Page 11 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 10

“O nly me,” called Miss Tilbot, hurrying from the direction of the house. “Lady Darby wanted you to have your wool mantle. The shawl is much too thin for this weather.”

The maid arranged a dark swath of material about her mistress’s shoulders. From behind, Walters could hear the stable boys coming closer. It was after eight, so they must be going home for the night if their employers were staying at home.

“What are you sketching tonight, miss?” asked Miss Tilbot, taking a peek at the drawing pad.

“I’m trying to draw the ship we saw on the Thames the other day.” Lady Matilda laughed. “But when I looked up at that moon, I got caught up in its magic and couldn’t concentrate.”

“I’ve always thought of it as romantic. It’s so beautiful and seems so close, yet is far beyond our reach,” mused Miss Tilbot.

“It’s how I feel about love,” Lady Matilda said in a breathy voice. She shivered again and squinted, peering into the clump of trees where Walters hid.

At the same time, the group of young men passed him, then stopped at the garden gate.

“If fortune ain’t favoring us,” slurred a short man with a bulbous nose. “Two bee-oo-tiful ladies waitin’ fer us.”

The maid pulled on Lady Matilda’s cape, trying to get her away from the gawking men. The tall thin man reached out and snatched Lady Matilda’s arm.

“Not so fast, ladies,” he said. “My mates here just want to have a chat. Or aren’t we good enough fer ye?”

The third and fourth men laughed but kept their distance, obviously not as drunk as the first two. Walters was torn. If he showed himself, he knew Lady Matilda would recognize him. He would have to explain why he was there and who he was working for. Her trust would be broken, and their friendship would end in betrayal and hatred. It would hurt more than living without her.

Bulbous Nose blew out a loud breath and reached out to touch Lady Matilda’s hair. His breath must have been heavy with drink because she wrinkled her nose and leaned away.

“Do not touch my mistress,” snarled Miss Tilbot. “Be on your way, gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen, she called us,” said Skinny Man. “And we ain’t doin’ no harm. I think you should both give us a kiss.” He lunged forward and grabbed Miss Tilbot’s arm, pulling her against the fence.

Bulbous Nose put his hands on Lady Matilda’s shoulders to do the same. “C’mon,” moaned one of the two men in the background. “Ye’ll get us fired. Leave ‘em be.”

“Shut yer bloody mouth or I’ll shut it fer ye,” grumbled Bulbous Nose, not taking his eyes off Lady Matilda. “Now, how ‘bout a li’l kiss?”

Walters burst from his hiding place and plowed into the two drunken men. Skinny Man landed on the bottom of the pile, his head striking the cobblestones, and didn’t move. Bulbous Nose struggled beneath Walters as he raised a fist and slammed it into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose; the ladies screamed.

“Get ‘im, ye bloody nodcocks, or ye’ll be next,” Bulbous Nose bellowed in a pained voice. The other two men jumped into action and pulled Walters from the pile. As they held him, Bulbous Nose slowly rose, pitching back and forth as he lunged at Walters, driving his fist into Walters’s stomach.

Walters doubled over, still held by Bulbous Nose’s friends. When he’d caught his breath, he looked up and received another punch to the gut. He vaguely heard Lady Matilda calling for help, then his body hit the cobblestones with a thud. A foot caught him in the head, and everything went black.

* * *

When the man grabbed her arms, Mattie screamed as loud as she could. Franny was flailing her arms at her attacker and slapped his face. Out of nowhere came a dark figure, flying through the air and toppling both their assailants. A sickening thud echoed as the taller man hit the stone and went silent.

Their timely hero got in a punch to the other man on the ground but was soon waylaid by the two friends who had stayed out of the ruckus until now. Then the stocky little man with the large red nose punched their champion in the stomach.

“Help! Someone help!” she cried loudly, both hands around her mouth to amplify the sound. “Mr. Jones, where are you? Help!”

Franny added her voice when the poor man received a second punch. Mr. Jones came running from their small stable, where he had a room above. His shirt was hanging loose, his pants sagging, and one boot on. He held a large stick in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Stand down,” he growled at the men. “Somebody’s getting some lead in his gut, and the rest will have busted heads when I’m done.” He waved the long, heavy piece of wood above his head.

