Page 25 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

24

“The hatred of relatives is the most violent.”

—Tacitus

P eregrine gasped, his body locking up at the shock of it, his breath strangled in his throat as the pain seared through him.

The arm was torn from his neck, and the person standing behind him fell away. New hands grabbed him, steadying him, and he blinked blearily up to see Ravenscroft’s grim, set face, but he couldn’t make out the man’s words. His ears were ringing from the flintlock’s discharge so close to him.

The brawl was still raging around them, but Abel was dead, and Dawson and Hodges seemed to be beating McGrath and the remaining men into submission. He felt the warm spread of blood under his coat, the dull throb of the wound settling in. He clenched his jaw. The world tilted as he staggered, fighting to stay upright against the shock of it.

Pushing aside Lord Ravenscroft—and it was the stripling lad who supported him on the other side, of all people—Peregrine took a single step closer to Hodges and McGrath. “Don’t make him unable to talk, Will,” Peregrine hissed. “Not yet.”

McGrath was grinning at him like a fool despite the blood running down his face. “You grew a pair of bollocks while you were off playing soldier. Good on you, lad. A shame you learned it too late.”

“What do you know of my mother?” Peregrine barked, in no mood for McGrath’s nonsense.

Hodges had the man’s arms tied savagely behind his back, and with a backward yank on the enforcer’s collar, Will pulled him, stumbling, to his feet. McGrath laughed soundlessly at their efforts.

“She’s a right bitch of a woman, your mum is. Isn’t she?”

Furious and burning in agony, Peregrine snatched McGrath’s bloody knife from the filthy tavern floor and planted it deep into the enforcer’s thigh. McGrath shouted in pain, but his cry dissolved back into a choking laughter again.

“Is. My. Mother. Back. In. England?” he demanded of the Irishman, speaking slowly.

“Nay. Not yet. But she will be coming, you can be sure of that,” McGrath panted. “Sweet God, you really believed Cameron would have the balls to cross your mum like that? After putting out the contract on her own son?”

Peregrine did not know what expression was on his face, but apparently he could not conceal it well enough, because McGrath cackled. “Aha-ha… you didn’t know. Or did you think your mummy would forgive you if you sorted yourself out? Bloody hell, Fitzroy. How much of an optimistic fool are you? Did you think it was some sort of accident that she left you behind after you helped Lord Percy? Who do you think—” he grunted as Hodges twisted his fingers in McGrath’s hair—“gave Green your dagger in the first place?”

Since Peregrine’s own hand was pressed against his wound, Hodges punched the cutthroat hard in his lower back. “You got a point to make, or are you just getting your jollies in?”

McGrath writhed in his grip. “I had a point, and I already stuck ‘im with it. Was just doin’ my duty to deliver the message loud and clear to your thick-witted lord, Will. You best enjoy breathing while you have time, too, because you haven’t been forgotten neither.”

The world had started getting spotty around the edges, but Peregrine couldn’t make himself find a chair to sit down. He was irrationally certain that if he did, he might not find the strength to get back up.

“Where does Cameron keep himself these days? Still enjoying the smell of fish over at the docks?” Peregrine asked, trying to focus as Ravenscroft pried his hand away from his flank long enough to insert a folded cloth.

“You’re going to have to find that out for yourself—that’s assumin’ you live long enough to. You don’t look too good right now, lad. Maybe you need a bit of a lie down.”

“All this gabbing. Dawson, take him to a bench,” Hodges said, pointing his chin at Peregrine. “Lord Ravenscroft, you run out and find a hack. I know a doctor who can keep his mouth shut—assuming we don’t get held by Bow Street first.”

“You didn’t stick me well enough to end me,” Peregrine said with far more confidence than he currently felt as Dawson guided him to a seat. “And even if you did, I am going to make sure everyone is hunting Cameron before I go. It might take a little longer. That’s all.”

“Thinking thoughts too small, Fitzroy,” McGrath giggled around a moan as Hodges twisted the knife in his thigh. “Yer mum wouldn’t do anything by halves. Cameron had his orders, but he’s only one cog in the clockwork. Go ahead and find him if you can. Even he doesn’t know everything that she has planned.”

