Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 10

  Kit scrubbed impatiently at her cheeks. ‘The thing is, I never thought past escaping, but I need to do something. Like you do. Carshalton will disinherit me. I know that and I don’t want his beastly money anyway. But I’ve been thinking that if I learned how to run a business, then I could actually help Ignatius and not just sponge off him. So, if you don’t mind teaching me about the books and a budget? I’ve never had to think about anything like that before. But watching you, seeing how you manage the books and run The Phoenix, well, I want that, too. It never even occurred to me that a woman could do something like that.’

  Psyché stared at her with new respect. ‘You know you don’t have to. Ignatius wouldn’t think of it as sponging, you know.’

  ‘Of course, he wouldn’t.’ Kit frowned. ‘I know that. But it’s what I think about it. And if I’m going to be independent, I want to create it for myself. As you have. Not just be given it. Can you—when you take coffee over—can you talk to him about it? Please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And we can be friends?’

  The knocking on the front door froze Psyché in place. She flung up a hand to silence Kit.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Will.’

  Relief rolled through her and, more disconcertingly, a wave of delight. ‘Wait a moment!’

  She started for the door, then looked back at Kit, saw the shy diffidence in that sad, haunted face. And we can be friends?

  Warmth flowed around her heart. ‘I thought that was where we were already. Make sure you’re out of sight from the door.’

  She unlocked the door and swung it open part way. Will stood there smiling, gripping a large valise.

  Psyché swallowed. ‘Are you...are you moving in?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Officially I’ve taken a room at the Lion. Unofficially...’ He grinned at her. ‘Are you going to let me in? I’ve got news.’

  Shaking her head, she stepped back. ‘Come in.’

  * * *

  The valise held wine, cheese, a very fine-looking pork pie and biscuits.

  It also held a set of boy’s clothes.

  Psyché bit back a curse, wondering how to tell him kindly that this simply wouldn’t work, that such a disguise would be seen through immediately.

  Kit didn’t bother to disguise her scepticism. ‘You don’t think dressing me as a boy is just a tiny bit obvious?’

  He grinned. ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why it will work. Listen, if we simply tried to sneak you out dressed as a boy they’d be on you in a heartbeat—’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘But if they see one boy enter The Phoenix and what looks like the same boy—in identical clothing—leave a little later it won’t raise suspicion.’

  Psyché considered. That might actually work, but—‘Where do we find the first boy?’ she demanded. ‘And what do we do with him afterwards?’

  ‘He slips out later. It won’t matter if they stop him because he’s a genuine boy with nothing to hide.’

  ‘But we don’t have a boy in the first place,’ Kit pointed out. ‘And where am I supposed to go?’

  ‘We have a boy,’ Will said. ‘And I’ve found someone who can and will hide you.’

  Psyché’s blood iced. Fear, fury—all of that stormed through her. And edging it, the burn of hurt. And disappointment that she hadn’t been able to trust him after all.

  ‘Someone? Not somewhere?’

  ‘That, too,’ he said. ‘But I had to—’

  ‘You told someone else without discussing—’

  ‘There was neither time, nor opportunity,’ he said quietly. ‘Believe me, I—’

  ‘Did you simply dismiss what you must have known would be our concerns because we’re women?’ she demanded.

  She saw that strike, saw him flush and then pale. So he was upset—good! Then—

  ‘That insults all of us.’

  The formal, clipped tones doused her fury as nothing else could have. He was angry. Oh, he was hurt as well, but he was angry, equal to equal, and he wasn’t bothering to hide it.

  ‘I know there are those who would dismiss your opinions because you are female.’ Those grey eyes were wintry. ‘You aren’t supposed to have opinions at all according to many. That wasn’t why I acted independently.’

  ‘Why then?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because I saw the best chance of success. A chance not only to get Kit out, but to hide her with someone who has no obvious connection to yourself or Selbourne.’

