The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

All the same, Percival’s eyes would not open. Slowly he lifted his hand, which seemed to be made of lead, and tried to find an eye. After some searching, he located one and pried the lids apart.

Dark as the room was, it seemed to be moving. He’d rather not see that. He let his hand drop to the bed and tried to make his sluggish brain think. He found it only wanted to think about how horribly sick he was. It wanted to think about vomiting. That would be fine, except it was too much work.

His throat felt as though someone had left a torch burning in it. Dragging his hand up again, he flung it at the bedstand. Water. It was there somewhere. But he couldn’t reach it. He dragged himself closer to the edge of the mattress and tried again. This time, his leaden hand knocked the pitcher over. Water dribbled onto his face. He tried to lick at it, but his tongue refused to budge. He groaned.

He wanted to be very, very still and go back to sleep, but the nightmare was waiting for him. And there was something important he had to do.

Inching down from the pillow, he flung a leg over the edge of the mattress. Then another leg. Then he was falling, sinking, a very long way. He landed on something hard. The floor.

Immediately, he felt hideously sick. He clawed under the bed, pulled out the chamber pot, and vomited.

His body did not feel much better after the exercise, but the fog in his brain cleared somewhat.

Percival lay on his side, his cheek against the cool floor, and tried to think. He’d got drunk once before, when one of his schoolmates had stolen several bottles of port from Mr. Saper’s secret hoard. The physical sensations had been altogether different.

If he was not drunk, he might very well be ill. His brain suggested that someone had made him ill. It offered two choices: he’d been (a) drugged or (b) poisoned. Which confirmed his suspicions. Only at the moment, he couldn’t remember what his suspicions were, exactly.

The effort to remember triggered another wave of nausea, and Percival had a second discussion with the chamber pot.

His brain gave signs of approval. It offered to cooperate. It reminded him of Mrs. Stockwell-Hume’s letter, which he’d found crumpled in the empty grate of Mount Eden’s library. It reminded him of the nasty feeling he’d had in the garden that someone was watching him. There was probably more, but this was enough to help Percival recall that he’d decided to do something. This very night, before It happened. He didn’t know what It was, exactly. Only that It seemed to be happening already. He had to stop It.

He tried to get up, but couldn’t. The effort led him back to the chamber pot. After this, his brain cleared sufficiently to suggest that, if a fellow couldn’t walk, he might very well crawl. Then it warned him not to tumble down the stairs.

***

Varian tethered his weary horse to the lamppost and took the shabby carpetbag from the saddlebag. He didn’t expect to be invited to spend the night. He doubted he’d be let in at all. Though it wasn’t yet midnight, the Brentmor townhouse was dark. Still, the streets were filled with carriages hastening from one festivity to the next, and there were always loiterers about, not to mention idle bucks looking for mischief. The nag they might have with his lordship’s blessing. The carpetbag, however, contained his pistols, and he’d not be able to afford another pair of Manton’s finest in the near future.

Glancing up at the gloomy house, Varian wished he’d not come so late. He wished he’d possessed the will not to come at all. Wed or not, Esme wasn’t even nineteen. She ought to experience all the gaiety of the London Season, just as any other young English lady might. He couldn’t give her the treat. He couldn’t even appear in public with her. He looked like a ragpicker.

He still wasn’t altogether certain why he had come. He’d watched Esme leave Mount Eden, watched the carriage rattle down the weedy drive, then re-entered his house...to find it haunted. He had taken up task after task, only to find he couldn’t keep himself fixed to anything. A thought would come to him, and he’d look up to tell her or pause, about to call her…then remember she wasn’t there. He’d done it a score of times, and each time the realization was a shock. He’d not experienced anything like it since the time after his mother’s death. More than a year had passed before he gave up looking for her.

He was no boy of sixteen, Varian had chided himself. Esme was not his mother and not dead, gone forever. She was only a few hours away in London, where she’d have a wonderful time, because they’d all fall in love with her. She’d flirt, as he’d taught her just last night.

Then he’d wondered whether teaching her had been a mistake. He wouldn’t be by to warn off the rogues and rakes, and she was so inexperienced. It was ridiculously easy to take advantage of a lonely young bride. Varian had done it himself, more than once. If his own wife betrayed him, it would be a fitting punishment.

Yet now he suspected it wasn’t betrayal he feared, and it wasn’t altogether jealousy that had driven him to London in the middle of the night. It was loneliness, and the cold bleakness of looking for her and realizing she was gone, and feeling she was somehow lost to him forever.

