Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 2 - Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch

A sleepy-eyed footman finally opened the door a crack, his nightcap askew as he peered at Jeremiah. “Shove off before you wake your betters, Jack,” he ordered, seeing the rough, anonymous sailor’s clothing Jeremiah had chosen, “else I’ll call the watch on you. We’ve no use for your sort in this neighborhood.”

But as he began to shut the door, Jeremiah braced his shoulder against the heavy oak and thrust the barrel of one of the pistols through the opening and against the footman’s ribs. The man made a garbled, gasping sound as he stared at the pistol, his hands fluttering off the doorjamb as he backed away. “Spare me, sir, oh sir, please don’t kill me, not even the master’s plate’s worth my life!”

“Nay, I’d wager it don’t even come close,” growled Jeremiah as he forced his way into the house and shoved the door shut. A night-light hung overhead, the light from the floating wick tinted pale blue by the lantern’s glass, the footman’s round face beneath it ghastly pale. “Look at how you’re all aquiver, you yellow-bellied little coward!”

“Please, sir, I beg your mercy! The master don’t keep no hard money in the house, but I swear on my mother’s honor that the pitchers there on that table are sterling, and—”

“Don’t want ‘em,” said Jeremiah. “Where’s the lady Stanhope brought here yesterday?”

The man’s mouth turned down. “At the top of the last stairs, in Addy’s old room. The door’s locked, but the key’s hanging on the peg opposite for Mrs. Warren.”

“The devil take you if you play me false!”

“I swear it’s true! But the master’s orders—”

“Do you think I give a damn about that bastard’s orders?” Jeremiah jerked his head toward the adjoining room. “In there with you, and be quick about it.”

“Oh, no, sir, I won’t let you kill me like that!” Clutching his nightcap, the man turned to run, and with a muttered oath, Jeremiah tapped him on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. The footman slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide but now unseeing.

Swiftly Jeremiah dragged him into the drawing room and bound him to a straight-back chair with the line he’d brought in his pocket, tying a rag around the man’s mouth as a gag before he turned the chair to the wall, far away from any windows or door. He was sure he could count on at least a quarter hour before the footman was missed, maybe more, plenty of time to find Caro.

But back in the hall he stared up the long, dark— too dark—stairway, the old fears returning, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift. He’d counted on the footman bringing some sort of candlestick to the door, not realizing the man would rely on the night-light alone. His heart pounding and his palm damp around the pistol’s butt, he tried to swallow back his growing dread. He could turn around and walk away alone in the bright moonlight, or he could climb up into the darkness to search for Caro. He could sail for Jamaica tomorrow, the way his sister hoped, and never look back.

A coward’s comfort, or his friends and a woman who needed his help.

Another chance to fail, or another chance to prove himself.

No choice at all for a Sparhawk.

He swore beneath his breath as he headed up the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. Footsteps, hell. He’d wake the whole house with the pounding of his heart. One landing, then another, the light from the lantern below fainter with each turning. His fingers gripped the pistol more tightly. Three flights, the footman had said. He was almost there. He could just make out the single closed door ahead, a gray stripe of moonlight along the bottom.

Almost there, and still the demons hadn’t claimed him.

“Lady Byfield?”

Lying awake, curled on the narrow bed, Caro held her breath and listened, her ears straining to hear again what she feared she’d only imagined.

“Are you in there? Lady Byfield, ma’am?”

She flew off the bed and ran to the locked door. “Captain Sparhawk! Whatever are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

She heard the key scrape in the lock and then he was there, a pistol in his hand and a wild expression in his eyes. Each time she saw him she was startled again by his size, how much larger and stronger he was than herself, and unconsciously she drew back. He was, she supposed, her savior, but she hadn’t counted on being saved quite this way, and she’d certainly no intention of throwing herself into his arms the way the heroines did in operas and plays.

“Has Stanhope hurt you, lass?” He was breathing hard, his face shiny with sweat, and she wondered what he’d had to do to reach her. She had no experience with men as purely physical as this one, but she’d guess that Captain Sparhawk could leave a whole trail of bodies behind him. “Has he used you ill?”

“Oh no, not like that!” She was glad that in the gray moonlight through the window he couldn’t see how she blushed. He might not have meant ‘like that’ at all; it was only her thoughts that ran that way. “That is, I am well enough.”

He rubbed his sleeve across his forehead, his gaze sweeping around the tiny room. “Damnation, didn’t he even give you a candlestick?”

She shook her head. “George probably believed I’d try to burn his house down.”

“Then let’s shove off before that damned footman I had to cosh wakes. Come on, lass, hurry!”

“Have you lost your wits?” She stared at him indignantly. “I can’t possibly go with you! Can you imagine what George would think?”

“I can’t, and I don’t care.”

“Well, perhaps you just should. Do you think George has forgotten that you were the highwayman who robbed him the other night? He’s already filed a complaint against you, and I shouldn’t wonder if they’re printing broadsides with your description even now. Of course this footman you so elegantly—what was the word?— coshed will say it was the same man who came here and kidnapped me, and you’ll find yourself at the hangman’s tree so fast you’ll wonder how it happened.”

Now it was his turn to stare at her. “That’s the greatest pack of claptrap I’ve ever heard! You were the one who forced me into that nonsense about being a highwayman, and it was Stanhope, not me, who kidnapped You in the first place! No court in the world could make any of that stick!”

“Not in the world, no,” she admitted, “but here in Hampshire George has enough friends that he probably could bring it to pass. I really wouldn’t want you hung on my account.”

“And neither, ma’am, would I.” He held his hand out to her, more a command than an invitation. “So let’s clear off while we can.”

Still she hesitated. True, she’d sought the man’s help for Frederick’s sake, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be indebted to him for her own, as well. “I’ve made great progress with that Mrs. Warren, you know. I think she’d be willing to let me escape some morning if I paid her enough. George isn’t the only one who can bribe servants.”

Jeremiah swore. “Will you come, or do I have to carry you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” She lifted her chin and swept past him, the coverlet dragging behind her like a train.

“Damnation, I forgot you hadn’t any clothes!”

She let the coverlet slip a bit, and grinned over her bare shoulder. “George has them somewhere, and I don’t think he’d return them now if we asked.”

“We’ll deal with it later,” he said. “Now hurry!”

She skipped along ahead of him, her bare feet silent on the stairs. With her hair loose and tousled around her shoulders, she looked like what she was, a woman roused from her bed, and in spite of everything else, Jeremiah couldn’t forget it as he followed close behind.