Silence hung heavy in the air as the three men standing turned to look at Mr. Jones. If the situation wasn’t so serious, the ruffians might have laughed at him. But there was murder in Mr. Jones’s eyes that sent a chill down Mattie’s back.

His chest rose and fell as he aimed the pistol and pulled back the hammer. Click. “Choose your poison.” Silence hung heavy in the air for a moment, then chaos.

Mattie couldn’t breathe. Time stopped as their assailants blinked, looking at one another, then at the unconscious man on the ground, and finally back at Mr. Jones. In silent agreement, the men ran, leaving their friend behind.

Mattie rushed through the gate to help the would-be hero who had come to their rescue. “Mr. Jones, please make sure the other man is not dead,” she said in her calm hospital voice, though her hands trembled.

She pushed on their champion and tried to roll him over, but he was too heavy. Mattie got him to his side. He was breathing, but she couldn’t see him well enough to tend him without more light. His coat was worn and?—

A mended rip along the collar. It was the old man she’d seen several times. What was he doing here, and why had he tried to defend them by himself? Guilt rolled over her.

“He’s alive,” called Mr. Jones. “I’ll get some rope and truss him before I go for the constable.”

“Put him in the stable,” added Franny, her face pale. “Lock him in a closet or something.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bound the scalawag’s hands and feet first, then come and help us get this poor man into the kitchen. When you go for the constable, send for a physician too.” Mattie picked up the man’s woolen cap and smoothed back his hair. Under the trees, she couldn’t see his face well but knew he’d been kicked in the head.

At the mention of a physician, the man stirred.

“Don’t move, sir. We are fetching help and will get you into the house in a moment,” she told him in a soothing voice.

He shook his head. “No doctor.”

“He can speak. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” asked Franny.

Mattie had no idea. “Can you sit up?” She put her arm under his back, her other hand on his arm, and pulled him forward. The moon peeked out from a cloud, and she could see his face clearly. While the scruffy gray beard distracted her at first, his gaze did not.

Mr. Walters blinked, his deep-brown eyes hazy with pain.

She gasped. “Wh-what are you doing here?” Was he watching her at night? Did he follow her during the day? Apprehension skittered down her back. Not fear, for she knew he would never hurt her. But a wariness filled her chest. Something was not right.

Mr. Jones came to assist them and helped Mr. Walters to a standing position. “Well, ain’t this a surprise,” he said, seeing who the injured man was.

“Well, throw me in the Thames and tell me it’s the ocean,” whispered Franny.

As they made their way across the garden, Mattie cast a curious glance at her driver. “I didn’t realize you were also trained as a bodyguard.”

“A requirement his lordship insisted on when I was hired,” Mr. Jones answered with a grin. “I’m also not a bad pugilist. Got a wicked left punch.”

Once in the kitchen, Franny went to work, putting a kettle on the hearth to heat water and finding cloths to help clean up Mr. Walters. Once they were settled, Mr. Jones left to move the tall man into the stable and fetch the constable.

Mr. Walters opened his mouth to say something, his eyes filled with pain and… remorse? She went to close the door leading to the hall, wanting to keep other staff from interrupting, but he leaned over to touch her arm. His grimace told her he might have a few broken ribs.

“Not now, Mr. Walters. Get your strength back while we nurse you, then we’ll talk,” she said, turning her back on him. Mattie blinked back tears, irritated with herself. There must be a reasonable explanation. But if there wasn’t, she’d be devastated.

After closing the door, she searched for the cook’s rum. Finding it in one of the cupboards, she took a cloth from the pile Franny had gathered and inspected Mr. Walters’s head. “It seems you’re quite good at getting caught in the middle of things,” she murmured as she parted his hair where blood had welled up.

The thick waves against her fingers made her pause. She closed her eyes, realizing it was as soft as she’d imagined. Because she had imagined running her fingers through his hair, touching his cheeks, kissing his lips. Heat rushed through her as the images of her dreams came bursting forth. Her hand trembled for a moment.

He’s just another patient, like the children at the hospital.

Except this patient was handsome as sin, with a broad chest, strong arms, and muscled thighs.

