bottom of Tot ten ham Court Road—chaos. I’ll follow, fast as I can.’

Hal set his spurs to Max’s sides and the big grey took off at the gallop towards Oxford Street. His sabre bumped his leg as he made the turn into Bond Street, and he checked the saddle holster. Yes, his pistols were there. He was going to need those.

Nell took the old, much-folded paper from her pocket and held it up. ‘This is the last letter that William Wardale, Earl of Leybourne, wrote, minutes before he was hanged. If ever a man is going to tell the truth, surely it is on the verge of death.’ The beautiful brown eyes watching her sharpened, lost their mocking, sensual smile. ‘Listen, he swears on his children’s souls that he is innocent.’ She read that impassioned statement, then watched as the colour leached from under Stephen Hebden’s golden skin. His eyes widened.

‘I believe him—so do Hal and Marcus. Wardale was not your father’s killer, Stephano, and neither was—’ Julia broke off as he swayed, his hands coming up to clutch at hi

s temples. Staring into his wide eyes, she saw the pupils contract to pin pricks. ‘What is it? You are ill, let me call for help.’ She began to scramble down from the stool, bumping into his legs as she did so.

‘He swore on his children’s souls. He swore as he was about to die?’ Stephano seized her by the forearms so she was trapped between his thighs. ‘And now they prosper, they thrive. They are happy, all of them.’ He was talking to himself, she realized, not to her.

‘Let me go, Stephano, I do not under stand.’

‘The curse,’ he muttered. ‘The children will pay for the sins of their fathers. He did not sin. He did not.’

‘You are frightening me, and you are not well.’ Julia tried to free a hand. ‘Let me get help.’

‘No.’ He was on his feet now, pulling her tight against him, her face pressed to his shirt, his own cheek against her hair. He needed someone—something—to hold onto, she realized. She doubted he even realized who he was holding.

Distantly there was a crash, then shouting. ‘Stephano,’ she said softly. ‘Stephano!’ He winced as though she had struck him. The workshop door banged open. ‘Julia!’

The man holding her jerked round, one hand still circling her arm.

‘Hal!’ He was in uniform, she realised. His sabre was in his hand and murder in his eyes. ‘Hal, he has not hurt me. He isn’t well.’

‘He’ll be dead in a minute, that will cure him,’ her husband said, slamming the door. He spun a chair towards him and jammed it under the handle. ‘What has he done to you?’

‘Nothing. Hal, I came to tell him about the letter because you could not, that is all. And then he became ill. I was supporting him.’

Hebden pushed her back a little. His eyes were focused again, although the planes of his face were sharp and drawn as though he was in pain. ‘So sweet, your wife’s mouth, Carlow, so generous her kisses.’

‘You fool,’ she snapped at him. ‘Do you want him to kill you?’

‘He can try.’ And suddenly there was a knife in his hand, a slim, wicked, curving blade.

Hal edged forward, his own weapon up, en garde. He had pushed his pistol into his uniform sash and his eyes were locked with Stephano’s as the men faced each other, the glitter of lethal metal stained red by the light from the glowing brazier. Julia backed away, her skirts swinging, and something fluttered, the brazier flared up, and Stephano lunged.