Page 7 of Captured by the Earl (The Secret Crusaders #2)

CHAPTER 7

L ondon Society News:

The mystery continues.

Or should I say mysteries? Let’s start with the more typical variety. As you know, Lord Peyton has returned, and the ton is riveted. The happily arranged couple has been seen together, and their interactions are… interesting. If anyone knows what those “looks” mean, do tell.

The second mystery is the masked rescuer. Everyone is hoping for a return visit. Of course, dire situations occur regularly in London, with ample need for a miraculous save.

Will we see him again?

Every muscle tensed.

Every sense sharpened to knife-like precision.

In an instant, Philip changed from mild gentleman to covert operative, from carefree lord to international spy. Instincts honed by danger took command, evaluating, formulating, planning. The scream had been borne of pure fear. Someone was in danger.

He had already reached the door by the time Emma rose and exclaimed, “What was that?”

He stopped, and, for just a moment, gave Emma the full force of his attention. “Stay here,” he commanded.

He did not wait for a response.

He thundered through the wide hall, past startled footmen and bustling maids, as the scream came once more, louder, stronger. He burst into the chaotic thoroughfare as it sounded again, joined by a cacophony of voices, like the chorus to a piercing melody. People whispered, pointed, gasped. He followed their gazes to the townhome across the way, looked up, up up.

Five stories high.

To an open window and…

A child perched on a ledge.

In a second he evaluated the situation. A tiny boy hugged the thin ledge with two scrawny arms, clutching the unstable beam even as it shook precariously. He must have crawled out the open window, scurrying just far enough to evade the men desperately reaching for him. They called to him, yet the boy was frozen in fear, alone on a narrow protrusion that would not support an adult.

Likely, it would not support the child for much longer.

Options raced through his mind, logistics, possibilities and strategies flashing in rapid succession. At the window, he would face the same challenges as the people there now, and even getting into the building would be difficult with the thick crowd. With wide expanses between windows and no handholds to climb, scaling the front of the building was not a possibility.

The seconds ticked by, each a second closer to disaster. There had to be a way. The boy had escaped from the top floor, not far from the roof. Perhaps he could climb down to save him.

Gasps shattered the air, as a piece of the ledge crumbled. It plummeted to the ground, breaking into a hundred pieces.

The child would be next.

He sprinted into motion, bolting around horrified onlookers and pointing servants. People paid him little notice as they cried about the young lord who was most certainly doomed. Not yet.

He reached the narrow alley in back of the townhomes. With everyone watching the commotion from the front, the alley was dark and deserted. The windows on this side were as sparse as the other side, with ledges too thin to climb. However, there was a pipe…

He raced over to the rugged black tube, which rose like a long snake up the building. It was cold and smooth, close to the wall and sturdy, but completely vertical. He grabbed it, then halted.

He had to rescue the boy, and until now, had just assumed people would see him doing it. The child’s life was worth more than his mild-mannered cover, yet such a feat of heroics would present questions without answers, instigate investigations that would make continuing his covert career all but impossible. Hiding his face worked before…

A disguise was far better than the ton learning the true skills of the Earl of Peyton. He ripped off his coat and hid it behind a row of hedges, then swiftly tied his cravat around his face.

The rescuer had returned.

He raced to the pipe. Gripping it with two hands, he pushed off the wall, and jumped. It wobbled slightly, but held. He gripped higher with one hand and then the other, grunting through the exertion, focusing on one goal. He breathed in a deep breath of chimney soot as he finally landed on the solid roof.

“Who is that man?”

“Where is he going?”

“Is he going to save the boy?”

The voices below faded into the distance as he threaded through chimneys and hurdled over recesses. Both a second and forever later, he reached the spot directly over the child and looked down. Pure relief flashed at the sight of the boy, still alive and unharmed, curled on the precarious perch.

Now a hundred voices called from down below, screaming, yelling, questioning. Undoubtedly they wondered who he was, or perhaps they knew . They gasped and pointed, their shock, curiosity and awe apparent even from afar. This was not like at the docks, with few who knew him. He was in the middle of the fashionable area of London, dressed like the lord he was, with only the simple disguise. Stanton was down there, with Lady Priscilla and Emma .

What if she discovered who he truly was?

It was irrelevant. If he had to reveal the truth to save the boy, so be it. From up high, their features were difficult to distinguish; hopefully he would appear the same to them. He focused on the boy. His little fingers opened and closed, as shivers wracked the tiny body. Cracking and creaking sounded with his every movement.

How to get to him? He certainly wasn’t close enough to reach down. There was a ledge in between them, but it was impossible to tell if it would hold his weight, much less both his and the boy’s. They could both fall.

Yet it was their only chance.

He needed something to use as a makeshift rope. Hiding behind a chimney, he removed his cravat, then used his knife to cut it into two long pieces. He swiftly remade a thinner disguise with one, and wrapped the other as tightly as he could around the chimney. He rolled the fabric in his hands, smoothing out the starch, before testing it with a hard pull. It held… for now.