Carefully, she poured a bit of rum on the gash. He hissed but didn’t move. “It will require a few stitches,” she said, trying to keep the emotion from her voice. “You must see a physician.”

“My brother is a doctor,” he mumbled. “He’ll tend me well enough.”

“Quite a family you have,” she said, moving to inspect his face. A bump on his head, probably where he hit the cobblestones. She dabbed it with rum, satisfied it wouldn’t bleed, and moved on to his chin. “A sister on the stage, a brother in the medical field. What other family secrets are you hiding? Oh yes, you’ve mentioned a brother who is a solicitor.”

He winced when she wiped his scraped chin a bit forcefully. She was torn between gratitude for helping her and Franny, and anger at lying to her about who he was. An old man, indeed.

“Four brothers, younger, are detectives like me”—he shot her glance, then stared at her hand holding the cloth—“one doctor, one solicitor. We were all waifs on the street when Paddy found us. He and Maggie gave us a home and raised us as their own.”

Her expression softened at the last admission. “Only one sister?”

He nodded. “And an Irish wolfhound. My father owns O’Brien Investigative Service. It’s a… family business.”

“A wolfhound? Aren’t they as tall as people?”

“Only if they stand on their hind legs, and then taller than most men.”

“Is the dog also part of the ‘family business’?”

Walters snorted, then regretted it as a wave of pain bounced around in his skull. “No. He’s good protection, though.”

Mattie stepped back, eyes narrowed as he studied his middle. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper to try to wrap your ribs until Mr. Jones returns.”

“They aren’t broken. I’ve had enough to know.” He gave her a sheepish look. “But if they are, Sampson will take care of it. Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“You are welcome. Now, it’s time for an explanation.” Please, please, let this sound reasonable.

“I’m on a case now for your brother,” he said. His gruff voice sounded unfamiliar. A tone she’d never heard before. “He wants to find evidence against?—”

“No, tell me he isn’t after that horrendous man.”

“A duke.”

Mattie sighed and sat down next to Mr. Walters. This made sense. “He’s determined to get retribution for his dead wife. I wish he could just leave it be. The poor woman is gone and out of her misery. Yet he clings to his.”

Her father had lost a fortune to the deceased Duke of Colvin. Everyone at the table knew the man had cheated, but no one could prove it. When their father died, Nicholas was left to deal with the debt.

Their mother had convinced him to marry her dear friend’s daughter. With her generous dowry, the Darby title could be respected again. Her brother agreed on the condition the woman was willing. The girl was a beauty, and it seemed there would be a happy ending for all.

On their wedding night, Nicholas’s wife had confided she was pregnant. The marriage was a sham, she’d been seduced by another peer, and promptly ignored. She had insisted it was her mother’s idea, that the man in question would ruin them if they uncovered the scandal.

Nicholas had left her in a rage. When he had returned calm and ready to talk, he’d found her dead, unable to deal with the shame, and setting him free. She’d left a note, apologizing for the deception and naming the man. The Duke of Colvin’s son.

“I thought he’d finally let it go,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes. “None of it was his fault, yet he cannot have a life until justice is found.”

Mr. Walters sighed. “I tried to tell you that we shouldn’t pursue our friendship. I’m so very sorry.”

“Then why did you?” she blurted out.

“Because I cannot find a way to deny you anything.” He reached out and put his hand over hers. “When your brother is away on business, I keep an eye on the townhouse if you are staying in London. It gives him peace of mind, knowing you are safe.”

Mattie studied his hand atop hers. It seemed so natural for him to give her comfort. How could something that felt so right be wrong? When he lifted his hand, she was cold down to her soul. Not trusting her voice yet, she simply nodded.

“We both knew this was a temporary relationship. Neither of us fit into the other’s world.” He tipped her chin up, and she wanted to lean her cheek into his palm. “But know this, I wouldn’t give up a moment of what we’ve shared.”

Franny cleared her throat from outside the door leading to the garden. “Mr. Jones has returned with the constable.”

“Let me talk to him and see if we can excuse you from making a statement. You’ve been through enough for one day,” Mr. Walters said, rising with a groan. “Then we’ll finish this conversation.”