  ‘Psyché?’ Kit sounded apologetic. ‘Sometimes you have to act. The opportunity or danger is right then. You either act, or you’re lost. There’s no time to discuss or take advice.’ She gave Will a faint smile. ‘Rather like myself on Christmas Eve. I had either to run then, or...or—’

  Psyché’s hand flashed out, gripped hers unthinkingly. ‘Don’t even think it. You’ll give yourself nightmares.’ She turned back to Will. ‘I’m sorry. You had better tell us what you’ve arranged and who you’ve told.’

  ‘Cambourne.’

  ‘Cambourne? The Earl?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a friend—’

  ‘Of Huntercombe’s, I know.’

  Kit shifted in her seat. ‘I don’t think I know him.’

  ‘I do, a little,’ Psyché admitted. ‘Not well. But I know Huntercombe trusts him without reservation. Hasn’t he got a rather unusual brother-in-law?’

  Will’s smile was disarming. ‘He does. And that’s how it’s all going to work. Let me explain.’

  He did, and Psyché had to admit it was a good plan, but—

  ‘We can refine that a little,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Refine?’

  She could hardly blame Will for the suspicion in his voice. It was not just a good plan, it was brilliant in its simplicity. Too much gilding would make it top-heavy. However—

  ‘A diversion,’ she said.

  He sipped his wine. ‘What sort of diversion did you have in mind?’

  Psyché smiled. ‘If you want to distract someone properly, you give them what they’re looking for.’

  ‘They’re looking for me,’ said Kit.

  Psyché refilled Kit’s glass. ‘More precisely, they’re looking for a young woman.’

  ‘What in Hades do you have in mind?’ Will demanded.

  She explained.

  Will and Kit exchanged glances.

  ‘No.’

  Will’s sharp veto didn’t surprise her in the least.

  She sipped her wine. ‘It will work. That’s all that matters.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Walking down the darkening street towards the bookshop the following evening, Will had no idea how he’d lost that argument. Even with Kit’s support, and Ignatius Selbourne turning the air blue with his opinion, he’d finally agreed.

  She’s right that the last thing the Runners are likely to do is fire. After all, they’re being paid to recover Kit, not shoot her.

  But still.

  It was a damned brilliant plan and he hated it, couldn’t rid himself of the leaden weight in his gut at the thought of Psyché, even with himself at her side, acting as decoy. He wanted to call a halt, beg her to reconsider, to stay out of the way, to stay safe. Any other woman he’d have had no hesitation in overriding her opinion and insisting she stay safely out of any hint of danger.

  He couldn’t do that with Psyché. She wouldn’t permit it even if he attempted it.

  Now everything was in place and it was too late to do anything but follow through. Ignoring the closed sign, he walked into Selbourne’s and Ignatius glanced up from his desk.

  ‘Barclay.’

  The shop was empty except for the cat and pup snoozing by the fire.

  Will nodded to the old man and pretended to browse the books near the
window. It was nearly time. And sure enough, on the opposite pavement, a tall, well-dressed gentleman strolled along, accompanied by a gangly youth with his hat pulled low. They did not so much as glance toward Selbourne’s, but walked into the still busy Phoenix.

  Selbourne rose. ‘Was that—?’

  ‘Yes.’ Will let out a relieved breath. ‘Yes. Cambourne and the boy. They’re in.’

  Ignatius nodded. ‘Everything is ready. The back door is unbolted.’

  Will went back to his perusal of the books. As long as they timed it correctly. Ignatius was key there.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later the door of the coffee house opened and a slim, cloaked figure came out and strolled across the road.

  Psyché whisked into the bookshop, carrying a coffee pot. ‘There’s a Runner in the shop.’

  Ignatius’s mouth tightened. ‘Then we should abandon—’

  ‘No.’ She set the coffee on his desk. ‘Kit looks exactly right in the boy’s clothing. I warned Cambourne when he ordered coffee. He knows which man to watch and the light in the shop is poor because only half the lamps are lit. Also, I gave Caleb orders to make a lot of smoke in the kitchen with embers and hot water when you enter. He doesn’t know why, but he’ll yell fire. Cambourne should be able to walk straight out with her in the scramble for the door.’