“Get him to the doctor. I will see to things here,” Hodges ordered Lord Ravenscroft, rattling off an address as he shoved him toward the door.

Time seemed to skip, like a stone on the surface of a lake. No, he lost consciousness. Because when he opened his eyes next, he was being hauled out of a carriage, dangling between Dawson and Ravenscroft like a sack of barley.

“Back, are you?” Ravenscroft said sourly from his left side, his arm wrapped around Peregrine’s waist so he could hold his side together. “I will never forgive you for failing to bring along a guard to bleed on instead of me.”

“Buck up, Maggie,” Peregrine said. Or he tried to say. The words seemed to barely tumble out of his mouth as the two of them dragged him onto the doctor’s table. “I’ll spot you for a new coat. Nnngh ?—!”

The doctor had dumped some liquid—vinegar, to judge by the pungent smell—over his abdomen, clothes and all. It burned like fury, and Peregrine panted through it to refrain from screaming.

“You bloody well will,” Ravenscroft snarled, his face pale, and the doctor frowned at him.

“ Bloody is quite accurate—though vulgar,” the doctor told him censoriously, waving something that Peregrine couldn’t quite see. “If you can help me move him, I might be able to preserve his clothes.”

“Cut them,” Ravenscroft told the doctor. “Stop the bleeding. And for God’s sake, no leeches. If you bleed him any more, he might run dry.”

At least the vinegar and whatever the hells the doctor was poking him with roused from stupor, and with a thrill of terror, Peregrine recalled what had happened. What he so badly needed to do. But his body was not cooperating much with him.

“I need you to find… the duchess. You have to tell her what happened.”

“I daresay the Duchess Atholl can wait an evening while I figure out what to tell Prinny about this whole debacle,” Ravenscroft retorted. “Or you can send your other man here.”

Peregrine snatched at the dandy, grabbing him by his lovely cream-coloured cravat and leaving a great big bloody handprint on it. “The duchess is hiding at my townhouse. She isn’t safe there. Go get her and then you can talk to Prinny. I trust only you to get her.”

Ravenscroft swore a blue streak at him that made even Dawson gawk, and then stomped over to the bucket of water sitting on the floor to wash the red off his hands before he ripped the silk off from his neck and flung it into the corner. Then he came back and had the unmitigated gall to unwind Peregrine’s cravat instead, thunking his head once or twice against the table in the process.

“Give me the address,” the man said harshly, leaning close to Peregrine’s lips for his response. “Doctor, Dawson, watch this idiot, will you?”

Peregrine was both exhausted and half out of his mind. What if it was already too late? He had thought the townhouse he had taken possession of so discreetly safe from the likes of Cameron, but now—now he wouldn’t bet on it.

If Ravenscroft could find her, at least he could get her back to the royal family for protection. He had to hope.

He managed only half a thought that they had banked his life on the assumption that Dawson was a loyal man. But then again… if he was another lurking monster in the shadows, perhaps occupying Dawson here as he strangled the life out of him was for the best.

He tumbled headlong into darkness.

Lord Ravenscroft eyed the neighbourhood in suspicion. The narrow townhouses blended one into the other along the dark, dirty London street. He was a far cry from the wide lanes of Mayfair where sprawling mansions stood like grand dames, their carefully pruned gardens forming the flounces of their skirts. Had Fitzroy really brought the Duchess Atholl here?

Try though he might, Ravenscroft could not imagine the elegant woman scurrying down the dirty back alleys so close to the slums, yet if Fitzroy was to be believed, that was exactly what she had done.

“Stop here,” he called to the driver. As soon as the horses slowed to a halt, he leapt down from the carriage, his boots landing with a jarring thud that left him groaning. His breath hitched as the bruises on his person ached.

“You all right there, guv?” the driver asked, but Ravenscroft waved his concern aside.

“Stay here. I will return right away.”