As he climbed the townhouse steps, he told himself his imagination had grown altogether gothic. He’d simply worked himself into a state, because he was abominably selfish. He didn’t want Esme anywhere but with him.

Now he’d wake them all up, and he’d no excuse that wouldn’t make him look an utter fool.

Cursing himself, he dashed the knocker against the door, waited what seemed an eternity, then did it again. After he’d repeated the action several times, his self disgust quickened into disquiet. Someone should have heard him by now.

At the country house, a porter’s chair stood by the door. The lower servants took turns spending the night there, so that the family might be quickly roused if a neighbor reported any sort of emergency or danger. A sleepy, shivering footboy had been there to open the door for Varian the morning he’d left.

Someone should have been at this door, or at least within hearing range. Suppose a riot broke out nearby? Suppose the house took fire? London being far more dangerous than the country, servants should be doubly vigilant.

Varian hurried down the steps and turned into the passageway separating the Brentmor townhouse from its neighbor. Near the back was what must be the trademen’s entrance.

Varian pounded on the door. No response. He tried the handle. The door opened, and a chill shot down his spine.

Sir Gerald stood by his window, scowling into the dark garden. The clock had just tolled midnight, and the drunken fool had at last left off pounding at the door. For a few ghastly moments, the baronet had thought it was the constable, but that was only foolish panic. Ismal wouldn’t have alerted the authorities until he had obtained what he’d come for, and he needed some help from Sir Gerald for that.

He should have been here by now, Sir Gerald fretted. Would have been, but for the curst drunkard at the door. Still, it wouldn’t be long now, and the whole business would be over quickly.

His desperate gamble with his mother had paid off. Five hundred in coin and bank drafts totalling a thousand she’d paid to keep him quiet. While this wasn’t nearly enough, it was more than Sir Gerald could have hoped for several hours ago. That, and the bit he’d got from the last visit to the pawnshop, would get him to the Continent and set him up adequately. Once he was safe abroad, he’d easily contrive ways to get more.

His spirits soothed by the infusion of money, he felt reasonably certain he would get away alive. Ismal wouldn’t murder a blackmail victim. That was shortsighted, and Ismal was the type who thought ahead. He was also the type, the baronet thought resentfully, who enjoyed tormenting his victims. One must take care he found no future opportunity to do so.

But he would worry about that later, when he was safely across the Channel. At present, all Sir Gerald wanted was to have the matter done and his tormentors gone.

When he heard the approaching footsteps in the hall, he almost felt relieved. Though his heart rate doubled,

he was outwardly composed, his hands quite, quite steady.

Until the door crashed open.

After more than an hour in utter darkness, the candlelight burst upon him like a lightning bolt, and for a moment he could only stare uncomprehendingly at the dark figure at the door. He blinked once, twice, but the vision didn’t change. The candlelight glinted upon the sleek barrel of a pistol, and holding it aimed straight and steady at Sir Gerald’s heart was Lord Edenmont.

Chapter Thirty

“We know exactly what happened,” Sir Gerald blustered. “They planned it together, the three of them, to make me the scapegoat.” He rubbed his throat, where the marks of Varian’s fingers remained. “If anyone wants throttling, it’s that wretched boy.”

Varian had dashed up the stairs just as Percival was about to pitch headlong down them. Though sick and frightened, the boy had communicated enough to send Varian charging into Sir Gerald’s room—only to hear the man stubbornly insist he knew nothing.

It had taken a frantic quarter hour to verify that Esme, the chess set, and the black queen were gone, and everyone else in the household was in various stages of drugged stupefaction.

That was when Percival finally blurted out his suspicions that Ismal was involved. Not at all disconcerted, Sir Gerald had declared Esme had eloped with her Albanian lover. He’d scarcely got the words out before Varian hurled him against the study wall and nearly choked the life from him.

Varian was calmer now. He could not afford panic or rage. He’d no idea how long Esme had been gone or where she might be headed. He needed help, mainly Sir Gerald’s, and he needed it quickly.

He took out the crumpled letter Percival had given him and placed it on the chess table in front of Sir Gerald. “I know Mrs. Stockwell-Hume. If necessary, we’ll go to her house presently and ascertain the truth. If she declares the letter a forgery, I shall escort you—with the aid of her servants—to the nearest magistrate and let him interrogate you.” He folded his arms. “Or you may tell me the truth, in as few words as possible.”

Sir Gerald stared at the letter for a long moment, then looked up at Varian. “Blackmail,” he said. “You’re no better than that filthy foreigner.”

Varian said nothing.