  ‘And his brother-in-law?’ Ignatius demanded.

  She smiled. ‘Fitch? He’ll slip out the back door. They’ll stop him, but that should keep a few more occupied. No one knows who he is and who’s to say he wasn’t there all along?’

  ‘Be sure, Psyché,’ urged Ignatius.

  She smiled, twitched back her dark cloak to reveal one of white velvet. ‘With this? I guarantee they’ll come after me. My uncle gave it to me several years ago for Christmas.’

  Will’s stomach iced. ‘Damn it, Psyché! You didn’t say anything about that. You’re making yourself a target!’ Quite literally.

  ‘That’s the whole point. They have to come after us to give Cambourne and Kit time to reach the carriage.’

  With that she slipped through the curtain into the back room. Cursing under his breath, Will picked up the darkened lantern Ignatius had ready and made to follow.

  Ignatius caught his sleeve. ‘Keep her safe, boy.’

  Will gripped his hand. ‘My word on it.’

  * * *

  They went out the back door into a gentle flutter of snow.

  Will looked at her. Psyché’s face was set with determination, her eyes bright in the glow from the windows. ‘No going back now.’

  Her smile flashed white. ‘There never was. Come on.’

  His heart skipped as she slipped her gloved hand into his. Automatically his fingers tightened.

  It’s too late now.

  They ran across the snowy yard and out into the back lane as he went through his strategy for the possibility of shots fired.

  The Runners wouldn’t deliberately fire at Psyché, but there was every likelihood that they would fire at him as the supposed abductor of an heiress. Ignatius had pointed that out, but Will had dismissed his concern. He wasn’t worried about being hit. What terrified him was the knowledge that unless the person shooting was a damn good shot, pistols were notoriously inaccurate—they might aim at him and accidentally hit Psyché. But he had a plan for that...

  A couple of turns and they reached the lane leading out on to Dean Street. Little more than a narrow passage between buildings, it gave excellent cover. Will stuck his head out and looked up and down the street. The windows of The Phoenix glowed fifty yards away across Compton Street. He stepped clear of the lane’s shelter and opened one side of the lantern briefly. A moment later he saw the figure of Selbourne leave the bookshop and hurry across the road.

  He took a deep breath and put his arm around Psyché, drawing her close. She settled against him, every curve fitting as if made for him. Together they watched as Ignatius entered The Phoenix.

  He swallowed. ‘Ready?’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Yes.’

  He took another breath and the fragrance of coffee, chocolate and the deeper, warmer scent of Psyché herself wound through him. What the hell. He leaned down, brushed a swift kiss over her lips, wanted more, so much more, as her mouth softened under his and he tasted her.

  There were things he needed to tell her. The truth. But not now. When this was over and they were safely back in her apartment... She needed to know. And he needed to tell her.

  Later.

  ‘Later,’ she agreed and he realised he’d spoken aloud.

  Then they heard it—the panicked uproar, followed by patrons spilling out of the coffee house on to the pavement.

  Dark eyes laughed up at him. ‘It’s working. Let’s go.’

  They came out of the lane and set off at a brisk walk away from the fuss outside The Phoenix. Will glanced over his shoulder several times, making it as obvious as possible, and—

  ‘Hoy! You two! Halt!’

  ‘Our cue, I think,’ muttered Psyché.

  They broke into a dead run and Psyché let the dark cloak fall, revealing the white.

  ‘Stop!’ Footsteps pounded behind them and a whistle blew. ‘In the name of the King!’

  ‘The white cloak! It’s her! Stop in the King’s name!’

  They ran all the harder. He’d thought he’d have to adjust his stride, but her long legs kept pace easily.

  ‘By God, it is her! You stupid little bitch, Catherine! Stop or I’ll shoot you myself!’

  And that was his cue. ‘Keep going!’ He dropped back to cover her.

  ‘Will! No!’

  Hands on her shoulders, he kept her moving. ‘Go!’

  A shot roared, then a second, and his right side seared white-hot. He stumbled, his vision blurring... Didn’t matter. All that mattered...get a little further. Once they saw her...