Or he hoped, assuming Her Grace was hiding away in Fitzroy’s bolt hole. He followed the directions exactly, counting gates until he arrived at the third on the left. The latch slid free and the gate swung open on oiled hinges. He scooted in, stepped wide, and stumbled into a pot. The resulting cracking noise was bad enough, the soil spilling across his already scuffed boots adding insult to injury.

“Putain de pot de fleurs! Comme si j’avais besoin de ca…” Ravenscroft hissed as he shook his foot free, cursing more under his breath first in French and then in English. He moved forward more slowly after that, his eyes checking every shadow. There was blessed little light to be found, other than what little glow came from the moon. Not a single ray of light leaked from the windows of the townhouse.

Still, the key was hidden where Fitzroy had said. Ravenscroft unlocked the kitchen door and pushed it open only wide enough to slip inside. The edge of his coat caught on the door handle, jerking him backward, and saving him from a well-aimed frying pan swinging at his head. It came close enough to lift his hair in the breeze before smacking against the side of the door with an almighty clang.

Half deaf, Ravenscroft snarled again in French in his scramble to get free of his attacker. “Nom de Dieu, quel enfer!”

“Lord Ravenscroft?” a tentative voice asked. A woman stepped into the doorway—Her Grace, the Duchess Atholl. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same thing about what you are doing with that frying pan, dear Duchess,” Ravenscroft panted, clutching his chest with his hand as his splintered nerves began to settle.

The duchess looked uneasy. No, he amended, she was in as thick a stew of agitation as he was. “Why are you here?” she repeated, her eyes darting around. “Where is Per—Lord Fitzroy?”

His eyes narrowed as he still caught that near-slip. When the devil did the duchess start calling Fitzroy by his Christian name? “He is—” Ravenscroft stopped there, unsure what word to use. Fine? No, that most certainly wasn’t right. Safe? “He is not far away. He is the one who sent me here.”

The duchess calmed enough to urge him inside. She helped him past a table and a tall shelf, and then told him to hold still while she lit a candle. The yellow-orange light flickered feebly, but it was enough to illuminate the dark crimson stains on his white lace cuffs.

“You are hurt!” she gasped.

“The blood is not mine,” he replied and then cursed himself again when the duchess stilled. Her face was a mask, but she had paled several shades. “Your Grace, I will tell you everything that has happened. But we need to leave, right now.”

Her posture stiffened, and Ravenscroft realised she was both afraid to leave the house—and deeply suspicious. “Why? Just where do you think you are going to take me? I am not going anywhere without some answers, Lord Ravenscroft.”

What the hell had happened to her since Fitzroy showed up at Carlton house? “We went to meet with Cameron’s men and discovered the agent is still working with Lady Fitzroy?—”

“—who is occupied with exerting her influence upon England again. I discovered much the same thing.” The duchess shivered, the candle wobbling in her hands. “So you already know. I was hoping to find you and Lord Fitzroy but you had left his estate without leaving a note, and I… had no idea where to look.”

Ravenscroft took the candle holder from her and set it on the table, then he grasped her delicate hands in his. “You appear overset, and I do not want to press you, but we really do need to leave. I will take you back to the Queen for the evening. Is there anything you want to get before we go?”

She pulled her hands away, reaching for her cloak on the hook, and Ravenscroft rushed to grab it before she could, draping it around her shoulders and snuffing the candle.

The carriage was where he had left it, the horses shifting around under the weight of their harness. He helped her into the seat, pulled a worn rug over her lap, and ordered the driver to set off.

“Someone will see us,” she muttered, reaching for the curtain.

“I must be sure no one is following us. Here, pull your hood up, and lean against me, if you like. If someone recognises me, they will assume I am up to my usual cavorting and distract themselves trying to guess your identity. No one will get it right.”

She didn’t quite lean on him, but she did slouch in his direction. “What happened with Mr Cameron? Whose blood is that? One of the thugs, I hope,” she said bitterly.

“We had asked for a meeting and walked into a trap—although given our preparations, I believe both Fitzroy and Hodges expected treachery of some sort. There was a fight, and…” Ravenscroft paused, remembering McGrath’s chilling laughter.