He raced to the edge, ignoring the yells, shouts and calls coming from below. The boy stared up, his eyes big with fear and shock. He shifted slightly, sending rocks to the ground.

“Don’t move!” Philip warned. “I’m coming for you.”

The boy didn’t respond, but at least he stopped moving. Philip held tightly to the rope as he turned to face the wall. He bent down, slid his legs over the edge and descended .

He inched down, lowering himself with upper strength alone. Inches turned into feet, along a vertical pathway as slippery as a frozen pond. His progress was slow but steady, and soon he would reach the boy.

Until he ran out of rope.

He was only inches from the intermediate ledge, yet there was no way to know if it would hold him. Yet without the chance, the boy would surely plummet. The risk of losing his life was worth the chance of saving the boy’s. With a silent breath, he released the rope… and plunged.

He caught the ledge with both feet. Renewed screams came from below as he fought for balance along the buckling ledge. For a moment, he was back on that rickety boat, tipping and turning, yet this time there would be no watery net to save him from a fatal descent. It tipped forty-five degrees, and then…

It stilled.

He didn’t waste a second. “Can you reach toward me?” he called down to the boy.

The boy gave the slightest shake of his head, a resound and absolute negative.

“Hold on!”

Philip scanned the area. Climbing with the boy would be near impossible, but perhaps he could get the boy to the window. It didn’t matter if conversing with people increased his odds of being recognized. “I’m going to swing the boy to you.”

The people packing the window watched with opened-mouthed shock, but a few took charge, directing the others away and leaving only a couple of larger men poised to catch.

Philip bent down to his knees. Grasping the ledge with both hands, he lowered himself to hang. Now he was only inches from the boy, but he didn’t dare put a pound more of weight on the child’s ledge. He took a deep breath… and released one hand.

He only had one chance. In a single smooth motion he caught the child’s coat, grabbing a fistful of the fine fabric. The child squealed and wriggled, and for a moment, started to slip. With all his might, Philip swung the child to the open window, where a man was reaching out with extended arms. Just a little further…

The man grasped the boy.

Yes.

“Come on!” They gestured him forward, moving to give him space. He could jump in the window, and his life would be saved.

Saved but never the same.

He would never be able to keep his identity a secret in that room. He would be paraded like some sort of spectacle, watched like a specimen. It would set the ton afire, destroying his chance to do good.

He had to risk his life once more, for all the people he hadn’t yet saved.

With a grunt of exertion, he swung back to hang on the intermediate ledge. He peered up at the deceptively small distance to the roof. Harsh grinding pierced the air as the smooth surface cracked, crackled and quivered under his fingers. Tiny rocks and dust plummeted from above, stinging his eyes and filling his lungs. As screams came from all around, he reached up with his other hand. He gained a handhold, but it might not matter. If the ledge failed, he would fall to his death.

Above, the makeshift rope swung serenely in the gentle breeze, dangling like a teasing siren. He couldn’t reach it unless he climbed up the ledge. He put his feet against the wall, yet the slippery side was of no help. He would need to pull himself up.

People called to him, the wind whispering their encouraging words. His biceps screamed as he contracted his muscles, forcing himself to rise with his arms alone. The ledge shook, as rocky chunks fell to the ground below, yet he rose higher, higher, higher. He got a knee on the thin ledge, pushed himself up. Now it shook like a child’s toy, one large fatal crack running close to the wall. It separated as he rose. The rope was so close, so far. The ledge below him crumbled…

He leapt.

He caught the rope with a single hand, wincing as pain sliced through his palm like a knife. He smashed into the wall, yet he didn’t stop, swinging his free hand above the other, then the opposite. He came down an inch for every three he ascended, as the fabric stretched and lengthened, yet he forged ahead. When the top of the building came into view, he gave one last burst of strength and grabbed the edge. With a breath, he pulled himself over.

He inhaled relief and exhaled joy, the exhilaration and elation of a successful mission. He had saved the boy and managed not to die in the process. As he strode to the edge of the roof, he smiled broadly. He peered down, and his smile froze.

The danger was not over.

Now he knew how the solo performer in a Shakespearean masterpiece felt. Onlookers watched with riveted eyes, flinging questions he couldn’t answer. More and more people poured in from all sides, watching him, studying him, undoubtedly trying to identify him. He garnered attention at all the ton’s events, yet this was different. This time they didn’t see the calm and distinguished earl.

They saw the real man.

“Who are you? Where are you from? Are you the masked rescuer?” Of course the connection had been made, now in musings, likely to be printed in a matter of minutes. Even if they had not deciphered his identity yet, he was far from safe, and the longer he stayed on this roof, in sight of so many, the greater the risk. He raced to the side with the alley.

The once deserted alley was now teeming with people, both low and high class, who had come to see him. As they called to him, he searched for an escape.

He couldn’t go down. He couldn’t go up.

He was trapped.