  ‘Hit him, b’Gad!’

  And Psyché’s voice, breathless, cursing, and somehow she was beside him... No, keep between her and—

  ‘Don’t shoot again, sir! You’ll hit the girl!’

  Thank God!

  A strong arm went around him. ‘Will!’ Everything was fading, whirling, turning to darkness shot through with searing pain. They weren’t running any more... Keep going...keep going...

  ‘No. Will.’ Her voice shook. ‘You’re hurt. Stay still.’

  Damn it. He was on the ground, someone’s arms around him, but the pavement was so cold and hard.

  ‘Stay with me, Will!’

  ‘Got you, you little bitch!’

  Pounding footsteps came closer, but all that mattered was Psyché’s arms about him, her warm breath on his cheek...

  * * *

  Psyché sank to her knees on the cold, slush-mired pavement, supporting Will’s limp weight against her. Her sleeve was soaked with blood and those pounding footsteps were close...too close. As soon as they saw her face they’d know. She turned away, hiding her face for as long as she could while tearing at his cravat, unwinding it and wadding it up, pressing it to the wound...he was losing so much blood.

  She swore.

  He seemed to revive slightly. ‘Not...that bad.’

  Not that bad? Her stupid plan had got him shot.

  ‘Got you, you little bitch!’ A large powerful hand gripped her shoulder. ‘You’re coming with me, my girl, and—’

  She flung him off. ‘Get your hands off me!’

  She tossed back the hood of the velvet cloak and stared up into the furious craggy face. Shock and outrage stared back.

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘This is your daughter, sir?’ The Runners came up, gasping for breath, and doing quite a bit of staring themselves as Psyché blinked in the lantern light. Her braids had slipped from their pins and hung around her face.

 
; Carshalton. This was Carshalton. Her stomach threatened to heave at the sight of the man who had sold God only knew how many souls into the hell of slavery.

  ‘Of course this isn’t my bloody daughter,’ he growled. ‘But the bitch is wearing her cloak, so—’

  ‘This is my cloak!’ Psyché said. She pulled it off, wrapping it around Will, trying to keep him warm. ‘Will! Will!’ She could see his chest rising and falling, but his eyes remained closed.

  ‘Yours?’ Carshalton sneered. ‘Where does a Black whore get the blunt for an ermine cloak?’

  ‘Ermine? It’s velvet,’ she said. ‘Is there a law against wearing a velvet cloak?’

  One of the Runners took a fold of the cloak between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed it and swore. ‘She’s right, sir.’ He straightened up. ‘She’s not your daughter and I don’t know who this chap is, but you’ve made a serious mistake shooting without being sure of your man.’

  * * *

  His side was on fire and everything was grey and blurry. When it wasn’t outright black, that was. Psyché kept pushing the dark back, demanding that he stay with them. Stay with her. He wanted to float off into the beckoning void, but she anchored him, refusing to let him go.

  ‘Put him in my bed, Officer.’

  Psyché’s bed. Again. That was all he wanted...except not like this...something he needed to tell her...

  ‘I’ll have my daughter! Officer, leave that rubbish alone! Do your duty and tear the place apart! They’re hiding her here somewhere!’

  He tried to sit up, to tell Carshalton to go to hell, but he was held down and his brain couldn’t find words through the pain, the unrelenting pressure on his side.

  ‘Get out! Who let you up here?’ Psyché’s voice. Fire and ice splintered off every word. ‘Caleb, keep pressure on that!’

  ‘Who do you think you are, wench, to tell me to get out?’

  ‘Psyché Winthrop-Abeni!’ Every word rang clear and bright. ‘This is my home, my place, and you will leave!’

  ‘Winthrop?’

  Will found the strength to force his eyes open. Psyché stood between him and Carshalton, blocking the man from coming any nearer, her hands covered in blood. Caleb knelt beside him on the bed, holding something firmly against his side. It hurt like hell, but he had a fuzzy idea any argument about it would be ignored. He forced his mind to focus through the pain.