His pause caused the duchess’s eyes to widen in fear again, and reluctantly, he told her the rest, recalling his abject horror at Lady Fitzroy’s message to her son.

“Have mercy,” the duchess breathed, sitting bolt upright. “Is he?—”

“Alive, but wounded seriously. I left him at the doctor.”

“Tell me you did not leave him alone!” she insisted.

Ravenscroft frowned at her. “Of course I did not. I left him with both the doctor and his stableman.”

“Turn the carriage. We need to collect him and bring him to safety with us!”

“Your Grace!” he admonished her, surprised at her vehemence. “He is hurt too badly right now to be moved. He has his man?—”

“We cannot trust his servant! We cannot trust anyone! Enemies are wearing the masks of friends, and monsters lurk in every shadow. If he is h—” her voice gave out. She mustered her strength and finished her thought. “Right now, Fitzroy is vulnerable. The only people I can be certain not to harm him further are here in this carriage. And if you do not turn it around this instant, I will be most vexed with you!”

Her words made him feel a little bit bad about thunking Fitzroy’s thick head on the table when the man had deliberately ruined his fine cravat. Then he frowned, peering harder at the duchess.

Still, her point about betrayals around every corner was well made. Any mother who was so callous about the life of her own son likely had a few more unpleasant surprises in store.

Perhaps it was wise to drop him there as she continued on her way to the Queen. He could remain behind while Antoine was summoned from his place, and then from there, he could report all that had transpired to Prinny. The duchess didn’t know his valet, Antoine, but the man expanded her list of people that could be trusted with Peregrine Fitzroy’s sorry arse to three. And oddly, perhaps because of their mutual friends, he expected his own arse was safe with Duchess Atholl.

“All right,” he told her, knocking on the carriage roof to signal the driver to slow so he could shout the new destination. “Let us go check to see if Fitzroy is still breathing.”

He had meant it as a jest, but the duchess sniffled and then buried her head against his shoulder.

Was she actually crying? Over Fitzroy? Ravenscroft urged her back long enough to free his handkerchief and pass it to her. She wiped her eyes, took a ragged breath, and struggled to pull herself together.

What odd duck manner of madness was this? “Duchess Atholl,” he asked slowly, the gears in his head turning as he considered things, “are you going soft on Lord Fitzroy?”

“I pity him,” she retorted, but her words were unconvincing.

Good God, she was taking a shine to him. And seen in this light, Fitzroy’s insistence made it look like the feeling was reciprocated. Well. Wasn’t this a ruddy awful development?

“One does not cry over pathetic creatures, Your Grace. You need to cut these feelings from your chest immediately if you want to remain at court. And with Fitzroy—” he barked a short laugh. “Prinny will think this a grand laugh, but I doubt his mother will.”

The duchess shivered again, doubtless imagining the Queen’s reaction. “I admit that I have revised my opinion of him, enough to feel sympathy for him, but it is not love. I certainly do not like the countryside so much that I would want to banish myself there.”

These words were firmer now, with a ring of truth. Then it wasn’t any desperate feeling. Not yet. Just a brutally inconvenient possibility that would take root and damage everything it grew upon if it was given the slightest bit of encouragement.

“What was his condition when you left him?” she asked as if she wasn’t able to help herself.

There was no point in lying, not when she was moments away from seeing the truth. “The doctor seemed confident his bowels are intact, but the risk of mortification is high. You should prepare yourself for any outcome.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time she wiped them away with a furious set to her mouth. “He will be fine. He cannot let his mother lay him low that easily.”

Lord Ravenscroft nodded in agreement with her sentiment and then urged her to lean against him again. If he had to make a wager with himself, he would bet nearly everything he was going to end up being forced to leave her at the doctor’s office. She would insist on staying.

And he would let her, because even though he knew this soul destruction himself, he knew it was difficult to resist courting it for the meagre moments of joy.

The ton knew that marriage was always meant to be a transaction, and a love match might be supplanted by duty, alliance, and position. But more than most, he and the duchess were keenly aware that acknowledging love was the death of ambition.

It required too much sacrifice to be indulged.